[prosemallowpens]

a kingdom for a kiss upon your shoulder

'With his makeup running, gloves still donned, shirts pushed aside and askew, he’s all the different parts of himself combined. Bruce Wayne, The Batman, Vengeance- they all rip at the seams and restitch into someone who’s simply, wholly yours.' or: The Batman finds you after a robbery. Bruce Wayne has some feelings about it.

author's note: first time posting for Brucie Wayne hope you enjoy <3 this fic has been crossposted to ao3 <3

content warnings: bruce wayne/reader + the batman/reader, battinson, fem reader, R is bruce’s wife, bottom bruce wayne, service top R, nicknames, possessiveness, choking kink, hickeys, car sex, PiV sex, non-simultaneous orgasms, fluff, smut, mdni 

word count: 4.3k

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

November in Gotham brings a fleet of rain. 

Pouring from the cloudless soot sky in sheets, dousing the buildings, sloughing off all the chemicals to pool in the streets or rush down waiting storm drains.

In the north sector of the city the rain lashes at the downtown diner’s windows. Whipped into a wet wind, a howling fury that relegates itself to background noise as Lieutenant James Gordon scuffs his boots on the front mat for the nth time tonight.

The Batman is here, too. Tall and imposing under the fluorescents, he doesn’t seem to pay any mind to the rainwater streaking off his armored cowl and dripping from the edged peaks of his cape. 

“Where is she?”

The gravel and grit in his voice leaves no room for weaseling- which Gordon wasn’t planning on doing anyways. Even though he’s pretty sure there are about ten privacy and disclosure laws currently being broken under the stiff heel of The Batman’s immovable will.

Gordon didn’t expect the vigilante to be concerned with a mild thieving attempt, but when the call happened to come over the GCPD scanner during one of their usual covert meetings, Batman’s eyes had flashed so sharply it felt like a physical knife in the officer’s side. 

So now they’re both here at this diner-turned-holding room, main area cleared out except for some lingering blue suits for security’s sake while The Batman glares down at GCPD’s premiere lieutenant with the subtlety of a steel anvil.

Gordon shoves a thumb against his brow, preemptively warding off the headache he’s about to create for himself. “She’s in the corner booth. You can talk to her, but make it quick- the Chief is gonna have my ass just for letting you in the building.”

Let alone talking to civilians in an active case, Gordon doesn't say aloud, because Batman is already moving silent and sure down the black-and-white tile corridor of tables to get to yours. 

Your spine is straight against the red vinyl booth, face turned to look out the window at the gloomy witching hour storm. The neon bar sign from across the street lights your displeased expression, hints of green and pink at the edge of your furrowed brow as the two men approach.

The Batman slips smoothly into the opposite bench, noiseless and hulking, gloved hands forming into fists on the formica tabletop between himself and the vic. 

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Gordon remains standing, dutifully pulling a notepad from his pocket to document anything else you might say- who knows, maybe The Batman is a dab hand with affluent women under duress. Less likely things have proved true. 

And then, maybe not, because the first thing out of your mouth is a scoff. 

“Am I all right? That’s seriously the first question you’re going with?” 

The sweater you’re wearing- dried twice-over with mist and rain- is deep midnight black, but stippled with silver threads, making the appearance of a star-studded sky when you cross and uncross your arms in irritation. 

“I would be all right if it wasn’t for the complete incompetence of the GCPD.” Your manicured hand flits to the general room, then levels a pointed finger at The Batman’s impassable expression. “You know they’ve kept me here for two hours?”

The judgment is tough but fair. It’s nearly two in the morning, and Gordon would also like to go home- especially when Batman’s dark gaze snaps to his again, accusatory and demanding without the need for words. 

“It’s- it’s simply protocol, Mrs. Wayne,” Gordon stammers under the weight of the extra glares, fidgeting with the wire loops of his notepad. “We wanted to make sure you were cleared by medical, and-”

“For the equivalent of a papercut?” The derision drips from your tone, but it calls attention to the white strip of gauze taped to the two middle knuckles of your right hand. 

Gordon sighs. “Ma’am, you should count yourself lucky I didn’t force a hospital visit on you. The only other reason I authorized your staying here is on account of your husband- your emergency contact- not answering our calls.”

“Right, so you decided to, what, send in a local masked vigilante as his replacement?” Your scorn returns to The Batman, squinting at him with unbridled hostility. “A guy in a pair of bat ears is supposed to bring me comfort?”

There’s a tick to the jaw that’s wearing said bat ears. 

Gordon really hopes Batman isn’t about to piss off the prince of the city’s wife any further- but before he can attempt to smooth things over, The Batman speaks again.

This time, there’s almost a roundness to the usual rough edges in his voice. Nothing close to softness, but it’s lacking that usual rock-salt quality as he asks, again- “Are you all right?”

You consider the question this time. The lieutenant can tell you’re holding back, shoulders still strung tight as you cross your arms, then reply, evenly- “I am in perfect health. It’s the shithead thief that got the worst of it- got him with my dusters. Probably fucked up his organs for the forseeable future.”

A gleaming and wicked set of hand-to-hand weaponry that Gordon got a peek at through the evidence bag, the polished silver of the custom-fit knuckles speckled red with blood. You weren’t wrong- the thief was carted away from the scene on a stretcher while you retained no injury worse than some split skin. 

There’s a tilt of pride to your chin as you mention the damage. And The Batman- marvel of all marvels- gives you a crooked, close-lipped grin. It tugs at the corner of his mouth, there one second and gone within the next blink.

He may as well have stood up and cheered, for all the emotions it betrayed. 

Certainly made worse by the fact that The Batman is praising you for it, an “Atta girl” leaving his mouth and settling like an open palm between himself and Bruce Wayne’s wife.

Gordon is openly nervous now, head swiveling to make sure he’s the only one who heard this naked declaration of expression from the guy who normally emotes about as much as a brick wall. 

“Um. Mrs. Wayne, I just need your signature on a victim impact statement, and you’re free to go. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He pockets his notes, then raps a few knocks on the formica that could be construed as a simple departing gesture but really, actually, is code to The Batman for what the hell are you doing and also please don’t get me fired or killed. 

Batman doesn’t even bother to take his eyes from you as Gordon slinks off to get the relevant paperwork. You seem quite comfortable under his stare, as dark and authoritative as it is behind the shadows of the cowl and the unnatural hollows the onyx eye makeup creates. 

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to flirt with me in that getup, Mr. Batman.” Your voice is quiet but there’s a hint of tease. Under the table, where no one can see, the toe of your sneaker taps the solid form of his boot. “Isn’t it, like, a misuse of civic duty?”

The thick armored plates of Batman’s suited shoulders roll back slightly, the movement nearly imperceptible- a tick that someone trained in shadows should likely not have. 

Instead of answering the question, he presses on with his own line of inquiry. “I would think your husband has cause to keep you safe at the Manor tonight. Considering… the weather. And the general danger of our streets.”

You have no issue answering the unasked. “I was doing some early shopping for the holidays. My husband doesn’t know everything, much to his dismay and claims to the opposite.”

“And you didn’t think to bring any of that security detail your husband pays a pretty penny for?”

Another roll of your eyes, softened with a grin so mischievous it makes The Batman’s tabletop fists clench a fraction harder. “Careful there, Batsy. I don’t want to have to make a bad report on your behalf- my husband can kick your ass.”

The Batman’s mouth quirks left again. 

A brief flick of a thing before Gordon steps back into view, laying a thin stack of stapled paperwork in front of you along with a fountain pen.

To the mild relief of everyone involved, you don’t invoke your good husband’s name or make any fuss over the legalities. 

The documents are signed and swept back up by Gordon, who steps away again to personally call you a cab, with a nod goodnight to his masked partner.

The Batman waits with you near the front doors, still and silent as a sentry, until his strong profile is silhouetted by the sweep of headlights and he’s ushering you out into the cold night. 

One gauntleted arm holds his cape out to shield you from the layer of rain that is windswept sideways, while the other hand holds firm at your elbow. 

You make it into the back of the cab under his guidance. For a brief moment, you’re protected from the weather and face to face with the Bat as he ducks to ensure you get belted in.

“Have a safe rest of your evening, ma’am.” On the inside of your arm, his fingers tap, a small last goodbye as The Batman steps back onto the curb and shuts the taxi door.

You don’t have to look through the rear window to know he’ll be melting into the night like he was never there; as your ride pulls onto the dark streets, you instruct the driver’s route.

Three taps, then two- the psuedo-morse code leads you up three blocks, then turning down the second street, on which is a snaking row of houses. 

A discreet black car idles at the furthest stop sign.

The driver lets you out at one of the houses, mildly confused but a wad of fifties richer for his trouble and discretion. You wait until the cab has turned back onto the main road before making a dash down the sidewalk, slipping smoothly into the unlocked passenger side of the purring vehicle.

The interior of Bruce’s second-best town car seals you in luxurious warmth, torrential rain noise suffused to a murmur as the wipers click back and forth. 

Bruce has his foot on the gas the moment your seatbelt is fastened. He coasts fluidly through the mostly empty streets, driving with the assurance of someone who can read the city like a tome. 

The air between you is silent and tense as the car joins the moving line of traffic across Trigate Bridge. At the wheel, Bruce’s gloves- the thin black leather ones, flexible enough to wear as an added layer of protection under the gauntlets- creak with the force of his grip.

The silence is broken as his right hand lifts from the wheel to reach over the dash, settling above your knee. Bruce doesn’t take his gaze from the road as he says, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

You fit your right hand under the smooth leather of his palm; Bruce catches at your wrist to kiss the inside of it, just under the line of bandages, before returning your joined hands to your lap. 

“I’m okay,” you confirm, quiet but earnest while you turn in your seat to assess him.

The scattered light from the bridge’s streetlamps illuminate the smudged kohl around Bruce’s eyes, and the thin black streams that have snaked halfway down his cheeks with the rain. 

He’s wearing a black undershirt, a long-sleeved button down (robin’s egg blue crinkled from its stowage in the backseat), and an equally creased pair of charcoal dress slacks.

If you had to guess, Bruce had beat his record of changing identities this time around- the Batsuit is probably in the trunk; the only indication of his alter ego lies in the mud-caked boots and mussed hair Bruce is still sporting.

“I’m okay,” you repeat, reaching out to tuck the damp strands of your husband’s hair behind his ear. Smoothing a palm over the stubborn back pieces that prefer to keep the shape of the cowl. 

As if he hasn’t heard you, Bruce speaks through a clenched jaw, accelerating across the off-ramp for the back roads that will take you both home. “The thief wasn’t attached to any organized crime families or gangs, I ran the records myself. Just a low life looking for his next grab.”

“Well he sure as hell didn’t find it in me.” You’re attempting to soothe, to remind Bruce that this random occurrence was, in fact, random, and also not Bruce’s fault. 

The thief didn’t know who you were, had no idea he was targeting someone of affluence and connections, and certainly no idea of whose authority and protection you remain under. 

He’ll probably never know how close to death he was, if there had been more than a scratch on you. 

At the wheel, Bruce’s glove is creaking again, along with the worrying sound of his teeth grinding in his skull. Through his shirts, the bellows of his ribs are expanding and collapsing with sharp speed.

“Bruce.” 

This gets his attention. For the first time since you got in the car, Bruce’s eyes snap to yours. Steely blue and wide with adrenaline and fear.

“Bruce, let’s just- can you pull over somewhere? And we can talk?”

You speak so softly to him. 

Bruce’s throat pulls tight, as does his grasp on you- it’s only a few minutes more to the Manor but he only makes it past the forested edge of his family’s estate before hitting the brakes and pulling off behind the dense line of trees.

The second he shifts to park, you’re swinging a leg over the dash to sit in Bruce’s lap. It’s a tight fight in the low-ceilinged front seat but Bruce is grateful for the close proximity, wasting no time in leaning forward to bury his face into the comfort of your chest.

He breathes deeply, arms wrapping around your middle to pull you even closer as your own arms reach to hug his upper shoulders.

Then your hands are cupping the back of his head, fingers threading at the roots and tugging slightly. Bruce pulls back just far enough to rest his chin on your clothed breast and looks up, obedient and waiting.

There’s still a pinch of worry at the bridge of his nose. You lower your face to press your lips to that spot, then lower, to the cut of his jaw (avoiding the rivulets of dried kohl), then over to his lips, hovering there as you whisper- “Told you. I’m okay, I’m safe, and it wasn’t your fault.”

Bruce exhales softly. Underneath you, his tense frame relents, just slightly, to the gravity of your touch.

It sends a shiver through you. Bruce Wayne, pupils blown with lust under hooded eyes, cock pressing into your thigh, is dutiful and pliant under your touch.

You reward him for the vulnerability by rolling your hips forward, dragging the seam of your jeans over his erection in a firm grind. 

“Fuck,” Bruce swears, in a vaguely raspy (Batman)-sounding voice. His gloved hands wind under your sweater and up the line of your back, working the top from your form as he goes and then tossing it to the depths of the backseat.

This time when he buries his face in your cleavage, it leaves smudges of his kohl at the tops of your breasts, and on the lace-edged tops of your very white bra.

“Bruce.” You’re whining, but also not doing a thing to stop the journey of his lips over your chest. “We’re gonna have to do a suspiciously late-night load of laundry when we get back-”

“I’ll do it.” He mouths at one of your nipples, sucking hard- the fabric adds extra stimulation for his tongue to flick against.

It makes you gasp, tease coming out breathless- “I don’t think you know how to run the washer.” 

Your right hand snakes down his torso, petting over the firm muscle of his abs, the trail of hair that disappears behind the button of his slacks which you unhook with a deft hand. When you slide past the waistband, his naked skin greets you.

“Holy shit.” You giggle, palming greedily at the thatch of his pubic hair before pressing in further to take the line of his cock in your palm. “No briefs today? Kind of slutty, Brucie.”

In response, Bruce sinks his teeth sharp into the fat of your breast. 

You’re both groaning against the other now, hips meeting again in a rough grind as he pulls off to whisper, “You’ve got no idea what you do to me. So mean in that diner. Do you know how hard it is to stave off an erection in the suit?”

“Pretty hard, I’d imagine.” 

You’re laughing again, and Bruce clicks his tongue at you in warning. His hand drops to the side of his seat, tugging the lever that sends you both shooting towards the floorboard and stopping with a jerk. 

You yelp in surprise but Bruce is prepared for the sudden shift of your weight, taking the bulk of you into his arms and using the new angle to start edging your jeans off.

He works on removing your pants and undies while you work on him, long strokes that always end with your thumb over the head of his weeping cock, coating the length with his own precum. 

By the time your bottoms are kicked to the footwell, Bruce is panting. He has the presence of mind to shove his slacks to mid thigh before you’re taking advantage of the freed-up space, pumping with earnest rhythm.

“Goddammit.” The back of Bruce’s skull presses into the headrest, exposing the arch of his alabaster neck for your teeth. 

You suck a hickey halfway up, and another near his collarbone. There will be no hiding this tomorrow, and that thought combined with the wicked twist of your hand has Bruce hissing through his teeth.

“Poor baby,” you coo, not sounding totally sorry but pressing a kiss to each reddening mark anyways. 

Usually, your husband prefers to work you up with his mouth and fingers to an orgasm or two before fucking you- but it’s either the shared adrenaline or territorial need for each other that has you on the same page tonight, equally as eager for Bruce to be in you. 

With another pass of your hips, the wet seam of your cunt drags over his dick, coating him further. Hit thick head notches at your entrance and all that can be heard is both of your stuttering breaths, the pounding of two hearts-

you sink down on his length slow and languid, as Bruce tightens his jaw to smother a whimper and the channel of your cunt throbs around him. 

Your right hand is still near his hipbone, fingers running in a self-soothing pattern against the deep furrowed scar that’s carved there. 

It was from a long-ago knife fight gone bad, when The Batman had way less tech and way more arrogance. 

Bruce aches with how gently you touch the darkest parts of him, like he’s something worth knowing, worth seeking out. 

With his makeup running, gloves still donned, shirts pushed aside and askew, he’s all the different parts of himself combined. Bruce Wayne, The Batman, Vengeance- they all rip at the seams and restitch into someone who’s simply, wholly yours. 

“Brucie-” 

The nickname, choked and strained and falling from your lips, lights Bruce up like paper held to flame. 

One gloved hand lifts from your hip to wrap around the base of your throat, not to cut off your air flow but firm enough to give you something to lean into. 

And you do, eyes fluttering, even reaching up to hold his wrist for more stabilization to fuck yourself back onto his cock. 

“Good girl,” Bruce praises, and says again through the grit of his teeth- “Have no idea what you do to me, my love. How much I- I think about you- shit-”

His words are often so poised, so carefully considered and polished, that it drives you a little crazy to hear him so strained and unfiltered.

The sound of your cunt squelching with each thrust upwards of his hips fills the small space, wetness beginning to leak from where you both meet to coat his lower pelvis.

Bruce wants to assure himself you’re real. That this isn’t some dream he’ll wake up from in a sweaty panic. That you’re warm and alive and his.

He brings his left glove to his mouth, teething at each finger tip to loosen and finally peel it off. The middle two fingers seek out the warmth of your mouth, the flat of your tongue; you hum around the slender digits as they slide home.

Bruce can feel your soft palette as you swallow him down. There’s a sheened layer of tears in your eyes that mirror his own, and Bruce grunts with the force of your hips meeting his.

He feels it everywhere when your orgasm starts building- in the faltering of your movements, the way you lean further into his grasp on your throat, restricting your own oxygen intake as pleasure begins to make your thighs shudder.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Bruce keeps the same pace and the same angle, cockhead bullying against the slippery front wall of your cunt.

You’re squeezing around him so tight- at his fingers, around his cock- the totality, the all-encompassing feeling, is nirvana. Perfection. Better than any fistfight or shadowy mistress that calls to Bruce’s innate defensive needs. 

You make him want to be better. To be good and honorable- things Bruce isn’t entirely sure he’s even capable of anymore- but he tries, every day, to take actions you’d be proud of. 

Even and especially under the cowl, in the dark of night on silent empty streets with no one but the moon to watch him. You’re there, somehow, in his psyche, a compass and a guiding light rolled into one. 

The thought that something could have gone wrong, or someone could have taken you from him- in the city that he- that Batman- is supposed to run, on the same night he was patrolling… 

Bruce is a realist but finds he can’t follow that line of thought without completely losing the part of himself that remains true to your ethos. 

So Bruce doesn’t think about it. 

He’ll make a conscious choice to walk the line of self-inflicted shame and goodness, all that extra adrenaline and spiky fear and protectiveness channeled into energy. An energy that only exists and lives thanks to you. 

He lets his thoughts and world shrink and be consumed by the only thing that matters; Bruce pulls his fingers from the cavern of your mouth and seeks out the beating heart of your clit with spit-wettened precision.

That’s all it takes for your orgasm to hit with the force of a train, waves of pleasure spasming through your frame, knees pressing hard into Bruce’s sides as his hold under your chin steadies and carries you through it.

“Bruce…” Your forehead rolls against his, sweat prickling at every point of contact as you continue to grind your hips back and forth, working yourself through the overstimulation and begging for his, too. “Please, baby- need you so bad…”

Bruce is right there but he’s dragging it out, keeping the overwhelm of his pleasure at bay with a jaw so tight it could break iron. His nostrils flare, breath burning and jagging in quick pants, cock nestled so far in that tight sleeve of your pussy he’s sure you can feel him throbbing. 

You’re whimpering in his ear, body curled and pressed to his chest, still fucking yourself onto him with his hand at your throat- “That’s it, Brucie- doin’ so good- treat me so well, baby, you-”

It’s the praise that unravels him. 

Bruce’s jaw unlocks in the shape of a low, long groan as he spills inside you, arms wrapping round your upper back to both hold you close and keep you settled on his cock as his release is pumped deep, hips snapping erratically, rapture drawn out further with every contracting aftershock of your cunt.

In the moments following, you nuzzle into the side of Bruce’s neck and he palms a soothing path across your back. 

When you start seizing with giggles Bruce winces and gets growly- “Stop that-”

“Sorry. But jesus christ, Bruce-” You’re still laughing as you kiss up the line of his jaw, then hover a breath away. “-we haven’t even kissed yet.”

He remedies this. Cups the back of your head and pulls your mouth to his, lips parting to let in the welcome slide of your tongue.

“Guess we went a little out of order tonight.” Bruce kisses you more until he feels the curve of your smile form.

“You’re so handsome,” you say, sweet and honest as you sit up to assess the damage. He flushes pink under your attention. 

Both layers of Bruce’s shirts are damp with sweat, his alabaster skin red-streaked with various cuts of your teeth and nails, not to mention the smeared evidence of his eye makeup rubbed into the fabric of your bra and stamped across your chest. 

You’re both very visually conspicuous messes. Bruce smiles lazily up at you, as your pointer finger lifts to run softly along the hot flush of his cheek.

“I’ll call ahead, tell Alfred to take the night off so we don’t have to sneak back in like teenagers.” He dips his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

You nod, then ask- “Wanna take a bath with me, then put me to bed and pretend to sleep for a few hours?”

Bruce thinks that’s the best idea he’s heard all night, and he tells you so.

The stars are hanging low in the sky tonight, and the moon illuminates the path towards home.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

thanks for reading! <3

[bjorntobemild]

What if some lunatic wrote the Fargo fandom the Ole Munch x Reader fic it deserved. What if some lunatic already wrote it and it’s there under the cut. Hm. What if that lunatic is me. What then.

Lapine, Part 1/3 — Ole Munch x Reader (Rated M)

Part 2

Part 3

“I live here now.” 

And at first you barely register the words. It’s already enough of a struggle processing the sight. Because there’s a man sitting in your grandmother’s rocking chair, sitting in your home as if he’d lived there all his life. And where your heart had lurched to a stop when you laid eyes on him, it drums to life again in that moment, your pulse thundering in your ears as your palms sweat and your guts turn to water. 

I live here now. 

If he notices your fear, he’s unmoved, his attention already turning back to the wall as if you’re no more than another pierce of furniture. The movement lights up his profile: sharp, strange features. Uncomfortably bright eyes. An awful fucking haircut. You feel the thump-thump of the rocking chair drum through your bare feet as he pushes off the floor with his toes again. 

It’s what had drawn you up here to begin with, the noise. You’d already been petrified when you first heard it, figured out what it was, thinking of her, of your grandmother, the way she’d soothed you to sleep as a child in that very chair. What you’d found was far worse than any ghost could have been. The gentle, rocking rhythm from your childhood twisted into something not, something other.

You take a shaky step back. Two. Then you’re off — bolting back down the stairs as fast as your unsteady legs will carry you. Uncaring about the splinters that stick in your feet from the rickety floorboards. You expect to hear him follow, feel him eating up the distance between you; a hand clapping over your mouth. 

You feel none of those things. You don’t hear anything either. And as your hand closes over the house phone, you pause, listening. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t even left the chair. You can still hear it thump-thumping steadily and you stand and stare at the ceiling, waiting for — for… 

Nothing. You end up standing there for so long you’re staring to doubt that there’s anything up there at all. That all this, the man, that steady, familiar thump-thump is no more than a figment of your imagination. Sleep’s usual nightmares lingering around you still. 

Cautiously, you climb the steps again and peer around the corner — and he’s there, never faltering in his rhythm. The thump-thump is in you now. In your chest. You duck behind the corner. Take a breath. Look back again. 

“A man will not touch you. Stop cowering like a dog.” He speaks with an accent you can’t quite place. Nordic, maybe. He speaks slowly, words stilted. 

You find your own voice. It’s quieter than you’d like and shaking slightly, but it’s there. “You broke into my home.” You try stating the obvious in the paper-thin chance that he’s just confused, lost, just not well. 

“I broke nothing.” The declaration is almost petulant, almost childlike, and so far from the point it might as well be in a different State. 

You want to tell him you have no money. Nothing worth stealing. That if he was looking for a place to rob, he’d picked the wrong house. The house of a dead woman which you barely had the money to maintain. But the words he spoke earlier are still ringing in your ears, and you know with some deep-set primal knowledge, that money isn’t what he’s after. I live here now. I live here now. I live here now. 

“Are you going to hurt me?” 

He shakes his head slowly, wearily, like his tiredness was bone-deep. Ancient. “A man has said.” 

The next words are out of your mouth before you can think about what you’re saying. Falling back on hospitality, on manners, the time-honoured, hopeful trade of decency for decency. “Do you… would you like some coffee?” 

He looks back at you, light moving over those sharp, strange features. The over-bright eyes. The awful haircut. He nods, just once. 

He calls himself Ole Munch. Ooh-la Moon-ckh. And you’re not stupid enough to believe for a minute that it’s his real name, and smart enough not to question it. He doesn’t hurt you. You don’t call the police. And he stays. 

—-

The house is too big for two people, let alone one, and you both rattle around it, sleeping and sitting and breathing among a dead woman’s possessions. It may be why you allowed him to stay in the first place. To fill the house with warm bodies instead of just memories. Ghosts. You remind yourself that ‘allowed’ is a generous word. 

It’s Halloween, and you’re curled up in your grandmother’s old armchair, the TV casting a pale, wobbling blue glow over everything, transmitting some horror flick from the 70s. You haven’t decorated for the season, can’t find the heart to, but the glow from the TV and the creaking noises you can hear from the floor above, make your home feel eerie enough as-is. And still, a bowlful of Halloween candy waits on the porch anyway, because you used to love this time of year. This holiday. 

You fall into a doze, and wake up to find a figure hovering in the doorway of your sitting room. It’s dark, but you can see the way the TV light catches on his eyes, looking at you. 

“Going out, lapine.” He speaks like every word is an effort. Like he’s drawing them up like water from the bottom of a dark well. 

You don’t question where, why, or the unusual nickname he bestows on you as he turns away and disappears out the door. When he eventually returns, he’s a mess of blood and dirt.

You stand half-peering around the shower curtain as he talks about life and death and kings and potatoes and you’re terrified, and because you’re you, beneath that terror is the dim, distant knowledge that grandma would be very upset at the state he’s left the bathroom in. There was dirt in the tub, dirt on the floor where he’d tracked it all through the house. There was even dirt on the dirt. And Munch himself looks like he’s been rolling around in a swamp. You can’t help but ask him:

“Please. I don’t understand.” You understand very little anymore. “Why are you here? What do you want?” 

He looks at you in the way you’ve seen people look at shrines. The ornate, sacred ceilings of a church. He looks at you like you’re the lights of a house in a dark, vast wilderness, his eyes near-black — and that’s frightening too. This reverence you've done nothing to earn. Then he stands, slowly, brown water trickling from his skin, all those sinewy limbs, and he’s bare before you and you brace yourself and think it’s now, it’s going to happen now and he’s too tall, too strong to fight, but you will anyway, you will, you will even if he kills you for it but he just stands there. And when he speaks what he says is: 

“Pancakes.” 

—-

You don’t have your grandmother's magic touch. The pancakes are nowhere near as fluffy as she used to make them, more crepes than anything really, but they taste good enough with a sprinkling of sugar and squeeze of lemon. You suck the sweet sharpness from your fingertips after and watch him watch, something you thought long-dead unfurling and stretching within you at the sight. He eats his own share like a man starved, scraping the floral crockery clean with his knife and setting it down with a delicacy that’s surprising in a man that covers himself head to toe in dirt and breaks into people’s houses. 

He’s with it enough to wrap the towel you’d offered around his hips, your one condition  of agreeing to cook the pancakes, but this does nothing to cover his chest, the barely-there softness of his stomach, his long, long legs and fine, bony feet. 

Later, you catch his hands admiring the fur collar of your grandmother’s coat, still waiting for its owner by the door. The one that she wore on her best and brightest days. And even though his nails are dark, dirty crescents; even though it feels like handing a piece of her over, you offer it to him. He takes it with a care that soothes something in you, and watching him put it on makes him seem strangely soft. Human. It suits him somehow. And sometime later than that, he returns with his own worn brown coat in his hands. He hands it to you. 

“Fair is fair,” he says. 

You take it, getting a noseful of its smoke and gunmetal and grave-dirt smell, and nod. 

— 

“I need you to leave,” you tell a man, a different man, another uninvited guest, sitting in your kitchen with his elbow on the table. “Now, please. I already told you, I’m not your girl anymore.” 

It earns you your first black eye in a while. His fist so quick, so practiced that it lands before you can flinch. And you’re recovering your senses on the floor, clutching your temple and trying to figure out which way is up while Eric calls you a bitch and a cunt and spits his venom down on you. A shadow crosses the doorway. 

“Who the fuck is this?” Eric snarls. 

“I live here now,” Ole says. 

“What the fuck?" Eric. "This why you don’t want me ‘round no more, huh sweetheart? Been shackin’ up with Frankenstein here?” 

Frankenstein’s monster, the bitch and the cunt in you wants to correct. But he’s not a monster, just a man (at least, you think he is, sometimes you have your doubts) and you would never make that comparison, and your head hurts, so you say nothing. The fabric of a kilt and Eric’s red, ratlike face — the face that all dirtbags of the North seemed to inherit — and the ceiling and the leg of the table, all swim in and out of view. 

“—you know who your fuckin’ with here, asshole? Putting your fuckin’ hands on my girl—“ 

“Not your girl,” you murmur. You feel sick. You hear voices. Words. 

“—you’re not fuckin' him, just who the hell is he, huh? A boarder?” 

“Trade,” Ole supplies. 

“What?” And oh, that’s anger, that’s real anger in Eric’s voice there, and you know what’s coming next will make the shiner he’s just given you look like a love-tap. 

“No payment. Trade. Like the dog in the yard, we guard the house.” And you shake your head helplessly, because god, doesn’t he know what that sounds like? It has the same effect as dropping a lit match on gasoline. Eric is up in your face in an instant, all teeth and mad, rabid eyes, screaming out his hatred. Your gaze keeps slipping to Ole, motionless beyond Eric’s shoulder, and the expression on his face makes your tears boil over, hot and humiliating on your cheeks. 

For a while all you know is the feeling of curling in on yourself, your spine pressing against the table leg while Eric calls you a whore, the parting word feeling like spit on your skin. He tells Munch to watch his fucking back. You want to lash out. To hurt something. You just sit and cry like a child. Eric leaves. 

Ole follows. 

There’s commotion outside — but you don’t see it. You stay where you are. Stay on the floor where you can’t see and can’t know what is happening. Stay staring at your own knees while you hear an awful loaded silence — a scream cut short. Then for a while, nothing. You watch dust motes settle. You watch a single strand of hair flutter in the stream of your own breath. Eventually, you watch a pair of booted feet move toward you. 

“Lapine.” 

Slow, steady steps. Feet on creaking floorboards. Long, cool fingers on your forehead.

You look at the blood drying in his nail beds, sprayed across one pitted cheek, and feel nothing besides the throbbing in your temple. 

—- 

It might be because he’s there. It might be because he’s tall with large, graceful, capable hands. It might be because he’s beautiful in some strange way. It might be because you’re so fucking scared and so fucking lonely it makes your bones ache. 

You tell him about your grandmother. How she was bright and beautiful and so, so kind. You tell him about Eric. How he was kind to begin with and then, not so much. He stays still and silent while you talk, the way his eyes never leave you the only indication that he’s listening. You talk until there are almost no words left in you. You’re tucked into the armchair again, your dried tears feeling stiff on your cheeks. 

For a while, you just watch him, admiring how the dim light deepens every crease in his face, every scar. And he’s not a classically handsome man by any means, but he’s — something. All brows and nose and jaw with an animal’s mouth, and you feel that thing within you, the thing that had stretched and unfurled when you caught him looking at you, stir to life. Sink its claws into your belly. You stand up, shedding the blanket you’d cocooned yourself in, and make your first slow steps towards him. At your approach, he lifts his chin to watch you, all of him still. 

He’s looking up at you with that same expression as he’d done in the bathtub. Some strange reverence, eyes full and dark and yet trembling with light. Some instinct drives you forward. Drives you to steady yourself on the back of the sofa, over his shoulder. You lean in, carefully, so carefully, inhaling smoke and earth and gunmetal and — you brush the tip of your nose against his sharp one, a fair warning, before you touch his mouth with your own. 

He doesn’t kiss you back, doesn’t move a muscle. But he draws in a ragged breath when you pull away a little. You hope you haven’t misread things. Hope to god you haven’t just embarrassed yourself. Only you think you can feel him yearning; think you can see all the subtle strain in his body. 

“I need a yes or a no,” you tell him softly. 

“Yes,” he draws the word out. Hisses it from between those crowded, crooked teeth like it’s being drawn from a wound.

So you climb into his lap, cautiously, one leg at a time and even though he’s solid and still and warm beneath you, it leaves you with the feeling that you’re curling up to the dark. It makes you shiver. You lower your mouth to his again. He kisses like someone out of practice. Slow, and halting, but with a little coaxing, his mouth softens just enough. You keep your tongue to yourself, but still taste his smoker’s breath. Something old and cold and coppery. Lemon. At some point one of those fine, graceful hands comes up to cup your chin, gentle beyond belief. 

And you want more. To do more. To fuck and be fucked and watch him fray at the edges and see if he was telling the truth, if he would hurt you when he said he wouldn’t. But instead, you slide off his lap, not missing the way his fingertips spasm towards you as you withdraw, and tell him goodnight.

—- 

You spend the majority of the next day in bed. Wrapped in the threadbare, time-worn sheets that had been there since you were a child. You’re not avoiding him exactly — okay maybe you are a little — but you’re also sitting with what you’d done, examining it and turning it over in your hands and mind and seeing how you liked it. When restlessness calls you downstairs, you find him sitting on the couch in precisely the same spot as the previous night; precisely the same position. His hands resting on his kilted knees. 

You murmur a greeting that he doesn’t return. Just lifts his chin a little and follows your progress around the room. You’re draining a cup of water when he speaks from behind your turned back. 

“A man would—I would like. If a woman is… willing—“ He cuts himself off with a swallow. It sounds like it hurts. 

He wants to kiss again, you think and you wipe the water and the smile from your mouth before you turn around. You can feel the softness in your eyes as you look at him; see that same look in his eyes all over again as you close the distance between you and climb back into his lap, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders, the cardigan he wears soft from time. He lets out a ragged sigh at the contact, and this time it’s him kissing you. Those strange, grimy, capable hands capturing your jaw once more, holding you still while he explores. 

The first touch of his mouth is a beginner’s attempt, he lists forwards and presses his lips over yours like a stamp, breath harsh. You draw back a little, nuzzle gently, and try to coax him to kiss you gently, wet and soft, the way you liked. Open-close, open-close. He softens again, the same as he did the previous night, warming to it quickly and it shocks you, how much you like it. How he kisses like a man starved. 

When you reach out to touch your tongue to his lower lip, a full body shudder wracks him and you withdraw immediately. Baby steps, then. But he opens his mouth for it, hungry. And soon you’re swallowing his moans and rocking gently in his lap as he starts to stir beneath you. He feels so good. All shadow and sinew. You squirm, and feel him swallow. 

“Lapine,” he says, his voice scraping over the syllables, thick and foreign. Your fingers find the hem of his kilt. 

—- 

It ends, as things are wont to do, in darkness. You’re coming back from getting groceries, of all things. It’s cold, and you’re wearing the coat he gave you — traded you — its hem wet from the snow. You have flour, eggs, butter, oranges and lemons. You could both use a little more citrus, you think. 

You’re not there to hear the glass smash, but you’re close enough behind that you catch the boy rooting through your grandmother’s car. Her pride and joy, besides you. 

All it takes is a shove. 

There’s the concrete. There’s the snow. And then, nothing.

[the-darklings]

"you can go back to pretending you don’t like me, and i can pretend that i don’t care. but for tonight, let me pretend you’re mine."

For Makear and ls please

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Maekar remarks.

His voice carries oddly in Winterfell. Somehow too low for the cavernous room, too steady for the way his hands keep flexing at his sides. The hearth has burned down to dim, sullen coals.

You’re still in your shift, the day peeled off you in layers and left in a heap by the screen: fur cloak, gown, duty, the stiff smile you wore for your bannermen and his men both. Your skin is gooseflesh in the draft. You stand with your palms on the cold lip of the window, looking out into a courtyard where the snow turns blue-black under moonlight and the towers cut the sky into hard shapes.

Maekar stands behind you.

You always know where he is. He moves like a soldier even when he’s trying to be casual about his presence. His weight always placed carefully, breath controlled, only the faint whisper of leather whenever he shifts. He looks like he belongs in the North far more than he ever expected himself to.

“Like what?” you ask, and it comes out flat, almost bored because flatness is safer than tenderness.

Maekar huffs a sound that might pass for a laugh, if he were a different man. In him it's something rougher, caught and scraped free. “Like you’re deciding whether I’m… tolerable.”

The room is too big for two people who haven’t yet learned how to fill it together. There are miles of bed and furs between you most nights, even when you share it. Miles you could map by the spaces where you don’t touch. Duty is tidy. Duty is a straight, simple line. You did that part already, early and wordless, and afterwards you lay very still with your hands folded like a corpse, listening to him breathe like he’d run a long way to get nowhere he wanted to be.

Now Maekar stands as if he’s bracing for a blow. You turn slowly toward him.

He’s stripped down to a linen shirt unlaced at the throat, hair slightly longer than when he first came North, silver gone darker at the roots, clinging in loose strands to his brow. His face is carved into its usual hard set, but his eyes give him away: sharp, yes, always that, but not cruel. Uncertain somehow. Like he’s staring at the shadow of another man cast across the wall and trying to make himself bigger than it.

Baelor’s name is not in the room, and yet it's everywhere you both look. In the way Maekar watches your mouth before he looks away. In the way your chest tightens at softness you don’t deserve to keep.

You’ve always been honest enough to hate yourself for it.

Maekar’s jaw works once, and then he says it—too fast, like he’ll lose his nerve if he lets the words sit on his tongue too long.

“You can go back to pretending you don’t like me, and I can pretend that I don’t care,” he says gruffly, the corner of his mouth twitching, all bitterness. “But for tonight, let me pretend you’re mine.”

You consider laughter, then you consider anger. It should make you turn back to the window and tell him he doesn’t get to pretend ownership of anything in this castle, your home, least of all you. But you can't muster up your usual defences tonight. Not after weeks of this painfully stiff and polite distance. This isn't the cold stillness of a woman shutting a door, you tell yourself, but a different kind. The quiet that comes right before a wolf steps out of shadow and decides whether it will bite.

Maekar keeps his arms at his sides like he’s afraid to lift them. His shoulders are too tight. His throat works on a swallow, the tendon jumping once under the thin collar of linen.

You see it, all at once—how much effort it takes him to say mine at all.

How much he expects to be refused.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you hear yourself murmur.

His eyes flash. “Why? Because it’s untrue?”

There it is. The ugly little wound that never closes, bleeding all over you both.

Because your marriage was a piece moved for peace. Because you said vows with one man’s ring on your finger while your heart was still bleeding his brother's name. Because everyone in the realm can recite stories about Baelor Breakspear like he’s a living myth, and Maekar has lived his whole life one step behind that light, catching whatever warmth it throws by accident.

He's a prince and a weapon and a hard-handed man, and still—still—he looks at you now like a boy on the edge of a frozen river, listening for cracks, expecting the cut.

You take a deep breath. Then you do something you did not plan to do, and that’s how you know it’s the truest thing you've ever done.

You cross the room toward him.

Maekar doesn’t move. He watches you like you might change direction at the last second and leave him standing there with his own want in his hands. You stop close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, all power and brawn, a warrior prince diminished by the cold. His gaze drops to your throat, to your mouth. Then flicks away, like looking is theft. His lashes cast dark shadows on his scarred cheekbones. There’s a faint bruise blooming along one knuckle of his hand, fresh and bright. He’s been hitting something. Perhaps only himself.

“Tonight,” you say softly, and your voice surprises you with how smooth and reassured it is, “you don’t have to pretend.”

His brows knit. “Don’t—”

You lift your hand before he can cut himself open further. Your fingers hover for a heartbeat, suspended in the air between you like a question. Then you put your palm against his chest. Maekar goes rigid beneath your hand. It’s absurd, how much you can tell from a man’s stillness. How the muscles under your hand bunch as if he’s expecting pain. How his breath catches, then forces itself lower, as if he’s trying to drag control back into his body.

His shirt is warm beneath your palm. The steady hammer of his heart is not.

“Maekar,” you say, and his name sounds wrong and right all at once in your mouth. Too southern for these ancient walls, too intimate for a marriage that’s mostly cold distance.

He tenses like you struck him. You tip your chin up, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I am your wife,” you remind him plainly, “Not the realm’s. Not your brother’s. Yours.”

His mouth parts, but no words come out. You feel the sentence land in you, too, like an arrow you didn’t see coming. Yours. You expected it to taste like surrender or pain, some twisted heartbreak, like by admitting it, you let Baelor go.

But instead, it tastes like choosing.

Maekar’s hand lifts, slow and cautious, and stops inches from your waist, hovering like he’s waiting for permission. Like he’s afraid to bruise something already bruised. You lean into him instead. The movement makes his control creak; you see it playing out in his body and face both. His hand closes at your side, firm enough to anchor, fingers spreading as if he’s trying to memorise the shape of you through skin and linen alike. His thumb presses once, almost trembling.

“You’re—” he starts, and the word dies.

You rise on your toes and kiss him. Not dutiful or polite. You kiss him like you mean to burn the doubt out of him by force. Like you’re angry at the years he’s been made second, and angrier still that you helped add to the tally.

For half a heartbeat Maekar doesn’t kiss back. Maybe it's shock, maybe, or disbelief.

Then he does.

The sound he makes is deep and wrecked, torn from somewhere behind his ribs. His other hand comes up hard, catching the back of your neck with a grip that’s almost painful. Then eases, immediately, like he remembers you're not a sword hilt to be weilded. His mouth is hot, desperate, all that iron restraint splintering into something hungry.

You taste smoke on him. Salt. The faint metallic edge of blood where his lip has cracked from northern cold. His kiss isn't gentle, but it is careful, like a man who has spent his whole life believing he's dangerous, and is trying not to be. It makes your chest ache in a way you can’t name.

When you break apart, it’s only because you need oxygen again. Maekar stays close, like he needs the contact to keep himself from slipping back into that cold, obedient distance.

His voice is a rasp. “Say it again.”

You swallow, and in the brief, silent space, you feel the old love in you stir. Baelor’s quiet warmth drifts in, the life you thought you’d have lingering in your chest. Then you look at the man in front of you, eyes bright with something he hates needing, and you understand: love is not always a clean story, a clean choice. Sometimes it’s built out of stone and choice after choice after choice.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, and mean it.

Maekar’s eyes shutter for a fraction, like it hurts to hear those words, and like they heal something inside him. His hands tighten on you, and then he kisses you again, slower but rougher this time, learning you the way you imagine he learns battle lines: by tracing them until they’re his to hold.

[tothosewholisten]

wild at heart: chapter 3 - three of a kind

ser duncan the tall x secret targ fem! reader

summary: you run from the weight of society and take to the road in order to escape. along the way, you are protected by a hedge knight who never asks who you truly are, only who you choose to be beside him. when at the tourney at ashford, what grows between you two is quiet and fleeting. something born of trust, and the understanding that some things are meant to be felt, not claimed.

authors note: so sorry this took so long, i've been so busy, lmk if your still here! love this chapter. I have a question for the more lore knowledgeable people, do we know when dyanna dayne died? also is jena still alive in this time period? we didnt hear about baelor's wife at all.. warnings: violence, language, blood, made up knowledge of constellations. ooc dunk, maybe? slight hints to incest (it’s the targs, it’s gonna be there) not proof read

word count: 14k+

Masterlist

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...

It was cold, since the fire had long died down, Dunk and Egg were asleep, all that was left was you and the pit feeling in your stomach that kept you awake. As you sat up from your bed roll, you tried to pay attention to the earth around you. The woods breathed softly around the camp and leaves whispered together whenever the wind passed through. Somewhere far off, an owl called, low and hollow. Everyone was prepared to rest, wary from the day's misfortune, except for you.

You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, though the chill in your chest had little to do with the air.

“Can’t sleep?” Dunk’s warm voice called out to you.

You turned to him with a shudder, not having realized he was awake. His large body shifted beside you, propped up on one elbow.

“You should be sleeping.” The words came out with little emotion.

The man next to you fully sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before looking your way again. “So should you,” he says gently, scooting closer across the ground until he was close enough for you to feel his breathing. “What’s wrong?”

Your hands grip your hair slightly, in a stroking motion, and you think about whether you should share your feelings. Since they were only a small preview of the ideas in the darkest corners of your mind. Dunk watched you quietly while you thought. He never rushed you, not once. Even now, he simply waited.

“You can tell me, m’lady. There is no judgment here.” Yes, there is. You wanted to scream out. That if you knew who I was, there would be nothing but judgment.

“I just have a bad feeling..” you whisper.

Dunk’s eyes soften, the crease between his brows deepening as he studies you. “About what?”

You hesitate, staring out into the trees again. “Anything could happen,” you say quietly. “Something bad. Something we can't stop.” You swallow. “Then what would happen to… us?” Your words trailed off, scared to say what you were assuming. 

“Nothing bad is going to happen.” He concludes.

You shake your head. “You don't know that.”

“And how do you know?” he asks softly, not challenging, only curious.

“I just… I know.” That’s all, you knew.

For a moment, Dunk doesn’t answer. He scratches the back of his neck in a thinking matter, the way he always did when something weighed on his mind. “In that case,” he says at last, mind steady again, “even if something bad were to happen, it wouldn't go unpunished. I’d do something to cease it.”

You smile slightly, playing with the hem of his cloak. The thick material bunched between your fingers as you twisted the fabric absentmindedly. “Sweet knight..” He was truly sweet, no rotten bone in his body. It made you frown to think that the world’s cruel ways would corrupt him sooner than later.

Dunk falters at your touch, clearly unsure what to do now. He looks down at your hands briefly before clearing his throat. “You need to sleep somehow, m’lady.” An idea washes away his embarrassment as he tilts his head up to the sky. “Look up,” he says.

Your eyebrows furrow as you follow his gaze. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“The stars,” he replies. “You can lose yourself in them instead of your thoughts.” He shifts slightly closer. “I’ve spent tons of nights on the road myself just staring up at the stars. Even when Ser Arlan told me to quit it.”

“Why?”

Dunk lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the faintest laugh in it.

“Because, despite the worries of future days ahead, the night sky always stays the same. No matter where you are.” He stops and turns his head to you. “Or who you're with.”

He could have sworn the purple sky illuminated you, that the stars shone down onto your frame. The silver light caught in the loose strands of your hair and traced the curve of your cheek. He could've stared at you for the rest of his life.

“So just look,” he finished.

Once you did, you could not turn away. A sight you had taken for granted every day of your life, stars you could barely see out of your tower at Summerhall. All shining for you like they were greeting you for the first time.

“So the stars all look this beautiful?” you beamed.

Dunk grinned at that. “Some more than others.” He pointed with his hand at a certain line of light stretched across the sky.

“That one there is the Crone’s Lantern,” he explains. “Ser Arlan used to say if you follow that one long enough, it’ll guide you through the darkest woods.” His finger moved again. “And those there, see the little cluster? Looks like a crown if you squint hard enough.”

You leaned slightly closer, squinting exactly as instructed.

“I do see it,” you murmured. “Though it may be a crooked crown.” You chuckled softly. “Most crowns are.”

He explained to you for what felt like a fortnight. Some stories he knew were likely wrong, half-remembered from Ser Arlan’s mutterings during long rides, but he told them anyway. About wandering stars, about sailors who used them to find their way home, about knights who once swore oaths beneath certain constellations. The two of you went back and forth in each other's company. He still lent his ear to hear your troubles even though he had no obligation.

“You're so.. knowledgeable, my knight,” you smiled.

Dunk shook his head immediately. “That is too high praise, m’lady. I just try my best.”

“You remember quite a lot for someone who claims not to know much.”

“Well,” he mutters sheepishly, “when you spend enough nights sleeping in the dirt, you start memorizing the sky whether you mean to or not.”

Your mind spoke before you did. “Your best is more than any woman could wish for.”

His breath hitches in his throat. Dunk suddenly lies back down with little grace, as if trying to bury himself in the ground. So the two of you moved from sitting up to sitting flat on the ground. Still watching the stars. 

After a while, you let out a soft yawn, bringing your hand to your mouth. “And it seems you have tired me out.”

Dunk smiles. “Then my mission is complete,” he says quietly. “Now I hope you dream well, m’lady.” Then he closed his eyes. Dunk’s body once again began to grow tired, until he noticed you. Still awake, and looking up.

Your voice came softer this time, almost lost to the quiet of the forest. “I have seen and accomplished more with you than in my years on this planet. What does that say about me?”

“It says,” he says slowly, “there is far more left to see.”

You return to him then, slowly moving yourself until you're practically lying on top of him.

He gasps, trying to stay as still as possible. “M’lady!” he exclaims under his breath.

“I’m going to be selfish tonight,” you murmur, already settling against him. “As you are mine. So I will lay as such.”

You settle comfortably on him; he was as warm as a fire with triple the body mass. Despite training, despite living on the road, he was soft as a kitten. Your cheek pressed against his chest, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart thumping beneath his ribs. Dunk freezes for a moment, unsure what to do with arms that suddenly have somewhere to go.

“…Are you comfortable?” he asks awkwardly after a moment.

“Very.”

“That’s… good,” he says. Without protest, he allowed you to continue. Slowly, carefully, he shifts one arm around you, more to keep you from sliding off than anything else. His chin rests on top of your head. He looked at the stars and then at you while continuing to tell facts about the night sky.

His voice grew softer as he spoke. “And that one there… Ser Arlan always said it meant fair weather,” he murmurs.

You were asleep only minutes later. He hadn't known you before to snore, but tonight you did softly. Dunk smiles faintly at the sound, until slowly he fell asleep to the smell of your hair. It was almost walnut-ish

Egg found you two curled up on the marrow in the early day light; the two of you looked entirely unaware of the world. He stopped for a moment, hands on his hips, squinting thoughtfully at the sight. “Hm,” he muttered to himself. Then he quietly gathered his boots and slipped away without waking either of you.

He had a mission himself.

You only awoke when he accidentally made a large boom. Hands running to your dagger without a second thought, the Valyrian steel almost slicing your own palm in the process. 

“Egg!” You called out.

The boy froze, turning slowly as if he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar. “Good marrow, my lady..”

You took in his look, the way his hands slid to Dunk’s sword, and how he had already gotten the man’s horse ready to leave. “Where are you going with Thunder?”

“We are going to train for the tourney,” he said, trying to sound confident.

“I applaud your efforts, don’t misunderstand, but don’t you think you should tell Duncan you’re taking his horse?” You gestured to the sleeping man you were still next to.

Egg pouted slightly. “We’ll only be gone a little while, promise.” You had no reason not to believe him; his heart was always in the right place, if a bit misguided. And after yesterday, he seemed eager to prove himself even more.

The boy gave you a look only the cruelist of sister’s could resist.

You sighed and glanced at Dunk as if seeking his counsel. “I’ll let him know when he wakes, go ahead.” The boy did not waste a second before seizing the man’s sword and scuttling off deeper into the woods.

Your hands pressed timidly against his chest. “Dunk…” you whispered. No response. 

You chose to let him sleep. After the strain and nerves that came with entering the lists, it felt like the least you could do. So instead, you got up and spun around. What to do? You were hungry to say the least. But your stomach twisted at the thought of salt beef. If you were a better person, maybe you would know how to make something. Alas, you had no idea.

But you slowly came up with another idea.

Your skills that left much to be desired would not stop you from spending a bit of your coin on Dunk. No matter how much he might grumble about it later. And if you purchased food, it would give everyone the chance to break their fast properly, to begin the day with full bellies. 

You found comfort in the thought as you set off. 

The market square was quiet at that early hour, the kind of stillness that came before the day truly began. Most of the vendors were only just setting up their stalls, arranging baskets, and hanging cloth awnings while rubbing sleep from their eyes. Despite the calm, the air felt heavier than it should have been. Something unseen pressed down between the rows of stands as it refused to lift. 

It was the vendors, all gossiping. Low whispers slipped through the square that drew your attention, no matter how hard you tried to ignore them. As you passed by, the snatches of conversation reached your ears, but they were never complete enough to make sense of. 

From what you heard, it started with a couple of lords fighting. Then a royal scandal. You could only roll your eyes as you thought of who in your family created the next big news. Each rumor shifted as quickly as it appeared, reshaped by every mouth that carried it onward. Whatever truth they started from no longer mattered. You stopped near a stall of restless geese, their loud honks masking your presence as you continued listening to the next scandal.

“Aye, it’s true,” an old woman in blue said, her voice tight with worry.

“Do you think she was taken?” a younger woman asked, eyes darting toward the stalls.

“Who knows? The prince can’t keep track of his two missing sons. How’s he meant to watch a princess?”

You sucked in a sharp gasp. Surely they weren’t speaking of you.  Only when leaning in closer did you catch the whole truth of it.

“But I don’t believe it,”  a man muttered, lips pursed. “She was all the way in Summerhall. How did no one see her?”

“Wasn’t she meant to come here? With her family?” the young woman pressed. 

“That’s what I heard. Seems not,” 

“The eldest daughter of the Anvil,” another man said, shaking his head, “the king’s favorite grandchild, yet she’s barely seen at court. Why would this time be any different?”

Your heart dropped.

They never spoke of you like this; usually, they never lingered beyond titles and half-remembered facts, but truly, how would you know what they would say? Every careless word felt loose enough to travel, to find its way back to people you had fled from. Had the castle attendants only just come to terms with your leaving and begun letting it slip into quiet conversation? 

“I hope she’s all right,” the young woman whispered, brow furrowed.

“She’s just another sack of blood for those vipers to intimidate us with,” a snotty woman snapped.

No one seemed to disagree.

“Miss?” The goose seller’s voice startled you, his face drawn in mild concern. 

You swallowed and forced your expression into something pleasant. “Three eggs, please,” you said, praying your voice sounded steady. 

After an awkward encounter over eggs, you steadied yourself once again and headed to a baker’s stall for loaves of bread. But the whispers were louder and misguided there.

“Father,” a girl asked, tugging at the baker’s sleeve. She couldn’t have been more than twelve. “Is the princess a spinster?”

“No, no,” he replied loudly, handing over the loaf. “She’s still young. Just… unlucky in the marriage department.”

The girl frowned, studying the subject far too closely. “But five marriage prospects, all ending before the wedding? That’s more than bad luck,” the girl said, almost smug. “Will I end up like her?”

“Not if you do as you’re told,” he added firmly. Your fingers tightened around the bread. For a moment, you nearly dropped it. The two of them turned to you in annoyance as if they weren't just speaking proudly about business that had nothing to do with them. You gave them a tight smile as you walked away.

The sound of people talking still trailed after you.

“What if she were here right now? For the tourney?” another woman asked her friend, alarmed.

“A princess,” the other woman hissed, lips tight, “walking among us like… as she belongs, don’t be daft.”

The first nodded back. “Just the thought of it feels wrong. The blood of kings… among market folk. A Targaryen should not be out here, should not touch our streets. It unsettles me. What if she brings trouble?”

“All I know is, I would not want her near my stall,” the second replied, voice slightly shaking. 

They had the strength to say that, yet smiled at you when you walked past.

You did not stop walking until the sounds of the market dulled behind you. Only then did you slow, fingers tightening around the bread until the crust cracked softly beneath your grip. The truth settled in with an unpleasant clarity: they had always spoken of you like that. These strangers carried your name more easily than those who truly knew you ever had.

“My lady!” A woman's voice called out; it was Tanselle. She rushed over to you with haste, her blue coverup swishing in the wind with every step. “You were with the knight? Ser Dunk?”

“Yes?” You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your stomach twisted.

Her eyes flicked to your face, and she paused mid-step. “Are you… all right? You look troubled.”

You hesitated, then found yourself blurting out the question that had been nagging at you since the whispers in the market. “Have you… have you heard about the princess? How she could be here among us?”

Tanselle raised an eyebrow; she was more confused than anything else. “Yes, word spreads fast, but if I may, why are you asking about the princess?”

“Everyone… everyone either hates her or is scared of her.” You look down while saying that.

Tanselle’s gaze softened as she crouched slightly to meet your eyes. “I think we all have our flaws and things we’re afraid of,” she said gently. “The royals, especially the princess, are no different than anyone else. We all bleed the same blood, no matter our skin or our station. That goes for you, too, my lady.”

Your shoulders that had been tense for so long loosened slightly, and a shaky exhale escaped your lips. You blinked once, twice, feeling some of the tight knot in your stomach unwind, just enough to make the fear less suffocating. For a fleeting moment, the weight of being… other, of being judged, seemed to lift.

“Could you tell him his shield will be done before eveningfall?” Tanselle asked, gesturing toward Dunk’s camp.

“Of course.” You tried to let your smile hold. “I’ll let him know.”

Tanselle’s smile bloomed; it was warm enough to make the wind seem lighter. “Thank you.” 

And just like that, she was gone, hurrying back into the bustle of the market, leaving you with a momentary sense of calm and a reminder that kindness could still exist even here.

But it only lasted near her. Then your mind started to drift back to the words of others.

Spinster. 

Unlucky.

Ideas that you would only bring hurt.

That wasn't you, that was the title of a princess. Five betrothals, five almost endings. But these people didn't even understand half of it; you never chose those men. Even your own father did not understand that your hatred of marriage only stemmed from not being able to pick for love. 

But you couldn’t bring these feelings back with you; instead, you had to push them down and hope you didn’t explode. 

“Where were you?” The startling voice of Dunk made you jump. He was awake, but he did not look good; he was pale, as if he had been throwing up.

“Are you okay, ser?” You asked, trying to ignore the topic of the market.

He frowned at your words. “I asked you a question.” 

You sighed. “I went to get some things to break our fast, just bread and eggs.” You tried your best to sound ecstatic, but now eating was the last thing on your mind.

He raised an eyebrow. “What were you planning on doing with eggs and bread?”

“I am not sure...” you trailed off. You didn't want to say out loud the fact that you have no idea how to make anything, fearing that if that news broke out, it would just be another royal stereotype waiting to be thrown at you.

“Don’t go off by yourself next time, wake me.” His voice is firm, but concern threads it.

You force a short, humorless chuckle. His words press on you, heavier than they should. Just like every other voice that ever measured you by title, by size, by actions. “Why?”

“It’s dangerous on your own,” he says, as if stating a fact you already know. 

Like he was portraying you as... as a princess. 

You set the eggs and bread beside the fire pit without replying. Then the words slip out meaner than you intend: “I am fine on my own. No need to worry.”

“But I do. You’re vulnerable, and you look shaken,” he insists. “What happened at the market?”

You stiffen, heat rising. Whatever he means, he won’t understand. “I am not vulnerable. Whatever I feel or do, it’s nothing of your concern.”

“Really? You’re here under my watch, and it’s none of my concern?” His tone intensifies, voice rising higher.

“No one assigned you that task, Ser.” You hang your satchel on your horse, creating distance where words cannot.

Dunk’s hand pauses over his stitching. He rises slowly to close the horrid space between you. “I’m not asking because I was assigned. I care if something happens to you. Especially after what you said last night.”

Care and judgment blur together in your mind as the feeling of defending rather than listening takes over. You bite out, “If caring means watching me like a liability, then don’t dress it up as kindness. I have survived worse than a morning market.”

“Really?” He looked astonished. “How?”

“What are you trying to say?” You raised your voice slightly.

“You say you’re fine on your own,” Dunk grits, “but from the looks of it, you don't know how to cook. You had no idea how to make a proper fire. You would get rattled around your horse, and you still seem to have no concept of spending. And that’s just what I’ve seen.”

Every word lands like a weight pressed against your skull. You meet his eyes at last. “You think that was a choice? I wasn’t raised to take care of myself, and I was never meant to beg for scraps like a hedge knight.”

Dunk goes still. You go still. The words settle between you, impossible to take back. 

Something inside you folded inward when your shoulders drew in, and your gaze slipped away from him, as if you had no fight left. Dunk remembered this look from when the two of you just met, a runaway and a knight with no purpose. 

You retreat elsewhere, a place he thought he could not follow. He opened his mouth, then stopped. He did not know what to do. Pride told him not to chase. Instinct told him to fix it, without knowing how.

That was when the sound of hooves and hurried footsteps broke the silence. Egg stepped into the clearing with Thunder’s reins looped loosely in his hand. He slowed when he saw your faces, his expression shifting from cheerful to uneasy.

“Where were you?” Dunk asked, his voice had no steam left.

“Training,” Egg stated. “I told her to tell you.”

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Really? So everyone is just leaving by themselves now?”

“I didn’t even get the chance to tell you yet, before you decided to come at me!” you exclaimed, frustration flaring as you gestured to your chest.

Dunk paused, clearly at a loss, then he turned back to Egg. “Go brush Thunder, he looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge.”

But that did not resolve anything. Neither you nor Dunk softened as you parted ways; the argument still simmered unbroken. Egg shifted uneasily beside Thunder, wishing for an invisible escape hatch.

Dunk watched with a frown as he saw you pick up your things. “Where are you going now?” He called out as he saw you start toward the woods.

“To go do something,” you replied over your shoulder. “Washing my clothes can’t be too hard a task for vulnerable people like me, right?” Then you walked off.

Dunk cursed under his breath and went back to sit under the tree. Fingers attaching themself to his sewing equipment. That was the only thing left he could do without losing his mind.

Egg noticed, of course, as he brushed down Thunder. He looked up at Dunk. “What are you doing? Is that not my job?”

“Do you know how?” Dunk grumbled. When Egg shook his head, Dunk let out a long, frustrated sigh.  The two of you could still not equal one person with skills on the road. 

He still beckoned the boy closer. “Come on, I’ll show you.” Because he was not a man of blame, especially when he could teach, he was just frustrated, that's all. But now he was scared you would never speak to him again…

The two of them fell into a steady quiet rhythm, stitching back and forth, while you wandered down to the small man-made lake nearby. 

You sank to the ground at the edge of the lake with your knees drawn close. Your fingers pressed into the damp grass when a shiver ran up your spine.

“What happened?” Egg asked, breaking the silence.

Dunk’s voice was low and still rough around the edges. “I do not even know.”

“But you know how you feel?” The boy led on.

“All I know is… I care. Seeing you two not whole, not calm, and not close to me, it’s not something I can accept.” Dunk’s words faltered, heavy with a truth he couldn’t name.

Egg tilted his head, eyes narrowing in thought. “That may be the case, but your leaving a part out. You care for her in a deeper sense than you do for me.” He let the pause hang, letting the truth settle between them.

Dunk wheezed, caught off guard. “What?”

“Oh, please,” Egg said, cutting him off. “Look at yourself. You would move heaven and earth for her. You stay close to her, flinch whenever she speaks, and get flustered at the smallest thing. You do not feel that way for just anyone.”

Egg’s eyes softened. “You need to show her how much you care. She is blind to her own feelings and yours.”

For a long moment, Dunk simply stared, the usual glow in his eyes tempered by uncertainty. Then the corners of his mouth lifted into a tentative, almost sheepish grin. “How did a boy like you get so wise?”

Egg shrugged, still focused on his patchwork. “It does not take a maester to see it. You two are very obvious.”

The cold bit at your fingers as you scrubbed at the fabric, working dirt and sweat from the seams of your blue dress and cloak. When you leaned closer, the water caught your face. At first, you barely registered it; it was just a pale blur. Until the light shifted, then your breath caught. Your hair color was fading rapidly. The cursed rain and bathing in the lake worked just like you predicted days ago. 

Closer to snow than earth.

You should scream. Just as word spread about your arrival, your disguise was unraveling. The gods truly picked you for their amusement. The last permanent mark that will always haunt you, no matter if you wear plain dresses and venture on the roads. You pulled back from the water, your fingers curled into the damp fabric of the brown dress you wore as if it might anchor you. 

Your silver hair was the only thing that lasted; everything else was temporary. Every day that you spend here is borrowed from the fire. As you return to your washing, you try to push it into the back of your mind once again. Your hands moved more quietly now with movements more careful. That was when you felt him before you heard him.

Dunk stopped a few steps behind you. He did not speak right away. He just stood there, awkward and uncertain, as if afraid the wrong word might undo what little peace was left.

“M’lady,” he said finally, softly. “I’m sorry.”

You stilled but did not turn.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued. “I didn’t say it because I think less of you. I said it because I can see you’re struggling, and I didn’t know how else to help without overstepping.”

You looked at him then. He seemed smaller somehow, shoulders rounded, gaze earnest and worried. The apology sat plainly on his face, without pride or excuse. When you don't respond, he takes it as a sign to sit down and level with you.

“It is all right,” you said after a moment. “ I took it too far.”

He shook his head gently. “Do not blame yourself for what you were never taught to do. Your family seems… daft.”

A breath of a smile escaped you before you could stop it. “Yes. Yes, they are.” Then, more quietly, “But I do not need them. I have you.”

“Aye, as I have you.” He replied.

The words surprised you as much as him. But neither of you took them back. Then once again you stared at each other.

You hesitated, then asked, “Do you have something I could borrow while this dries?” Your brown dress was soaked through, heavy, and clinging uncomfortably to your skin since you had to bend over a lake. 

He flushed faintly and nodded. “I suppose my shirt will do.”

He turned away as he pulled it over his head, revealing pale skin and a spectacular physique from moons of being a Knight. You physically had to stop yourself from looking as you moved to hide by a tree, trying to make a bit of privacy to change. 

Your fingers brushing fabric that smelled like smoke and leather and him. When you stepped out again, the shirt nearly swallowed you. It draped to your ankles, sleeves covering your hands, ridiculous and unmistakably his.

Dunk looked up, then immediately looked away.

The sight struck him harder than he expected. The way the shirt hung on you. The way you moved in it as though it were nothing at all, as though you belonged in his things. He busied himself with the fire, with anything, but his eyes betrayed him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet was thick, not uncomfortable, just full.

Then Egg appeared, squinting at you. “My lady, it looks like you are wearing a potato sack.”

Dunk turned sharply. “Do you want a clout in the ear?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Thanks, Egg. I meant it.”

As your clothes dried on a tree branch that Dunk had reached for to hang for you, you listened to Eggs' excitement about the new food. Then the three of you sat around the fire as Dunk taught you how to cook eggs.

“Like this,” he demonstrated, cracking an egg against the rim of the iron pan. The shell gave way easily, and the yolk slid free before settling onto the heated metal with a quiet, almost satisfying sound. You tried to conceal how taken you were by something so simple. Dunk noticed anyway.

“Now you try.” 

You grabbed one of the huge goose eggs with a fear of breaking it. Placing it on the other side of the rim of the pan. With two giant knocks, the egg split open, and you felt yourself close to letting out a sigh of relief.

Dunk smiled, “Perfect. Now you, Egg, try cracking the third one.”

The boy wrapped his small hands around the final egg, nearly dropping it, before mimicking your motions and letting the yolk fall into the pan.

“Yours could use some work.” The man teased. Egg sat there with furrowed brows and a mouth agape at his words.

Still, the two royal siblings had learned the small but satisfying skill of cracking an egg.

Both of you watched as Dunk stirred the pan with his knife, blending the yolks and whites to create a creamy dandelion color. Then slowly, the liquid hardened into something edible. That's when Dunk cut open your loaves with ease and scooped portions of egg between two halves of the bread. Creating giant sandwiches filled with fluffy eggs for the three of you to eat. By comparison, each egg sandwich was almost the size of Egg’s head.

Returning to the tourney grounds felt like slipping past unseen hands, like you were evading capture by sheer luck alone. You chose not to tell Egg what you had learned. The boy already carried more than enough on his narrow shoulders, and adding to it would have helped no one. You had already slipped by letting the early morning vendors see you. It would not happen again.

Dunk did not question why you were so thoroughly covered. It was a cold day in his mind. Your hood sat low and awkward on your head, completely covering your hair and forehead. The fabric chafed as you moved, increasing your level of annoyance.

Instead, Dunk fell into easy conversation with Egg about how he would not be able to put his name on the list that day. He was not a knight of great renown, nor of noble birth, and the realization stung more than he wanted to admit. At first, disappointment gnawed at him, quickly giving way to restless eagerness. The desire to prove himself to everyone, to you, ached in his soul. Eventually, he made peace with it, deciding that taking you both to see the opening joust would be enough for now.

The joust itself dragged on far longer than you expected. Had Dunk not kept a steady grip on you, you might have dozed off where you stood. It was the roar of the crowd, waves of cheers crashing again and again, and the constant movement and chatter of the men packed in close beside you that kept your eyes open. Forcing you to stay present as lances splintered and horses thundered past.

When it was finally over, the three of you placed yourselves on the grassy hilltop overlooking the grounds. You lay on your back listening to Dunk and Egg converse. Only then did you allow your hood to come off. You caught only bits and pieces of their conversation as sleep slowly claimed you.

Egg sat with his knees pulled to his chest. “I return a war hero,” he said dreamily, “and he gives me land of my own. And the hand of his most beautiful daughter.”

Dunk lay on his side, pride swelling in his chest at the boy’s words. The childlike certainty in Egg’s voice soothed him, and there was something comforting in how easily the boy shaped his future into a fairytale.

“But he would not forget about you, Ser,” Egg added.

Dunk raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And whose hand would I get?”

“The most beautiful person you know,” Egg said simply.

Dunk sighed. It was only a fantasy. He was a hedge knight, and he had to hammer that truth into his skull no matter how tempting the dream.

Egg looked at him as though he wanted to say more, but a voice called up from the base of the hill, beckoning Dunk away. When the man rose and left, Egg was left alone with his thoughts and you resting quietly at his side.

When Dunk finally returned, there was a distant look in his eyes, gears clearly turning from whatever the man below the hill had told him. He barely spoke before it was time for the next tilt.

This time, you felt more awake, more alert. Your attention sharpened as you waited to hear which knight would be announced next, eyes scanning the grounds with quiet anticipation. That sense of readiness vanished the moment you reached the front of the fence.

Your smile fell as soon as the herald raised his voice.

“Son of Maekar, grandson to King Daeron the Good, and Prince of House Targaryen, Prince Aerion Brightflame.”

Brightflame. The name alone made your jaw tighten. A useless nickname, one your elder brother had forced into use through sheer insistence. It was ridiculous, but then again, so was he. An excuse for a man.

You watched with hardened eyes as Aerion rode into the lists. His armor caught your attention immediately, impossible to ignore. It was as obnoxious as its wearer, fashioned to resemble black dragon scales, complete with a dragon-shaped helm that gleamed in the light. You could not help but wonder how much begging and pestering it had taken for your father to allow such a commission.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but you offered only the barest claps as Aerion paraded across the court. He reveled in the attention, even bringing a drummer to announce his presence, as if steel and skill alone were not enough to make him appear fearsome. At last, he turned his gaze toward the royal box, clearly seeking your father’s approval for the spectacle he had crafted.

The seat was empty. To miss his son’s own tilt could only mean one thing. He was out there somewhere, searching for Egg, searching for you.

Aerion tried to shake it off, forcing himself to focus on picking his opponent, but you could see it lingering in his mind as it gnawed at him. He never knew how to handle it when things did not go his way, and this was no different.

There were three major opponents he could have chosen. The first was his cousin, Valarr. But he was not foolish enough to challenge his own blood, not when the boy’s father held the title of Hand of the King. No matter what he might have thought of their shared brown locks and mismatched eyes, the risk of family politics and wrath from his father was too great.

Instead, your brother shrugged and called it not embarrassing his cousin before moving on to the next choice. Finally, he named Humfrey Hardyng, a knight of growing renown due to his feats in the lists so far.

The three of you exchanged glances at his selection, but Dunk did not know your brother’s temper as you and Egg did. This match was going to be dangerous, possibly dirty. You stepped back slightly as everyone started clapping, a show of courtesy as the men positioned themselves on opposite ends of the arena.

Then it began. Both men surged forward, horses pounding, lances leveled. You tried not to suck in your breath as they closed the distance, inch by inch, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

“Kill him! Kill him!” Egg shouted suddenly, and you and Dunk turned to him, startled. He was not far off, but his excitement needed tempering. Shouting for someone to kill a prince was not a good omen for anyone. You placed a gentle hand on his back, soothing him, reminding him that caution mattered more than fury.

As the lances neared, Aerion cowered at the last moment, and the crowd gasped in frustrated anticipation. Ser Humphrey nearly toppled from his mount, caught off guard by the prince’s sudden withdrawal. Murmurs of disapproval rose at first, and soon the crowd began to boo. This was the kind of arena where even the royal family could not shield its members from honest opinion.

Ser Humphrey, however, did not falter. He turned his horse around, demanding another lance, and readied himself again. You gripped the fence with wide eyes, trying to anticipate what Aerion would do next.

Dunk saw it before anyone else. “He’s… he’s too low,” he said.

The truth hit you at the same time. Aerion’s lance was aimed not at the knight, but at the horse. He drove it deep into the animal’s neck, the steel piercing through with a sickening squelch, blood pulsing as the horse screamed in terror and pain. You stumbled back, hands covering your mouth, horrified. The crowd around you reacted in shock and disgust, some gasping, others frozen in disbelief.

The horse spun wildly and thrashed, unable to remove the lance lodged in its neck. It finally collapsed onto its side, throwing Ser Humphrey violently against the ground. Not only was his leg crushed under the weight of the animal, but the impact left him dazed and bleeding.

Dunk looked down, his expression grim. Egg could not look away, transfixed by the violence, and you hovered somewhere between horror and disbelief. Even Baelor, seated in the royal box, had grimaced, unable to watch the brutal scene unfold.

Aerion was not done flaunting. He rode over on his horse, blissfully ignorant of the man and horse screaming in such pain. Instead, he lifted his helm and broke into the closest thing to a smile he could muster. The crowd grew restless, their cheers replaced with shouts of anger and disbelief. They shook the fence violently, threatening to tear it down under their weight.

“Another bastard acting Targaryen!” an old woman called, her voice sharp and accusatory.

A man climbed on the shaky fence, took a huge rock, and chucked it at the prince’s head. It landed with such precision, you were sure Aerion would find the man later and kill him. It struck his helm with a clang, forcing him to flinch. The mob took it as their sign to surge forward, men and women alike vaulting over the deteriorating fence, pushing past any knight or guard who tried to stop them.

Someone behind you shoved you to the ground, trying to join the fray, but Dunk was quick, lifting you into his arms. The shouts of nobles and royals filled the air, voices rising over the chaos, demanding control over what had quickly become a near bloodbath. There were not enough knights to contain the mob without reinforcements, but eventually, more Kingsguard arrived, forming a fragile barrier to keep the crowd at bay.

Even the barrier could not prevent every blow. Fists flew, blood splattered, and curses rained down on Aerion, who remained seemingly unfazed.

Dunk had seen enough. He let you stand on your own and urged Egg forward, though you could not tear your eyes from the scene entirely. You saw the final act, a man delivering a fatal strike to Ser Humphrey’s horse, piercing its heart, making the pitiful sounds of the animal finally stop. It was a merciful but gruesome end to its suffering.

That sight finally propelled you into motion. You stumbled forward a few steps on your own, the mud sucking at your boots, the rain plastering your hood to your forehead. Dunk and Egg had moved ahead, but in the press of chaos and the noise of the storm, you found yourself entirely alone. A hollow panic gnawed at you.

You called out, your voice cracking, “Dunk!” but the rain swallowed it instantly, scattering it across the empty air. There was no answer, no echo, only the relentless patter of water and the distant, fading screams of the crowd.

Even if no one knew who you were, you felt their eyes. Faces blurred by rain and motion, strangers pressing past you or stepping aside, yet you could feel the weight of them, sharp and cold, staring. They whispered in fragments, murmurs you could not piece together, and you imagined their fear or hatred aimed at you. They stared, they recoiled, and you could feel their judgment pressing in from every side.

Your family, your own blood, answered back in ways that made it worse. Their presence, their poised approval of the chaos, the way they leaned into power and cruelty, made it clear that any compassion or mercy had been deliberately abandoned. You were not protected, you were a spectacle, and everyone around you knew it.

Your chest tightened. You were lost, not just in the storm of people and mud, but in yourself. Everything you thought you knew about who you were, your place in your family, your place in this court, even your own sense of strength, felt unmoored. The walls of the lists, the royal banners, the shouting lords and spectators, pressed down on you in a way that made the world feel impossibly large and alien.

You were Y/n, and yet you felt like no one knew you, like the name you carried had no meaning here, like you were nothing but a shadow running through mud and rain.

Every direction looked the same, gray and wet and endless. You wanted to collapse, to let the world swallow you, to vanish from everything, to escape the weight of your family’s hold.

The wind tugged at your wet cloak, the rain stinging your eyes, blurring the ground ahead. You called Dunk’s name again, a desperate whisper this time. Maybe he could hear you, maybe not. It did not matter. The sound vanished into the storm. You were alone, drenched, and more than physically lost. You were untethered, untangled from the life you had known, and the court that had always seemed so grand now felt like a cage you did not belong in.

Dunk was losing it. He had a young boy next to him, a boy who had seen far too much today, horrors that would stay with him long after the day ended. Dunk’s chest tightened as he tried to steady himself, but the rain did little to hide the trembling in his hands or the panic clawing at his stomach.

And then there was you. Dunk had no idea where you were, and the thought gnawed at him. You were alone, scared, soaked to the bone, with no clear direction and no anchor in the chaos. Every second without seeing you made his stomach twist. He shouted your name again and again, voice cracking each time, only for the rain to swallow it. He was supposed to be keeping Egg safe. He could not leave the boy, and yet he could not reach you. He was failing, failing at being a friend, failing at being a knight, failing at keeping anyone safe in this storm.

As he saw you, a dark figure in the gray blur of rain and mud, moving unsteadily but still moving forward, his eyes widened in alarm and relief. Egg tugged at Dunk’s sleeve, voice urgent, nearly lost to the wind. “There, she’s there!”

Dunk’s heart lurched. You were just a figure at first, but as he focused, he saw your face. It mirrored his own.

You called out, your voice cracking with exhausted relief, “Dunk!” You forced yourself forward, following the shapes of familiar figures in the storm. Egg’s small, steady presence at Dunk’s side, Dunk’s broad shoulders tense with worry, every muscle taut with fear for you.

When you finally reached them, Dunk grasped your arms, pulling you into a careful, grounding hold. Egg’s small hand landed on your soaked cloak, steadying you without a word. The storm still raged, the screams and chaos echoing in the distance, but in that moment, a fragile relief settled over the three of a kind. You were not alone, not entirely. Not yet.

The three of you hid under a vendor’s stall, and when the weather began to clear slightly, you kept walking.

“That… that was a terrible sight,” you whispered, breaking the silence. “And it was no mishap.”

Dunk paused at your words, trying to piece together what you were saying. “Why would a pr—”

“Because he is evil. Because he can!” Egg shouted over the rumble of thunder, his small body trembling and eyes filling to the brim with tears.

Dunk put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, voice low and firm. “The jousting is done for the day, I think. Come.” He led you both toward somewhere warm, somewhere that might feel safe, Lord Baratheon’s tent.

Once inside, the warmth hit you like a small relief, but it did little to lift the weight of what you had just seen. As Dunk had predicted, there was another party underway, but you were nowhere near in the mood for celebration. The three of you sat at one of the tables, trying to exist in a space of calm, even for a single moment.

The tent offered little solace. Lyonel and the other lords danced and chanted a song about a girl named Alice, the noise and frivolity a harsh contrast to the chaos you had just escaped. Egg pressed against your side, burying his head into your damp clothes, seeking comfort and warmth. You sat rigid, eyes forward, letting more water run down your face. Each droplet washed away a little of your disguise and a little of your composure.

You ended up leaving once you were dry enough to keep going. By then, the mood of the grounds had lifted, but yours remained a steady, dull ache. Every corner and shadow seemed to hold the threat of something about to spring out at you, keeping you tense and alert.

Dunk continued next to you, clearly unsure how to soothe your restless mood. “Did you ever know your parents?” Dunk asked. His question was not directed at either of you specifically; he was simply trying to fill the silence, to open some small bridge between the three of you.

When Egg stiffened at the question, you responded. “My father more than my mother,” you said quietly.

“Most likely I saw mine hanged,” Dunk replied, voice low. “There was a pot shop in Flea Bottom. I used to sell them rats and carts and pigeons for brown. The cook there always said my father was some thief. If he had been as big as me, he would not have made a very good one.”

His words drew your attention, pulling you both out of your own headspaces for a moment. The stories were grim but familiar, reminders of how strange and heavy the world could be.

That was until Dunk froze mid-step, his eyes locking on the same man who had called him over earlier. The man sat near Lord Ashford on a bench, and Dunk gave him only a glance before continuing down the path.

“Is everything okay, Ser?” Egg asked, glancing up at him.

“Yeah, yeah. It is nothing,” Dunk said quickly, though his voice did not carry conviction. The man’s presence seemed to hold weight, some quiet authority, but Dunk chose not to speak further, his mind returning to keeping you both safe rather than explaining the unease he felt.

Before you could even startle, a woman appeared in front of the three of you. It was the same woman in all her purple mystic from the fortune teller tent of days past. This time, she appeared in a similar sense as you, her hood hung so low you could barely tell if her eyes were even open. She looked scary. You wondered if you appeared like that too.

“Say your fortune?” she asked Dunk, voice low and cryptic.

Dunk looked at her like he would look at anyone else, with a sense of wonder and respect. “Oh yeah. Go on, then.”

It did not even take her a second to prepare what she was going to say to him. “You shall know great success and be richer than a Lannister.”

Dunk did not look too impressed. “Thank you. Now do the boy.” He nodded before answering.

The old woman set her sights on Egg. The boy was hopeful for a good reading, and he even smiled.

“You shall be king, and die in a hot fire, and worms shall feed upon your ashes. And all who know you shall rejoice in your dying.”

The boy’s mouth hung open, fear imminent in his eyes. “What!”

You tensed. This was just a coincidence, right?

Dunk paused for a second before breaking out into laughing fits. “Oh my! Thank you, that is very good. And for the girl?”

“I already read her fortune. Fortunately, nothing has changed.”

He stopped laughing, turning to look at your pale face. The woman was gone before Dunk looked back. “And what did she tell you?” he asked.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. “She… she said that I was going to end up in ruin,” you said quietly.

The man looked at your somber expression as well as Egg’s. “Oh, come on, you two should know better than to listen to her. It is all falsehood.”

You did not know better.

After all, that was the Targaryen way.

The three of you ran into Raymun, who had that same easy, infectious smile plastered across his face, just like everyone else, forgetting as quickly as the hardships around them.

“Ser Duncan! M’lady! And the squire!” he said as he ran over, a bit out of breath but smiling all the same. “How do you do?”

Egg gave a curt nod, already drifting past Raymun’s shoulder, eyes glued to something beyond him. “Good day.”

You smiled quickly at the apple man, then turned toward where he was looking. The puppet tent was filling once again, the hum of anticipation rising as people slipped inside in small groups. Laughter rang out here and there, as if the horrors of the morning had never happened at all. You knew the boy was itching for an escape, for something bright and simple to focus on instead of broken horses and screaming crowds.

“Will you three join me in my tent for a cup of cider? And some treats if you’d like,” Raymun offered eagerly, almost bouncing on his heels.

“Egg,” you called out, drawing his wandering attention back for just a moment. “Perhaps you could wait by the puppet show, and get Duncan’s shield from Tanselle when the show is over.” You addressed everyone, but your eyes lingered on the boy.

Dunk looked hesitant, the crease between his brows deepening. He clearly did not want to let the boy out of his sight, not after everything that had happened today.

Raymun let out an excited shrug. “We make it ourselves,” he said, as if that alone should settle the matter.

Egg looked between you and Dunk, hopeful but careful not to push his luck.

Dunk exhaled slowly. “Very well, run along, Egg,” he said at last. He trusted your judgment, especially after you said you would check on him later.

In a split second, Egg gave you a thankful glance before rushing toward the puppet tent, weaving between people with surprising speed. The boy nearly disappeared into the crowd, clearly hoping to secure a front-row seat.

You followed the very thrilled Raymun to his tent. It was a spacious room, filled with red cloth and candles that flickered softly in the dim light. The strong smell of warm apples filled the air so heavily it almost made your head spin, but it also made you relax just a bit. It felt warm in here, safe in a way the tourney grounds no longer did.

“Have you chosen an opponent yet?” Raymun asked Dunk as he poured you a mug of cider, the steam curling gently into the air.

“Oh, I’m not sure yet,” Dunk replied, taking off his cloak and setting it aside. “Who does your cousin mean to challenge?”

“If anyone’s wounded on the morrow, I’m sure Steffon will be quick to knock on his shield.” Raymun rolled his eyes as he said it, the disdain he held for his cousin and his antics making you think back to Aerion immediately. “He’s about as chivalrous as a starved weasel.”

A man who relied on those same nasty tricks to get through life. It made your skin crawl that wherever he was right now, he was probably riding off the high of his “win,” grinning somewhere, moving on to cause chaos as if what he did today was nothing at all.

“M’lady, can I interest you in a red apple cookie or a green apple tart?” Raymun asked brightly.

It snapped you out of your thoughts.

“The apple tart. I’ve always preferred green apples,” you answered quietly. The response resonated with Raymun for a split second. You noticed it got easier for him to speak to you after that, like the simple preference had made you more real to him somehow. You bit into the tart, losing count of how many you had had since the tourney started. The sweetness spread across your tongue while you listened to Dunk’s words.

“I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite equally matched,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Raymun laughed. “Ah! A local favorite. You mean to play the villain.”

“I heard Aerion were in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horses,” he continued, lifting his cider.

“Serves him right,” you chime in, wiping crumbs off your face.

“Yeah, little comfort that will be to Ser Humphrey,” Dunk added quietly. “It looked as if he was going to carry the day.”

Raymun took a sip of cider before answering. “Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”

Dunk let out a slightly nervous chuckle. “M’lady and my squire believe Aerion meant to kill the horse.”

That made Raymun go quiet.

For a moment the tent felt smaller.

“He’s a monster. He’s done way worse. He will continue to do worse.” You chugged the rest of your drink, the cider suddenly tasting far too sweet.

“Just hard to accept that a knight… might be so dishonorable. Let alone a prince!” Dunk continued, shaking his head slightly.

Raymun shrugged. “Why is that hard?”

“It’s just—”

“They're incestuous aliens, Duncan!” Raymun raised his voice suddenly.

The words almost made you spit back up your drink.

“Blood-magicakers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, enslaved our people, dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs.” His voice grew sharper with each word, bitterness spilling out faster and faster. “Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us is madder than the last, gods knows how.”

Your face dropped with every overpronounced word he threw into the air.

“The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits.” He said harshly. “So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”

The chair scraped softly behind you. You stood up without realizing it.

Dunk called out your name, asking if everything was well but you did not hear him.

You curled your hands into fists as you stared down at Raymun, breathing harder than you meant to.

What are you doing?

Why are you reacting like this?

You held no sympathy for the life you left behind, yet here you were standing with anger burning in your chest.

“I’m… going to check on Egg,” you said quietly.

“M’lady! I did not mean to be so vulgar,” Raymun blurted out quickly, assuming that must be the reason.

Dunk tried to reach you, but you were already pushing out of the tent. He turned back to Raymun for a moment.

“I heard that part about the tits from Steffon,” Raymun said awkwardly. “I didn't mean it truly.” He sounded almost sad about making you leave.

When you fled back into the outside world, everything around you blurred just like it did in the rain earlier. The noise of the crowd felt distant and strange, like you were walking through water.

You moved slowly toward the puppet tent, slipping inside without causing a disturbance. The show had already started. Egg sat near the front, completely absorbed in the performance. Finally reaching him made your shoulders sag. The weight of everything pressed down all at once. You wanted to hunch over. To disappear. To slip out of consciousness entirely. It was too much. All too much.

“Look!” Egg pointed happily at the scene. It was Tanselle, dressed like a knight, even with a sword and shield. She circled a fire-breathing dragon, and you paused at its lifelike appearance. This scene would almost remind you of centuries past, in a world where your house used to be strong and mighty.

You could feel the shouts of the crowd as they yelled at her to kill the dragon. Your sign. Everyone hated you. You now understood. And it was not without its reasoning, just today your own brother making it seem like you were truly all mad. How do you even combat that? Were you mad? Is that why your life was going to end in ruin? Is that why you dreamt of everything coming to an end?

But instead of racing more, you thought back to Tanselle’s kind words from earlier. Even dressed in dark shades, she shone as a light in dark times. When she said that the royals were like everyone else, it made you feel less like your life was a sentence and more like an opportunity.

You were finally able to watch the play with your full attention.

Back in the tent, even though Raymun and Dunk laughed together, Dunk could not shake you leaving. But he knew you were just at the play, and that it would be okay to speak later.

“Aerion is all smiles and cheers as long as his father is watching,” Raymun said, leaning back comfortably where he sat.

Dunk sat across from him, elbows on his knees, turning his own mug slowly between his palms. “I saw Prince Maekar’s chair was empty,” he added after a moment. “In the royal box.”

“Aye,” Raymun nodded. “He left Ashford this morning.”

Dunk looked up at that. “Left?”

“To search for the rest of his misbegats.”

Dunk blinked, the unfamiliar word catching him off guard. “Misbegats?” he repeated slowly. “W-Which are those?”

Raymun took a casual sip of cider, completely relaxed as he explained. “His heir, Daeron, and the youngest boy. They departed Summerhall together a few days ago, but never reached Ashford.”

Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Never reached?”

Raymun shrugged like it was hardly worth worrying about. “Rumors are going around that the boys are dead.” He said it plainly, though there was a faint grin on his face, the way people sometimes smiled when sharing a scandal. “Though most likely Daeron, he’s probably just drunk again.”

Dunk let out a small, uncertain chuckle, though it did not carry much humor. The idea of princes wandering drunk across the countryside felt strange, even if he knew better than to think nobles were always noble.

Raymun leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on a table. “As for the girl,” he continued, “his eldest daughter is no longer at the castle.”

Dunk lifted his head.

“She was supposed to be riding in with her brothers and father here,” Raymun went on, speaking easily as if recounting common gossip. “But they had a big blow-up fight right before. Loud enough that even servants were whispering about it.”

He grabbed a tart, chewing thoughtfully.

“And then she was gone the next day.”

Dunk’s eyes widened.

“What?”

Raymun nodded as though confirming it again in his own mind. “Her bedchambers were empty. No note or anything. Just gone.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Probably ran away since her father was going to wed her to the beast Aerion.”

Dunk sat back a little in his chair, clearly trying to sort through that. Did he truly know the prince had an elder daughter? He had heard plenty about the sons. Daeron the drunken heir. Aerion with his temper. Even the youngest boy sometimes. But a daughter? His thoughts turned over uselessly.

“I heard she looks like a pig.”

Dunk blinked hard. “What?” he asked again, certain he must have misheard.

Raymun shrugged, completely serious. “Why else have I never seen her?” he said, as if the logic spoke for itself. “Targaryen’s do not hide. They do not cower. They flaunt.”

He leaned back again, perfectly satisfied with the conclusion he had reached.

“Therefore,” he finished simply, “she must look like a pig.”

Dunk just stared at him for a moment, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.

Raymun’s logic was plagued by the fact that he might not have been that smart. But as long as he believed his words, that was all that mattered.

“What? There have been ugly Targaryens before.” He tried to reason. “Little wonder Maekar has been walking around like someone pissed in his swan pie.”

“He is probably just worried about his children.” Dunk tried to make sense.

“Seven only know why!” Raymun looked disgusted. “Daeron is a sot. Aerion is vain and cruel and about to marry his little sister. The girl is so forgettable, I do not even know her name. The third boy is probably going to the Citadel to become a maester. The other two girls are probably still attached to wet nurses. And the youngest boy—”

“Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come quickly.” Egg ran into the tent, pure terror evident in his eyes as he begged Dunk to follow him. “Aerion is hurting her!”

Dunk stood up with swiftness only a knight would have. “Hurting who?”

Dunk’s blood ran hot, and his body moved before his mind even caught up. One letter of your name was enough. He dropped the mug, sending cider sloshing onto the floor, and bolted out of the tent. The crowd around him became a blur of shouting and motion as he shoved past anyone in his way, knocking aside nobles, merchants, and spectators alike, heedless of the indignation and curses raining down on him.

Guards stepped in, trying to block him, but he ignored them, forcing his way through with the strength of sheer resolve and raw fear. Each second counted, and the thought of you in danger sharpened his movements into something almost animalistic.

When he finally reached the spot, the scene that met his eyes struck him dumb for a heartbeat, a mixture of shock and horror so intense it sent a tremor through his entire body.

You watched as the dragon performed the fire tricks Tanselle had shown you before, filling the room with a blaze so hot that you had to shrug off your cloak. The darkness and crowd made it easy to blend in, or so you tried to convince yourself.

The heat from the braziers licked across the low canvas roof, making the air waver like water. Shadows swayed across the tent walls as the puppets danced. Every cheer from the crowd seemed to roll through the packed bodies like a wave, carrying the smell of sweat, smoke, and cheap ale.

Egg cheered beside you, completely taken by the spectacle, his voice rising above the rest without shame. The little dragon twisted and leapt through rings of flame, the puppeteer’s strings almost invisible in the dim light. Its painted wings beat frantically as it dove and rolled, snapping at imaginary foes.

For a moment, the crowd laughed and clapped as if the world were simple again. As if kings, princes, and wars did not exist beyond the canvas walls. As if the world could truly be nothing more than firelight and painted wood.

Then the dragon died.

Tanselle’s hero struck it down in a dramatic flourish. The puppet knight raised his sword high before bringing it crashing down upon the beast. The dragon collapsed to the ground, its painted body spilling red confetti meant to look like blood. The bright scraps fluttered across the stage like falling petals.

The audience gasped, then laughed, delighted by the spectacle.

But instead of bowing, Tanselle froze. Her false sword slipped from her fingers, clattering softly against the wooden boards. The movement was small, but in the sudden hush it sounded louder than it should have.

Very slowly, she turned toward the edge of the stage.

Toward him.

The shift rippled through the crowd before you even saw why. Bodies leaned aside. Heads turned. Someone near the front shouted, voice cracking with excitement and dread all at once.

“Prince!”

Aerion stood with his arms folded, his pale hair catching the firelight like silver thread. The shifting darkness of the room casted strange shadows across his sharp face, hollowing his cheeks and deepening the cold brightness of his eyes.

He had not laughed. He had not smiled. He had simply watched.

The murmuring of the crowd began to fade as he stepped forward. One step. Then another. Each footfall seemed heavier than the last, pressing down on the fragile cheer that had filled the tent only moments ago. The air thickened with something sour and expectant.

Egg’s cheer died in his throat.

If anyone in the audience had hoped for a spectacle, Aerion looked more than willing to give them one.

“So…” he said at last, a faint smirk curling his lips. “You wish to conquer the dragon?”

Tanselle’s hands trembled so badly the stage began to shake. “M-My prince…”

Aerion tilted his head, studying her as one might examine a curious insect trapped beneath glass. “What makes you think a dull creature like yourself could ever succeed?”

No one laughed. No one moved.

“The dragon never dies,” he whispered.

For a heartbeat his eyes seemed strange in the firelight, cold, reptilian, almost inhuman. The flames reflected in them like twin sparks trapped in ice.

Then he lunged. 

The motion was sudden and violent. One moment he stood before the stage, the next he had vaulted onto it. His hand shot out, seizing Tanselle by the wrist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. 

“Please—my prince—!” She cried out as she struggled.

His other hand closed around her fingers. And began to bend one backward.

The crack was quick. Her scream was not. It tore through the tent like a blade. High and sharp and full of pain. The sound seemed to bounce off the canvas walls, amplified by the sudden silence of the crowd. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Not a breath, not a step, as if the whole tent had forgotten how.

You froze, only for half a second. The anger came quickly, burning hotter than the pretend flames. It surged up through your chest so fiercely that it made your hands shake.

This was Tanselle. Kind, harmless Tanselle. A woman who made children laugh with painted wood and scraps of cloth. And Aerion had twisted it into something ugly just to feel powerful.

You couldn’t allow it.

Egg grabbed your sleeve suddenly, his fingers small but desperate. “Wait—!” But you tore free before he could say anything else. His voice followed you for a step, then was swallowed by the crowd.

Your heart pounded so loudly you could hear it in your ears as you stepped forward. The crowd parted instinctively, people shrinking away as if they feared being caught between you and the prince. Every step was a fatal mistake you could not take back.

Would your brother even recognize you? Would he care? It didn’t matter.

You were done being afraid of him. 

“Put her down!” Your voice rang through the tent like a struck bell.

Aerion’s head snapped toward you. His eyes blinked once. Twice. Slowly, as if adjusting to the sight before him. Then he smiled.

“Well now,” he said softly. “I suppose the rumors are true.”

His gaze traveled over you slowly, taking in the plain dress, the dust on your boots, the cloak you had cast aside. “You traded your rubies for copper.” He chuckled under his breath. “I almost didn’t recognize you, little sister.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd as understanding dawned. Princess. Prince. The words passed between them like ghosts. Aerion released Tanselle with careless indifference. She dropped heavily to the stage boards, her body crumpling where it fell. She did not scream again, but her breathing came in ragged, frightened bursts.

“Quit now, Aerion,” you warned, stepping closer. Your hands curled slightly. Only the tremor in your chest betrayed how hard your heart was beating. “Before you do something else you regret.”

He laughed, it was low and cruel. “I don’t regret anything.” His eyes gleamed as he gestured vaguely toward the stage. “Why would I? This thing disrespected our house with… this excuse for amusement.”

“It was just a play!” you shot back. “You know it. Must the only pleasure you find come from hurting others?”

“The dragon will never lose, it's an insult to the crown itself.” he murmured again.

“No dragon exists here,” you said firmly. “You’re nothing more than a man pretending to be greater than you are.”

Someone in the crowd laughed. It was a foolish sound, nervous and far too loud. Aerion’s head whipped toward it instantly. His expression sharpened like a drawn blade and the laughter died at once, the man who had made it shrank back into the press of bodies as if hoping the canvas itself might swallow him.

Then Aerion turned back to you.

“Where is your respect, girl?” he asked harshly. “Perhaps your time among the unfortunate has changed you.”

“I see you for what you truly are,” you said, your voice low and cold. “A wannabe. Leave now, with your pretend tail between your legs.”

He stepped closer. “Or what?” His presence filled the tent like a gathering storm.

“Or… do you want a repeat of last time?” you whispered with false confidence. The words left your mouth before you could take them back, hanging between you like something fragile and dangerous.

For the briefest moment something flickered behind his eyes. Memory. Then his smile returned, sharper than before. “Tell me,” he said lightly, “what else have you given these people?”

His gaze slid slowly over you, lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. “Do you remain pure for our wedding? Father says it could be any day now.”

A murmur of shock passed through the crowd. “I would rather die than marry a filthy cheater,” you spat.

“That can be arranged,” he shrugged.

And just like that, his attention returned to Tanselle. He lunged again. This time his sword flashed from its sheath in one smooth motion. You moved before thinking, throwing yourself in front of her. Luckily he stopped before the blade could tear you apart but the steel hovered inches from your chest. Aerion’s eyes snapped back to you, fury blazing. He shoved you hard. The force sent you stumbling backward, the world tilting for a moment as the stage lurched beneath your feet.

“Do you think you can lecture me?” he snarled. “Do you dare stand in my way?” His fist came suddenly. Pain exploded across your face as the blow sent you crashing to the ground. The impact rattled your teeth and filled your mouth with the taste of copper.

The crowd erupted, surging toward the exit in panic. Shouts, screams, and the crash of overturned benches echoed off the canvas walls. Mothers clutched children, men shoved past one another, and cloaks and belongings tumbled in the chaos. The noise spilled into the tourney grounds, drawing every nearby head toward the tent.

But you pushed yourself up again. Your breath came uneven, sharp, but your body moved anyway, like it knew what to do before you did. The way someone does who has been hit before. Your fingers slipped inside your bodice and found the dagger hidden there. The familiar weight steadied you.

The sight even made Aerion pause as his gaze dropped to the blade in your hand. For a long moment he said nothing then he laughed. “A pathetic blade? Did you steal that from father?” he murmured.

Aerion stepped closer. Slowly. “Do you intend to kill me with that?”

You tightened your grip, though your hand trembled.

No one had moved.

No one had stepped forward.

Not for Tanselle.

Not for you.

It was all left to you. You just hoped that Egg wasn't there to see it.

Aerion leaned in slightly, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Go on then,” he said. “Strike.”

Your heart thundered. This was a knight. A warrior trained since boyhood. You were just a girl with a dagger and shaking hands. Still, you raised the blade. But hesitated on how to strike, without warning he deemed your reaction too slow and decided to attack you instead.

“You will not interfere!” he roared as he swung his sword toward you. 

This was it, you failed. You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping whatever came would end quickly. Your grip tightened uselessly around the dagger, your arm refusing to move in time.

But the blow never landed.

Dunk surged forward with a force that seemed to make the very ground quake beneath him, eyes blazing with a storm. Every step was driven by raw desperation, the kind of fear that comes when a man is about to lose everything he holds dear. He grabbed Aerion’s arm mid-swing and twisted it with unyielding strength, then let his fist crash into the prince’s jaw. Once. Then twice. Then three times, each strike a brutal punctuation, until Aerion finally toppled, skidding across the ground like a ragdoll.

The sound of each hit echoed louder than it should have, cutting through the chaos.

Your thoughts were a haze of panic, yet instinct drew you toward Tanselle. You reached her in time to see the damage, the delicate bones of her finger crushed under the weight of Aerion’s aggression, blood seeping from every angle, painting the floor a deep, terrifying red.

“Princess…” she rasped, voice thin with pain.

“I’m so sorry," you cried, knees nearly buckling under the surge of guilt and fury. Why had it come to this? Why had the darkness in your brother’s heart spilled into your world?

A sound tore through the chaos behind you, the grunt of struggle and the snap of flesh meeting force. Dunk was grappling with a guard who tried to drag him off.

“Stop it!” you screamed, voice cracking with disbelief and command. “Can’t you see he’s not the aggressor?” Your words grew sharper, edged with authority. “Do you hear me? I order you to stop!”

But no one moved. These were men you had known all your life, yet in that moment, they acted as if you were invisible, as if your very presence could be dismissed. Their indifference cut deeper than any blade.

Dunk broke free with a roar that rattled the tent’s canvas. Aerion scrambled to his feet, drawing his sword, a pale glimmer in his bloodied hand. But Dunk’s reflexes were brutal and unrelenting when he kicked Aerion back into submission, sending him sprawling across the floor, spitting blood and  gasping for breath.

He didn’t stop fighting, even when it was clear he couldn’t win like this.

Even then, it took five men to truly restrain Dunk. Their combined strength could hold him only so far; he strained, twisting, his muscles coiled like steel springs, eyes burning with fury. Aerion rose again, staggering, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, the side of his face marred with red and dirt. He tried to muster a mask of bravery, but it was hollow, brittle, the kind of performance that disgusted anyone who had eyes to see it.

Dunk’s fists itched to strike again, to tear into Aerion for the vile insinuation, for the insult against you. But a part of him froze, then his eyes flicked toward you. You were crumpled on the floor, the panic and horror on your bruised face clawed at Dunk’s chest, but then a thought struck him with the force of a blow to the face. Did he… did Aerion just call you his sister?

The word hung there, heavy, suffocating. The fight in him stuttered, just for a moment, enough for the thought to take hold as his mind raced. Your bloodied dress, your solemn eyes, your pale hair… all those moments you shared that had seemed impossible to reconcile now snapped into terrible clarity. His heart hammered. You’re a princess. Not just anyone. A Targaryen.

Aerion’s lips curled, sharp and cruel. “She’s a traitor. I told father to ship her off years ago, and look what finally happened.” He turned toward you, eyes glinting with malice. “I hope you’re happy, girl. You’ve just condemned a man to die.”

You pressed closer to Tanselle, trying to shield her, to shield yourself, to make the world stop spinning. “Aerion, please, not him!” Your voice cracked, pleading, raw.

Your brother’s sneer deepened, twisting into disgust. “Don’t tell me you care for this man? Truly?” He chuckled, a sound without warmth, without restraint. “Father will love hearing of this.” 

And then his gaze snapped back to Dunk, sharp, predatory. “Nothing to say? Fine.” He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “You’ve loosened one of my teeth, so we’ll start by breaking all of yours.”

“No!” you screamed, your voice tearing through the tent. “Stop it! You can’t!”

“Watch, sister,” Aerion said softly, mockingly, as though every syllable was a nail driven into your chest. “This is what happens when you disobey.” He signaled to the guards.

The men moved with deliberate slowness, pushing Dunk down, forcing his face to the stage. Mouth first, positioned cruelly beside you so that every movement, every sound would be unavoidable. Time seemed to stretch thin, each second dragging as you realized what they were about to do. You screamed until you could no longer, you sounded like a dying dragon more than a woman.

Your feet slammed against the ground as you tried to stand up and push your way towards him, but two more guards arrived to restrain you from reaching him. Forcing you to stay in place and watch as Dunk’s hands tried to push against the wood, but the weight of men and the rigid orders pinned him. He looked at you, his eyes wide, and for a moment the world narrowed to just that gaze, steady and unyielding, yet desperate.

Dunk, your Dunk, had thrown himself into the storm for you without hesitation , into the shouting, the crush of bodies, the kind of chaos that swallowed men whole. He didn’t hesitate because he was brave or foolish. He didn’t fight for glory. He fought because he chose you , you, out of everything else he could have walked away toward. And you realized with a sinking weight that pulled low in your stomach, cold and heavy, that it was your fault. You had cursed him not with your family name but with your own existence, with the path that led you to ruin , a path that dragged others down with it whether you meant it or not. If you had never been here, none of this would have happened.

You whispered his name, a sound half-prayer, half-confession , your throat tight, the word catching like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Dunk… I’m so-”

“No! Don’t touch him!” A small voice popped out from the background, sharp against the noise. It was Egg.

Dunk yelped out in desperation, hoping that the boy would just get out and leave before the same fate could reach him, before his choice could spread any further. “You stupid boy. Hold your tongue or they’ll hurt you.”

“No, they won’t.”

Raymun stood behind him, eyes budging at Dunk and your forms, taking in the blood, the disarray, the way neither of you looked straight.

“If they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of my sister! Get off of him! Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” Egg commanded the room just like your grandfather himself, his voice cutting clean through the tension, leaving no room for refusal. And to your surprise, they actually listened to him. Yet they had no care what you had to say, not your voice, not your struggle, not your place in any of this. You could almost scoff when the men let you go, pushing them away in rebellion, even as your arms ached from where they had held you.

Aerion gaped at the boy. “You impudent little rat, What’s happened to your hair?”

Dunk’s head was spinning, not only from the pounding in his head that throbbed behind his eyes, but also the confusion that came crashing in all at once. Egg was a Targaryen. You were a Targaryen. He had been harboring two of the royal blood, two people he trusted, two people who had said nothing.

Egg narrowed his eyebrows at the grown Targaryen, “I cut it off, brother. I didn't want to look like you.”

Aerion hummed, looking back at your disgruntled form, his gaze slow, deliberate, lingering where it shouldn’t. “Now you're confusing the youth, tricking him into your harlot ways.” He looked at you like you should be ashamed, like he expected you to be.

But everyone else in the room looked at you and Egg in awe, like you became something distant and untouchable, no longer just people, but something set apart.

Another guard broke through the crowd of onlookers and walked towards you. “Your Grace’s. I have a message from Prince Maekar. He seeks the Princess and Princes, and the capture of the hedge knight. Effective immediately.”

“No!” you shouted.

Before your eyes, they dragged Dunk away. His weight resisted for only a moment before it gave under their grip, his boots scraping against the ground as they pulled him back. He turned, even then, even now, his gaze finding you through the crowd.

You felt it, even from here.

That pull. That choice.

For a second, it felt like the rest of the room fell away, like it was only the two of you left in it. But you couldn’t tell what was in his eyes. Not from this distance. Not through the bodies between you. Whatever might have been there was swallowed by it all, leaving only the fact that he was looking at you at all.

And that was worse.

Because it could have been anything.

You couldn’t look back at him. You couldn’t meet those bright blue eyes, couldn’t risk seeing what might be there, or what might not be. Not after all of this.

Not when this was your doing.

…

If I forgot you pls restate in this comment section, also if ur @ isn’t working tumblr isn’t letting me tag you.

Taglist:

@kitkat1690 @astridbaby @lehlyx @livy1320 @lovelywritinglady @qardasngan

@secretsandtinyoceans @scmdsblog @rrhaenyszn @annetheperfect @fuckingcryptic @marvel-mistress @wizzdot @dustybustyy @cyd0129

[mademoiselle-black]

OPERATION ‘FIND EGG A FRIEND’ | PART 2 |

| credit: @multifxndomedits @saradika-graphics & @somebitchprobably-graphicdump |

A/N: Part two in the ModernAU AKOTSK based off this post. I am so so excited by the amount of people that enjoyed this and will work on a masterlist and maaaaybe a moodboard (more chances with a spotify playlist tbh). As usual, if anybody wants to be tagged in the next parts, please let me know!

- summary: You're worried that Egg doesn't seem to have any friends his own age and he spends his time either with you at the studio or, to Maekar's dismay, with Dunk at his farm. - part 1 can be found here - pairing: modernAU ceo!maekar x artist!reader - characters: Egg, Maekar, LYONEL BARATHEON - word count: 1.8k - content: a few curse words, established relationship, slice of life, small age difference (30-32 to Maekar’s 43-44), reader is curvy/plus size, Lyonel is very fun to write, Maekar is always one step away from an aneurysm, evil Lannister, private school mothers continue to be the bane of my existence.

Since moving in at Summerhall, you made it a point to have breakfast together in the garden with him and Rhae, instead of the dining room, where it was usually just the three of you seated at a table that could fit twelve. Egg, when managing to keep him still for five minutes, enjoyed munching on his food in the kitchen with the household staff and bombing them with questions in between bites. It was a mystery when Daeron and Aerion kept themselves fed.

Today the Oldtown Private School and Weirwood Day School were having an event at the botanical gardens where children and parents from both schools could socialise and ‘strenghten community through academia’ - or at least that was what the newsletter said. Maekar rolled his eyes when he saw the message, muttering something about how ‘only a bunch of hippies’ could send their kids there.

 “Maybe not every parent wants their child to wear a beret as part of the uniform,” you mused over your breakfast, remembering the great lenghts Egg went to avoid wearing it. Thank the Gods the school didn’t require a dress code today.

“I don’t see anything wrong with that beret,” Maekar protested, taking off his reading glasses and throwing them on top of the newspaper beside his plate of food. “He will grow into it.”

“That’s not the point, love. He looks like a mini tyrant.”

“All children his age are tyrants,” Maekar complained.

“How are you feeling about today, Egg?” you asked the boy as you drove to the city, leaving behind the open fields and wooded groves of the countryside where Summerhall was situated. Maekar insisted you take his car, a sleek black Mercedes, to the event; a subtle way of saying yours was not even nearly up to standard for a school function. “There’s another school invited. That means more chances of getting to know someone even if those mothers don’t warm up to me.”

Aegon shrugged his shoulders, but gripped the box of pastries tighter in his lap. He insisted holding onto it during the ride like precious cargo, afraid something would happen to the ‘peace offering’ along the way. “Great expectations bring bigger disappointments.”

“Ouch. Have a little faith in me, buddy.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not concerned about you.”   

You, on the other hand, woke up at the crack of dawn panicking what to wear in order to make the best possible first impression. Maekar found you in the dressing room around an explosion of clothes and made sure to fuck away all your anxiety in the shower. Twice.

“Take that Hermès bag I gave you for your birthday,” he said as you were both getting dressed for the day. As usual, he was struggling with his cufflinks. “Those witches care more about brands than personality.”

After parking the car and taking the box out of Egg’s hands, you walked side by side down the gravel path to a clearing where children were playing, making sure to survey the place for any parents that were obviously from his school. Your eyes landed on a table with refreshments and, not far from it, a handful of women standing close to eachother, whispering occasionally between themselves. The rest of the parents were scattered around with other children or on their phones.

Bingo.     

Egg tugged on your blazer and you bent down enough for him to whisper in your ear. “That’s them.”

“I figured as much… Now are you ready to mingle while I try to charm their extensions off?”

He made a face. “I make no promises.”

“Promise me you will at least try? I’ll buy you waffles after.”

“For waffles,” he vowed solemnly. You ruffled his short hair and sent him on his way.

Anxiety creeped over as you got closer to the table. You decided to grab a glass of lemonade and arrange the box along with the other treats parents brought to buy some time.

“Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air,” a voice startled you. You put on a smile and turned to greet her. She wore her golden hair braided around her head in a crown, a few wavy wisps escaping the updo. The clothes screamed Ralph Lauren ad – an impecable blend of function and casual elegance, styled effortlessly with subtle gold creoles and a leather strap tank watch.

You introduced yourself, shaking her hand. Her ring finger almost blinded you. “I’m Cerelle Lannister, head of the Parent Council.” Her features put her closer to Maekar’s age than yours.

“It’s nice to meet another parent from Aegon’s school.”

She was studying you, just like her clique was doing from a few feet away. You could feel their eyes staring holes into you even with your back turned. They didn’t even bother to move farther away while they whispered.

...must be an au pair…

Don’t be silly, I think she’s the girlfriend. She doesn’t have a ring.

Not for long. Give her more time to know him better.

You know I don’t like to gossip, but that Kelly is fresh out of the box. It’s not about personality.

Well, she’s working for it today.   

“It’s a shame Maekar doesn’t have the patience for these gatherings. How else are we to catch up and discuss new initiatives?”

You took a sip of lemonade. “He’s just very busy.”

Cerelle’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re such a darling for helping him. Gods know those children need a female influence in their life after what happened with Dyanna. You do know about her, right?”

You bitch.

“I’m aware.”

Holding your own in a conversation with her felt more like a game of smokes and mirrors – every sentence had an underlying message and pleasantries masked stinging remarks.

“Don’t tell Maekar I said this, but we were getting worried about little Aegon. I heard he’s a bit shy and introverted at school. A boy his age should socialise more.”

“Must be a school thing,” you mused. “Aegon is plenty sociable in his other activities.”

She hummed, clearly not pleased with your message when reading between the lines. “Well, I have to go tell the girls all about you. We should get better aquainted over tea sometime,” Cerelle said with a well practiced smile and left you alone at the refreshment table.

Translation: fuck off.

You needed to put some distance between yourself and those women. The open field did nothing to ease with the caged in sensation Cerelle left you with.  

Why did I quit smoking? I could use a cigarette right now.

The rest of your time was spent under the shade of an old oak tree, sipping lemonade and keeping an eye on Egg as he played with some kids and their dogs – most likely from the other school. He searched for you in the crowd of people scattered around the field and you gave him a wave and a thumbs up. From the corner of your eye, a tall silhouette of a man was getting closer and closer. A man who was wearing the most obnoxious yellow silk shirt you had even seen in your life.

“Tell me, what does a lovely woman like you do in a place like this? By the Gods, I’ve seen funerals with more potential!”

You rolled your eyes into the back of your head.

“I’m making sure a ten year old is socialising enough,” you muttered. 

“The Targaryen boy,” he stated.

“That one.”

You could feel his eyes dancing between you and Egg while he chose his next words. The earlier exchange with those aweful women left you in no mood to play nice with another arrogant parent. Maybe Egg could meet a new friend at Tanselle’s painting class if you convinced him to give it a chance. 

“Baelor’s offspring are too old to be in school,” Lyonel trailed off, hands buried in his pockets as he leaned sideway against the tree. He had that laissez-faire air about him with his wind swept curls and lazy smile. “I’m not even going to bother with the other two brothers, so that leaves good old Maekar. Which of them is this one - number four or five?” he grinned, very pleased with himself.

“Six,” you mumbled, eyes following Egg around as he found a spot on the grass next to another kid with eyes glued on a screen. They started exchanging a few words from time to time, between game levels no doubt. Baby steps.

He let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, he’s been busy.”

You shot Lyonel a look that didn’t have any effect on him. In fact, his interest soley focused on you. “You know eachother?”

“Our families do business. So… Where did he keep you hidden away all this time?’

“Oh, you know… Tucked away in one of his desk drawers. Don’t worry, he makes sure I have enough water and sunlight.”

Nothing could have prepared you for the booming laugh he let out, head thrown back and completely unashamed by some startled parents nearby. You found yourself laughing with him under the shade of the oak tree as the leaves swayed slowly in the breeze.  

“I like you. I bet you keep that old grump on his toes.”

“Six children do the job just fine, trust me,” you said, the trace of a smile lingering.   

“I’m perfectly aware! I have four of those myself,” he mused with a smile on his face. “In fact, the shy one next to your boy is mine.”

My boy.

All things considered, the day ended on a good note. Like you, Lyonel was pleased his offspring had an interaction that didn’t involve dogs and you exchanged numbers to set up a playdate for them. He even introduced you to the Starks; a polite couple with few words to say, but sincere in their manner of speaking.

Egg stuffed his face with waffles, as promised.

By the time you parked in front of the entrance you were ready to throw yourself into a couch and nap. Egg on the other hand stormed inside the house, running straight to the garden. Maekar greeted you in the hallway with a kiss that had you melting into him. “Aegon’s in a good mood,” he muttered against your lips and captured them in another kiss, this time applying more pressure as his hands rested on your hips.

“He’s high on sugar. I loaded him with chocolate waffles.”

“Was your plan a success?”

You let out a groan, remembering Cerelle. “Those women are vile! But Egg got along with another boy his age from Weirwood Day School.”

“I won’t have Aegon running around barefoot and hugging trees, woman. Whose child are we talking about?”

“His name is Lyonel Baratheon. I understand you do business together.”

Maekar closed his eyes, feeling a headache washing over his temples. “Fuck me…”

Taglist: @beebeechaos @ae-gax

[sylasthegrim]

In Search of Lost Time

Pairing • Maekar Targaryen x female reader

Tags • angst, hurt/comfort, sexual tension, smut, vaginal fingering, p. in v. sex, happy/open ending

Wordcount • 4,215

Despite a courtship between you and Prince Maekar in your youth, you both married other prospects. Twenty years later, you meet him again following the death of his brother. The two of you reminisce on the past and rekindle the forgotten flame of your love.

AKOTSK Masterlist

Returning to the capital after Ashford Meadow felt like returning from a perilous battle, heavy with a devastating loss, but Maekar knew nothing would heal these wounds, even time.

Days passed and so did nights, and yet nothing smoothed the ragged edges of his grief. He often cut himself on them or let others cut themselves, taking the brunt of his self-loathing. 

King Daeron had named him Hand, telling him that if he truly wished to atone then he would have to pick up his brother’s duties. He had no taste for it and yet he spent his days devoting himself to them, endlessly asking himself what Baelor would have done while fully knowing he could never own up to the task. 

Duty was his penance, and so was watching his children scattered across different realms. 

Aerion was away in Lys with the task of coming back a changed man, but Maekar doubted any city could influence the cruel truth of his soul. Daeron was often too inebriated for company and despised court, instead choosing to return to Summerhall and solitude.

Aemon was at the Citadel, thriving in being a normal man among so many others, willfully abandoning his titles and privileges. Aegon was off gallivanting across the realms and hopefully gaining some wisdom and growing into a finer young prince than his brothers were.

Maekar was left alone with his grief and his prayers to Gods he did not believe in anymore. Duty was all that remained, along with his two girls, and he spent every waking minute tending to one or the other, hoping that it would exhaust him enough so that he would not dream at night.

One afternoon a half year into his lifelong atonement, Maekar was ignoring a report from the Reach and their crops in favor of a letter from Aegon when a sharp knock interrupted him. 

He had quickly learned the way of each Kingsguard and could recognize them based on how irritating their knock at the door was. “What do you want?” he barked at Ser Donnel. 

The man pushed the door open but did not come in. “Someone is here to see you,” he announced.

“Who?” Maekar replied.

“The lady says she is an old friend,” Donnel continued, and at that Maekar frowned, tilting his head to look past his shoulder—who he saw made him rise, and he gave a quick gesture of his hand, signaling the knight to let you through.

Donnel was quick to shut the door again once you had crossed the threshold, leaving him alone with his visitor. Maekar could hardly believe that he was setting eyes on you again, and in such close proximity. 

The last time you had been to court was years ago, when your respective offspring were still children and babies, and the whirlwind of raising little souls had taken too much for the two of you to speak. Your spouses had been alive then, and barely a nod of recollection had been exchanged, a fond, passing thought in your eyes.

“Might you have time to receive me, my lord Hand?” you greeted amicably, smiling despite yourself at the shock on the prince’s face. The last time you had laid eyes on him, his hair had been longer, falling in two straight curtains on either side of his angular face, grazing his shoulders. 

It had been many years now, but age suited him, you found. Where his face had been too sharp in his youth, you thought he had now grown into it and made quite the handsome picture. 

“My lady,” he greeted stiffly, looking equally surprised and confused. “What are you doing in the capital?”

Smiling slightly at his lack of courtly manners, you approached the desk behind which he was standing. “My eldest daughter is getting betrothed to one of Lord Massey’s sons,” you explained. 

“Right,” Maekar replied as though he was meant to know the fact, but had been unaware. He seemed to remember his good manners then, and nodded gravelly. “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he said.

Shaking your head, you gave him a small smile—it had been a while now, just enough time to get accustomed to the title of widow. Instead, you used the opportunity to offer your own condolences. “I was infinitely sorry to hear about your brother.”

Maekar looked aside, uncomfortable. “We all are,” he replied, rather gracelessly. He wondered if you had been told how the tragedy had happened, but he could not bring himself to ask. “Did you have a matter to bring to my attention?” he asked, and you frowned before your eyes found the Hand insignia on his chest. 

It was as simple as could be, a hand molded in dark bronze. “Oh, no, my prince. I simply wanted to pay my respects,” you reassured him. “I shall leave you to your duties, I am sure they are many.”

Maekar seemed to mellow somehow, his face smoothing over. He looked tired even then. “I can spare a moment,” he replied. “For an old friend.”

The smile you gave him was enough to warm his heart momentarily and he invited you to sit. “I was merely answering private correspondence anyway,” he told you. “My son Aegon has written to me.”

He took his seat again at his desk, in a high-backed chair that looked rather uncomfortable. He looked at you intently as you spoke. “I have heard about that from Lady Massey. Have you truly sent him to squire with a hedge knight?” you asked with a touch of humor, but his grave face made you regret it.

“Yes,” he said sternly. “It was time he squired but he would not serve another knight. I am still not entirely convinced it was the right choice.”

At this you seemed genuinely apologetic, crossing your hands in your lap. “I am sorry. It is hard to see your children walk their own path and realize you might have set them on the wrong one.”

Maekar recognized something in your tone, and in the contemplative look in your eyes, and could not help but ask, although it was no business of his. “You’ve daughters, have you not? Are they giving you trouble as well?”

Contemplation turned to frustration disguised as amusement, and your recounting gave Maekar the time to look upon your face fully. It was making his heart ache fondly to see what used to be such a familiar face changed by time. Time had not taken your beauty, if anything only made it more striking. “The worst of heartaches,” you answered. “We do what we think is best for them, until one day our mistake stares at us and it is too late to take it back.”

Your honesty was refreshing, and he appreciated the forward way with which you spoke. He wondered if it was simply because you had known him so well in your shared youth, or if you now opened yourself up so easily for any company. 

“Aegon still hasn’t set on a path, I am trying to remedy that,” he continued, conversation flowing easily  between the two of you. “Ser Duncan is a good man…” he hesitated then, swallowing thickly, and the look in your eyes decided him. “A man whose cause my brother risked and ultimately gave his life for.”

Kindness shone on your face and it eased his sorrow rather. “I hope you still have a chance to set things right then,” you said, and he could tell you meant it. Then, you rose again, looking down at the scattered parchments on his desk. “I will not take more of your precious time. It has been a pleasure to see you again, my prince.”

When you looked back up at him, he was struck by the intensity of your gaze, and he was reminded of the reasons for his youthful infatuation with you. “Do come back,” he abruptly said. “On the morrow.”

“On the morrow, then,” you confirmed with a small nod.

Midday on the morrow found you in the Hand’s Tower, and Maekar working on the same parchments and letters that had plagued him the day prior. Fresh wine had been brought right before your arrival, and you were enjoying the warm breeze at the window, which carried salt from the bay.

“My eldest and her suitor seem besotted,” you said, although it sounded like you were lamenting, looking down at the gardens below.

Your cup had long been discarded, and Maekar wondered if he should have offered you tea rather than wine. It had been years now since he had been in the private company of a woman, and back then, it had been his wife.

“You do not seem happy over the prospect,” he commented, rolling a page on itself and throwing it aside.

“I am,” you said, but still you shook your head with a frown. “Of course, I should be satisfied with any daughter of mine finding a love match… Any mother would.”

Maekar wanted to scoff at your obvious discontentment. “Of course,” he repeated.

Leaning against the edge of the window, you toyed with the bracelet at your wrist absently, your eyes following something outside that he could not see. “I must admit this is not the match her father would have wanted,” you continued, and it made Maekar swallow any biting remark he might have had. “She could have found a better prospect.”

Understanding dawned on him and he nodded. “He is of a lower rank.”

“Yes,” you confirmed, then felt the need to defend your position. “I only want her to be safe in life. We all know how fickle young love is. It may come after a while, but stability is what matters.”

“I understand,” Maekar said, and you turned to look at him again. He gestured for you to continue, and you did, fully unfolding your entire line of thoughts on the matter. 

“In my own marriage, I waited for years for love to come, and it was perfectly fine, because I knew it was a good, prosperous match,” you said as though you were trying to convince yourself, but Maekar’s mind had already drifted to another topic than that of your daughter’s betrothal.

Finding himself oddly sentimental, Maekar was thrown back to the spring he had spent courting you, unsure whether or not it would lead to a betrothal. “Did it ever come?” he asked. “Did you love him?”

“I did,” you nodded, rather sadly. “After our secondborn came, I think, or some time before.”

“You are fortunate, then,” he replied, and that might have been the most honest thing he had said all day.

“So have you been,” you replied, to which he nodded, and the two of you shared a look only widows and widowers could understand. “And now all we can do is watch our spouse’s children grow, seeing so much of them in their actions, and pray we are doing right by them.”

Maekar sighed and leaned back in his high-backed chair, crossing his legs and resting his hands over his knee. “That ship has sailed for my eldest sons, but that is what I am attempting with Aegon. Perhaps away from this family, he can grow into a better man than his brothers.”

Eyes widening, you seemed surprised at his admission. “My eldest son has no taste for responsibility. My second is vain and cruel, and in exile for it…” he groaned, and you had the grace to nod in understanding, saving him from voicing the harsh truth. “Some day I wonder who is responsible. Was it the dreadful environment of the court or was it their father?”

Taking a step forward, you looked as though you wanted to reach out, perhaps put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “I am sure you did your best with them. As I did with my mine own daughters.”

“That is what my brother used to say, but we reap what we sow,” Maekar said regretfully, and he loathed the impression he was surely giving you—an old man rotten with regrets. 

You had the grace not to contradict him. “We should have supper tonight,” he decided here and then—it was too early in the day for the amount of wine needed for this conversation.

Days went by and you came to supper with him most nights, when your daughters did not keep you. Over a week after your arrival in the capital, it had almost turned into a habit to which Maekar looked forward to. The day had been long and Council had run late, leaving him with an ache at the back of his head that he soothed with the summer wine you preferred at the end of a meal.

With the wine his tongue was rougher and yours was looser, and soon what should have remained a proper conversation between a prince and a lady turned to far more unsuitable matters. The candle light was making your skin glow and your eyes glint with mirth while the topic of your daughter was being discussed again, this time in less polite terms. 

“They have to be chaperoned at all times, or I fear there might be improprieties,” you assured him animatedly, and Maekar laughed. He was handsome when he laughed, you thought, the creases in his face smoothing over, and the sound in itself was lovely, rough and rich like spiced wine. 

“If I may, you are no stranger to this either,” he replied, and you were nearly stunned by his boldness. Any other lady would have taken offense, but the reminder of your courtship warmed you through faster than the wine had. 

Sitting across from him at the supper table of the Hand’s solar, you were twirling a red grape between your fingers while he was cracking walnuts. “We were young and imprudent,” you replied, dropping the grape aside. “We fancied ourselves in love, I suppose.”

“I was irresponsible,” Maekar replied, suddenly a tad more serious. “Did it ever… cause you trouble?”

“No,” you reassured him, shaking your head fondly. “May I confess to a lie?”

Maekar grinned, and his uneven teeth were oddly charming. He gestured for you to continue, and you felt your face flush at what you were about to reveal. “I had told you my father’s squire and I had been slightly familiar, but we had not.”

Maekar frowned, suddenly uneasy about the liberties he had taken. “You were the first man to kiss me, and to touch me,” you confessed in an increasingly quiet tone, looking down at the tabletop. “I do not regret any of it, it sustained me for years while I waited for love to come.”

Maekar frowned, stunned into silence, absently playing with the rim of his goblet. The two of you were old enough to put a name to the tension building between you, what those memories had triggered. 

That spring you had courted had been long and fresh, flowers in bloom for months on end, and tourneys keeping the capital merry. It had been the perfect environment for two rash, young people to make unwise choices. You wanted to ask if Maekar had thought of it often, of your forbidden rides in the kingwoods.

“I often thought back on this time, along the years,” he replied, barely a murmur, and yet it rolled through you like a wave caressing the shore.

“I should take my leave,” you whispered, sounding rather shocked.

“Have I offended you?” Maekar asked, suddenly worried.

“No, no,” you promised, but you still would not look up at him. “On the contrary, I’m afraid.”

Understanding struck him where he sat, a coil of heat along his spine. It had been so long since he had touched a woman, and in this moment he craved it more than anything. He craved the way he had felt all those years ago, without the weight of any regrets, or any dread of what was to come. 

When he still had, if not innocence, then some degree of hope.

He followed you when you rose from your seat, and when he approached, you did not turn away, instead looked up at him with wide, honest eyes. Easily, as had been the way between the two of you since you had met again, you reached up to touch his face, the tips of your fingers enjoying the softness of his beards, your thumbs tracing the lines at the corner of his eyes. 

“We should know better,” you insisted, sounding clipped. Maekar could not help but notice the way your gaze drifted to his lips before returning to his eyes. 

Without a word, he leaned forward and you let him, your eyes fluttering close and accepting what he intended to be a parting kiss. His mouth was firm against yours, his kiss chaste but lingering, meant to be savored. His beard prickled at your top lip and you sighed, pulling back slightly, adjusting, but the glide of your lips against his was too much for the both of you to bear. 

With a rough sigh of his own, Maekar pressed harder, his mouth slanting over yours and you could not resist. The two of you kissed like lovers too long separated, starved for what used to be familiar, his tongue prodding yours with passion.

One of his hands cradled your jaw while yours curled in the fabric of his doublet, over the Hand insignia. It wasn’t until you felt the weight and heat of his other hand at your waist that you realized the line the two of you had just crossed.

Regret already blistering under your skin, you pulled away. “I bid you good night, my prince.”

Maekar had the grace not to hold you back, instead letting you slip through his fingers and out in the hallway where you froze, catching your breath with a hand on your belly. Tears rose to your eyes, and something akin to anger squeezed your chest—for two decades you had devoted yourself to your husband, to your children, and now propriety demanded that once again, you denied yourself. 

Inside the Hand’s solar, Maekar’s own regret was just as fierce, but he did not have the same restraint as you. There were two paths in front of him, and once again he was faced with a choice, and he could not allow himself to make the cowardly one. 

Instinct carrying his legs, he ran after you, momentarily disappointed when he opened the door and found the top of the stairway empty, but relief spread through him when he found you a dozen of steps down, around the bend. The look on your face was enough to strengthen his resolve and he approached you, taking your face in his hands once more. He kissed you again, groaning when you let him, your arms looping around his neck.

For a long moment you kissed against the wall like young lovers escaping their chaperone, hands curling in hair and clothes, until Maekar pulled away and led you by the waist towards the second door at the top of the stairway. 

His chambers were warm and smelled faintly of the musk of his perfume—he locked the door behind himself, leaving the key in the hole. Neither of you wasted any time pretending to be coy, and the next few minutes were spent undressing the other, pulling at clasps and laces while sharing kisses that grew more breathless and less elegant.

A few frustrated sounds were shared as well when buttons caught and ties knotted, but soon the layers of your gown were pooled around your bare feet, your shoes discarded along with his boots, and all that was left were his trousers.

You reached for them but he stopped you with the tips of his fingers at your shoulders, instead taking the time to look upon you—from the softness of your breasts and their peaks that made his mouth water, to the line of your waist and the apex of your thighs. 

“Gods, what a sight,” he praised, his dark gaze roaming your skin, and you wanted to preen. Eyes on him, you pulled at the laces of his trousers and reached inside without shame, smiling when he groaned and his eyes fluttered.

Kissing his neck as your hand curled around his hot length, you stroked him with purpose. “Fuck,” he moaned, which made you laugh against his throat. He only allowed you a few strokes before kicking his last garments aside and pulling you to the bed by the waist, his large hand spreading at your lower back.

The sheets were soft under your heated skin when he guided you down on them before joining you, the two of you laying on your sides, facing each other. Your knee hooked over his waist, his hand holding the back of your thigh, you kissed with renewed passion. Naturally, your hand returned to his hard length, marvelling at its heavy weight in your palm, and you clenched in utter want, your hips canting forward.

Maekar groaned at your touch, rocking his hips into it, and his hand left your leg to seek your core. His thumb pressed a careful swipe over your nub as his fingers prodded past your folds, cursing when he found you wet and receptive. 

You were delighted to find out that he was still a forward but skilled lover, easily finding the pressure and rhythm that made you shudder until you were soaked and finally, he pressed his fingers inside. He took the time to slow his kisses and enjoy the clench of your walls around him, no matter how it made his cock throb in excitement. 

“Allow me,” you murmured against his lips after a while of bliss, basking in his attention.

Maekar’s gaze was dark and reverent as he let you push him flat on his back and roll on top of him. The weight of you on his hips was lovely, but the feeling of you lowering yourself on his cock made him lose all words. All that came out of his mouth was a drawn-out groan, punched out of him as you ground your hips down.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, his hands holding your hips possessively, his thumbs hooked into the crease where they met your thighs. Your only answer was a breathless laugh, your nails gently raking through the white at his chest hair. “Gods, let me hear you,” he requested. “Let me see you.”

With confidence, you reached down and he watched, enraptured, as your hand drew tight circles at your core in time with the rolling of your hips. Breathless with pleasure, you were the most arousing sight he could have imagined. 

Grabbing the headboard above him, you led the two of you towards the edge, chasing a common peak with purpose. Moans rose in the air, cries of unbridled pleasure from him and you both. His fingers had brought you high enough on their own, and now the feeling of his cock inside of you was proving to be your undoing—the fullness and stretch was too much for you to bear too long.

“Maekar,” you called as the familiar ecstatic feeling built in your core, a wave of urgency crashing through you.

“Fuck,” he hissed, biting down on his lip when you clenched around his cock and froze, your thighs seizing under his hands. He watched with marvel in his eyes as your peak crashed through you, rhythmic waves that left you pliant and breathless, holding onto his composure until you settled and removed your hand from your core.

Only then did he pull out and spill with a long, rough groan between your bellies, and you kissed his neck through it, the feeling of stretching his pleasure.

Once he had stopped shaking, you climbed off of him and curled into his side with what sounded like his name in an exhausted sigh. Maekar held you through the last shudders, his hands tangling in your hair as you kissed his chest with more tenderness than he knew how to bear. 

He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling until his limbs grew heavy and loose again. You rested your head on his heart, curling your fingers through his chest hair. “I did know how much I had missed this,” you said with mirth, and he laughed, the sound echoing under your ear. “Was it as blissful, back then?”

“No, I do not believe it was,” he replied with humor. Then, he sighed, and you felt him turn serious once more. “You should stay,” he said, and you knew he was not speaking of this night.

“I have to think of my daughters,” you replied regretfully, pressing a kiss to his shoulder to soothe the sting of your refusal. “This place, the court, corrupts even the purest souls.”

“Think on it,” he insisted, sounding more pleading than you had ever heard him. “Think on it at length, I won’t mind waiting for your answer. Time to wait is all I have nowadays.”

Maekar shivered when you burrowed your face into the side of his neck. “I will,” you whispered, and you did not leave his chambers until the morning was waking, pink over the horizon.

Dividers by @/saradika. Requested by @thewhisperedone.

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The Behavior of Dragons

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Maekar Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Masterlist General Synopsis: You gave Maekar six healthy children throughout your marriage, with a seventh on the way; However, this one feels wrong. Word Count: 6.6k Content Warnings: Major angst, Aerion's massive mommy issues, sexual assault of a minor mentioned, child marriage mentioned, general sense of foreboding, pregnancy, child birth mention, strained relationships with a parent, Dyanna Dayne is not in this timeline. please let me know if I've missed anything. AN: idk how this happened, but the idea hit me on my lunch break while I was eyeballs deep into a burrito bowl and it spiraled out of control and turned into this, so here we are. I've done a few read-through as a means of proofreading this, but I kept adding and making adjustments, so *throws it* here! damn.

One Year Before Ashford Meadows Maekar’s voice boomed through the solar of your shared apartments as he threw the door nearly off its hinges when he entered, slamming it closed behind him. He had been in a foul mood as of recent, no doubt due to one son or another, and every interaction he’s had with you has been just as despondent as the mood he carried unless he was buried between your legs. Today would be no different as your patience was nonexistent and the heavy babe in your belly left you unable to sleep for near on two nights. To say you were miserable would be an understatement. 

After so many years married to the man it was fairly easy to navigate his temperament. You’d been married to Maekar for more years of your life than not, so you knew him like the back of your hand just as he did you. 

At ten-and-three and ten-and-four—respectively—you were wed to one another, and just a month after your ten-and-fourth nameday you gave birth to Daeron. In a way you and Maekar grew up with one another, learning to navigate not only marriage, but life and everything it held for you within the courts of the Red Keep until you eventually settled at Summerhall. 

Even back then Maekar was a jaded soul in a way only a fourth son could be, anger and frustration clouding his every waking moment making him incredibly hard to love at first, but you tried and tried, ultimately breaking his resolve with a tender hand and a warm embrace. Maekar’s vulnerabilities were seen by you and you alone, and you were more than okay with that.

Maekar wasn’t a terrible man, nor was he a terrible husband, but he had his quirks and one of those quirks was pushing boundaries with you because he could not do it to the people above his station—especially when you lived within the Red Keep in your youths. Most of the time he was a reasonable man, enjoyable to be around you’d go so far as to say, but when his moods hit…gods help anyone unlucky enough to be in his vicinity. They very rarely were directed towards you, but your chambers were a venting place for him to offload when he needed to or else he was liable to swing his mace to fix his problems. That was highly frowned upon within the courts, and so you gave him your ear when he needed it, but other times he seemed to lose himself. 

You loved Maekar—you truly did, and you knew he loved you more than you could comprehend, but sometimes…sometimes you weren’t in the mood to coddle him back to a neutral temperament after he had been too tightly wound. Sometimes he needed to brood on his own without pulling you into whatever had soured his disposition, especially in your delicate condition as of present. Unfortunately for him, this was one of those days where you were not giving a single inch for him to take for you had nothing to give. 

You yourself weren’t in the finest of moods to begin with—not after the bout you had with Aerion earlier in the morning. Aerion’s defiance had been especially ripe as of late and it took everything in you not to clout the boy upon the ear each time he spoke back to you with nasty sentiments. 

It broke your heart to look upon his miserable existence some days because when you did, you only saw the gap-toothed, happy boy he used to be. You saw the boy Daeron would take fishing at the pond just outside of Summerhall’s walls, though the older brother held no interest in it. It was very clear early on that Daeron held no interest in things boys his age typically did, but he did them with Aerion because he took his duties as an older brother seriously, at least back then. They were close once—very much so—and your heart shatters when you are reminded of what’s become of both Daeron and Aerion as they’ve grown into the shadows of the promise they once held. 

Not a day went by when young Aerion did not search you out just to give you a hug, or request a kiss upon the tip of his freckled nose, or show you something he found a deep interest in. He would greet your pregnant belly every morning before he spoke to you when you were pregnant with Aemon, gently placing his hand just to the side of your belly button to feel his kicks. 

Aerion would demonstrate how well he did in his arms training as he gave you a retelling within your solar with your quill as his sword, and though Maekar wasn’t outward with his approval when it came to any of your children, you knew he loved the boy deeply—he just did not have the means to show it as you did. And he loved Daeron, but there wasn’t a single thing he had in common with the boy as he did with Aerion. What was a father bred for war to do when his son held no interest in even mounting a horse? Maekar was disappointed, you knew, but you begged that he not show it to your eldest. Always touched with melancholy, you did not want to add more reason for Daeron to hold sadness in his blue eyes. The dreams added enough as it was. 

Still, you rained praise onto your children, all of them, for skills learned and passions discovered. Your love was bountiful and the well of it never ran dry, perhaps overcompensating for what Maekar refused to show them.

Aerion was easy, loving, and kind as a boy. He followed Daeron as his shadow the second he learned to walk, and he loved Aemon the moment he first saw him, desperate to hold his baby brother when he was merely hours old. 

It was Daeron who showed Aerion how to hold Aemon, just as Daeron learned to hold Aerion from you, and the boy of seven held onto every one of Daeron’s instructions so as to not hurt his new baby brother. He searched for your approval before Maekar’s that he was doing it right, and your exhausted smile filled his body with so much joy. It was a clear memory you held close to your heart when the darkness enclosed around you. 

“A brother?” Aerion’s lilac eyes shined with happiness when you nodded. “What is he called?” Aerion’s voice held a squeak to it, the slight lisp breaking through his toothy grin. He kept his volume down as much as he could to not disturb his brother, nor you, within the dim confines of the room.

“He’s called Aemon.” Maekar spoke, his hand resting upon Aerion’s small shoulder as he sat beside him on the bed next to your extended legs. Aerion test the name out softly and the babe opened his own lilac eyes to stare up at him curiously. 

“I will teach him how to ride a horse and how to fish! Do you think he’d like that?” Maekar chuckled at his son’s eager plans he already held for the infant. 

“I think there are many more years before he’ll know what those things are, brother.” Daeron spoke softly as he stood beside you. His hand reached for yours and squeezed it tenderly, as if it was a relief to see you well. Daeron’s tired eyes held dark circles below them, much like yours, and his skin held a violet tint to it. The dreams, you surmised, must’ve appeared again. Aerion’s face fell just the slightest bit at his brother’s words. 

“I’m sure he will love to play with you, Aerion. You can teach him all you know. That will be your job as his big brother, just as it was Daeron’s when you were born.” Aerion perked up at your words as he looked down at Aemon’s pouting face. The infant started to fuss in his brother’s arms and the panicked look Aerion shot you made you chuckle, though it caused you to groan pain. 

“Your mother needs her rest, as does the baby.” Maekar assisted Aerion in settling Aemon into the bassinet next to the bed, but not before giving the babe a kiss on his forehead with a whispered ‘I’ll see you soon, brother’. Daeron kissed your forehead as well before he departed the room with Aerion in tow.

“Is there anything you need, my love?” Maekar asked, his eyes shining with gratitude as he picked up your hand to kiss the tips of your fingers affectionately. 

“Just the comfort of my husband is all I require.” 

“Then you shall have all I can give.”

Then it was as if one day that young, happy Aerion was gone, vanished into thin air as if the boy was just a figment of your imagination to begin with. The cruelties your second son now harbored were unlike anything you ever imagined your own child to be capable of, much less using against his own siblings. 

It was Maekar and Maekar alone that saved Aerion from your fury when little Aegon fled to your chambers in the middle of the night and told you of what Aerion did to him and to the poor cat your youngest son loved so deeply. There was denial initially, only kept to yourself. You believed Aegon as he would never lie to you—especially about something as serious as Aerion holding a knife to him with the threat of making him a sister so he may finally have a bride worth marrying. It was a turning point for you, as if the mask had finally fallen from Aerion’s visage to reveal who he truly was. 

You did not speak to Maekar for nearly a fortnight after Aegon confided in you and he merely sent the boy back to his room, and it had been the biggest fight the both of you have ever had in your long marriage. You would be lying if you said you did not hold the tiniest bit of resentment towards your husband still for his inaction regarding the incident. Two years had passed since then, but the invasive roots hadn’t been plucked entirely, leaving room to regrow once more.

“You cannot always run to Aegon’s defense. The boy must learn to defend himself-”

“-Against his own brother? in the cover of night as he sleeps? Do you hear yourself, Maekar? Have you gone mad?” Maekar narrowed his eyes as he shed his robe and tossed it over a chair near the great hearth in your bedroom. 

“Do not speak of madness to me.” He hissed, scowling as he drank from the cup at his bedside before sitting down on the edge of the unmade bed. 

“Then do not let madness slither into your words, Maekar! The boy is seven! Seven! What lessons were your own brothers teaching you at that age? Surely none with a knife pressed to your stones.” Maekar grunted in irritation as he climbed further back onto the bed, throwing the blankets over his legs as he sat with his back against the ornate headboard. 

“Aerion would not have done it.” Maekar looked at you as if you were stupid for even thinking he would. “It is a jest between brothers gone too far and it will be corrected on the morrow. Now, may I get some fucking sleep?” He flattened to scoot down to lay, but your voice stopped him and he dropped his head back in exasperation. 

“You are wrong in this, Maekar. This is not a jest and you know it.”

“I know you are too deeply sensitive with these things. You do not understand brothers.”

“Need I? Aegon did not see it as a jest, Maekar. Aerion does not jest. Deny it to me all you wish, but you know this treachery cannot go unpunished. What is to stop Aerion from actually doing as he’s promised? He gelds your youngest son, what then? Will that be enough for you to take action or will that be just another lesson for Aegon to learn?” 

“I’ve heard enough of this nonsense!” Maekar’s voice boomed through the room, startling you where you stood. He sat up completely, leveling you with his sternest look. “I will handle this as I see fit. The matter is settled for tonight and I will hear no more of it. Return to bed.” He blew out the chamberstick on his bedside table. 

“No,” You remained where you stood, arms crossed tightly over your chest in defiance. Maekar’s jaw clenched. “I will not be silent while my youngest son seeks refuge within my arms because he has been violated by his own brother, nor will I be silent against a son who causes strife and terror at every turn to every member of this household! It is your silence that’s encouraged Aerion to act as he does and your indifference that puts Aegon and our daughters in danger!” 

“You see indifference, but I will maintain order within this house. You point your finger, but your coddling has not been to the detriment of any of our sons, wife?” Maekar spat through clenched teeth and eyes full of rage, silver hair mussed from the sleep he was woken suddenly from. “Softness pressed upon each son, and each son became less fitting than the one that came before. It is not a coincidence, I assure you.” Angry tears welled in your eyes as your bottom lip shook. You could see the regret in Maekar’s eyes break through with the subtle shift of his brows, though his pride would not allow him to yield outwardly—it wasn’t in his nature. 

“And what of you, Maekar? Hm?” Your voice shook, eyes glittering in the glowing candlelight. 

“What of me?” His nostrils flared as his eyes held firm to your shaking form, arms hugging your waist as you stood before the dying fire. 

“We’re your brothers coddled, and you left alone to weep in your crib? Is that the difference between you? Why they are kind and you-”

“-Choose your next words wisely.” Maekar’s voice held a dangerous calmness to it, but the frown settling on his lips told you in so many words that you spoke the truth. The words died on your tongue, though new ones arose. You swallowed thickly, trying to compose yourself. 

“A hardened man, sworn to protect his family, but will not do so much as protect his own son?” The words held the effect you intended. Maekar looked as if he had been hit with his own mace wielded within your hand. His jaw dropped just a fraction, his brows previously furrowed in anger now fell in devastation. His lilac eyes fell from you and to the fire behind you. Your chest heaved as you tried to steady your breaths, but the pain in your heart was too much to bear. 

“If Aegon cannot trust us to protect him, then we have failed, Maekar. I really hope, through the blindness of your own pride, you understand that.” Maekar watched your every movement as you tied the stays of your silken robe and slippers before taking a lit chamberstick within your hands and making for the door. 

“Where are you going?” Maekar’s voice barely cut through the thick silence that filled your chamber to the brim. You made sure to turn fully so he could see the disappointment shining in your eyes. You would not share a bed with him, not while anger and shame bubbled within you. 

“You wish to not speak of this any longer? Fine, I shall not speak at all.” The latch of the door was quiet behind you and you stood on the other end for a brief moment, a hand pressed to your trembling mouth to stifle the sobs that escaped. 

The guard across the hall did not make eye contact with you as he stood at his post diligently, though he did watch your retreating form disappear at a junction that led to the eastern apartments of the keep. 

Your feet led you to Aegon’s room that night, though they made their way slowly in the hope that your tears would dry before you reached his door. As you wallowed, it seemed your tears were endless. The guard posted outside of his room, at your insistence after the earlier debacle, acknowledged you with a nod before you let yourself inside. 

A small gasp echoed in the room and when your candlelight revealed the glint of a small blade shaking in young Aegon’s hand, you broke. 

“My son!” You sobbed as he jumped out of bed, dropping the blade onto the feather mattress in his rush to run towards you. Placing the chamberstick on his desk, you wrapped your arms around him tightly, holding him to you in fear he would disappear. 

“Mummy,” He wept into your robes. “I am sorry for waking you and father. I did not mean for you to fight! If I had known he would yell at you, I wouldn’t have said a thing at all. I swear it! I’m sorry!” His pleas broke your heart further as his little hands gripped the fabric at your hips.

“Shh, my darling.” You kneeled down to his height and held his little, round face in your hands. Your thumbs wiped the tears that fell and he tried to hide his face from you, the voice of his father in his mind telling him that boys, princes of the realm, didn’t cry—especially into their mother’s skirts, but your hands held him firmly in place so he could not shy away in shame. “It is I who needs to apologize, my boy. As long as I draw breath, you will come to me and I will protect you. Your father does not scare me, no matter how loud he yells, so do not worry about me, little prince. Do you understand? Never fear doing the right thing, though it may feel scary.” 

“I did the right thing?” He sniffled as he tried to keep his mouth from wobbling with a tight frown.  

“Yes, you did and I am so very proud of you for it.”  

As of late, Aerion had taken to harassing the servant girls that tended to his chambers, so much so that they sought you out in hopes you’d put a stop to it so that they may do their duties without fear of punishment for not only being able to complete the tasks assigned, but for also trying to dissuade his unwanted advances. 

“They are whores, mother.” He popped a piece of citrus into his mouth, chewing slowly as his eyes followed the serving girl as she took her leave of the sunroom you usually broke your fast in. He eventually looked over to you, unblinking, when she was out of his sight. “Why do you bother with their complaints?” 

“They are not whores, Aerion.” You spat, sighing heavily as you placed your fork down with more force than you wanted to show. Your lower back aches terribly and the babe seemed to shift every time you got comfortable. Aerion’s eyes followed your hand as it met the curve of your belly, mindlessly rubbing to sooth the babe within. “They are not here for your entertainment, nor are they here for you to torment. Their complaints have merit that I shall not be turning a blind eye to. I’ll not have my son defiling anyone within these walls, am I understood?” You held his stare, unyielding in whatever little game had had going on in his head. After he realized you would not relent, Aerion was the first to cut eye contact as he shifted in his chair. “I mean it, Aerion. Perhaps you should join your brother in Oldtown to get your priorities in order, hm? A more structured regiment would do you well since you do not seem to be able to handle your daily duties on your own without making a mockery of your lineage.” He knew you’d make good on your threat, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, keep his mouth shut.

“And what do you know of my lineage? What do you know of dragons? Of conquering?”

“I know enough to know you are but a boy trying to find his place in a world he is unsatisfied with.” You understood his restlessness. Had your family squandered dragons you might be buried in it as well, but it didn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of it all. 

“This is not the behavior of a dragon, my son. It is that of a dog, begging for scraps on the streets. You are above this.” You shook your head, rubbing at your temple where you could feel a tension headache building. “Is it attention you crave? Perhaps it is time you take a wife.” 

“No, there are none worthy.” He said as if he had the option to refuse. His nose twitched as he placed a grape into his mouth. You barked an unladylike laugh, startling the boy across from you. The same scowl that appears upon Maekar’s face was mirrored on Aerion’s. “What is funny?” You could see the hurt in his eyes very clearly. Aerion was a young man tainted in darkness, but he was still a boy underneath who craved your approval more now than he ever did before. He just chose to hide it now, but it did creep out just as it had in that moment. 

“None are worthy?” Shaking your head, you pushed your plate away from you, the spread as well as the company turning your stomach. “You think there is a list of eligible young maidens fighting to be at your side?” Your tone was downright mean, but he needed to be told hard truths. 

“None will have you, Aerion! You made sure your reputation all but guaranteed it.” Aerion’s composure slowly chipped away as he slouched further into his chair, picking at his fingers. “You may be a prince of the realm, but there aren’t so many fathers cruel enough to send their daughters to certain doom where you are concerned. Had you been a son of Baelor’s maybe, but not the second son of a fourth son, I assure you. You hold the title of Prince and nothing more, so I would say an easy temperament is favorable when there is so little else to offer.” Aerion’s jaw clenched as his eyes dropped to the table, his fist clenching next to his cup. His teeth worried his bottom lip as he took in your words.

“You’ve made your point, mother.” He spat, anger taking over his features. 

“I do not say these things to hurt you, my son, but you are so young, and your father and I will not be around forever to save you from the self-destruction you crave. There will come a time when you have only enemies around you, and it will be of your own doing.”

“I’ve never asked you to save me from anything.” He mumbled it, but his glassy eyes never met yours as they lowered back down to your protruding belly. It was a glimpse of the meek boy Aerion hid within himself trying to fight back.

“You did not need to.” You sighed with fatigue, your face softening as you looked upon him. “I know you wished things were different than they are, how you could’ve hatched a dragon within your crib or claimed one within the Dragonmont as would’ve been your birthright. Whether you believe it or not, I do understand you.” Aerion’s eyes met you once more and the tension between his brows lessened. 

“You long for the same things your father, his father, and his before were all denied. It is cruel, but the fact of the matter is…this is what we have. This is what is left of the Targaryen dynasty. And I am sorry for it, truly, but what’s been done cannot be undone—the damage too far great to hold onto the past. All you have is the legacy, and while you may not have a dragon, their blood—the blood of Old Valyria—runs through your veins. I know you feel it.” 

“It is not unreasonable to wish for something more when it has been given to those before you and they have squandered it. You, as a son, can either add further shame and turmoil to it, or you can rebuild upon it because that is all that you can do as your father’s son. As the King’s grandson. Your place matters in all this, but you must be wise about the decisions you make, Aerion.” He chewed on your words for a moment, got a good mouthfeel, then scoffed as he crossed his arms over his chest before that bored look overtook his features once more. 

“You wish me docile, pliable in your hands? Would you love me then? Should I bury myself in my cups as Daeron does, useless to all around him, so you may dote on me as well? Or would that not be enough for you to look upon me favorably?” Aerion looked down upon his eldest brother, it was no secret. Daeron took no offense to it—he just simply did not care. Aerion’s deep resentment towards Daeron never made sense to you, but as Aerion spoke, things became clearer “Am I so unlovable as I am?” 

“I love you now, you fool, just as I always have.”

“Not the way you used to.” A frown hung heavy on his lips as he stared at you with discontent. 

“I love you as my son and that is all I can do.”

“You never even asked me about it.” He tapped his fingertip on the table, mouth twitching uncomfortably.

“Do not, Aerion.” You warned with a point of your finger. “What’s done is done and I will not dwell upon it any longer. Aegon wishes it forgotten and I’ve lost enough sleep over what transpired.”

“You took his side and shunned me without ever asking me if it was the truth!” Aerion spat out, indignant fire overtaking his eyes as they continued their stare. 

“I did not need to.” You spat back. “I did not need to ask because I already knew what you were capable of, Aerion, and that instinct hurt me as your mother, as your champion your entire life, more than anything you could’ve ever done.” Your mouth trembled as you inhaled deeply. “But for the sake of this petty squabble, I will ask—did you do it?” Aerion’s eye twitched and his silence spoke louder than his confession ever could. 

“You think I do not love you, but I can only hold love for you no matter how hard I’ve tried not to.” Aerion’s demeanor shattered at your own confession. It was the closest thing to remorse you’ve ever seen him present. 

“From your very first breath I have only held love for you, Aerion. Even now, when I look at you, I do not see what others do.” 

“The monster, as you’ve put.”

“I see my little boy who loved so deeply and cared. I see the boy who used to greet me every morning as the sun rose because he wanted to be the first to do it. And now, I see the shadow of that same little boy, burned to cinders—doomed to never smile or feel joy or love again as a man sits before me wearing the mask of a face I no longer recognize.”  

“That boy is gone.”

“I know.”

“And I will not beg for your affections that are owed to me.” The defiance wormed its way back in, latching insidiously within him. 

“Just as you are not begging now?” You did not bother to wipe your tears. “What am I to do, Aerion? My love is yours and it is not enough to keep you from going astray.” 

You stood, putting an end to the conversation. Straightening the front panel of your gown, you walked around to Aerion’s side of the table. Your hand cupped his jaw to tilt his head up to look at you as you spoke. “I mean what I say, Aerion. Any more of these indiscretions and I will drag you to Oldtown myself where you will be chained to a maester’s desk for the remainder of your days to toil amongst tomes and quills.” You leaned down to place a motherly kiss upon the crown of his head and you felt him nuzzle his cheek to your stomach as his hands held your waist. You murmured your plea into his cropped hair, “Please do not force my hand.”

That is how you spent your morning, reeling in the anger you know Aerion thrived on as he tried to goad you with indifference to his actions. Now, on the opposite end of the Targaryen spectrum, Maekar outwardly goaded for a reaction from you—anything to get this fuse within him to blow. 

“Are you quite finished?” Your tone was bored, and though you didn’t see it, you knew his right eye twitched as he watched you from where he was leaning against the windowsill. . 

“Am I fucking finished?” The scorn within his voice was well worn on his face, you knew, but still you didn’t give him the reaction he was looking for. The men of this line would get no satisfaction from you on this day if you had a say in it. 

“Seems not,” You said under your breath with an unimpressed raise of your brows as you went back to your needlework. “Carry on, then. You were shouting something about fucking good for nothings, though I could not hear the context through the spittle that joined the words.”

“Am I fucking finished?” He repeated, beside himself.  “No, I am not fucking finished, and you will give me your attention when I’m speaking to you, wife.” Ah, his pride was hit before he even entered the room, you noted. 

“I will not.” You said simply, needle going back and forth through the hooped fabric. “You clearly have much to say, but I do not care to listen when your intention is to merely screech in my ear for the sake of it instead of airing your grievances so that I may be of assistance.” Maekar’s hand clenched at his side in frustration. “If you wish to throw a tantrum, I will treat you as I have treated our children—with silent indifference until they tire themselves out. Perhaps a nap will do you some good, or a light snack if that is what’s causing your foul mood.” 

“You think this is funny?” 

“Am I laughing?” Your voice remained even, but the corner of your mouth tilted up just enough for Maekar to suck air in through his teeth. 

“Do not mock me!” The shouting returned and with it came a very visible roll of your eyes. “I am your husband.” Maekar’s voice quieted when he caught himself, the same hurt clouding his voice as it did Aerion’s earlier in the day. The father and son were much more alike than either cared to admit, but you saw it firsthand in both. 

It was rare for Maekar to be on the receiving end of your foul mood as you were nearly unbothered by just about anything, but it seems he would meet his match on this day and he didn’t seem so bold anymore. 

“Then act like it, my Prince. Act as my husband and not a petulant child.” Still, you did not look at Maekar and it infuriated him. “When you are like this it is easy to see why Aerion acts out as he does. His father clearly sets his example.” 

“You go too far.” You slammed your needlework onto the low table before you and stood with difficulty, a scowl matching his own as you stalked towards your brooding husband. 

“We’ll go on, then.” Your hands grasped either side of his face in a firmer grip than he was anticipating, your fingers snagging his neatly combed beard in the process causing him to wince. Maekar’s silver brows were pinched together, the fine lines in his forehead more pronounced as he allowed you to manhandle him reluctantly. “You have my attention, Maekar. That is clearly what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? So do what you came in here to do—yell, shout, rage! Throw things for all I care!” You pulled his face down closer to you. His lilac eyes wide as he took your verbal lashings. “I am not the reason for your ire, but I must bear the brunt of it. Is that it?” Maekar’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. 

“Have you lost your mind?” It was the first thing out of his mouth and the words were more of a whisper than anything else. 

“I would like to finish my day in peace, Maekar, and if you are not here to bring the peace, then be gone with you, and do not return until your senses have come back with you.”

“My love-”

“Out!” You pointed to the door in dismissal before retreating back to the sofa to pick your needlework back up without another word. Maekar still stood at the window, eyes wide in shock at your outburst.

“I-”

“Out!” You demanded in an echoing boom. Not wishing to cause you more distress, Maekar tucked his tail between his legs and did as you asked. Before you could stop them, tears fell from your eyes and you sniveled on that sofa as your fingers worked diligently on the task in your hands until the blur in your eyes caused you to prick your finger. The hoop was tossed in frustration and you allowed yourself to cry in solitude. 

It was well into the night before Maekar slipped back into the bedroom with the hope that you were already asleep. He should’ve known that hope evaded the dwellings of Summerhall, just as it evaded him. 

“For your sake, I hope you're in better spirits.” You spoke from the bed as you watched the hearth dance from underneath the covers. Maekar walked to your side of the bed and sat on the edge. His hand reached for yours and you allowed him to take it. 

“I lose myself at times and place my frustrations onto you.” He confessed. 

“You do.”

“And that usually is not a problem.”

“Usually.”

“But today it is.”

“Yes.” He nodded at your answer, blinking to himself as he thought for a moment. Maekar’s other hand ran itself over the plane of your body above the blanket, from your waist down to your thigh before retracing back and forth. It was something he knew brought you comfort in the height of this pregnancy, just as it had for the previous six. 

“Okay.” He said simply, letting himself just exist in your space for a moment before he stood to dress down for the night. You let your eyes wander to him, appreciating his build as it was revealed to you with each piece of his ensemble that was removed and draped over the back of a chair. Adorned in just a pair of sleep trousers, Maekar climbed into the bed. He waited for you to turn over before reaching for you. 

“Something is different.” He spoke, his voice crackling as he tried to keep his volume down. “Daeron lingers, and though I try to ignore him, it worries me.” Maekar’s admission only served to confirm the tight feeling you’ve held in your chest ever since the Abe inside of you moved for the first time. Daeron does not linger in the keep unless there is reason to. 

“I have not seen him.” You sighed into Maekar’s bare chest as you let the warmth of his flesh bring you comfort. Your belly rested against his side and he felt the kick just as you shifted to get comfortable. A tight smile graced his lips at the feeling, a simple joy that he never got tired of. 

“I cannot find the damned boy when he’s needed and now he cannot seem to get out from under my boot at every turn.” He murmured into your hair as he kissed the top of your head, stroking his fingers up and down your arm out of habit. 

“Do you think he’s-”

“-No.” Maekar didn’t let you finish your question. He knew what you were going to ask, and the thought passed through his mind as well—though he would never admit it to you. With every pregnancy came fear for Maekar because he knew just how precariously you were balanced before the gods each time you were on your birthing bed. A brief moment of silence blanketed over you both as you held one another in the quiet comforts of your bed. 

“This one feels different.” There was fear tingeing your voice and Maekar felt sick to his stomach. You peered up from his chest, the same look swirled in your eyes just as he’d seen in Daeron’s that same night.

“Do you feel something wrong?” He questioned, trying to get you to talk. 

“I do not know.” You admitted and Maekar felt you sag against him. “I felt hope and light with all the others, excitement even.” You spoke quietly as you ran your fingers over the sparse, silver hair that peppered Maekar’s chest. “But with this one…I feel only despair and misery. Darkness. Nothing was wrong with the others, and they were all happy children.” You looked up at Maekar once more with eyes shining. “Is it my womb that cursed them so? And does this babe know it before it’s even born?” Maekar’s eyes closed when your voice cracked in agony.

“No.” Maekar was insistent as he took your cheek within his massive, rough palm. “If there is blame to be had, it lies with me and me alone. I know this and cannot face it. You’ve taken the brunt of many things within our marriage, but you will not take this. I forbid it.” He blinked quickly as anxiety filled his chest. 

“It is close and I haven’t even thought of a name. It is all so very strange, Maekar. It all doesn't feel quite right, not as it’s been before.” Maekar sighed, though it held no malice. Desperate to turn you from the darkness, he tried to give you a distraction—as feeble as it was. 

“Perhaps you are just in need of some fresh air, hm? Just me and you tomorrow, how does that sound?” Maekar suggested. 

“What of your duties?”

“Fuck my duties, if just for a day. My wife’s comfort and well-being take priority over deciding which cow belongs to which fucking farmer since one cannot seem to build a proper fucking fence. Nuisances, the lot of them.” This got a chuckle out of you and it made him grin just the tiniest bit. 

“If that’s the case, then I do suppose some fresh air would help.”

“Then it’s settled.” You tilted your face up and Maekar automatically met you in the middle for a goodnight kiss. “Sleep well.” His hand rested on curve at your ribs where the babe typically came to be at night. The gentle movements below his fingertips lulled him to sleep and for the first time in days, you were able to close your eyes peacefully.  

A sense of foreboding, you say? Pain and despair, you say? Doomed family is doomed, you say? I say

[phr-oh]

“Of Wolves and Dragons” - Hunger [5]

Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader

part 1 / Read it on AO3

pairing: Maekar Targaryen / fem!reader (House Stark); included characters: Baelor Targaryen; OCs: Lord Stark, Alys Stark, Lords and Ladies of the court.

tags: 18+ · erotica · suggestive · implied smut · slow burn · angst · pining · forbidden love · intense yearning · jealousy · canon divergent ·

WC: 13k

a/n: We've finally reached a point of no return–a very delicious treat for those who still read this fic. Enjoy! taglist: @lupusnoir @xyahx @marmita-tuga @winkymar @qardasngan @clumsycopy

Lord Stark’s solar was quiet when you entered.

The fire was low. A single, pale ray of light pierced the gloom, illuminating dust motes dancing in a whirl of silence. Your father sat at his desk, papers pushed aside, hands folded on the wood in front of him. His weariness was profound, etched into his bloodshot eyes and the downturn of his lips, a fatigue far deeper than mere lack of sleep, as if the very burden of King’s Landing pressed down on him more oppressively than the harshest northern winter.

“You wanted to see me, Father,” you said.

“We must talk.” His voice was low. Worn. It landed in your chest like a stone. You sensed your digits shift, the old, treacherous tendencies: thumb scraping a joint, teeth gnawing your bottom lip. You forced them still.

“I am aware of what happened in Kingswood.”

“Father, forgive me. I—”

“I am not done speaking, child.”

The rebuke wasn’t sharp. It didn’t need to be. As his eyes met yours, any words of protest you were about to speak vanished.

“This is not Winterfell,” he said. “You are not among your brothers and sisters and men who have known you since you first stood. This is the royal court. Everything you do affects me. My name. The name of our house.”

You swallowed.

“I can turn a blind eye in the North,” he went on. “To some things. I can forgive what I’ve forgiven before. But such transgressions, here, are not so easily forgotten.”

Your eyes stung. You valued his trust more than anything — more than praise, more than warmth. You had built yourself, stone by stone, on the belief that he believed you could carry his name without cracking it. Hearing him utter the word “transgression” towards you was like a punch to the gut.

“You embarrassed me,” he breathed. “In front of the King. And the court. Whispers fill the Red Keep, all speaking of the dragon prince carrying the Hand’s daughter through the camp.”

He exhaled, deep and slow, as if pushing something heavy out of his lungs. “And the prince,” he added. “Maekar.”

Your blood ran cold. Your father’s voice calling his name sent a dizzying sensation through you, unlike anything the Kingswood had caused. A wave of heat washed over your face, a knot of shame and another unnamable emotion tightening in your throat.

“Targaryen impertinence grows the farther they are from the line of succession,” Lord Stark said. “Fourth sons think themselves freer than all of the above.”

He rose from his chair. The movement was unhurried, controlled. He came around the desk and stopped in front of you, looking down with the same assessing gaze he’d used on field captains and southern envoys.

“But you,” a pause, “are my eldest. You are more sensible than that.”

He let that hang between you.

“How,” there was no anger in his voice now, only hurt, “could you be so reckless?”

The silent tears that had been threatening finally spilled over, hot tracks down your cheeks.

“If anything had happened to you, I would have been a broken man for the rest of my days.”

For a moment he just stood there, hands at his sides, as if deciding something. Then he stepped forward and put his arms around you. Slowly and with intention, he wrapped you close—one arm resting on your back, the other around your shoulders, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like it did when you were little. The wool of his doublet had a faint scent of wood and smoke and something that still brought to mind home.

You broke.

The sobs tore from your throat in ragged, desperate gasps, releasing a torrent of pent-up fear, shame, and delayed panic as the strength of your father holding you finally allowed it to surface. You clung to his coat like a child, fingers twisting in the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” your voice broken. “I— I am— please forgive me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said into your hair. His voice was thick, not as steady as he might have liked. “You are better than that.” He squeezed you tighter, as if trying to press the words into your ribs. “Be better.”

You nodded into his chest, a slight movement, tears soaking into the cloth. Lord Stark held you until the worst of it passed. When your breathing had evened out enough that you were no longer shaking against him, he let his arms loosen, though he didn’t step away yet. He cleared his throat once, the sound rough.

“Your little sister, Alys, wished to visit the summer lake palace before departing, as a gift for her name day. Several court ladies want to join. Some of the young lords as well. They were at the hunt.”

You pulled back a little, enough to see his face.

“I suppose they have grown fond of you.” His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Which warms my heart, I will not deny it. I would rather you spent time with the ladies and made new friends than sulked in gardens and libraries alone.”

You sniffed, managed a shaky breath. “Yes, Father.”

“Prince Baelor will lead the party. He will see everyone safe and proper. You will go and enjoy the lake. You will keep your wits about you.”

“Yes, Father,” you repeated.

“And you will have,” he added, softer, “a pleasant weekend with your sister.”

You blinked hard, swallowed, and nodded.

“Thank you,” you said. “Dear Father. I will not disappoint you again.”

“We shall see,” he said, but there was no sting in it. He brushed a thumb once under your eye to clear a tear track, then turned back toward his desk, already reaching for the work the realm would not let him set down.

You left the solar with your chest still tight, ankle still sore, and the knowledge that the next time you went into the woods, it would not be alone.

The court called them “games,” but everyone knew better: they were social weapons, wrapped in silk and sport.

Alys Stark’s name day had given the court an excuse. She had wanted “a little adventure” before the party left for the summer lake palace: something at the Red Keep itself, under the open sky, all the people she stared at from afar gathered in one place. So the King’s household arranged an afternoon of archery and light contests on the royal lawns, with a lavish pavilion for shade, wine, and the sort of watching that mattered more than winning.

The lords came dressed to be seen.

Lord Arryn, clad in sky-blue and silver, wore a fitted leather doublet that accentuated his proud, slender frame. Tiny embroidered birds, their silhouettes mimicking a falcon’s, alighted on his shoulders like a living tapestry, forming an intricate design that cascaded down his chest. The back of his doublet displayed a luminous full moon. He wore only silver rings and chains, a further dedication to the cool hues of House Arryn. His sharp, beak-like nose jutted over a clean-shaven jaw, while his profound black eyes keenly observed his surroundings, a bird of prey personified. Certainly, he drew people’s eyes for a duration exceeding their initial expectations. The Vale in human form.

Arbor’s colors adorned Lord Redwyne: a deep maroon and rich blue ensemble, enhanced by vivid white stripes pouring from his shoulders and encircling his cuffs; tiny green beads scattered like dew. His auburn hair, neatly tied back, contrasted with the comfortable curve of his belly, which rested upon a sturdy, wine-built frame. His booming, carefree laugh drew notice, and his clothing was a vibrant, almost flamboyant statement.

The most dazzling of all was Lord Tyrell, draped in a lively green and gold brocade that reflected the sunlight from every facet, shimmering and attracting attention. His emerald eyes sparkled and gleamed beneath his meticulously styled blond hair, and he wore a collection of rings that weighed down his fingers. A resplendent golden chain, intricately woven with blooming roses and shadowed by thorny vines and lush leaves, rested serenely upon his handsome chest. Even his belt buckle seemed to wink.

Lord Celtigar’s presence was as captivating as a Valyrian myth, a tale whispered by the ocean’s waves, suggesting an ancient and faraway essence made real—not Targaryen, but enchanting Valyrian indeed. His pale blond hair, just grazing his earlobes, would blaze into a warm strawberry-gold when touched by the sunshine. The smoothness of his deep olive skin was remarkable, an obvious result of long, endless sun-drenched days at the sea, enhanced by eyes of a hypnotizing hazel hue. He was a mesmerising contrast of illumination in the dark. His doublet, a crisp white that flowed down to cover his buttocks, resembled the frothy foam of the ocean. The garment’s unapologetic and vibrant panels were striking, with each sleeve featuring intricate crab claw embroidery in rich, blood-red silks and threads that extended from shoulder to wrist, giving the impression of a second set of limbs. Shimmering beads, bugles, and, of course, large, flawless, round pearls embellished him. Lord Celtigar was a tall, handsome man with an almost ethereal beauty that conveyed a powerful message: he seemed divinely favoured and disciplined. His fit frame was a testament to his dedication, declaring he was as hardworking as he was attractive.

In a striking, spare, and severe ensemble of black accented by deep pearl-textured red velvet strips, Prince Maekar stood aside, his Targaryen heritage evident. His features and his entire presence were like a white crow, complete with effortlessly threatening violet eyes. His boundless silent intensity, imposing height, and an unintentional, easygoing threat were Maekar’s defining traits, even though he never sought to draw attention; its overflow annoyed him beyond measure. Maekar always stood out. He could dress in plain linen cloth and still be the one who drew every eye first. It was his nature: one should always know where Maekar was, for their own good.

Prince Baelor, dressed in emerald and gold with dragon-shaped clasps and buttons, was unmistakable even in his off-duty attire, his dark cloak draping his shoulders despite the heat. Today, he favoured comfort.

The ladies occupied the pavilion.

Lady Lannister sat near the front, no doubt. Her blond hair arranged in an impeccable cascade, blue eyes cool and amused. Tall, thin, the very image of a golden lioness at rest. Her red silk flowed over the cushions around her like poured wine, the gold embroidery on her gown catching and holding the sun. She wore fewer jewels than she could have: a single necklace, a pair of rings, trusting the cut and cloth of the dress to speak. Her gown’s skirts were vast but summer-thin and breathing. Detailed imagery, much like a canvas, adorned the delicate fabrics, and each element was meticulously placed. This served as a testament to the probable six pairs of masterful hands that labored to complete it within a single lifetime. Despite being a touch too extravagant for the gathering, the exquisite creation was undeniably a piece Lady Lannister was burning with desire to wear.

Lady Martell glowed. Her honey-brown skin radiated warmth under the intense sunlight; her thick black hair was intricately braided with golden threads and tiny adornments. She wore gold cuffs that encircled her wrists and upper arms, and her ears were graced with gleaming, dangling earrings. Her traditional gown, adapted for the colder climes of Westeros, clung to her strong, curving form, its colors a vibrant mix of sun, sand, and blood oranges with the occasional sharpness of a spear in its patterns. The traditional Dornish accessories she wore elevated her beauty, serving as the primary statement pieces. Her nose curved delicately, her eyes, with their stark white against black irises like sparkling obsidian, flashed with sharp intensity, and her full, inviting lips and high, rounded cheekbones conveyed a powerful story. To attempt to complement such splendor with commonplace attire would be an uncouth insult, a vulgar offence to Martell's rightful pride.

Lady Dayne sat beside Lady Martell. Their ensemble shimmered with deep hues like a vivid lilac sunset over a Dornish sun. Their rich tones bled into each other like the fiery orange sun bled into Red Mountains. Lady Dayne’s hair was a striking contrast of deep black interwoven with strands of pale blonde, and her eyes, a dark, mesmerizing blue, held the depth of a tranquil lake. There was nothing Westerosi in her gown; She wore her House’s colors and fashion with pride, her face like rough stone carved into the delicate beauty of an unfamiliar land. Lady Dayne appeared unimpressed by the sparse, hesitant applause. Her shifting gaze to the tent’s pole on the side suggested she was, perhaps, preoccupied with something else.

Dressed in dim blue silk with vibrant crimson red detailing on the sleeves and corset, Lady Tully’s gown was understated yet expertly cut, its smart design a proof of its quality. Pouring down her back like a mass of thick, dark clouds, her long, curly chestnut hair perfectly framed her face. It featured piercing grey eyes and lovely, full lips that were always ready to turn up in a smile. She appeared smaller and less striking than the rest, plainer upon first look, but hard to forget once seen. Her outstanding hourglass silhouette possessed an innate ability to hold an unassuming look and make it linger, a subtle allure of distinct curves that could conjure images in men and envy in women. Even the most pious and devoted servants of the Gods, old and new, might allow themselves a fleeting glance, lasting mere moments, because, after all, the human heart is inherently vulnerable.

Maekar never glanced at her, even for that fraction of a moment. He looked at you.

You wore the crisp northern chill adapted for southern warmth, a muted grey and white suitable for court, accented by a delicate green with a blue hue, like melting snow over dormant grass in the soft light of winter dawn. The cut was clean; the fabric finer than Winterfell but plainer than Lannister. The distinct braid in your hair spoke of austerity of the North, a deliberate rejection of the persistent Crownlands’ claim to your name. Alys, your dear little sister at your side, was a smaller echo in lighter tones, orbs bright with excitement.

You felt the weight of Maekar’s eyes, a look that spoke of deep thirst, as if he were a man struggling in the thick, sultry air, desperately seeking solace in a glass of ice-cold water.

The day was brutally hot.

Out on the lawn, the air shimmered. Servants positioned freshly painted targets at different ranges; gentle breezes made the flags flutter. The lords took turns at the line, laughing and competing, providing the spectacle: Arryn with his proud, precise draw; Redwyne over‑dramatic and loud; Tyrell making a show of every hit; Celtigar shooting with quiet, technical efficiency that drew more than one assessing glance. Beneath the pavilion’s shade, the ladies stirred the warm air with their fans, a symphony of silk whispers and light feather flicks. Wine cooled in silver ewers. Laughter rose and fell in waves as shots landed true or went wide.

Maekar did not step up to the line. He stood slightly to the side, leaning against a tent pole, his body bisected by sun and shadow. With his arms folded, he intently watched the activity on the lawn and the responses within the pavilion.

The games had begun.

The contest wound down the way these things always did: in self-satisfaction and applause, lords stepping back from the line and accepting their praise with varying degrees of false modesty.

Baelor’s shot was swift and precise, his face lit with the pure joy of a simple game, a welcome respite from his burdened duties as heir. Maekar had shot last, and correctly, without theatre.

Then Lord Celtigar, young and brimming with self-assurance, his confidence bolstered by wine and the throng, turned to the pavilion with a sweeping motion.

"Surely the ladies would care to try their hand? We are not so selfish as to keep the sport to ourselves."

Laughter, the expected kind. A few lords followed the gesture with encouraging smiles. A ripple of movement went through the ladies in the pavilion: some looked happy, others pretended not to want to go, and your sister was already half up, beaming with absolute delight. It was a flirtatious architecture, well-established: the lord offered, the lady pretended incompetence, the lord stepped behind and guided her arms; everyone understood the grammar. The point was never the arrow.

The lords arranged themselves along the line, available, expectant — some with more eagerness than dignity. What followed was swift and merry: your little sister, skirts clutched in hand, immediately made her way to Baelor, seizing the moment before any other ladies could react.

Choosing stately Lord Arryn, a stark contrast to her own warmth in both appearance and personality, Lady Martell watched him turn crimson and become so flustered he couldn’t hold his bow for a moment, as if mesmerized by her captivating, flowing hand movements.

With an eye for quality, Lady Tully, perhaps bored by the dullness of men from the Riverlands, selected Lord Celtigar, whose wandering eyes betrayed his appreciation for more than mere conversation, showcasing him as a man of rich taste and a large appetite.

Lady Lannister, like a prowling lioness, moved towards Lord Tyrell, no doubt, with a slow, almost seductive gait, her servants carefully lifting her skirt to keep it from brushing any surface. He smiled like a man who had expected nothing less.

Pairs formed effortlessly, a natural progression driven by shared attraction and a bravery born of comfort.

You had remained seated.

Not from reluctance. From observation. As the line shortened, you experienced a sharp, undeniable awareness—a sense that had settled upon you in recent days—that Maekar had not been chosen. The ladies had drifted toward the other lords with the careful instinct of birds that know which branches are safe to land on. He was at the end of the line, his hands clasped in the usual manner, his eyes vacant, and the bubble of personal space around him remained intact, just as it always had. No one was rude. No one came near.

For a fraction of a heartbeat, you saw it as a path still open: Baelor already occupied by Alys — the safest, most unambiguous arrangement the court could imagine — and Maekar standing at the end of the line with no one at his side, hands clasped the usual way, giving every impression of a man who had not noticed the omission but absolutely had.​

You had meant, in that moment, to move toward him. Not to play at helplessness — you hardly needed his hands over yours to send an arrow down a lane — but simply to stand where he stood so he would not be the one left out. It was a small thing, and you had told yourself you were above such small things, and still you found that you had shifted an inch on your cushion before thought had fully caught up.

You were slower than Lady Dayne.

She had risen with that same calm, assured economy with which she did everything, her deep lilac textiles falling perfectly into place as she stepped out from the pavilion’s shade. Her gaze had been on Maekar from the moment Celtigar suggested the game; you realised that now, in retrospect. She moved across the open area at a measured pace, her stride both proper and purposeful, allowing no room for an interruption. By the time you were on your feet, she was already there.

You stopped halfway up, hand on the edge of the low table, and let the air out of your lungs quietly.

Maekar did not look at her approaching.

His eyes were on you.

Across the slice of sun-burned lawn and the white chalk of the shooting line, through the moving colours of silks and the faint shimmer of heat, his gaze found yours and held. It was a small break in his usual discipline, so small no one who had not watched him for months would have seen it: the way his shoulders shifted by a bare degree, like a man taking an impact he had braced for but had still hoped would not land.​

There was a question in it. And something like an apology.

The expression that crossed his face was not dramatic enough to draw the eye of the pavilion: not from Lannister, not from Martell, not from Celtigar, who was busy arranging Lady Tully’s fingers on the string. But Baelor, with little Alys chattering at his elbow and her small hand wrapped trustingly around his wrist, saw it at once. His laughter, at the little Stark’s remark about the bow, wavered for just an instant. His eyes flicked, quick and sharp, from his brother to you and back again, reading the silent exchange with helpless acuity and wished, sincerely, that he did not understand his brother as well as he did.​

I did not choose this.

Your expression, hands resting lightly on your silk-clad knees beneath the pavilion, replied with a serenity you had practiced your whole life: I know. It is nothing. Go. Your lips turned up slightly, a polite, reserved smile that suggested amusement at the situation, your own outsider status, and the warmth of the day. In the space between you, it translated more cleanly: I am not wounded. I know how to hold a bow without you.​

You sat back down.

Your skirts rustled as you smoothed them, your spine held ramrod straight and your hands folded on your thighs, presenting an image of cool, northern composure to the world. The chill of being overlooked, of the North not being taken into account until the numbers were short, settled in its accustomed place in the pit of your stomach. It was not new. It was simply sharper here, highlighted by the royal court. The parallel was almost comically neat: one Stark child attached to the heir as a harmless diversion; the other left under the tent while the Reach and the Vale and the southern houses played their flirtation out in plain sight.

No one had meant it that way. They rarely did. From the outside, you appeared to be a woman who had decided to stay put, a decision undoubtedly influenced by your renowned skill as a northern huntress.

Maekar turned his head only when Lady Dayne reached his side.

“Prince Maekar.” Her voice carried just enough to reach the pavilion, low and smooth. She dipped her head, the lilac and silver of her southern silks flaring as she took her place beside him. “I fear I am in need of a steady hand.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened once — a small, visible clench in the angle of his cheek — before he inclined his head.

“Lady Dayne,” he said. “Stand here.”

No title-sweetening, no murmured reassurance, no self-deprecating comment about his own skill the way Celtigar was doing three men down, leaning in a fraction too close to draw a sweet, high-pitched giggle from Lady Tully. Maekar’s tone had the clean, spare neutrality of the training yard.​ He set his feet, squared his shoulders to the target, and held the bow out to Lady Dayne.

“Left hand on the grip. Thumb low. Fingers relaxed.”

She obeyed, but not without an attempt. Her right hand came up with it, her shoulder tilting toward him in a way that would have brought her nearer, had he allowed it. “Like this?” she asked, lashes dipping, dark blue eyes flicking to his face.

His own gaze followed the line of the bow, not the line of her arm.

“Lower. You are strangling the wood. It will fight you.”

He stepped fractionally behind her because the architecture of the game demanded it and because anything else would have been conspicuous. He did not fit his body to hers the way Arryn was doing with Lady Martell, his chest flush to her back under the pretence of correcting her stance. Maekar kept a clear hand’s-breadth of distance between them, his heat ghosting her shoulder without settling, his palms finding only the neutral territory of the bow and the curve of her elbow.

He placed his fingers there: two at the tendon, one at the crook.

“Straighten this. You are collapsing. The string will bite you.”

She turned her head, angling her profile toward him, inviting his gaze. “You have a very exacting way, my prince,” she murmured, the corner of her mouth softening. “Do you drill all your pupils so sternly?”

“I do not take pupils,” Maekar replied. “Anchor under the jaw. Here.”

His right hand lifted, his knuckles brushing the air an inch from her throat to show the place without touching. She followed the motion, three fingers on the string, drawing it back. The line of the shot was good enough.

“Hold.”

Her bow arm wavered. “You make me nervous,” she said with a small laugh, turning the words into something that could be read as flirtation if you wished to read it that way. “I am not accustomed to being watched so… intently.”

“I am watching the arrow. Breathe out. Let go on the last of it.”

The arrow flew. It landed left of centre, enough for polite applause.

Lady Dayne turned a little more, fully now, so she could see Maekar’s face. A pleased flush spread across her face, the kind that comes from excelling and justifying another round. “Not terrible for a first attempt. You are a demanding master, my Prince.”

He had already lowered the bow. “Your shoulders are uneven. Again.”

If you had not known him so well, you might have mistaken it for simple focus. But you recognised the particular quality in his posture: the small, unnatural stillness that meant he was aware of being observed and was managing every angle of himself in response. It was the stance he took before the small council when he could feel three lords and two scribes taking his measure. It said: My attention is on the task. There is nothing of interest here beyond it.​

Lady Dayne tried again.

“And my grip?” she asked. “Should your hand not be over mine?”

“No.” He repositioned her fingers with brisk efficiency. “You will not learn if I hold it for you.”

She laughed again, lower. “You have little faith in feminine aptitude, my prince.”

“I have seen women shoot as well as men,” Maekar said and cleared his throat right after. “When instructed clearly.”

He said women in the flat, factual way he used for levies or grain. He did not glance toward the pavilion as he said it. Baelor, over Alys’ small bent arms, did, and caught the line of Maekar’s gaze: still and resolute, on the middle distance where the target hung, and the stiff set of his mouth.​

You watched the line of his back. The fabric of his black and dark-red doublet stretched clean over the breadth of his shoulders from this angle, the sun picking out the fine threads at the seams. Lady Dayne’s gown made a soft, eye-catching movement when she shifted, the lilac and silver flaring each time she tried to tilt closer. Each time, he corrected it without comment, turning her gently back to square with the target, as if proximity to the centre mattered more than proximity to him.

“Relax this wrist. You are fighting the bow. It will win.”

“And if I wish to fight you instead?” she said lightly, eyes slit a little with intent.

Maekar’s profile turned, just enough that you could see the cut of his tense jaw.

“You would lose,” he said, in the same even tone. “Focus on the target, my lady.”

His disinterest was not rude. It was worse, in court terms: total. He behaved as a weapons-master, obliged to take a noble-born visitor through an exercise, courteous, thorough, and absent. Every sentence was about the bow, the line, the wind. When she asked Maekar, omitting any titles, if he favored the longbow over the Dornish recurve, he responded with just two words before returning his focus to the shot.

From where you sat, it looked like discipline.

From Baelor’s perspective, he observed what seemed to be a grueling and tense negotiation session between Dorn and Aegon the Conqueror. He was half turned to watch Alys draw her own bow with dogged concentration, while also looking at Maekar, who seemed to endure something he had not chosen with his teeth very carefully closed.

From Lady Dayne’s position at his shoulder, it might have felt like a challenge: a reserve she could test herself against. Instead of focusing on the target, her eyes kept drifting back to him.

Lady Dayne drifted closer under cover of a general murmur. The movement of the crowd brought her shoulder almost flush with his arm. Her fingers grazed his forearm, a fleeting touch imperceptible from afar but a clear, deliberate signal up close. The touch was light, practiced, the sort that had rarely met refusal.

Maekar’s hand moved. Not a jerk, not the flinch of someone who fears being touched, only a clean, decisive withdrawal: a fraction too quick for courtesy, a fraction too sharp to be read as accident. The space where her fingers had been was simply no longer available. She glanced up at him through her lashes, amusement brightening the deep blue of her eyes into something nearer mischief.

“I am not made of glass, my prince,” she said, the words warm enough on the surface, the edge beneath them very honed.

With a slight clench of his jaw, Maekar’s neck flushed a faint red, a telltale sign that the persistent Lady Dayne was sure to see and bend the fact as she pleased. He inclined his head, the picture of measured contrition.

“Forgive me, Lady Dayne,” he replied. “I strive toward the ideals of my older brother in such matters.”

Her mouth curved in amusement.

“It was vividly demonstrated in the Kingswood, Prince Maekar. Your bravery even exceeds that of your brother.”

She praised his bravery with just the right amount of sincerity to sound like a compliment, and the knowing glint in her eyes assured him he understood her true intentions: not the charge against outlaws, but the walk back through camp with a northern lady gathered full against his chest, ungloved, arm banded around her, propriety paraded as protection before half the court.

His gaze did not stray. Not to where you stood across the lawn, not to the line of your neck above the grey of her gown, not the faint rosy tint that appeared on your sun-kissed chest, not anywhere that would give Lady Dayne the satisfaction of confirmation. He kept his eyes on her instead, lids lowered a fraction.

“It was an unfortunate circumstance that demanded action over all else, Lady Dayne,” Maekar stated, voice flat as a blade laid on a table. “I would have carried anyone out of danger without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Of course. Action over anything else. Who could fault such… devotion.”

She drifted away as easily as she had come, silk skirts whispering over the grass blades. Maekar’s hand had already returned to its rigid, disciplined stillness at his side, as if it had never moved at all.

Lord Celtigar had been watching the pairings form with the mild, feline interest of a man who enjoys seeing patterns and, when they displease him, rearranging them. As the final lady was selected and the archery field came alive with the sound of drawn bows, a mix of murmurs, laughter, and scattered applause filled the air as a lord kissed his partner’s hand—he began to move. He bowed first to Lady Tully with courtly precision, took her hand, and brushed a courteous kiss over her fingers. The gesture was correct, unremarkable, enough to establish a precedent.

Then he turned toward you.

“It is unacceptable,” he announced, in a voice pitched to carry just far enough, “that a lady of the North, daughter of the King’s Hand, is so blatantly excluded from the event.” He inclined his head, the picture of outraged gallantry. “Lady Stark, allow me to be your partner, while everyone else observes how it is properly done.”

Heads turned like weathercocks. A small ripple went through the onlookers. You sensed a distinct shift in the atmosphere, a palpable focus directed your way before you pinpointed its source – the undeniable gravity when a man of renown chooses to assert his will.

Across the line, Maekar’s head came up. His brow tightened, a faint line appearing between his eyes. Baelor saw it. He always did.

“Lord Celtigar, I’m an experienced archer,” you said. “There’s no need.”

Politeness, absolute. The sort of protest that signalled both refusal and willingness to be convinced.

“You see, Lady Stark,” Celtigar replied, “it is not about skill.” His smile flashed, brief and white. “It is simply a correction of an unjust precedent.” He took another step toward you, closing the radius until his cologne — citrus and something darker underneath — reached you clearly. His gait was smooth, bordering on flirtatious.

“A lady should not be left behind under any circumstances, especially from a Great House as honorable as House Stark. Tis any lord’s obligation to rectify this unruly trend.”

He had, with two sentences, made refusal impossible. To deny him now would be to deny the principle, not the man. You understood this with the immediate, cold accuracy of someone raised on politics. There was no line you could take that did not come out as rude, ungracious, un-Stark.

He extended his arm. His hand was close — strong, long-fingered, pearl rings catching the light. Your palm met his forearm as you rose toward him. His skin felt warmer than you expected through the fine cloth. He turned your hand delicately, as if inspecting a bruise.

Then he lifted it.

The kiss he put to your palm was soft and slow, not the quick, decorous press to knuckles that etiquette demanded, but something that lingered a fraction too long, lips parting the slightest degree with a brush of breath against your skin. There was the faintest wetness to it when he drew back, and you felt the exposed coolness of it the moment the air filled the spot. A burning sensation from the mark in your hand sent sparks up your nerves. Heat rose under your skin so fast it almost stung. Not pleasure: shock, exposure. Northern men were distant in public, their hidden warmth reserved for the privacy of their homes, for their daughters and wives only. This was not that. This was intention wrapped in silk and daylight, in front of an audience.

You snatched your breath back and held your spine straight. The colour in your cheeks was a fact you could not do anything about.

Maekar saw.

Baelor saw him watching.

From his position at the end of the line, Baelor observed his brother’s expression hardening, tighten down in increments: his eyes growing darker, violet gone flintier; the fine muscles along his jaw and neck bunching until the tendons stood out; the line of his mouth pressed enough for his lips to lose their color. His shoulders rose one fraction — a breath pulled tight and arrested halfway — then settled again, forced down by sudden awareness and will.

On the grass, Celtigar led you forward to the shooting line with all the unhurried assurance of a man bringing a bride to a sept door.

“Well, then,” he said, positioning you with your toes at the marker. “Shall we give the South a lesson in proper etiquette? And archery, of course.”

His tone was light, but the way he stood near you was not. He came up behind you, leaning at your left shoulder, one hand hovering at your waist as if ready to adjust you at need, the other reaching for the bow at your side without quite touching it.

“If you had not graced us with your expertise,” he went on, pitched just loud enough to skim across the gathering, “this is where I would begin.”

His fingers brushed the outside of your hand, a soft graze that registered as clearly as the kiss. He slid lightly along the line of your thumb to the bow’s grip, curling his hand over yours for a moment in a pseudo-instruction, his palm firm at the back of your knuckles. Each movement was unhurried—of a man savoring every moment.

“Here,” he murmured, the word riding on his breath near your temple. “Not too tight. One mustn’t choke the thing one means to guide.”

A few of the nearer lords chuckled. Someone behind you hissed air between their teeth in entertained disbelief. The double edge of it landed like a thrown knife in the minds prepared to receive it; for everyone else, it was just florid coaching.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the line of his chest alongside your upper arm, his breath warm at the side of your face as he leaned in over your shoulder. The field dipped away in front of you, target circles a pale set of rings downrange; the heat now radiated from a completely unexpected source, from the man pressed close behind you. What you experienced was a sensory revelation, akin to a maiden encountering, for the first time, the intoxicating blend of ethereal beauty, captivating charm, and distinguished lineage from a man who lingered so intimately close to her innocent, oblivious self. It was as simple as that: a man casting a spell over a youthful, unwed woman with precision and intent.

“If you did not know how to shoot,” Celtigar said, adopting the smooth, slow cadence of a tutor explaining a delicate operation, “I would place your feet thus—”

His boot nudged at yours, the toe of it sliding along the side of your boot in a guiding arc until your stance widened a fraction. The mere thought of him subtly parting your legs beneath your skirt sent a wave of nausea through you. His hand dropped briefly to your hip, thumb resting at the top of your belt as he adjusted your angle, then floated away as if the contact had been incidental. Lady Dayne let out a deep sigh as she gently fanned her face.

“—and your shoulders here. Relax the right, set the left.” His fingers brushed the bared curve where your thin summer cloak fell open, tracing a line up your upper arm to the notch between shoulder and collar, the touch barely there and yet fully, undeniably there.

“Now,” he said, voice dropping a little as he leaned in so his mouth was near your ear, “show me how northern ladies do it.”

The last phrase emerged velvet-soft, almost private, and yet he had not lowered his volume enough that it failed to carry. A few of the ladies on the benches looked sharply away, their fans rising in loose, fluttering shields. One laughed too brightly. Another’s cheeks flushed a colour that had little to do with the sun.

Your fingers were already on the bowstring. You had drawn and loosed more arrows than half the men here. What you needed from him was nothing. But he was there, pressed too near, his head angled beside yours as if to share your sight line, one forearm lifted above you to indicate the target. You could feel his sleeve against your shoulder when you inhaled.

“Forgive me, Lord Celtigar,” you said, eyes fixed straight downrange. “I might need more space to fully draw an arrow.”

The words were correct, the tone pleasant; anyone listening could hear nothing but a claim of form. Underneath, the meaning was clear enough that a man of average wit could not miss it.

“Of course, my lady,” he answered at once, stepping back half a pace. “The invigorating scent of pine in your perfume cast a spell over me.”

The compliment — the word carried — hit its mark. A soft tide of amusement moved through the onlookers. You could almost feel it pass over your skin: the awareness of being the focal point of an elegant little scene you had not asked to be written into. The constant gaze of onlookers was something you were used to when you shot. You were not used to being narrated.

You set your shoulders. Drew.

The bow came up smooth, elbow high, the line of it settling into the familiar geometry, your body falling into the pattern it had known since early childhood. The tension in the string built under your fingers, the weight of it nothing compared to the weight of Celtigar’s earlier touch.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, approval warm and open, as if he were praising a bride’s first steps into a marriage bed instead of a stance she’d held since she was ten. “Now keep it—yes, just so—and let them see what the North considers acceptable.”

You loosed.

The arrow flew clean, its hum parting the hot air in a single, bright line. It thudded into the target’s bullseye with satisfying authority. Applause followed — polite, some sincerely impressed, some politely impressed. A lady tittered. A lord made a remark about wolves with good aim. The focus shifted outward again, from the intimate circle of instruction to the public spectacle of performance.

You exhaled.

The flush in your cheeks remained. Your skin felt too thin over your bones. Men in the North did not stand that close without purpose or permission. They did not say such things where others could hear them. They did not kiss open palms as if testing their softness, nor remark on scents as if they had been inhaling them for some time. It was, you noted as you lowered the bow, a trait of southern heat — of men from warm coasts and rich islands, men who had grown up in air that never bit and seas that never froze. Men whose beauty and wealth had taught them that every space could be entered and every silence filled.

They were good at it.

They were also, you realised with a small, bracing knot of discomfort, entirely unbothered by the idea of making a northern wolf their entertainment.

At the edge of the line, Maekar stood with his hands linked behind his back, posture pretending to be relaxed. His face was turned toward the targets; his eyes were not on the targets at all.

Celtigar’s hand at your hip. Celtigar’s mouth too near your ear. Celtigar’s voice dripping unctuous velvet over phrases that had no business being set in that tone within bowshot of princes.

He watched it all.

The feeling that rose in him was not the familiar, hollow ache he had learned to live with, the background condition of wanting something he had no right to. It was something older than that. Rougher. Less articulate. Ancient.

The sight of another man’s hands on you — not in blood, not in necessity, but in deliberate, chosen proximity — lit a fuse in him he had not known was there. It was not noble, this heat; it had nothing of the sacrificial in it. It was pure, simple, territorial outrage, the primal flare of mine in a man who knew perfectly well you were not his and had never been promised to be.

With a locked jaw, slightly lowered eyelids, and an upward tilt of his chin, he made himself breathe.

If he had been honest — if the heart tree had been here and the Old Gods had insisted on truth — he would have described it as the urge to cross the field, remove Celtigar’s hands from you by force, and place himself between you and any further touch. To bare his teeth at a room full of courtiers and drag you out of it, not for your safety this time, but because watching you being offered as the stage for another man’s wit made something in him snarl.

He did none of that. He stood where he was, expression flat, shoulders square, every line of him arranged with professional care, hiding that feral mine that burned his senses.

Baelor, two paces down the line, did not miss it. He saw the set of his brother’s shoulders — a fraction higher, the muscles bunched under the doublet; the way Maekar’s fingers had curled in against his own clasped hands until the knuckles went white; the thinness of his mouth; the brief, near-imperceptible flare in his nostrils every time Celtigar leaned in close enough that your hair brushed the man’s cheek.

He recognised the look. He had seen it in other men. That expression of having your own banner captured and defiled by an enemy, when a man had seen his own flag trampled beneath an enemy’s heel.

What did you think would happen, Baelor wondered, silently, not without a bleak, weary affection, when the rest of the court finally remembered she was as beautiful as she was capable?

He did not say it. He only watched and kept a careful note of how much shorter Maekar’s fuse had just become.

The rules of the next game were explained by Lord Celtigar, who had appointed himself the evening’s architect of mischief with characteristic confidence: ladies enter first, lords follow after a count of fifty. The objective: relieve a lady of the silk scarf tied at her wrist. Ladies were encouraged to resist by any means the hedges allowed.

“Any means,” your sister repeated, to no one in particular, already eyeing the entrance with the focus of someone who intends to be caught as slowly as possible.

The scarves had been distributed at supper: most of them pale, watery colours. Yours was grey, retrieved from your travelling chest by a servant; you hadn’t thought to pack anything else, and grey was the only hue you felt truly comfortable with upon closer inspection.

The evening was intensely warm, a heavy heat that clung to everything, much like the stubborn warmth of a season that had lost all moderation—a perfect setting for such events, with heat overwhelming the senses and better judgement. The garden torches made it worse. You felt the silk at your wrist warming up as you approached the entrance. You could feel the corset stays more acutely than usual, the boning doing its patient work against your ribs, against the careful shape it made of you. The lords assembling behind you did not warrant a look from you. But you were aware of him. The way you were aware of a fire brought into a room: not by sight — by a subtle shift in the air. A pressure at the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the heat.

You told yourself it was the heat.

The ladies entered laughing, voices swallowed quickly by the tall dark hedges, and the labyrinth took them in twos and threes until the entrance stood empty. Behind you, the count had begun.

You turned left at the first junction. Then right. Then left again at the fork where the hedge had been cut into an arch. You were not running; there was no need yet, and going in blind was how you lost ground. You had spent the walk from the pavilion building a rough map from what you could see of the labyrinth’s outer walls, measuring its width against its depth, estimating the number of possible dead ends. It was the same instinct you applied to rooms and corridors and conversations: understand the structure before you move inside it. You were not, you told yourself, thinking about him.

Behind the walls of green, voices rose and fell — laughter, a shriek of theatrical alarm, the low tones of lords who had found their quarry quickly. The labyrinth was doing what it was designed to do.

You moved deeper.

The first sign was sound, or rather the absence of it. The nearer voices had thinned. You were in one of the quieter quarters of the labyrinth — the northwest section, if your mental map held — and the hedges here were older and taller, blocking the last of the evening light to a narrow grey strip overhead. Your footsteps on the gravel were the loudest thing in the passage.

The heat here was denser. The tall walls sealed it in. You could feel it at your throat, your bare collarbones, along the upper curve of your chest where the neckline sat. Your breathing had already shortened — not from exertion; you were barely moving — only the heat, and the corset, and the awareness you were not admitting to.

Then you heard his.

Not close. Not yet. But with the particular quality that told you he was not moving carelessly: no scuff of gravel, no brushed hedge. Deliberate placement, unhurried — the kind of step that belongs to someone who is not lost and does not intend to be.

You turned right.

Dead end. A square of trimmed hedge on three sides, a stone bench at the centre. No exit.

You turned back, retraced fifteen feet, and took the left passage instead, and the path opened into a longer corridor that bent toward what you hoped was the south. You picked up your pace. Not running — yet — but moving with purpose, skirts lifted slightly, one hand trailing the hedge for orientation.

You were good at this, because you had grown up in corridors and forests. You knew how to move without being seen, how to stand still and listen. The labyrinth was smaller than the Winterfell woods and larger than any hallway, and you had the advantage of genuine competence in enclosed spaces. You were a wolf in the forest.

What you had not accounted for was that he had more patience than ground.

It was the gravel that told you he was close again: a sound from the parallel passage, separated from you by a single hedge wall. Parallel and moving at the same pace. Matching you without rushing. You understood then what he was doing: not chasing, not cutting off, simply walking alongside you through solid green, waiting for the passages to converge.

You moved faster.

The path curved right, and you took it, and then right again, working away from the convergence point. You knew you were losing the map now, knew the neat geometry you had built in your head was fragmenting under the actual complexity of the thing, but you had no better option. You turned left. Turned right. The hedges had closed in. The paths became more confined, the gravel softer and hushed, allowing you to hear only the rhythm of your own breath and the near silence.

You stopped.

Listened.

The labyrinth was silent.

No — not silent. Something else. There was a sound on the other side of the hedge to your left: a single shift of weight, gravel pressing down and then holding still. Barely audible. The kind of deliberate quiet that costs effort. In that instant, you were a wolf in the forest, yet a more formidable presence lurked and waited to cast its shadow from above.

He had stopped when you had.

The hedge between you was perhaps two feet of solid green. Nothing else. You were both standing still on opposite sides of it, and you both knew it, and neither of you moved for a beat that lasted too long to be accident. The heat pulsed, heart pounded. Your pulse was loud in your ears. You made yourself breathe evenly — three counts in, three out — and turned right, taking the longest step you could manage without sound.

You heard him move a half-second after you did.

You stopped.

Listened.

Nothing. No steps, no shifted gravel. The labyrinth had gone quiet around you.

The particular quality of that silence — too complete, too settled — was the thing that made the hair rise at your neck.

You turned.

And walked directly into him.

The sound you made was involuntary: a short, sharp intake, your hands flying up instinctively — and his right hand caught your waist before you had fully registered the impact, a reflexive, iron-certain grip that stopped your momentum without effort, the way a wall stops a door. He did not shift. Not a step back, not a stumble, not any rearrangement of his weight. He simply stood, and you had run into him and been held, and that was the whole of it.

Maekar had come from a passage you had not mapped. There was a junction two feet behind him you had not seen in the dark of the hedges. He had known it was there.

His other hand was bent behind his back.

You looked up at him, the whites of your eyes betraying your shock. It was involuntary, the way the gasp had been involuntary — your body making its own decisions before your composure could intervene. His face loomed close, his head tilted sharply as he stared directly down into your eyes. From that angle, you could clearly see just how much taller he stood. In the narrow passage, in the half-dark, his eyes were almost colourless, pale and still, watching you with the concentration of someone who had been working toward this specific moment and found it, now that it had arrived, worth the patience. You were not the predator—he was.

The collision had pressed you against him, not fully, but enough that the boned front of your corset met the solid wall of his chest, the stays catching and holding with nowhere to give. You drew a breath — instinct, recovery — and felt the fabric pull taut across your ribs, across the upper curve of you, your chest rising and rounding against the constraint of it in a way that had nothing to do with your intentions. The heat of his body conducted through the layers between you as though they did not exist.

His hold on your waist became a whisper of pressure, a nearly imperceptible shift that drew you infinitesimally closer to his body as his right arm fully encircled you. It was not aggressive. It was almost quiet, as if he simply needed to be certain of the fact of you. His hand then stilled.

The shift was enough for your chest to press even tighter against the edge of your corset. His eyes held you captive, a predator’s unwavering focus on its prey. You felt a wave of unprecedented nervousness, a feeling stirred by Maekar’s prolonged, deep gaze, which differed from how he’d ever looked at you.

He did not look to where the corset strained, to where your breath had quickened. Only to you: to the flush that had already begun to climb your throat and settle in your cheeks, to the slight disarray of the hair at your temple where the evening heat had loosened it, to your eyes, to your mouth, and then back to your eyes. He looked at all of it in sequence, unhurried, as if he were reading something he intended to remember. His own jaw and lips remained perfectly still. His face gave nothing: no satisfaction, no heat, no crack in the perfect, composed surface.

Only watching.

You held his gaze. You had decided, even if you hadn’t consciously acknowledged it, that you wouldn’t be the one to look away first tonight. The unreliability of your knees was something you loathed in this moment. You could taste the sharp, clean difference in the air. The feel of his thumb on your waist, the crunch of gravel beneath the soles of your shoes, and the delicate warmth of silk around your wrist each registered with fresh intensity. There was a tension lower in your body that you had not invited: a heat below the heat of the evening, something coiled and pulled tight in a place you were not examining. Your lips had fallen open at some point, without you even realizing it. The clarity with which you noted these things was bright and dreadful, the kind one experiences when finding something unwanted and unable to hide it away.

His thumb moved — once, a single slow arc against the grey at your side, as if noting the seam of the fabric or the bone beneath it. As if marking it for later. His gaze dropped, only slightly, briefly, a fractional movement. He looked at your mouth. You noticed.

Then it returned to your eyes again, and what he found there, whatever it was, the thing you could not govern, made him go very still for a single beat. His free hand came slowly from behind his back.

It moved to your forearm.

Not a grab. A placement.

His fingertips first, settling on the inside of your arm just below the elbow with the care of someone defusing a deadly mechanism, and then the rest of his hand closing lightly over your forearm, the grip loose and total and certain all at once. He held your arm for a few moments, as if savoring the warmth and texture of your skin. The heat from his fingers seeped in immediately, sharp and specific, and the tender skin of your inner arm registered the contact with a sensitivity that had no business existing.

He did not go directly for the knot.

His fingers moved first, a slow brush against your skin, down the inside of your forearm from elbow to wrist. It was not quite a caress, something more deliberate than that, something more like a surveyor reading terrain: his fingertips light enough that you felt them more as warmth than pressure. Every inch of the passage from the crook of your arm to the bone of your wrist. The fine hairs on your inner arm rose in the wake of it. As the solitary shiver traveled from your arm, it expanded with such speed and intensity throughout your body that it enveloped your whole body, creating a sensation where your hairs appeared to part the fabric of your gown from your skin. Your throat felt constricted, a pulse visibly beating on its surface, threatening to suffocate you. Your breath, which you had been managing with significant effort, shifted by one unsteady fraction.

Maekar noted everything, every minute detail and change that shattered your formidable Stark composure.

He understood then and there that absolute invincibility was impossible, even for hardened northerners like you. And you saw it in his eyes — the brief, quiet registering of it — and he did not comment, and he did not stop.

His fingers, having teased your every nerve with sensation, finally brushed against the grey silk.

Maekar did not pull.

He traced the knot first. One finger followed the edge of it with the unhurried attention of a man who had thought about this scarf more than he intended to admit. He turned it slightly, lifted the tail with one finger, let it settle back against your skin. Then, with the same finger, he worked the fold from underneath: slowly, with a precision wholly disproportionate to the task, as if this mattered in some private way that had nothing to do with Lord Celtigar’s game.

The silk shifted. Released one loop, then another.

His eyes never moved from yours since the moment he caught you.

The knot came loose with a small, soft give. The silk fell slack. He did not take it immediately. Instead, his fingers — with the scarf caught between them now, loose and warm — moved downward. Past your wrist. Along the back of your hand, his knuckles grazing the thin skin there in a contact that lasted exactly as long as he chose and not a moment less. His fingers settled over yours. A hold that barely qualified as a hold, more the shape of one; it remained for one long, unhurried moment, his thumb pressing once, lightly, against the soft pad of your ring finger.

The scarf pooled between your joined hands.

Only then did he lift it.

He brought it up between you, held it between his fingers, and the grey silk moved once in the corridor’s faint draft.

Maekar had not looked away from your eyes for any of it.

His fac, still, gave nothing — no triumph, no smile — only that focused, unguarded stillness that was worse than any expression, that stripped the event of pretence and left it bare: he had hunted you through this labyrinth and found you in the dark. He had taken the thing from your wrist with his hands in the exact manner he intended from the very beginning. No onlookers, no performance—just you and him, hidden deep within the hedges. And he wanted you to know all of it. Now, you both knew.

You were still warm from the contact: your forearm, your palm, the tips of your fingers, your wrist where the silk had been. Your lips were still parted. The heat that had coiled low and unasked for in your stomach had not dissipated; it had only settled deeper with the slow drag of his fingers across the back of your hand. The realisation arrived without ceremony, the way unpleasant truths do: clear and complete and impossible to argue with.

It frightened you.

You did not let it show.

His grip at your waist loosened. One degree, then another. A deliberate withdrawal — slow enough that you felt each fraction of released pressure as its own separate fact. He took one step back. Then another. His hand fell. The grey scarf remained in his fingers, held loosely at his side.

Maekar looked at you a moment longer, the way he had looked at the arrow you sent to the target’s bullseye: with recognition, with a quality that was almost satisfaction. Then he turned and walked back through the junction into the dark, his footsteps unhurried on the gravel until you could no longer hear them. Neither of you uttered a single word.

You stood in the passage alone.

The cool air deep within the labyrinth on your bare wrist, where the silk had been, prompted you to cover it with your other hand before you could stop yourself. The warmth lower in your body was slower to leave. You gave it three long, deliberate breaths. It did not leave entirely. You observed this with the detached focus of someone assessing a danger, then placed it into a drawer that you secured from the outside. Your father’s words reverberated in your mind.

From somewhere in the labyrinth, a lady laughed, bright and easy, and the sound reached you from a distance that felt much farther than it was.

You steadied your breath, set your chin, and walked back toward the entrance with your hands loose at your sides. The inside of your right wrist was bare, and you did not touch it again.

That night, the scarf was not returned.

You did not ask for it.

The curtains were drawn against the summer heat.

You had pulled them yourself, that afternoon, all of them: the heavy ones over the balcony doors, the lighter ones over the side windows until only the thinnest slits remained, white light cutting across dark surfaces in long, precise lines that moved when the air moved. The dim room pressed in on you, the air thick and still. The air sat in your lungs like warm cloth.

You had intended to sleep through the oppressive, sweltering heat of the afternoon.

Sweat beaded on your brow, and the air felt too suffocating, pressing in on you.

The sheets beneath you had grown warm from your body, the pillow damp at the edges. The air was thick with the scent of summer, stale air from being shut indoors, and an unidentifiable savour that felt primal, understood by instinct before conscious thought.

He was above you.

Silver hair cascaded forward, framing his face. A strip of white light slid across the plane of his back as it moved — appeared, disappeared, appeared again — tracing the shift of thick muscle and the valley of his spine with each slow, rhythmic motion. A serpent of light, a luminous ribbon, writhed across his broad back, mirroring the slow, deliberate sway of his entire form. The cotton sheets whispered under you, restless, catching and releasing.

His left elbow was beside your head. His right arm curved under your thigh, drawing it up and high; the angle forced the air from your lungs in a helpless rush.

He nuzzled his face into your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.

The kisses were slow, deliberate, unhurried — the way he did everything. Lips pressed, withdrew, pressed lower. His hot mouth caressed your skin, each movement of his tongue as intentional and skilled as an artist’s brush: a fleeting touch against the pulse in your throat, then a gentle exploration behind your ear, and a tender graze beneath your jaw — each stroke radiating outward expanded like ripples from a pebble dropped into still water.

The heat of your bodies, amplified by perspiration, made the skin between you feel slick and warm, rendering your arms, legs, and all points of contact inseparable from each other, the enveloping heat, and the dense, airless space.

You gasped. A delighted moan, bright and unrestrained, burst forth, filling the small space and spilling vibrantly into the hallway.

His palm covered your mouth.

One hand, large and warm, settled gently across the lower half of your face — fingers curving to your cheek, the little finger resting along the bridge of your nose, his thumb barely grazing the other side. Not pressing. Just covering, containing, the lightest imaginable lid on what you were about to make audible again.

His lips arrived at your ear.

“Shh,” he rasped, still in motion, his breath a stifling wave against your ear. “My little wolf.”

The words in that voice — low, private, closer than anything had ever been — sparked a primal reaction that overrode your conscious thought.

“We wouldn’t want the servants to hear us.”

The breath of it against your skin raised a shiver down your back that had nothing to do with cold.

Your other leg moved on its own. Lifted, opened, the sole of your foot finding the side of his hip and pressing, drawing him in and down, further — because further was the only direction that made sense, the only thing that you craved more and more with each passing moment of him moving in you.

He let you. “My hungry little wolf. You’ve been starving for so long, out in the northern cold.” A smirk played on his lips as he nipped your ear.

His hands moved. One slid behind your neck, fingers spreading against the base of your skull, holding your head with an attention that was almost reverent. The other found your hand where it lay above your head and covered it, pressed it down into the pillow — not forcefully, just the warm, certain weight of his fingers closing between yours, as if this was where that hand had always been going and it had finally arrived.

His face loomed near, the enticing scent of him overwhelming your senses.

He brushed his nose against yours. Hot breath on your lips. Eyes — the rare occasion of seeing them this near, this unguarded and devoted — focused on yours with the full, undivided attention he brought to things that mattered. No distance. No managed composure. Only him, and the light moving on his back, and the sound of your slick bodies coming together in the airless room.

The pace quickened.

Your back left the sheets. Your head went back, throat exposed to the dim ceiling, every thought compressed into the points of contact between you: his hand at the back of your head, his fingers around yours, the weight and heat and rhythm of him — and the sound that tried to surface that was swallowed by his palm right after and became something else, something that lived only between your lips and his hand.

He stopped.

The sudden absence made you inhale, sharp and desperate.

His firm hands found your waist. Both of them, sure and easy, and in one clean motion the world rotated — you were turned, repositioned, knees under you, palms on the sheet, your back to the ceiling and him behind it. His chest came down slow and flat against your spine, and the air in the room was the weight of him and the heat of him; his lips found your ear again, and with a voice low and raspy against the side of your neck, he said:

“Now,” a pause, grin spreading, “let’s honour your father’s house and fuck like dogs.”

You woke up with a loud, sharp gasp, breathless, with sheets drenched in sweat and dread.

My little wolf.

[breakspearz]

— today i saw the whole world (prologue);

— modern!maekar targaryen x fem!reader.

summary: aegon "egg" targaryen meant no harm when he signed his father up for westeros' new reality dating show, love and lances. in fact, even if he asked his uncle for help convincing him, he did not think his father would even show up to filming. but maekar still owed baelor a favor of his own after a polo match gone wrong, and all baelor ever wanted was to see his brother happily in love one more time. after all, what's the worst that could happen? or; in which maekar targaryen, to his own fucking detriment, listens to his son and brother's dumb idea, and somehow ends up praying to every god, old and new, to not make a fool of himself for the whole realm to see. him, dating? and on camera! by the seven, at least let this fucking resort have a decent buffet.

themes and genres: eventual fluff, eventual smut. modern!au, reality show!au, strangers to lovers, age gap relationship.

word count: 1.66k

content warnings: in this prologue, none! cws for each chapter will be provided in its own post.

author's note: hello, hello! i was watching a new reality show with my mom a few days ago and ended up thinking about maekar all throughout the whole four episodes we binged. he has bewitched me body and soul, i fear, and this is the result. anyways, i hope you like it, please let me know what you think!

— header gif made by me, featuring hubert-denis etcheverry's vertigo (1903).

“I was not made aware of the fact that you were suffering from delusions, brother.”

Everything is a fucking joke. At least, it has to be. Right? Maekar is not one for jokes. He does not like participating in them in particular, and he definitely does not appreciate being the butt of one. Not by his son, and certainly not by his brother. No. No, he is a decent, well-adjusted grown man. He is a father, a widower, the vice-president of a private equity company, and, Seven above, a productive member of society. His brother, however? At the moment, his brother is nothing but an absolute fool.

“Delusions?” Baelor laughs, sounding far too entertained despite the unfolding of Maekar’s existential crisis, and throws his head back in amusement. “Oh, that is not something you ought to worry about, brother.”

Maekar scoffs, waving a hand dismissively as he speaks. “I do not worry about it. I am simply saying you’re being a fucking cun—”

“The kid came to me begging and imploring and claiming he was merely acting on behalf of your happiness. What was I supposed to do, tell him to get lost?” Baelor interrupts, perking an eyebrow. 

Maekar rolls his eyes and grumbles something under his breath that Baelor does not catch.

“That is precisely what you were supposed to do!” Maekar huffs. “You were clearly supposed to tell him to fuck off upon hearing this — this whole demented idea of his. Fuck me, this is a joke!” 

Baelor shakes his head, and lets out a quiet chuckle. He takes a moment to close the browser window on his computer before he carefully shuts the laptop closed, takes his glasses off, and sets the frames down on top of his desk. 

A few days before, Aegon, one of Maekar’s youngest, had asked for his help in convincing his father into going to something he had seen while scrolling through social media. It was quite the peculiar ask, and one surely to be met with Maekar’s disapproval, but Aegon rarely behaved in a way that Maekar approved of. And yet Aegon told Baelor he had simply thought his father could use meeting someone outside of the complicated world that came with Targaryen business, even if it was an unorthodox way to do it. While often mischievous, his nephew is not a bad son.

And so Baelor admonished him about going behind his father’s back and acting on his behalf, yet promised to think about the proposal for a couple of days before making a choice. Aegon cared for his father, and wanted for him to, if anything, at least take his mind off of things for a couple of days. To Maekar's bad luck, Baelor happened to agree on that much.

Maekar rolls his eyes at his brother’s casualness, muttering to himself, and taps impatiently against the couch’s armrest.

“Whisky, brother?” Baelor asks, paying no mind to his brother’s brooding, before he stands up from his seat. 

He walks across his office, soundlessly stepping over thick, expensive carpets, and presses a button to call upon his staff through an intercom on the wall.

“Fuck off with your whisky.”

“Gin, then?”

“Fuck off with your gin as well. Seven bloody hells.”

The elder brother laughs, again, and Maekar does not refrain from letting out a sound of annoyance that grows even more desperate than the last. He closes his eyes and rests his head back against the deep brown leather of the backrest, trying his best to recall the breathing technique Aemon had talked to him about the last time they spoke on the phone. Deeming the effort useless a couple seconds later, he inhales, taps his fingers upon the armrest again, and stands up with a deep breath growing in his gut and exploding past his lips.

“I am not contractually obligated to do anything,” Maekar says, only opening his eyes back again to glare at his brother. “I never agreed to a single thing. The boy did. Surely there is a clause somewhere that can get me out of this mess.”

Baelor hums, shrugs, and crosses his arms over his chest before he rests back against a  tall mahogany bookshelf. “That much is true. However, I do not think it is really as bad of an idea as you think it is, brother.”

“That is because you are being a right cunt.”

“Huh. You’re prickly today.”

“I’m prickly,” Maekar repeats, mockingly. “Aegon has gone too far this time and you are doing nothing but encouraging his misbehavior. I know not what either of you were thinking when you decided this was a sane idea to pursue, but I am letting you know that I will not participate in this foolery.”

“And I cannot make you. Nor do I mean to talk you into getting involved in anything you truly do not wish to take part in,” Baelor sighs, after a moment, and Maekar huffs.

The blonde claps, loudly, throws his hands over his head, and begins to pace. “Then it is decided. We will act as if this was never brought up in the first place and I ponder upon banning Aegon from coming in contact with technology ever again. Gods know he could dedicate his time to far more productive matters than whatever it is he tried to achieve with this —”

“However,” Baelor interrupts his tirade again. “I did mean it when I said I only encouraged Aegon’s idea because I think, brother, that this could be beneficial to you, believe it or not. And because of that, I think you should go through with it.”

“I insist, then, that you have lost your mind. It is a television show, for heaven’s sake! I do not intend to become a televised form of gossip-based entertainment for the whole realm to see.”

Baelor stands straight again, pushing off of the bookshelf. He tucks his hands inside the pockets of his cashmere trousers, and regards his brother again. “Think about it for a moment. What is the worst that could happen, brother? You log off for a few days and treat it as a vacation instead? You come back home, rested, might I add, and we don’t speak of it again? Best case scenario, you allow yourself to try and actually connect with someone—”

“Fuck off. I am not an electrical outlet, I do not wish to do any sort of connecting—”

A knock on the door. Baelor sighs, and after he voices his approval, the door opens. A young butler walks inside with quick and steady strides, holding a tray that contains two glasses of whisky and a platter of assorted nuts and cured meats. He sets the tray on a small table near the couch, and then walks outside again. Maekar picks up two slices of serrano ham and stuffs them inside his mouth as Baelor grabs a glass and takes a sip. 

The blonde then makes a face, scrunches his fists in annoyance, and walks back towards the couch.

“You’d have to cut contact with the outside world for the first two weeks of the whole thing,” Baelor hums, tilting his head to the side. “It said so in the casting e-mail.”

Maekar rolls his eyes. “I have responsibilities in this outside world of ours. Six of them, to be exact. One who is currently insisting on making my life much harder than it should be.”

“Well. Daeron is doing much better, Aerion is on his semester abroad at Lys, and Aemon is still at the Citadel for the maester program he’s pursuing. Aegon and the girls can stay with Jena and I until you come back,” Baelor says, with a soft shrug. As if it were that simple. “When I read through the e-mail, it said that if you don’t end up forming a connection, you can return to your normal life after the retreat phase. So go, enjoy the two weeks in Pentos, and let me deal with everything here. I give you my word when I say I will take care of them.”

Maekar makes a noise with his tongue, and leans forward to grab another piece of ham. He does not answer, going through his brother’s words in his head instead. 

What a joke. Maekar could think of a million, a billion, Seven hells, even a gazillion of people who would be far better suited for this whole farce than he. He does not think himself charismatic, and does not particularly enjoy taking part in conversation with others he does not know. He does not even like spending time out in the sun. What is he to do in something like a reality dating show? Whatever that is. 

And yet, he’s lonely. He has been ever since the death of his wife, turning to both focusing on his work and running after his children to keep his mind busy enough to stop feeling. But even if his six terrors do manage to keep him on his fucking toes for the majority of his waking hours, he is not always successful in his efforts. He misses Dyanna, and he misses being someone other than a father and a brother, even if it’s just for a short while. Maekar is lonely, painfully so, and he knows Baelor is aware of it. He knows this is why he is going along with Aegon’s little plan, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder if they could be right. If this whole thing could actually not be as bad of an idea as he’s convinced himself it is.

He wants to kick himself in the face for considering it. He will have to dial Aemon back and ask about the breathing techniques before he sits down and reads through the e-mail Baelor forwarded him.

“You do know you still owe me, right? After the whole polo fiasco?”

“Oh, fuck right off.”

Seven fucking hells. If anything, at least let this resort have a decent buffet.

— and that's the prologue! chapter one will (hopefully) be coming your way in the next couple of days. i'm still not sure if i will create a tag list or not, so please let me know if you'd be interested in being tagged whenever i post the next part.

we'll have our main characters finally interacting in chapter one, so i'm excited for you guys to read it! moody and prickly (and soon hopelessly in love) modern!maekar has made its way into my heart already, so i really hope you all like it as well!

©BREAKSPEARZ — thank you for reading, let me know what you think! do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

[padmespetal]

✹ BURNING DESIRE — modern au maekar taragaryen x reader (part of the welcome to the family series)

summary. you — egg targaryen’s babysitter — have become an essential part of the targaryen household life and the longing maekar has fought so desperately to suppress finally begins to surface

word count. 8.5k

warnings. NSFW, age gap (both participants are adults), alcohol consumption, vaginal fingering, mentions of masturbation, keep in mind this is my first time writing smut !!

note. i’m going to hell for this one okay, the old man is fighting his demons but the demons win. I really hope you enjoy reading this fic! p.s. it can definitely be read as a standalone (non connected to the series) 🤍

Your days at the Targaryen household had slipped quietly into the shape of a ritual.

You arrived every day from Monday to Sunday without fail. Sometimes still smelling faintly of lavender soap from your yoga class, sometimes with a tote bag full of snacks and university notebooks or some small trinket Aegon had mentioned wanting.

The gates would open for you without question now. The guards had long since stopped asking for your name or id.

Inside the house itself — things moved around you as if you had always belonged there.

Babysitting Egg hardly felt like babysitting anymore. It felt closer to something instinctive, something familiar in a way you hadn’t quite expected when you first stepped through those doors.

You checked his homework at the long marble kitchen counter while he kicked his feet against the barstool and complained dramatically about calculus and high valyrian. You made him snacks; grilled cheese cut into careful triangles, fruit arranged into crooked little shapes, even though the staff hovered nearby insisting they could prepare something far more elaborate.

You ignored them. Egg liked it better when you made the things.

You took him outside when the weather allowed it, wandering the gardens while he bombarded you with endless questions in that bright, breathless way boys had when they believed the world was still endlessly explainable.

Why did dragons go extinct? Could someone theoretically build one again? Did you think his father had ever done something dangerous?

That last question had caught you off guard the first time he asked it. You had laughed it off gently, ruffling his buzzed head until he protested and squirmed away.

Day by day he grew more attached to you, in that wholehearted way children do when they decide someone is theirs. And if you were being honest with yourself the feeling had begun to mirror itself.

Als the rest of Maekar’s children were… more complicated.

Daeron for one had begun to soften around the edges in your presence. He still carried the same restless energy, that jittery tension that seemed to live beneath his skin; but when you were around it seemed to quiet, as if someone had turned the volume down on the constant noise in his head.

Aerion was another matter entirely. He still held himself with that same sharp, coiled arrogance, his temper simmering just beneath the surface like a kettle always threatening to boil over.

The fight, the one that had nearly ended in tragedy, had clearly bruised something deeper than his pride. You could see it in the way his jaw tightened whenever his father entered a room or mentioned Baelor.

Still — even he had begun to tolerate you. Which in the strange ecosystem of the Targaryen household counted as progress.

The girls — Daella and Rhae had had embraced you with startling enthusiasm. They had folded you into their small, glittering girl world with the ease of people who had decided long ago that you were no stranger.

They pulled you into their rooms after dinner, sitting cross legged on soft rugs while makeup palettes and hairbrushes were spread across the floor like artifacts from some sacred ritual.

They told you their secrets. They asked you questions. They whispered about school gossip, insecurities, crushes they swore you could never repeat to anyone — especially their brothers or father.

You were older than them by nearly ten years, and not technically related in any way that mattered. Yet they treated you with the easy intimacy of someone who had always been there.

And you found — much to your own surprise, that you trusted them too.

It was only a matter of time before you appeared in one of the family photos, standing somewhere in the background — half laughing, half caught off guard as if you had always been meant to be there.

And Gods spare him, Maekar noticed. Of course he noticed. How could he not?

You had slipped into his household like water finding a crack in stone; slow and subtle but impossible to stop once it began.

He had to admit in the beginning he had been deeply skeptical of you. A college girl barely older than Daeron. Terribly soft spoken and polite; pretty in that disarmingly simple way that made men underestimate you at first glance. You sometimes wore bows in your hear for the sake of the Seven.

You had arrived with a careful smile and the sort of earnest determination he associated with people who had no idea what they were getting themselves into.

He had expected you to last two days. Three at best.

His children were not easy. He was all too aware of it.

They were loud, stubborn, brilliant in inconvenient ways and reckless in others. They carried too much fire for people their age. Too many expectations on their shoulders.

Yet somehow, against all reasonable logical expectation you had done the impossible. You had won them over; you had furrowed your way into all their hearts.

He saw it in the small things.

In the way Aegon ran to greet you at the door every day without fail. In the way Daella and Rhae dragged you upstairs by the hand after dinner. In the subtle shift in Daeron’s posture when you spoke to him; as if the world became slightly less unbearable for a moment. Even Aerion, impossibly proud Aerion had stopped treating you like an intruder.

And Aemon all the way in Oldtown — had apparently written to Daeron once asking how the babysitter was doing. Maekar had hated hearing that more than he cared to admit.

Because he had noticed something else too. Something far worse. Because you had somehow managed to find your way into his heart too. Which felt utterly impossible since he paid serious attention to keeping his walls guarded and impenetrable at all times.

He hated himself, gods he truly did, for the number of nights he had lain awake awake in the vast quiet of his bedroom staring up at the ceiling thinking of you.

Dyanna’s side of the bed beside him remained untouched, cold. Perfectly smooth, as if no one had ever lain there at all.

And yet, despite every effort to focus on anything else — business deals, company strategy, the endless grind of responsibilities that filled his days; the only image that returned to him in the dark was you.

It had begun innocently enough.

The first afternoon you arrived after yoga, hair still slightly damp, smelling faintly of sweat, wearing that skin-tight top and leggings that clung to your figure in a way that had made him abruptly look away.

He had tried to ignore the sudden, unwelcome heat creeping up the back of his neck, tried to dismiss it. But the mind was a treacherous thing when left alone too long. And his body seemed to be working against him too.

Sometimes he caught himself imagining the feeling of your waist beneath his hands — the warmth of your skin, the softness of it. How pliant you would feel in his arms. He imagined how his calloused hands would trace your figure — how your delicacy would contrast to him.

Other nights it was something domestic, far more strange.

You standing in his kitchen beside Aegon, leaning over the counter while explaining a homework problem. Your laughter drifting through the hallways as you sat with his girls.

The way you had looked at him that night in the hospital, calm and steady, as if everything was not threatening to fall apart.

He had looked at you and you had simply said, you called, as if that explained everything. And you had come to him, to his family, without hesitation.

It was wrong. Gods, it was wrong in every conceivable way. You were Kiera's best friend — you were younger than half the people he worked with. Younger than he had been when some of his children were born. Young enough to be his daughter, for the sake of the Seven. And not to mention he was your employer — you worked for him.

And yet the thoughts came without fail, uninvited and persistent.

The ones that scared him the most were the ones where he dared imagine a life with you. A life with you as something more than his son's babysitter.

The empty side of the bed no longer empty. Your perfume lingering faintly in the bathroom beside his cologne. Your clothes draped carelessly over the back of a chair. A second toothbrush beside his in the glass holder.

Your presence filling the quiet spaces of the house. Decorating the rooms with your favorite flowers, small trinkets, lighting the kind of candles you liked.

He would catch himself imagining you there — warm and alive and impossibly close, and the thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten with something dangerously close to longing.

He needed to stop himself, before it became something worse, before it got out of control. Before he began to believe in the fantasy his mind kept building piece by piece; this absurd idea of you fitting into his life as something more than what you were.

What was he even imagining? Playing house with you? Pretending that in some ridiculous alternate world the two of you could ever exist as something resembling husband and wife?

You were young. You were a bright and clever girl. Beautiful in the effortless way only youth allows.

You were finishing college, with an entire life stretching ahead of you, so many possibilities he had long since buried under responsibility and regret.

There was no world in which someone like you would choose a man like him. A man too old, too tired, too weighed down by the ghosts of everything he had already lived through.

And even if by some cruel twist of fate you ever did choose him — he would never allow it. He would never forgive himself for dragging someone as young and bright as you into the shadowed ruins of the life he had already made.

For corrupting something so unbearably, painfully good.

—

The first time his composure had truly been tested — pushed so close to the edge he could practically feel it fraying; was the night you slept over.

In all truth he hadn’t even known it was happening and therefore did not mentally brace himself.

Maekar returned home late that evening, the way he often did after particularly brutal days at the office. The house was quiet when he stepped inside, that peculiar nighttime stillness that only settled once every child had been coaxed into bed and the staff had finished for the day.

The lamps in the living room glowed dimly, casting long shadows across the polished floors. His tie had already been discarded somewhere in the car, and the first few buttons of his shirt hung open, the fabric creased from hours spent leaning over a desk.

He was halfway across the room when he noticed movement. He noticed a frame — it could only be you. He had long since come to recognize your silhouette.

You softly padded across the living room barefoot, dressed in nothing but an oversized shirt and a pair of tiny pajama shorts that left far too much bare skin exposed for his peace of mind.

For a moment you froze when you noticed him standing in the doorway. Like a deer caught in headlights.

“Oh.” you let out softly, a little breathless with surprise. “Hi.”

He didn’t return the greeting.

“What are you doing here?” His brows knit together in that severe way of his.

To someone who didn’t know him well it might have looked like anger, but it wasn’t quite that — only a flash of confusion cutting through the exhaustion on his face. His voice came out low, roughened by a long day.

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “Aegon asked me to sleep over,” you explained, fingers instinctively fidgeting with the hem of the shirt you were wearing. “And I thought… well why not. I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Your gaze flickered down the hallway as you added quietly, “I just put him to sleep.”

And that was when the intrusive thoughts began. Awful, invasive things that manifested themselves and refused to leave.

For one treacherous second his mind conjured an image so vivid it made his chest tighten; you waiting there in the quiet of the house after a long day, the children tucked safely into bed, standing in the warm lamplight as if you belonged there. As if you were waiting for him.

The idea was ridiculous. His mind knew it. Every shred of reason inside him rejected it instantly.

And yet the image lingered. You greeting him at the door. Listening to him talk about his day. Your soft voice filling the empty spaces of the house. Helping him undress. Your hands— gods. He had to stop himself.

“Sir?” Your voice pulled him abruptly back into the present.

You tilted your head slightly, brow furrowing when he didn’t respond.

Maekar cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his hair as if the motion alone could shake the thoughts loose.

“Yes—” he began then stopped himself. “Just… Maekar." The correction came out stiff, almost reluctant.

“…and of course I don’t mind, I mean you spending the night. If Aegon wishes it so.” He clarified and nodded once, a small gesture meant to reassure you he wasn’t upset. Your shoulders relaxed visibly at that.

“Oh, great.” You smiled shyly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll be sleeping in the guest room.”

He had to bite down his tongue at the word that nearly left his mouth. Don’t. Don’t what? Don’t sleep there? Sleep with me instead?

The thought alone made something tighten dangerously in his chest. So he said nothing. Just nodded.

You hesitated another moment before speaking again. “There’s leftover dinner in the kitchen if you’re hungry,” you gently spoke. “The staff made chicken and fried vegetables.”

After a small pause you added. “I wouldn’t mind warming some up for you.” The offer was simple. Polite. Nothing out of place.

But the quiet domesticity of it stirred something warm and unsettling in his chest. He shut it down immediately.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, a little too quickly. “I can manage it myself.” His tone came out sharper than he intended.

You looked away briefly, unsure what to do with the sudden rejection.

Only then did you seem to realize how you looked — bare legs, loose shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder, hair clipped up messily as if you had prepared for bed hours ago. You really ought to stop appearing like this in front of your employer.

You took a tentative step closer. Until you were standing directly in front of him. “I know,” you said softly. “But I really wouldn’t mind helping.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and the moment they did your cheeks flushed with color.

Because suddenly it didn’t sound like you were talking about dinner anymore. Or anything appropriate for that matter.

Maekar felt something low and dangerous shift in his chest. For one terrifying second he nearly reached for you, his hand twitched at his side. But he forced himself still.

Every instinct in his body screamed otherwise.

You seemed to take his silence as encouragement. Slowly, carefully like a sly cat, you lifted your hand and placed it against the side of his neck.

He flinched — not away, just… sharply enough that the reaction was impossible to miss.

You smelled like vanilla, he noted. Something soft and faintly sweet. Your skin was warm. Your hand impossibly soft. He did not move to remove it.

He could feel his pupils widening, the blood rushing traitorously through his body, heat pooling somewhere deep and unwelcome. Every nerve in him strained toward you even as he forced his body into rigid control.

He would not lose himself like this.

“Stop this, girl,” he said hoarsely. The command sounded weak and frail even to his own ears.

You hummed softly in response, something almost mischievous flickering in your eyes as you cocked your head to the side.

Without thinking, his hand lifted to the chain around your neck. He rolled the small heart-shaped locket between his fingers and inspected it closely. It wasn’t the one his family had given you. The one that carried the three-headed dragon. This one was different. It was much simpler, much more delicate.

Who had given it to you? And why were you wearing it?

The sharp spike of possessiveness that rose in his chest startled him more than anything else that had happened that evening.

Your breath caught when his fingers brushed the skin of your collarbone.

“You don’t want this,” he warned quietly. His voice had hardened now, it was steadier. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

But your hesitation only lasted a moment. “I don’t care—”

“I will hurt you.” The words came out blunt. His purple irises remained unflinching, locked onto your reaction.

“And this—” He gestured faintly between the two of you. “—will hurt Aegon. It will hurt the entire family.” His tone awoke something self-conscious in you.

That stopped you. The color drained slightly from your face as the weight of his words settled in.

Slowly, your hand fell away from his neck and you stepped back. Shame burned hot across your cheeks.

Of course he didn’t want you. What had you been thinking? You must look desperate. Pathetic. Yearning for the attention of an older man.

Tears prickled uncomfortably behind your eyes and you swallowed them down, refusing to let them fall.

Maekar exhaled quietly. Guilt twisted in his chest. “Y/N—” He reached toward you instinctively, but you were already stepping away.

“No.” Your voice came out sharper than before, brittle with wounded pride. “You’re right.” The words clearly cost you something to say.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I— I…”

You stopped yourself, then straightened your shoulders as if that could save some of your remaining pride.

“Good night, Maekar.” Your words were blunt and final. Before he could respond you slipped past him, moving quickly down the hallway toward the guest room.

For one terrible second he almost gave in. Almost reached out, grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into him. Almost kissed you the way his mind had been threatening to for weeks now.

But he forced himself to remain still. Rigid.Silent.

It’s better this way, he repeated to himself. Even as every part of him fought the lie.

—

From that moment on it seemed — at least to Maekar — that you had made it your personal mission in life to test the limits of his restraint.

You teased him with a dedication that bordered on cruelty. Not openly. Never in ways anyone else would immediately notice.

To the rest of the household you were exactly as you had always been: sweet, attentive, soft-spoken. The reliable babysitter who helped Egg with homework and braided Daella’s hair before school and occasionally stayed too late because the girls wanted to show you some new makeup trick they had discovered online.

But Maekar noticed. Gods, he noticed everything.

You began wearing the flimsiest tops when you were around him — delicate little things made of silk and lace, with tiny bows tied here and there like decorative afterthoughts. They looked almost innocent at first glance, the sort of thing any college girl might wear during a warm spring afternoon.

Except they clung to you in ways that made his jaw tighten. The fabric was always just thin enough. The neckline just low enough. The bows just suggestive enough that he couldn’t help thinking you looked like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

A constant reminder for him. Of exactly what he had turned away that night.

And the worst part was he couldn’t even comment on it.

The weather was warm — bright and pleasant in that early summer way that filled the Targaryen gardens with blooming flowers and long golden evenings. You had every right to dress lightly.

He could hardly order you to change clothes. He wasn’t your father. The thought alone made something unpleasant twist in his stomach.

Still, one evening at dinner he made the mistake of trying to mention it, very carefully and vaguely.

“I’m not certain those sorts of outfits are particularly… appropriate for this environment,” he had said stiffly, cutting into his steak with unnecessary force.

Daella's eyes widened at his words and the reaction was immedieate. “Father!” She gasped, scandalized. “You have absolutely no right to comment on that,” she continued, pointing her fork at him in righteous indignation. “What an invidual wears is one of the most important forms of self expression and trying to change or control that is incredibly patronizing.”

Rhae nodded enthusiastically beside her.

“They’re the cutest things ever,” she added. “Just because you millennials have zero fashion sense doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t be chic.”

Maekar stared at them in stunned disbelief; opening his mouth to protest. Across the table, you looked dangerously pleased and amused.

“See, Maekar?” you said sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him with exaggerated innocence. “Listen to your children.”

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a profanity.

You had become utterly insufferable. A wicked little creature determined to provoke him at every possible opportunity.

And though he would never admit it, not even to himself, the anger you stirred in him was dangerously entangled with something else entirely. Something he did not want to name — desire perhaps.

Aegon, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of the strange tension simmering between you and his father. If he noticed anything at all he never said so.

You weren’t entirely sure whether that was genuine innocence or quiet discretion. Either way, you were grateful he never spoke up about it or questioned you.

Because you absolutely knew what you were doing. And you were doing it very, very well.

Like today. You had seen the outfit on Pinterest that morning; some effortlessly cool girl leaning against a sunlit wall, the caption something vague about summer energy and upcoming trends.

It had seemed harmless enough. Cute, even.

She was wearing low-rise jeans and a simple white top. But the real star of the show — the tiniest sliver of lace visible above the waistband, a delicate pair of cotton underwear tied with a little bow.

Apparently it was in trend again and you seized the opportunity.

You hadn’t fully considered the consequences until you stepped into the kitchen after arriving to the Targaryens and saw Maekar already there pouring himself a coffee.

His gaze dropped once, just once — to the strip of soft lace peeking above your jeans. Then snapped right back up again as if the sight had physically burned him. For a moment he looked genuinely stunned.

Before he could open his mouth, however, the girls descended upon you.

“Oh my gods!” Rhae shrieked, rushing forward to grab your arm. “That’s so cute!” She leaned closer, inspecting the waistband of your jeans with delighted fascination.

“This is like… ridiculously hot right now,” Daella agreed, circling you approvingly. “Everyone on TikTok is wearing it.”

“Thanks,” you said with a small smile. Out of the corner of your eye you caught Maekar’s expression. He looked as though he might faint — or explode. Possibly both.

“Oooh, Dad, can we go to the mall later?” Daella asked suddenly, turning toward him with sparkling enthusiasm. “I need low-rise jeans too.”

“No.” The word came out instantly; they were sharp and final.

“But Dad—” Rhae groaned.

“I said no.” His voice carried that immovable authority that usually ended arguments before they could begin. “I will not have my daughters walking around looking like—”

He stopped himself abruptly. Both of the girls recoiled slightly, sensing the tension.

“Like what?” you asked quietly. You were leaning against the kitchen counter now, arms loosely folded. Your eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Go on,” you added softly. “Say it.”

For a moment the room went very still. Maekar swallowed hard. A dozen words threatened to spill out of his mouth. None of them appropriate. Especially not in front of his daughters.

“Nothing,” the word tore from his throat, voice lower now. His tone sounded like restraint.

The girls exchanged glances before clearing their throats. “Um… we have some homeowork to finish up..” Daella muttered, awkwardly stepping towards the door.

“Yeah,” Rhae added quickly. “So much homework.” Within seconds they had disappeared upstairs. Leaving you and Maekar standing alone in the quiet kitchen.

You hummed thoughtfully. Then pushed yourself off the counter.

As you walked past him, far closer than strictly necessary, your shoulder brushed lightly against his arm.

The contact lasted less than a second. But it was deliberate. Your perfume lingered in the air as you moved toward the refrigerator.

He stood perfectly still. Jaw clenched.

“Are you always this dramatic about fashion trends?” you asked casually, opening the fridge and pretending to look for something.

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he replied flatly.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Innocence practically dripping from your expression. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Your tone was light, playful even. But the look in your eyes gave you away. And it infuriated him to no end.

Maekar exhaled slowly through his nose, as though steadying himself.

You shut the fridge and stepped back toward the counter. Your hand brushed his sleeve this time. A soft, accidental touch that neither of you acknowledged.

It had become a strange sort of game. Cat and mouse. Except neither of you seemed entirely certain who was hunting whom.

—

Your antics did not quiet after that ordeal. If anything, they grew worse.

You appeared wherever he happened to be, always by coincidence, always with that same innocent expression that made it impossible to accuse you of anything outright.

And yet the intent behind it all was painfully obvious.

Take the kitchen drawers, for instance.

Maekar had developed the habit of preparing coffee himself in the afternoons before leaving for his second shift. It was a small ritual he preferred to keep to himself; ten quiet minutes before the chaos of the day continued.

On one occassion he opened the cutlery drawer to retrieve a spoon. And suddenly you were standing there beside him.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmured softly, squeezing into the narrow space between him and the counter. Your hip brushed his as you leaned forward.

“I just needed a knife.” There were three other drawers with knives in them. Yet somehow you had chosen that exact one.

Maekar stood rigid as stone while you rummaged around for several unnecessary seconds, your shoulder pressed lightly against his arm. The warmth of your body seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

When you finally stepped away with a cheerful little “thanks,” he remained frozen there long after you were gone.

Other times, you simply… dropped things.

Your phone. A spoon. Once even a pen you had been using to help Aegon with his homework. It would slip from your fingers in the most suspiciously convenient way whenever Maekar happened to be nearby.

“Oh—” You’d bend to pick it up; painfully slowly.

The motion unhurried as you crouched, stretching just enough that he had to immediately look away.

The first few times he thought it was coincidence. By the fifth or sixth, he knew better.

He would stare very intently at the nearest wall, or ceiling, or window. Anywhere but you.

You always noticed and you always smiled.

Then there were the juice incidents.

One afternoon he walked in expecting to find the staff preparing dinner.

Instead he found you standing at the counter squeezing fresh oranges into a glass. Egg was sitting nearby doing homework, his pencil tapping restlessly against the table.

“Almost done,” you told him cheerfully. “Then you get your juice.” You were focused enough on the task that you didn’t notice Maekar at first.

When the last orange was squeezed, you lifted your hand and absentmindedly licked the sticky juice from your fingers. The worst part was that it wasn't even deliberate and yet—

Only then did your eyes flick up. You froze for half a second when you noticed him standing in the doorway. And then your expression shifted. That familiar spark of mischief appeared. You did not break eye contact as you pushed another digit between your lips.

“Care for a taste?” you asked sweetly. Your fingers hovered just slightly in the air between you.

His answer came instantly. “No.” The word sounded almost alarmed. He turned and walked out of the kitchen so quickly it might have actually been on fire behind him.

Egg blinked in confusion. “Why did my father leave?” You only shrugged and shook your head. "No idea."

But perhaps the worst offense of all had begun recently.

The yoga. Specifically the yoga in the garden.

“Aegon ought to do some kind of physical activity,” you insisted innocently when the topic first came up. “It’s good for him,” you explained one afternoon while rolling out a baby pink yoga mat on the grass. “He’s still growing — stretching helps with muscles and nerves.”

Maekar almost scoffed at your words, muscles and nerves. Like Seven hells.

However Egg seemed to love the idea immediately. Within minutes he was trying to mimic every pose you demonstrated. He shrieked with laughter when he lost his balance, collapsing dramatically into the grass.

“Look!” he shouted. “I’m doing it!”

Maekar had made the mistake of looking out the window at that exact moment. You were standing on the lawn in a fitted athletic top and leggings — the same kind you had worn that evening in your early days at the house.

Your body bent into various poses with effortless flexibility. Sometimes reaching upward. Sometimes folding forward. Sometimes twisting in ways that made his brain short-circuit entirely.

Egg giggled constantly beside you, trying to imitate the shapes.

“Like this?” he asked.

“No, sweetling— like this,” you corrected gently, stepping behind him to guide his arms. Then you bent forward again to demonstrate.

Maekar closed the curtains immediately and went upstairs.

He took three cold showers that evening.

Three.

The shame of it made his face burn even hours later.

Gods. You were turning him into a foolish green boy. And the worst part was that it didn’t stop even when he left the house.

At work he tried desperately to focus on anything else. On spreadsheets, meetings, endless reports. But his mind betrayed him constantly.

Sometimes he tried forcing himself to think of other women. A young executive who had recently joined the company. A woman at a conference who had openly flirted with him over drinks. Even random faces from meetings which faintly resembled you.

He tried imagining them the way he imagined you. In the same scenarios he imagined you—

But nothing happened. No spark. No reaction. Nothing at all, nothing from his body nor his mind.

It was as if something in him refused to respond to anyone but you. Like you had woven yourself somewhere deep in his thoughts where he couldn’t remove you.

A spell. That was the only way he could describe it. A slow, maddening enchantment.

And the more he tried to resist it; the stronger it seemed to grow.

—

The final straw came late one evening.

Maekar was alone in his study, the house long since quiet. A single lamp burned on the desk, casting a warm amber glow across the room and painting the rest of the space in long shadows.

The light caught the angles of his face as he leaned back in the chair, the faint pox scars along his skin still visible even after all these years. His hair; once silver-blond — had long since faded to a sharp winter white, neatly trimmed along with the beard that framed his jaw.

He looked much older than he was in moments like this. More tired.

The glass in front of him held expensive whiskey he barely tasted anymore. He had poured it out of habit more than anything else, letting the burn sit heavy in his throat as his thoughts churned restlessly.

Work. Endless meetings, contracts, problems waiting for his attention the moment morning arrived. With Baelor still recovering, most of the responsibilities fell upon his shoulder.

He though of his family. His children — each of them complicated in their own exhausting ways.

And then there was you. Always you.

His fingers tapped idly against the rim of the glass as he sighed, leaning forward to reach for the bottle again.

But the door creaked open behind him. Softly. He didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

You stood there in the doorway as if summoned by his thoughts alone. You wore a simple grey cotton top and matching shorts — nothing extravagant, nothing particularly revealing. Yet somehow the casual softness of it looked more intimate than anything else you owned.

For a moment you simply lingered there like a ghost. Then you stepped inside tentatively and pushed the door closed behind you with a quiet click.

His gaze flickered up slowly. The alcohol humming faintly through his veins did absolutely nothing to help maintain his composure.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed how little you believed that.

He gave a quiet scoff from where he sat. “As if that has ever stopped you before.”

You laughed under your breath. The sound was light — dangerously pleased with itself.

“Do you not enjoy my company?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as you moved farther into the room. The lamp light caught in your eyes, making them glimmer in that way he had come to recognize far too well.

Maekar studied you for a moment. There was something almost resigned in the way he looked at you now — exasperation tangled helplessly with something much warmer.

“You ought to feel ashamed,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “Torturing an old man like me and not feeling an ounce of guilt about it.”

It was the most honest thing he had said to you in weeks. Maybe months. And you seemed to like that; your eyes shining with a curious glint.

Instead of answering him, you only hummed softly as you approached him. The sound lingered in the quiet air between you. You stopped directly in front of the chair.

Maekar had been leaning back before, but now he shifted slightly forward without realizing it.

His thighs parted instinctively where he sat.

His gaze lifted slowly, upward, meeting yours. And for a moment neither of you spoke.

Your tongue clicked quietly, awaiting his next move but he remained frozen, rigid.

He felt his composure rapidly unraveling beneath his skin. The lone thought anchoring him to reality was that if anything ensued he would not be the one to initiate it.

You took his silence as a sign and settled yourself into the spot between his legs. For a moment he remained utterly still, the only reaction you could register was the hitch of his breath. He smelled of expensive cologne and musk, perhaps a faint trace of cigar.

You leaned dangerously close as his large hands steadied you in his grasp. Your eyes glanced down and noticed how large his hand seemed compared to your torso and your head dizzied at the thought.

Your orbs flickered back to his own and you could see all the logic and rigor in them begin to dissolve. His fingers carefully found their way beneath the back of your shirt as he gently traced your bare skin. For a man so rough and stiff you were surprised he was capable of such gentleness.

"Why.." he croaked desperately, as the lust overshadowed his pupils and you felt his manhood solidly press up beneath you.

Why. Why were you here? Why did you chose him? Why were you asking for this? Why not a nice boy your age — who could treat you right, take you out, date you without shame, without the constant lingering thought he was old enough to be your father.

Seven hells it would have been more appropriate for you to date Daeron or Aerion or even Valarr. Even if he almost sneered at the thought.

Your skin felt so plush and warm against his touch. It had been ages since he touched a woman like this — since Dyanna he could not bring himself to harbour such feelings for anyone. To let someone know him so intimately.

And suddenly a surge of insecurity arose in him, lika an ugly beast rearing its head. What if he wasn't good enought? What if he wasn't capable of performing like he used to? What if he couldn't satisfy your needs?

The thoughts swirled in his mind, threatening to plague him — but your next move quieted them. You traced your hand down his chest, all the way down to between your bodies and grazed the outline of the rigidness in his pants.

The corners of your lips tilted up in a devilish smirk as he let out a low growl. "Don't mock me woman."

Woman — there it was. He always called you girl and now —

"You want this." You stated simply, your voice had shifted into something lower, more primal, it was filled with an impatient desire. A neediness apparent in your tone.

He swallowed, attempting one last time to refuse you but finally, for the first time in months — he relented. Weeks of carefully constructed restraint simmered away. He accepted there was no point in fighting it. He could not even deny it himself anymore.

"I have wanted this since the very first day you came through that door. Holding yourself as if you belonged here. As if you had always belonged to me." His own words tasted foreign and strange on his tongue; as if they had been ripped from some deep pit inside of him that he had long sought to bury and forget.

You let out a needly little whine at his words and crashed your lips against his own. His beard slightly itched your skin as he moved a hand to your hair. gripping it as his fingers laced through the strands.

Your tongue clumsily fought for dominance and he relented, letting you take control just for a moment. But just for one single moment — before he broke you apart.

You were gasping for air as you removed your lips from him. "Please…" your voice was so vulnerable and needy he felt another surge of desire roll over him. He would not be able to restrain himself.

"Please what sweet girl?" He taunted, it was his turn to tease you now. All those days and hours of restless dauntng were ready to bite back at you. Full force.

"I don't know what you want if you don't tell me. You're a big girl, aren't you? Use your words." He pressed on, gathering your hair in his fist and toying with it.

"Please Maekar.." you whined and he could smell your arousal through the flimsy cotton shorts, he could feel how it pooled against his dress pants and probably glistened in the evening light.

He was still utterly patient — a newfound virtue, alas for all the wrong reasons this time.

He cocked his head to the side, studying your hazy eyes, lust crowding in them. He did not like to wait. He did not like to tease. But this time he concluded it was necessary — to teach you a lesson, to show you that you could not get away with riling him up so easily.

You swallowed your pride and let out the words. "Please I need your fingers…"

You were so sick for wanting this. A man old enough to be your father. Drooling in the lap of your employer like some desperate whore. Yet you could not bring yourself to care.

He still did not act, clearly intent on torturing you.

"Where? Here maybe?" He daunted bringing a digit up to your lips and parting them. You immedieately welcomed the intrusion and his finger was enveloped by the warmth of your mouth. His head spun at the sight. You were so pretty like this… all whiny and pliant. All for him. Only him.

You unlatched after coating it with glistening saliva, and shook your head. "Inside me… please." The last shred of dignity was gone, but you were so desperate to feel something — anything.

And that was all it took, all his self restraint was out the window as one of his calloused hands found their way into your shorts. You leaned forward, steadying yourself with a hand on his shoulder as his digits slowly traced your most sensitive spot.

You sighed and raised your hand to stiffle your moan. He quickly pushd it away. "Don't. I want to hear you." He commanded.

The house was empty. Aerion and Daeron were not at home. The girls were at a sleepover and Egg was hanging out with Valarr and Kiera.

Which left just the two of you.

Thinking about any of his children in this position felt so utterly wrong. But the pleasure quickly erased any unwelcome thoughts from your mind.

Maekar did not waste a singe moment as he plunged a digit into your weeping cunt. You let out a strangled cry at the intrusion. Your walls immedieately clenched around him, sucking in his finger.

"Fuck." He rasped at the feeling of your hole squeezing him so deliciously. His head spun at the thought of what it might feel like to have you wrapped around his cock. To have you gripping him so tightly.

"So fucking tight." He moved his other finger to toy with your clit, rubbing it in careful circles.

You felt the warmth pooling in your lower belly spread over your entire flesh. Little jolts of electricity surged through you as you squirmed in his hold.

The thought suddenly occured to him — could you possibly be a virgin? Surely you were not — because gods spare him he wasn't sure he had enough patience to handle you like that.

"Maekar." You moaned his name, gripping and clawing at his shoulders, like your life depended on it as you rode his fingers.. "More." You let out as your lips pressed against the skin of his cheek. A wet mark left on the place where your mouth had been.

"So greedy.." he chuckled but obedeyed as another finger pressed into your hole.

Gods — even one of his digits felt like two of yours. His fingers were so much thicker and longer than your own. The sting was painfully delicious.

Your head suddenly conjured up all the times you had spent desperately chasing your high, sweaty underneath your bedsheets, shame burning your cheeks as you touched yourself . Fingers toying with your clit as arousal seeped out of your hole — imaginaing it was his large hands carassing you, touching you. Splitting you open on his cock.

"Tell me girl, do the boys at college touch you like this?" He did not know what urged him to say it — but he did not care, all sense had long abandoned him.

You shook your head furiously.

You weren't a virgin. You had slept with a few boys on campus. Plenty of one night stands and short lived relationships. But none of them felt like this. None of them awoke such a primal desire and need in you. None of them could compare. None of them had your blood flowing and heart thumping like he did.

"Though so…" he replied as the corners of his lips curled upward, clearly amused but pleased with your answer. His fingers reached impossibly deep inside you and you felt the coil in your belly begin to tighten.

He sensed it too; the way your breaths become more shallow and how you desperately rutted against him.

He steadied you with his other hand. Locking you into place. Your juices were freely flowing all over his lap. The squelching noises were so scandalous you might have been embarassed if you hadn't been so caught up in the heat and passion of the moment.

"M'close…" you let out in a breath. A moan tore from your chest.

As you neared your orgasm you began to understand why he had six children. His fingers were working you open and bending you to his will as if it were second nature.

He hummed, curling his fingers inside your gummy walls. Your eyes gazed into his purple irises, your mouth hanging open in a silent moan.

You felt yourself being pushed closer and clooser to the edge, the coil in your stomach threatening to snap at any moment.

"Come for me girl…" His voice croaked out, and the last thing you felt was the warmth of his breath against your earlobe as absolute pleasure overtook you.

Your thighs shook and your body convulsed in his arms.

The orgasm washed over you in waves. Pure ecstasy flowing through every inch of you.

"Maekar.. maekar.." You chanted his name like a prayer as you rode out the high. His fingers were still working inside of you as he helped you ride through the orgasm.

As you reached the end of your bliss, he carefully pulled his fingers from your hole. And you whined at the sudden emptiness. The loss of contact an uncomfortable sensation.

Your eyes glanced down at the absolute mess you had made — your shorts were soaked and covered in arousal, his dress pants glistened with the remnants of your pleasure and the earthy smell hit your senses like a train.

Maekar brought his digits up to his lips — the same ones that had been buried knuckle deep inside of you just a few moments ago, soaked with your scent; and he licked them clean without hesitation. One by one.

He was still rock solid beneath you. And a breathless little mewl escaped you at the sight. You leaned forward as your legs spasmed and found their place on either side of him.

You laid your head gently against his chest, matching your breathing to his own. His chest rose and fell steadily as he held you in his arms.

How were you going to explain this to Aegon, to Kiera, to the girls — to anyone?

The thoughts suddenly swarmed you, unpleasant and intrusive, in the aftermath of your shared sin. And you found it was both endlessly exhilirating and horrifying.

—

Things became infinitely more complicated after that.

Maekar insisted on driving you home. You had attempted to protest at first — weakly and half-heartedly — but he simply shook his head, gave you a look and was already reaching for his keys.

“I’m not letting you take public transport like this.” he said firmly. The tone left very little room for argument.

You opened your mouth to object again, then closed it.

There was no point pressing the matter when he had already made up his mind. When Maekar decided something, the world tended to arrange itself around that decision whether anyone liked it or not.

So you followed him out to the car.

The drive through King’s Landing was painfully quiet.

A different kind of tension hung between you now; heavier, unfamiliar, something that seemed to fill every inch of the car’s interior.

You said very little. Instead you leaned your head lightly against the window, watching the city lights blur past in streaks of gold and white. Neon signs flickered across the glass. Street lamps passed one after another in steady rhythm.

You tried very hard not to think about the warmth still lingering in your body, the strange electric awareness humming beneath your skin. You tried not to think of the way he had touched you and how easily you had melted under his fingertips.

The plush leather seat of his Mustang creaked softly when you shifted. Beside you, Maekar drove like a man carved from stone. His hands were steady on the steering wheel. His gaze never left the road.

Not once during the entire drive did he look at you.

The silence between you stretched long enough that it began to feel almost fragile. When the car finally slowed in front of your apartment building, he pulled neatly into the empty space beneath the streetlamp. The engine went quiet.

For a moment neither of you moved. The only light came from the soft glow of the dashboard and the pale wash of the streetlight spilling through the windshield.

Maekar turned slightly in his seat, clearly about to speak. But you beat him to it.

“Do you regret it?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your voice sounded more desperate than you had intended. But you needed to know. You needed him to be honest and straight with his answer. Otherwise it would drive you to madness.

You swallowed, searching his face desperately for something — an answer, reassurance, anything at all. Because no matter how you tried to frame it in your mind, this had changed everything.

There was no pretending otherwise now.

Maekar exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his temple in that tired way he often did when something weighed too heavily on his mind.

You waited. Your teeth pressed lightly into your bottom lip as the seconds stretched.

Yes. That was what he should say.

He should tell you it was a mistake. That it could never happen again. That the line between you had already been crossed too far and that he would not allow it to happen another time.

He knew exactly what the responsible answer was supposed to be. But the words never came; never left him.

Because when he looked at you he saw the quiet hope lingering in your eyes. The fragile uncertainty beneath it.

And something in his chest twisted painfully. He had already taken too much from you tonight. He could not bring himself to wound you further with a lie.

“No.” The word came out almost as a whisper.

For a moment you didn’t react. Then the faintest hint of a smile tugged at your mouth. Not triumphant. Not teasing. Just… relieved.

The light returned to your eyes in a way that made his chest tighten again and for a flicker of a moment he felt he had made the right decision.

You reached out gently and placed your hand over his. This time he didn’t flinch.

“Neither do I,” you said softly.

You should, something in his mind screamed. You should hate me for this.

But the words stayed trapped behind his teeth. Instead he sat there in silence, your hand warm against his.

Eventually you withdrew it and reached for the door. “Good night, Maekar.” Your voice was quiet now that you bid him goodbye.

You stepped out of the car, pausing only long enough to glance back at him one last time before disappearing up the stairs toward your building.

He watched until the door closed behind you. Then he kept sitting there. He did not know how long he remained under the street light, sitting in his car. Waiting for something, anything. Perhaps to wake up and realize all of this had been a dream.

Maekar leaned forward slowly until his forehead rested against the steering wheel.

The entire evening replayed in his mind with brutal clarity. Every look. Every word. Every touch. Every moment he should have stopped himself and didn’t — came back to haunt him.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered quietly into the empty car. “What have I done…”

©padmespetal 2026 : I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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tags:

[splinteredbone]

northern spring (II)

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Pairing: Maekar Targaryen/Reader

Contains: SMUT: 18+ ONLY! Female!Stark!Reader. Arranged marriage. References to the Dance of Dragons and related events. Book canon, and what we know of it; therefore, possible spoilers for the TV adaptation, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. Age difference (Reader is 18–20; Maekar is in his early to mid-thirties). Vaginal Sex. Breeding Kink. Grinding. Lotus Position.

Word Count: 4.86K

Author’s Note: This frankly took way longer than I originally planned, and I do apologize for it, lol. Midterms and life in general kicked me this past month, but I’m alive, and I finished Part II! My inbox is open to anyone—I love to yap. Enjoy reading, loves! 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯₊˚⊹♡

A Stark bride journeys south and confronts the political weight of her new role, the watchful eyes of the royal court, and the work of forging a place among her husband’s children.

Too tired to know the time, you awoke with a sore body and sat up mindlessly. Cool air hit the bare skin of your chest and shoulders while your eyes adjusted to the darkness, for the candles’ wicks burned out, and your ears strained to hear the noise outside of your window and down the corridor.

The hour of the nightingale, you believed, as you heard the telltale sounds of the household moving about—maids preparing chamber pots and waking your undoubtedly hungover siblings for breakfast. Typically, the maids would come in and do the same with you, but not today.

You were keenly aware of the heavy and hot body next to you. Memories flooded your mind, and you exhaled softly in thought, looking out the window, the gentle curtains still covered the growing light outside. It was done now. You were his wife, and he was your husband.

You glanced at him. His back was you, and it moved steadily with his breathing. In the early glow of dawn, the bare and broad expanse of skin was milky-smooth—almost blemish-free except for streaks of red. Shocked at your baseless lust and not remembering marking the prince so, you looked away and lifted yourself, looking for your shift.

You picked it up, not bothering to slide it on yet, because you were thinking about where your robe could be. Your trunks were still in the chambers–closed and not the way you usually kept them. Maybe your robe would be in there.

“Where are you going?”

Prince Maekar’s voice was low, but not rough with sleep. He must’ve been awake before you. When you turned your head, he was already staring, shoulders pressed against the pillows on the bed. You stared at him in return, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Your posture was relaxed—a forceful thing because you reminded yourself that he’d already seen all of you the night before. There was no need to hide behind a facade of propriety, and he’d called you pretty while in the throes of passion.

“To find my robe and a bath,” you said plainly. It would do you wonders. You were sore, and a hot bath might unwind you enough before the inevitable fate of having to leave Winterfell.

“You need not hurry,” Prince Maekar replied. “Your maids will wait. They’re likely not to check on us for a few more hours, and you must be tired.”

At that, your gaze returned to the spot you’d vacated moments ago, yearning encircling your chest. You hesitated for a moment and padded over, dropping the shift back to the floor, and you slid into the spot. Your skin briefly ghosted over Prince Maekar’s bare hip; the heat of his body was pleasant against yours, and your eyes focused on the roof of your chambers.

Both of you were silent, save for your gradually rhythmic breathing, until the prince shifted, the weight of him moving the bed slightly. His body brushed against yours again, and you thought: perhaps, perhaps—

“Did I hurt you last night?”

You glanced at him, and he was already looking at you. You thought about how he’d maneuvered your knees over his shoulders, the way he’d been inside of you—hot and hard. You felt a flash of desire, so unlike you, maybe this was the new you, and thought it wouldn’t be so bad if he wanted to bed you again—maybe you could bed him.

“I am sore,” you replied. “Not broken.”

You caught yourself before you tacked on his title, remembering he told you not to bother when alone. His eyes flicked to your mouth, and you thought about what it would be like if you initiated contact.

It felt like a challenge—his apparent need to question if you were hurt. You were never good in the face of a challenge; there had been a time Donnor had said you would not dare scale the towers as he did, but you had. Winterfell was a gray stone labyrinth of walls, towers, courtyards, and tunnels spreading out in all directions—centuries of family history were in the stones. You spent two moonturns scaling the walls in the same way as Donnor, faster at times than he was, before a scare near the loose stones of the Broken Tower set you both firmly on the ground. Berena’s own climbing phase was still ongoing—it was not a strange sight to see her in the ancient branches of the oaks in Winterfell’s godswood.

You turned and shifted closer to him. You waited a beat before hooking your leg over his—his hip was warm and firm underneath you.

“I am not made of glass, husband,” you said, the word feeling too heady and true on your tongue. “And I am no Southron. I can handle more than you think.”

He went still beneath the weight of your leg, every line of him taut. His hand came up and rested on your knee, long fingers touching your kneepit. “You are bold.”

“Honest,” you corrected. Prince Maekar exhaled, and his gaze searched your face for a lapse in judgment. Your lips twitched in wry amusement. “You’ve married a wolf, not a little bird.”

“I see that.” His thumb grazed the thin skin of your knee. “Still, you will need your strength.”

You hummed idly, bringing your body upward and straddling his hips. You felt him beneath you, soft but beginning to rise with your intention.

“I would not mind a daughter or a boy. But truthfully, I’ve had enough bous for a lifetime with my brothers,” you told him while rolling your hips experimentally. You felt yourself wetting, letting your folds move and slide along his length. Your breath hitched, your hands finding his chest and nails digging in. “Just one babe.”

He hissed underneath you, hand grabbing your hips. He echoed your words, neck bobbing, “Just one.”

You continued rolling your hips, small moans building in your throat but not leaving. You chased the welling of pleasure within yourself, liking Prince Maekar’s attention on you; his hand reached up and cupped your breast, and you arched closer, a whine escaping your lips.

Despite the already existing ache in your loins, you lifted yourself with your thighs, clumsily reaching for him. He knocked your hand away and sat up, bringing you with him in one arm. It made you face-to-face, chest-to-chest, and your thighs wrapped around his trim waist. Your hands went to his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him, and your nipples pebbled at the feeling of his chest hair touching you.

“Not yet,” he said in a gravely tone, hands hot on your waist.

With a puff of air, you resumed grinding and rolling your hips, testing the new angle. His hands at your hips guided you firmly. There was a wet, slick sound between you, of flesh moving against flesh; you felt faint then and leaned forward to tuck your face into his neck, breath hitching when your pearl hit a pleasurable angle just so.

“Go on,” Prince Maekar assured you with a grunt when your movements wavered, and his breath roughened. “You’re almost there.”

You trusted his word, continued rolling your hips, and chasing the ebb and flow of desire in your blood. Each movement grew surer than the last until your body answered him without a thought. Your peak was a hurried, delicate thing, your hips stuttering as you breathed through it, your stomach and lower limbs tensing. You were beginning to understand your mother and Aunt Myriame: a woman might go without love, but the marriage bed need not be cold or bitter for it.

You rested for a moment, pulse racing, until Prince Maekar shifted underneath you. He guided himself toward your entrance, tip slinging along your soaked slit. And unlike your first bedding, you were the one to press an open-mouthed kiss on Prince Maekar, humming as you pushed down and he up until he was firmly inside of you, your fingers curling into the silver-gold strands on his nape. It was a strange, new feeling, but it was not unwelcome.

You moaned when the prince thrust shallowly; his hand was in your hair, fisting it away from your face and neck, and his other hand guided the movement of your hips.

“Take what you want,” he said, teeth scraping the thin skin of your neck, with another shallow thrust and grind that made you squirm in his grasp, made you burn from the inside out with desire, “You have the right of it now.”

You almost whimpered. There was a burn in your thighs, one akin to hours of riding horses, but you pushed through, chasing the feeling of building tension in your pith, of pleasure that traveled from innermost self to your nape, warm and tingling. Too full, too much, you thought, but could not stop. Not now, for you were going to finish what you started.

When you peaked again, it was more sloppy than the relatively gentle one from earlier, a broken keen of his name coming from your mouth as you nearly lost your balance. Underneath you, Prince Maekar continued thrusting upward, and you bobbed along with the motion and fluttered around him, nails bluntly digging into his shoulders. He held your hips, stopping them from shaking, until he peaked with a slack-jawed groan.

You felt his seed, warm and mixing with your own spent, and him softening within. The two of you stayed there for a moment, and your eyes closed, chin still tucked into Prince Maekar’s shoulder. His fingers smoothed the sweaty hair along your hairline and tucked an errant strand behind your ear; you hummed idly and burrowed yourself deeper into his touch.

“Sleep,” Prince Maekar sighed, his chest moving with the motion, and he untangled your limbs, pulling himself out, and placing you under the furs and adjusting them across your body. You barely felt it, eyes and body heavy with exhaustion. “You’ve done enough for this morn.”

You lingered in Winterfell for the first fortnight of your marriage. The allowance to bring two guards and ladies-in-waiting—at the gentle insistence of Prince Baelor and your grandfather—delayed your departure, for you had to select them and wait for them to pack and prepare.

The choice of guards had come easily. The first would be Lonnel Snow, your half-uncle, who was more Flint than Stark. He was short of stature and well-built, trained by his maternal Flint kin. Uncle Lonnel was a good fighter, beating many a man in the courtyard, and you were thankful he’d accepted the position despite his aversion to anything Southron. The second would be Benton Glover, a distant relative through your great-grandmother, Lady Gillane Glover, and the same age as Donnor. You knew him well enough, for he was one of many second or third children sent to Winterfell over the winter season.

The Princes’ retinue had doubled in size compared to when they’d first arrived in Winterfell. Your ladies-in-waiting were to be Elwyna Manderly and Berena. Elwyna for her adherence to the Faith of the Seven, in the hope her presence might soften the edges of Prince Maekar’s newly wedded wife being both a Stark and devout to the Old Gods; Berena because she had asked, and you could not deny your sister (your mother had confessed she would pray that Berena might find a husband, faults and all). Members of Houses Cerwyn and Reed, which included your cousin Argelle, the Lady of Castle Cerwyn, Inara Reed, and the entire lot of Manderlys, were now included in the retinue traveling south on the kingsroad. Edd Locke stayed in Winterfell to continue courting Alysanne, for they were to be married next year. The other Starks who’d married and moved away also stayed, lingering to remain with family as the northern spring slowly began thawing the snow and ice.

Castle Cerwyn was a half-day ride away and would be used to feed and water the horses and the retinue after the early breakfast at Winterfell. The Knowledge was enough for you, but not for your Uncle Lonnel, apparently, because two hours into the ride, he called out your name.

“Eat,” Uncle Lonnel ordered in the Old Tongue, and threw something your way. You caught it, a crisp red apple from Winterfell’s glass gardens, used to the habit from some family members, and raised a quizzical eyebrow toward your uncle. “You need to be fed if you are to be with a babe.”

Unwittingly, your nose crinkled in thought, and you replied in the Old Tongue, as well. “Is it not too soon, nuncle?”

“Perhaps. Nonetheless, skinny little waifs do not get pregnant. Eat.”

Berena and Benton snorted, both understanding the Old Tongue, and you cast them a tepid, warning glare. But the damage was already done—the retinue ahead slowed, and when you looked over, the Targaryen princes—your husband among them—turned to you all. Prince Maekar did not smile, his gaze settling on you with assessment, before flicking to your uncle in dislike—of what, you were not sure. Maybe it had to do with the whole throwing apples and ordering you to eat nonsense. Uncle Lonnel smiled widely and mirthfully at your husband; for a moment, you wished the earth might open and swallow you—horse and all.

It was Prince Baelor who broke the silence, his tone light with curiosity. “Was that the Old Tongue, my lady?”

“It was, your grace,” you replied, a hand tightening on the horse’s reins. You were on a well-bred palfrey named Shadow, which would’ve been a fine name except the palfrey was white, for House Stark’s Master of Horses had an ironic sense of humor. “Many in the North still speak it as their primary tongue, and the Starks are taught since the cradle.”

Benton chuckled. “Aye, and it serves well when the wilding manage to make it past the Wall and encroach on our lands.”

Or the Skagosi, you thought. The uprising lasted years, killing your great-uncle Barthogan and thousands of others, before being successfully put down; they had taken advantage of the tension that arose following Old Man Cregan’s death—Jonnel slow to show his teeth, and Barthogan too swift with his temper. The Skagosi uprising had lasted through the end of the previous autumn and the first half of winter—it was why this particular winter had been hard, why your grandfather made the gamble of offering your hand to a princling. There had not been enough men to reap the fields, and there would be fewer still in the years to come.

“Is that a typical occurrence?” Ser Donnel of Duskendale questioned, and you noticed that the Kingsguard shifted closer, taking defensive positions near the princes. It was subtle but sure. Neither Uncle Lonnel nor Benton did the same for you, rising on as they had, as if the Kingsguard’s unease was of no consequence.

“Not this far south,” Elwyna replied smoothly. “Wilding seldom come beyond the Last Hearth when they are not troubling Bear Island. Deepwood Motte sees them now and again.”

“The Lady Manderly is right,” Benton said with a nod, and he shot the sandy-blonde woman a flirtatious smile, which Elwyna pointedly ignored. “Most trouble we’ve had recently was with the Skagosi. They’ve been quelled—or near enough.”

That seemed to open the gates of conversation for your male kin, the Kingsguard, and an ever so curious little Prince Aegon, and so began a discussion you let slip past you—your attention caught by the rhythm of hooves against frozen earth and the bite of wind against your cheeks—spring it may be, but it was a northern spring.

When at last the walls of Castle Cerwyn appeared, you welcomed the reprieve of the familiar structure. Your legs felt as thin as parchment as you hauled your body down; you felt Prince Maekar’s gaze linger on you, and you did not shy from it, giving him a brief curve of your lips before your cousin Argelle brushed past and took you with her inside.

“I would like to speak with you,” she said, hooking your elbows together and drawing you deeper into the castle. “I know not when I’ll see you again.”

“Speak freely, cousin.”

Argelle gave you a weary look, and she looked so much like Alysanne that it made you ache at the familiarity; it made you wonder if the child you desired would be dark-haired and gray-eyed, resembling your family and the North.

“We were girls in the same halls once, and now we are wives,” Argelle said, her voice soft and deliberate. “You ride south, farther than I ever did, and you’ll wear the dragon’s colors and his protection. They’ll look to you for what you are—not just his lady wife, but Stark-born and North-bred. Your actions will speak for us, and a woman’s conduct may cut as sharply as any sword. Best you learn to wield it, lest it be used on you instead.”

Her steps slowed, her grip loosened. “You won’t remember, but our old man Cregan always said: when the snows fall, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

“My grandfather said it once,” you said, “When I was fighting with Berena. I don’t even remember what over, but we didn’t speak for days, almost an entire sennight.”

“Stubborn, both of you, even with your own slow temper.” Argelle chuckled. “I want you to remember and heed my word, cousin. There are forces grander than us, and when the Gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”

You glanced at Argelle. It was not the first time she had spoken so. There was something in her eyes then, something with weight, something unsettling, and it made you wonder what she saw that you did not.

“I shall remember this, Argelle,” you told her, leaning into her solid frame. “And I appreciate you for it.”

The first thing that you thought, as you docked in the harbor of King’s Landing, was that Westeros’ most populous city and capital reeked, an ungodly stench of waste overcoming the scent of the salty sea breeze.

The second was that the southern court was tedious and tiring with its whispers and stares. You did not expect anything less, but you did not bend to their whims and expectations. You took advantage of what little distant kin from the Vale were found in the Red Keep alongside Berena and Elwyna. They took to court like a hand in a glove: Berena charmed men with her sharp smiles full of teeth and wild whips of hair, and Elwyna was no stranger to Southern customs, despite her family’s own distinct Northern lilt after centuries in White Harbor. Uncle Lonnel and Benton took shifts guarding you as well. Their presence, two steps behind you, caused many a person in court to give you desperately needed space.

You would not be staying in King’s Landing long, according to Prince Maekar, only the necessary time to pay your respects to his parents, King Daeron and Queen Myriah. His children were waiting in Summerhall, and he’d already been gone far too long. Your husband did not express his worries, but you were beginning to discern his particular dispositions, hidden behind his prickly, impatient manner.

The King and Queen had been as the stories claimed. King Daeron had a kind, thoughtful face, but an obvious strength lay within him despite his scholarly life; Queen Myriah seemed to be of a similar character. Between the two rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, you could see how Prince Baelor bore a resemblance to both.

You met Princes Aerys and Rhaegel as well. The former was engrossed in a book, barely humming in acknowledgment; the latter had been gentle and sweet, welcoming you as a sister; their respective wives, the ladies Aelinor Penrose and Alys Arryn, had done so too. You did not interact with Princes Aerys and Rhaegel as much as you did with their wives, but you could tell that Prince Maekar loved all his brothers. It boded well—the loyalty your husband had for his family.

Between all that, you’d caught glimpses of Brynden Rivers, the King’s half-brother and advisor. And every time you thought of that riddle: How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? A thousand eyes and one. If only because Berena had whispered it in your ear in the Old Tongue, amused, as though it was a bawdy jest. Your older sister had confessed that she held a morbid fascination over the legitimized half-brother of Blackwood blood, and you made her swear over the Old Gods she would not go seeking him out freely, where halls might be listening, nor attempt to test whether the thousand eyes and one were true.

In truth, you only met him once, during the same feast where you were formally introduced to the court of King Daeron and Queen Myriah. Lord Bloodraven was almost less intimidating up close—less myth, and all man. His red eye was assessing, and the other was an empty socket. It happened during the Blackfyre Rebellion, you remembered then; a harsh reminder of the price men paid for loyalty.

He had inclined his head to you, all courtesy and composure. You truthfully did not know what to make of your husband’s uncle, and you could not discern what judgment he passed upon you—if any at all. But when you withdrew, you felt as if he already knew you, and all you could think was of a thousand eyes and one, and your husband’s hand had been on your back, hot and low enough that you briefly thought about propriety.

A sennight after you arrived in King’s Landing, you and your husband departed for Summerhall, riding hard for the lightly fortified castle in the Dornish marshes. Summerhall had historically been a summer residence, but it had been gifted to your husband, for Baelor had Dragonstone, as heir, and Aerys and Rhaegel seldom left King’s Landing. Prince Maekar had maintained a household there, with his wife, the Lady Dyanna Dayne, after the Blackfyre Rebellion.

On the last day of the ride, Prince Aegon—nay, demanded—to share your horse with him. You glanced fleetingly at your husband, who was already watching you and his youngest son interact. It was not the first time, it wouldn’t be the last, but you shifted your entire attention to the little prince.

Prince Aegon was a sure little thing, and you chortled, letting him scramble up and making sure he was soundly against your chest before departing. The little prince’s hair tickled your chin, and you followed along to his chatter, for he was a curious boy and quick with a retort, particularly when Berena stooped down to his level. Both seemed to take a distinct joy in trading barbs and taunts. At first, you’d been hesitant, had tried quelling Berena; however, your husband did not seem especially displeased, and Egg was insistent on continuing the conversation until the sight of Summerhall’s walls had the little prince clamming up.

You considered the little prince’s sudden somber disposition and its implications. You felt your face twitch minutely when the retinue came through the primary gates of Summerhall. Prince Maekar’s household was already waiting for your arrival. You counted the children—four were standing at attention—but one was missing. Daeron, mayhaps?

You looked to your husband, whose lips twitched in anger as he scanned his assembled children. It was enough of a confirmation as nerves welled in you as you dismounted your horse, following Prince Aegon’s movement. It had been doing so since your arrival at Summerhall loomed over you as an undeniable truth.

“Father, Summerhall is yours.”

A slim figure slipped forward with an imperious face and curly silver-gold hair. You knew the figure was Prince Aerion then—if only because of his behavior, courteous with a distinct flavor of arrogance, was what the other ladies had whispered about, what Berena had gathered sennights ago in Wintertown.

Prince Aerion’s shifted to you. His smile was too tense in the corners of his mouth, and his lips were cold when he kissed your hand. You did not dwell on it for long, however, for the introductions quickly shifted to Prince Aemon and Princesses Daella and Rhae. Princess Rhae was in the arms of a maid, restless in the woman’s arms. It saddened you, made you think of Grandfather Brandon’s words—a keep with growing children needs a woman’s hand.

You drew a measured breath and crossed the threshold of Summerhall, where your new life, bound to a royal house and all its shadows, waited for you.

A sennight had passed since your initial arrival at Summerhall. You had not lain with your husband since departing Winterfell, and your moonsblood had come and gone since then.

You were not dissuaded by the lack of a babe in your womb. It was a game, when a seed would take root—your mother had been fortunate to have a fruitful marriage, but she herself confessed it had taken nearly a year before being pregnant with Donnor. Each woman’s body was different, she’d told you, and insisted that you would be much like her.

You truly yearned for a babe, but the sennight at Summerhall had you busy with the presence of your husband’s children. You need not be a maester of the Citadel to recognize that your husband’s youngest children were starved of attention—by him, by the lack of a mother, by the circumstances of their short lives. You were not a stranger to their circumstances; you, too, had been forced to grow up, to choke upon your grief. Jonnel, Barthogan, Sansa, Sarra, Raya, Myriah—their names came to you as an old mantra built of melancholy.

Princess Daella was a year older than Prince Aegon. Unlike her younger brother, she dogged your steps in Summerhall with suspicion as you acquainted yourself with the castle and its household.

There was a late morning breeze that brushed against your shoulders. The dress you wore was wholly different than the heavy woolen dresses you wore in Winterfell; it was lighter, made of flowy layers, but there was still a simplicity to it.

Princess Daella’s steps were silky-soft as she walked beside you toward the garden where your weirwood sapling awaited; she was quiet, as she always was, until you reached it. The weirwood sapling barely reached your knee, and there was yet to be a face carved in the trunk. It was no heart tree—it wouldn’t be for some time.

You retreated from the weirwood, stepping toward a stone bench. Princess Daella followed and sat next to you. The two of you sat in silence, soaking up the sun. The sunlight in the Dornish Marches was much different from that in the North, but it was pleasant and warm.

“Am I to call you mother now?”

Princess Daella’s voice surprised you, and you turned to her. She was already looking at you with a stubborn tilt in her chin. She appeared so much like her father, you thought, and you exhaled quietly—a mix of amusement and sadness because of her question, because of her impertinent little face peering up at you with the same shade of dark violet Prince Aegon had.

“No,” you told her, and you mulled over your next words for a moment. “You already had a mother, Princess, and I will not take her place.”

Princess Daella tilted her head. “What shall I call you then?”

“You may call me what you like, but I would be content with my name.”

Princess Daella nodded once, looking so much older than her age. She looked like Prince Aegon then, who’d done a familiar movement in Winterfell’s library—such somber children. She said your name once, forming the syllables hesitantly, and you smiled encouragingly at her.

“Good.” You dared joke, “You sound like a Northerner even.”

Princess Daella’s lips twitched, the hint of a smile ghosting her face before her attention shifted past your shoulder. The small expression vanished, and her gaze sharpened.

“Father,” she greeted, standing up and curtsying.

You followed her motions, seconds apart.

Prince Maekar was at the edge of the garden. His silver-gold hair caught the Dornish sun, and his gaze moved from his daughter to you.

“Go to the septa, Daella,” he stated in lieu of greeting the little princess.

Princess Daella obeyed without protest, casting you one glance before turning and disappearing beyond the hedges. You remained standing, and only when the rustle of her skirts faded did Prince Maekar step farther into the garden.

“I did not mean to make her late—”

“I know,” he interrupted. His eyes shifted briefly to the weirwood sapling. “It has taken well.”

“It’s only been a few days,” you replied. “Time will only tell.”

The sapling would never rival the heart tree of Winterfell in your lifetime. You doubted it would be in your children’s, either—perhaps your grandchildren’s grandchildren might see it grown tall enough to draw comparison.

A face, however, you could carve. You found yourself wondering what sort it ought to be—perhaps one that smiled, a small blessing for the years to come.

Series Masterlist ⋆ Next, WORK IN PROGRESS

[marsrambles]

── .✧ hunting season

pairing: maekar targaryen x wife!reader

while your husband is out on his hunt, you take a stroll through the woods. when you return injuried, maekar fusses like only he could. you set about reminding him you're less fragile than he assumes.

wordcount: 2.4k

content: SMUT, age gap, p in v, woman on top, established relationship, injury, hurt/comfort, mention of loss, threat of violence (not directed at reader), no first name mentioned, english is not my first language i apologisee in advance

a/n: i know i said i was writing a follow up but i never said it wouldn't be a little sappy. also desperate to have this man shirtless by the gods i got carried away and lowkey wrote a plot, who do i think i am.

─────────────── .✧. ───────────────

You found yourself pacing the tent for half an hour before you set about getting your servants to dress you in a thick fur-lined coat and gloves to brave a walk outside. The cold was bitter but dry, with sun peaking through the tall pines around the large clearing where the camp had been established. A rare beautiful day after snowfall. It would do you some good to breathe the fresh air which was sorely lacking in the capital. To see such vast and deep expanse of green. To enjoy the quiet of it all.

Without a precise heading, you wandered along a path as you listened to the birds and watched small critters scurry along the forest floor. The woods seemed so much more alive than the rest of the realm during winter. It had always been a season you loathed as the short and wet days dragged on without much entertainment. Unless you could get away into nature.

You stopped to admire a deserted spider's web covered in frost but a rustle in the leaves behind you spooked you and had you lose your footing. You reached out to catch yourself upon the pines but slammed into a fallen log on the ground instead. The pain overtook you in an instant, sharp and hot at your side, blinding for a second. You hissed, gathering yourself before rising again. At least no one was present to witness your shameful stumble.

That was when you noticed the blood upon the snow.

It dripped from the wound at your side, not enough to cause immediate concern but constant enough to warrant hurrying back to camp and cutting your leisurely stroll short. Still, nothing could make you regret your decision about said stroll. It was a lovely day, and it had been nice until then.

With the men gone for most of the afternoon, your husband departed with them, you found yourself rather... Bored. As much as it pained you to admit it, Maekar had been correct in his assumption. Of course you'd never actually admit it to him! The sardonic laugh and smug look he would get while telling you he had told you so was enough to make you groan out loud. Prick. It came with experience you supposed. He had probably taken his late wife on hunting trips before and she had complained, the smart woman that she was.

You smiled through the pain at the thought. There was no jealousy or unease when it came to Dyanna. She had given Maekar four sons, regardless of his personal feelings towards how they fared now. She had been a good woman, and a loving mother. You hoped to follow in her example if the Gods ever granted you children of your own.

The walk back was far less pleasant, the pain worsening each time you brought your right foot forward. You felt dizzy and parched. Gods be good you hadn't wandered that far, had you? After taking a brief halt on a stump to catch your breath, you spotted the edge of the clearing. At last, comfort and safety.

The relief was short lived.

You heard Maekar before you saw him, shouting your name and rushing towards you at the first sight of you holding your side and your bloodied up coat. Curse him and his hawk-like eyes. You had thought you had time enough to be seen by the Maester before they returned with their trophies. Your husband certainly would have noticed the wound but it would have been far easier to explain in a state of undress when you could have had him preoccupied by other assets.

He wrapped his broad hands around your face, tilting it up towards him as he peered at you. No doubt assessing you for further damage. The wild look in his pale eyes sent a shiver down your spine. Panic was a rare expression on his face. And this one was mixed with much more terrible things you dared not name. Brows furrowed, lips pinched in a taunt line, jaw set and squared.

"What's happened? Who did this?"

Maekar spoke softly but with alarm, as if the woods were holding their breath awaiting your response. A voice reserved only for your ears. You pressed a faint kiss to his palm and hoped it provided enough of a balm to soothe his worry, if only by a fraction.

"A tree.", You laughed faintly through the paleness of your expression.

The first rush of adrenaline had began to seep out of you, leaving you cold and shivering in your torn coat. You could hardly feel your fingers. What you could feel however, was the throbbing of your wounded side.

"What are you standing around for, fetch a fucking Maester for my wife this second!", he shouted at the other men before his attention returned to you.

"I am alright.", you insistent even as you clutched his forearm for support.

"Hush."

"Maekar--"

"What were you thinking? Did common sense abandon you today?"

And here came the lecture. It was born of anxiety for certain, but the words still angered you. You would not be treated like a glass jewel on the point of breaking. It took a great deal of long, drawn out breaths for your temper to settle. Without a word, you pressed your palm to his cheek, thumb rubbing against the edge of his beard under his eye. You opened your mouth to speak but were unable to find the right words.

"Your Grace, Maester Yormwell to see her Lady.", a servant interrupted.

Maekar groaned but said nothing back about the matter. He led you slowly, carefully, back to his tent. You could see the exasperation oozing off of him at the situation. This was far from the end of it.

── .✧. ──

"I feel quite... faint."

The sight of the wound had you queasy, your legs buckling beneath your weight as you leaned back against the table while the Maester cleaned your wound with a salve. It was deep through the tissue but only flesh had been pierced. It would leave a scar for certain. Neither your first nor, much to your husband's grief, your last.

Maekar's grip on the dagger at his side visibly tightened as he moved from looming over the Maester's shoulder to pacing like a caged dragon around the tent. More for comfort than meant as a threat, the gesture seemed to ground his anger and pass it into the blade. He had sent everyone away for the remainder of the afternoon and had only left once, shortly, to speak with Baelor outside. His tone had been venomous and biting while the older man's stayed soothing and even.

"You've lost some blood my Lady, but avoided the worst. It's only flesh it went through. This will require some stitches and--"

"Then fucking get to it, you imbecile.", Maekar growled.

"Maekar, my love, peace."

"Why were you left unattended? Who the fuck was on watch? I'm going to have their hide."

"I suppose you'll want to burn down the forest as well for the offence?", you offered sarcastically.

"Do not jest with me right now.", his finger pointed threateningly out at your face.

He turned towards the old Maester with a dismissive wave of his hand, unable to direct his anger at a worthwhile target. His scowl was something to behold as he dropped into a wooden chair and sunk deep into it.

"If she does not improve within the hour, it's you who'll be game in tomorrow's hunt."

You waited in silence and bit your lip as the needle stitched your flesh back together in a fine line, only ever hissing when the pain was unbearable. You ground your teeth. Better the pain than tears. Maekar looked volatile, as if he were ready to shove the old man aside and take up the needle himself if it meant your suffering would end.

The old Maester departed after having wrapped your side in a clean bandage. He bid you both good night as he all but ran out. Your husband was still slouched in his seat by the entrance. He wore a closed expression, his fingers nervously picking at each other in his lap. It made your heart bleed to see him so pitiful for a simple scratch. How had he survived the stress of four births? Would he be able to take any more?

"I knew bringing you was an abominable idea the moment you spoke of it."

"But I had very persuasive arguments, didn't I?", you teased in hopes of lightening the mood.

"What?", he looked up at you at last, confused or not listening most like.

"Come here, sit with me."

Maekar stalked towards you slowly with heavy feet. You waited until he was before you to reach out for his hands and lead him towards the bed. You pushed him down and climbed atop him before he had time to protest. Slowly, you began to undo the lacing of your shift one by one, your eyes never leaving his. The corners of your lips lifted into a smile when his expression shifted as he caught your meaning.

"Out of the question."

He made to get up once more but you held him in place with a firm hand on his stomach. The effect was immediate. You were gratified to not have to put up much more of a fight with him, even if it cost him his dignity. His hands settled lightly on your hips, afraid to cause further damage.

"I'm alright, husband, but seems only a demonstration will put your mind at ease."

The pain was still present but much dulled by the wine you had consumed while the Maester had tended to you. It created a nice tickling sensation in your limbs and made you feel looser than normal. More pliable and ripe.

"You've suffered much worse wounds and lived."

"Yes in full armour, on a battlefield, not prancing around a forest like a madwoman!"

"Touch," you brought his hand over your heart, "I am a whole."

"Not the bloody point..."

"You fret too much."

"With reason, look what happens when I am not here to mind you."

"That is not the only reason, is it?"

"No.", he breathed out after a beat, holding your gaze.

There were so many unnamed things in his eyes. You began to grind your hips atop him and set a slow, deliberate pace meant to entice rather than arouse. Using his middle as leverage, you bent forward, the new angle providing much better friction between your thighs. You felt him stiffen against your entrance through the layers of clothing. You sighed, contented.

"I am not her."

"No.", Maekar repeated, his hand reaching up to tangle in your hair and bringing your mouths together.

"Then cease acting as if I were a ghost."

The kiss was all consuming, leaving you lightheaded as you continued to rock against him. You pushed his tunic off of him, followed by your shift and undergarments in quick succession. His hands were worship made tangible upon your flesh, claiming and pleading at once. When you opened your eyes as the two of you parted for air, your husband had the audacity to look wrecked. You felt wretched for the worry and suffering you'd caused him. The unyielding façade broken at once.

"I'm sorry.", you whispered, breathless against his lips.

"I know."

You whined quietly when his thumb brushed against the fresh sutures, your movements stuttering for a beat. Maekar swore, pushing his pants down to free himself and guide his cock against your slit but did not press inside. You stilled completely this time. With a wince, you rose to a sitting position again. The loss of heat between your bodies had you needy and unable to not chase after the sensation as quickly as humanly possible.

"Wait... I said I would-- I said I would demonstrate.", you panted out, head spinning with wine and desire.

"Demonstrate, then."

Your hand came to replace his between your bodies as you slowly, all too slowly, guided him inside of your warmth. It didn't take long to adjust to the exquisite stretch. The perfect feeling of fullness overtaking you. You began to ride him with abandon, chasing your pleasure without a care for your bruises and sutures. They would have time to heal later, this couldn't wait. You couldn't wait. You need to remind him just how truly alive you felt.

"Slow down-- your wound."

Maekar's hands anchored your hips down to his, moving in tandem as he drove up into you. A desperate attempt to ease your grinding or soothe his own ache, you couldn't say. You couldn't say much apart from his name for that matter, all other words forgotten. The delicious friction provided by the angle had you climbing higher and higher. Your nails raked red lines down his chest, leaving a matching mark of your own on his flesh. The sturdiness of his fingers making you clench around his length. You thanked the Gods for his sturdy mass and battle-waged body. In all your years together you'd never once had to worry about stamina being an issue. Maekar could spend hours worshipping between your thighs with his hands, his mouth, his cock.

Your climax came rolling over you like a tidal wave, his thrusts stuttering and losing rhythm as he followed you over the edge. He didn't slow down or relent until he had chased his release to the end.

"Seven hells.", Maekar huffed, the both of you spent and on your backs now.

It had taken a moment to be able to speak again, chests heaving and sweat rolling down between the valley of your breasts.

"Am I forgiven now?", you asked as you leaned over to press open mouthed kisses to his collarbones.

"Certainly not."

"Well, I do apologize, perhaps there's something I could do...", you let your voice trail off.

Your hand drifted between his thighs again, light fingers tapping a beat along his flesh but not quite grasping. He rolled his eyes at you, scowling again, but this time his gaze bore a playful twinkle. You brought his hand to your lips, popping his index in your mouth and watching as his own lifted in a smile. A nervous, exhausted laugh worked its way out of his chest. The first sign of normalcy.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Not until you're truly spent.", you hummed as you continued to trail your lips down his digits, your tongue curling around them.

"Oh I believe that, you insatiable woman."

[author-morgan]

Title: (You're the) Missing Piece   Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x fem!Reader Rating: Fluff with a pinch of heat + usual Westeros shenanigans Word count: 5.1k+ Summary: While on the soggy road, Egg isn't feeling the best, and instead of a hedge, you all find yourselves in a warm inn for the night. Or in which you and Dunk end up in a bathtub together and have to confront things left unspoken head-on.

...been lookin' for the one, and you're the missin' piece...

THE SPRING RAINS have not let up for nigh on a week, nor has the last grasp of a short winter let up over the Westerlands. It makes for a miserable time on the River Road toward the seat of House Tully and beyond toward the North. As if the wet clothes, mud, and chill of the nights without a proper fire to warm the camp and cook aren’t enough, poor Egg begins falling behind on his mule, Maester—a bit farther than you would have liked—complaining about a sore throat and aches in his little bones.

You offer the little prince a hunk of mallow root to chew from your satchel, telling him it’ll help with the scratch in his throat. He pulls a face at the taste and texture—like slimy tree bark—but does as he’s told; else he risks receiving a clout in the ear from Ser Duncan. 

By midday, you know it’s a fever that’s got hold of Egg. His skin is clammy, warm, and paler than usual when you press the back of your fingers to his forehead, and his wide violet eyes are glassy and tired, looking up at you from under the brim of his straw hat. Even his usual chatter along the path fades to silence. 

It’s enough for Dunk to say you’ll stop at the next inn along the road. It should be the Inn of the Kneeling Man, near Stone Hedge, where there’ll be a proper maester, if it comes to needing one. Though you think two or three nights with a warm bed and hearth and a soft pillow will set the little prince right again. 

And so, the three of you press on. 

The road winds past sodden fields, swollen streams, and bare-branched trees that should be budding with flowers and leaves by now. All day, the sky stays a dull grey, but the rain softens to a drizzle in the afternoon, even if the bitter chill never leaves. 

Come evenfall, the Inn of the Kneeling Man is just around the bend in the road—just as Dunk said it would be—with smoke rising from the chimneys and a warm glow in the windows from flickering candles.

Veering off the road, you head to the stables, leaving Thunder, Storm, and Maester to be tended to for the night. Dunk gives the stableboy a copper, and you give him a few more—with how the roads have been, they’ll all need an extra brushing or two—before following after your two companions and over to the inn. 

The innkeep wipes his hands on his apron as he takes in the sight of the three of you when you enter—travel-worn and carrying a sick child between you. The largest of the rooms is taken, but there are two rooms available in its place, a small one for the boy and another for you and Dunk. Before turning in for the evening, though, you all need a warm meal—and just about anything sounds better than hard cheese and salt beef. 

The common room smells of woodsmoke and stew, and there are benches and tables aplenty. Only merchants and other hedge knights are traveling about the realm these days, and they mostly keep to themselves, though a few curious eyes follow the three of you. By now, you’re used to the attention. Dunk is likely to be the tallest man in all nine kingdoms—certainly, the biggest man you and most others will ever see—and wandering about the realm with a small, bald boy for his squire certainly doesn’t help.

You and Egg take the bench nearest to the fire, hanging your cloaks to start drying. Almost as soon as you all sit, a serving girl brings a tray of food over. Bowls of hot stew with venison and root vegetables, and sage. A loaf of brown bread, freshly baked before dawn. And a pitcher of ale for you and Dunk, and watered wine for the boy. 

Egg picks up his bowl, drinking some of the broth—it feels good to his scratchy throat and warms his belly. The three of you eat in near silence, listening to the conversations scattered around: The Red Fork’s flooded. None of the ferries are running. It’s the worst rains many can remember, right on the heels of a summer-long drought. One of Lord Reyne of Castamere’s daughters had run off with one of Lord Lydden’s sons. There’s a new tax on the Myrish lace and samite. Dunk takes a quaff of his ale, gaze lingering on Egg when he goes to refill the cup. 

He’s leaned against your side, eyes half open—fighting to stay awake after finishing his bowl of stew and hunk of bread, his lashes drooping lower with every slow blink. You smile, nudging him gently. “Come on,” you tell the little prince. “That’s enough for today.”

“I’m not tired,” he mumbles, head tipping farther against your side.

Dunk snorts. “You’re half asleep on your feet, Egg.”

“I am not, ser,” Egg insists, his protest lacking its usual fire.

You rise from the bench, easing Egg upright with you. He sways a little, and your hand finds his shoulder. “I’ll see Egg to bed,” you tell Dunk as he looks up at you, the firelight catching in his bright blue eyes. There’s worry there, plain as anything, though he tries to hide it with a steady nod.

Egg’s steps drag, head dipping forward, as you guide him up the stairs and to a small room. It’s just big enough for a narrow bed tucked into the corner and a short bedside table behind the door. But the hearth is warm and chases the chill from the air. 

You help Egg out of his boots, setting them and his cloak aside near the fire to finish drying, and the little prince crawls beneath the blankets with a sigh as you draw the covers up to his chin, smoothing them down. If someone had told you a few years ago that you’d be tucking a Targaryen Prince into bed, you would’ve laughed and called them mad. 

And yet, here you are. 

Egg looks up at you with those wide, violet eyes—heavy with sleep, but there’s a twinkle of mischief in them, too. He may only be a boy, but he’s been on the road long enough with you and Dunk to know. And in the past few weeks, ever since leaving Standfast, he’s become determined to make something more come out of your and Dunk’s friendship. 

Friends don’t look at each other the way you and Dunk do, especially when you both think no one else is looking—all longing and loving, as though you’re the only two people who can ever make each other laugh and smile. You lift a brow in question, knowing the boy wants to say something. “He’s not going to say anything,” Egg says quietly, like he’s giving away a deep and dark secret. 

Your hand stills on the quilted blanket. “What are you going on about, Egg?”

“Ser Duncan,” the little prince says. “He worries he’ll ruin it.” He pauses, blinking, and yawns. “Our little family, of sorts.” It’s the only way Egg can think to describe it—you all look after one another. That’s what families do. He doesn’t remember much of his mother, Lady Dyanna Dayne, but he remembers how she’d tuck him in at night at Summerhall and tell him stories of Starfall, just like you do now. “If he tells you.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you search his young face. “And what is it you think he wants to tell me, Your Grace?” You ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your heart.

Egg’s mouth twists just a little, sleep tugging at him again—he’s fighting a losing battle. “You know,” he says simply. “You’re just waiting for him to be brave enough to say it first.”

For a moment, you can’t find any words to say. Instead, you reach out and brush your fingers lightly over Egg’s forehead—still warmer than normal. “Go to sleep, little dragon,” you murmur, maybe trying to convince yourself he’s speaking nonsense because of the fever. 

“M’not little,” he grumbles—but the words slur together as sleep takes him. 

You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of the blankets as Egg sleeps, listening to the crackle of the hearth and the rain against the roof. He worries it’ll ruin it—you hear the muffled voices from the common room below, hear Dunk’s voice above them all—our little family, of sorts. You close your eyes. The steps and wooden floorboards outside creak and groan with heavy footfalls. Dunk. You know. And maybe you’ve known longer than either of them realizes. It’s always been the little things he does.

Making sure you have the drier blanket, the softer spot in the grass under the trees and stars. 

He’ll shorten his long strides to match yours without thinking when you’re in a market together or strolling through some lordling’s great hall. 

Dunk always finds you, even in crowds, and even when he’s the center of attention. 

It’s the gentleness of his hands whenever he helps you on and off your horse or when you fall asleep on his shoulder, and he decides he can go without so as not to disturb you. 

And maybe it’s always been there, low and simmering. But even so, you cannot deny it’s been different since the Tourney at Ashford. “Brave enough,” you repeat under your breath, shaking your head with a little smile. There’s no one in the realm braver than Ser Duncan the Tall.

YOU PUSH THE door open to the room across the hall—Dunk is sitting at the end of the bed, just starting to work on a patch for his cloak. You’ve been meaning to do it for him, but with the rains, it was hard to focus on much else except staying dry and warm. “Egg’s asleep,” you tell him, going to sit at his side. And usually you would stay with Egg, not out of a want to be apart from Dunk, but because few road inns and taverns have beds large enough for both of you.

Dunk lets out a long, slow breath, shoulders falling just a little. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” Rest is the best medicine, or so that’s what you’ve always told him after patching him up all these years without nary a complaint. And despite his stubbornness, he knows this little break from the road will do you all good.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing toward the fire. Half in front of the stone hearth is a wooden tub filled with water. “Had ‘em draw a bath for you,” he says, nodding in the tub's direction. You always liked having a proper bath whenever you stayed at an inn or tavern. It’ll certainly be a welcome one with the mud splotches on your face and bits stuck in your hair. Giving Dunk your thanks, you stand, hands going to unbind your hair and brush through the knots. He clears his throat and rises from the bed, headed toward the door. “I’ll–,” he stammers, “I’ll go see to the horses.” 

“Gave the stable boy a few extra coppers to do that tonight,” you note before he can reach for the doorknob—no point in going out in this weather again when his tunic and britches have only just dried. “And asked for a farrier to see to Thunder on the morrow.” They all needed a good brushing after the last few days, and Thunder needed one of his shoes repaired. 

Dunk stands there a moment longer than he means to, big hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if he might yet find some task to busy them with. And maybe if it weren’t a cold and rainy night, he would’ve. “Then I’ll–” There’s nowhere left to go, no excuse left to reach for. The bath is already drawn, and it’s been weeks since either of you had a proper wash. 

“Dunk” —you pull at a knot in your hair, and he can’t help but think he’d be gentler than you are now, given the chance— “you don’t have to go.” His brows knit together. Thick as a castle wall, but by the Old Gods and the New, you love him for it. “It’s just skin. Just a bath,” you tell him. “Like when we were younger.” Propriety never stopped the two of you from sharing a tub or stream when you were children; why should now, after a week in the cold rain, when you’re both weary, be any different? 

“Aye,” he says, voice tighter than usual, a far-off look in his blue eyes, “but we’re not children anymore.” It’s a dawning realization over the years that the girl he half-grew up beside is now the woman he wants.

Your eyes flit over him quickly, from head to toe. “No,” you agree. Boys didn’t have shoulders so broad, jaws so strong, or hands so callous. “We’re not.” And even so, he’s still just Dunk. Your Dunk. “But there’s enough room for both of us, and the warm water will do you good.” He tries to feign indifference, and you see the cogs of his mind turning again, trying to find an excuse. 

Brave enough, Egg said. You’ve never known Dunk to back away from a challenge or deny a softly spoken request from you. You could ask him to carry you all the way to the Wall, and he would do so without a quibble, because he’s your man, your Dunk. 

“Egg and I can’t haul you around so easily if you catch a fever.” He grunts his agreement as you dip your fingers into the water. The surface ripples, catching the candle and firelight. “Come on, then,” you tell him, looking back—he’s standing still as a statue with a knot in his throat, “before it goes cold.”

You hear him let out a resigned sigh, and then the rustle of cloth as he shrugs off his vest. Your own fingers begin loosening the ties of your bodice, though not as deft as usual—it must be Egg’s words causing the butterflies to flap around in your belly. He worries it’ll ruin it. Lying the dusty blue kirtle aside, you slip off your shoes and stockings and spare a glance over your shoulder. 

Dunk’s half-turned away, unlacing the neck of his tunic, broad shoulders tight with a restraint you’ve never seen, or maybe you just haven’t noticed before. You’ve seen him bloodied, bruised, drunk, laughing, crying, furious, but this cautiousness is new—odd. Brave enough. You turn to the bath before he can catch you looking and shrug off a nigh threadbare linen shift, tossing it aside with the rest of your garments. 

The night air in the room nips at your skin, especially when you step into the hot water and ease yourself down. Warmth surrounds your legs, hips, and waist, and it chases the chill from your bones. Dunk doesn’t miss your quiet sigh—it sends a shiver down his spine—when you sink back against the side of the tub, head leaned back and eyes shut. 

Keeping your eyes closed, you wait for him to join, and he’s thankful for it; else you’d see the war he’s waging against himself. The water sloshes, spilling over the sides a little as Dunk settles opposite you. It’s close quarters, but he keeps a chivalrous distance, long legs drawn in, arms braced awkwardly on his knees. You open one eye to steal a look at him. His cheek is turned toward you, and you can make out the scars there from Flea Bottom brawls, the tourney at Ashford, and a new one from his service to Lord Eustace Osgrey. 

Dunk keeps his eyes trained on the fire. He doesn’t trust himself not to look at you, really look—he’s only a man, after all. He’s caught glimpses, not meaning to, when you’d wander from camp looking for herbs and mushrooms, but decide instead to go headfirst and nude into a river or pond. And the Seven above know Dunk never meant to commit the swell of your breasts or backside to memory, but he had. 

You weren’t children anymore, and he’s seen how other men look at you in towns and at tourneys. It always stirs something deep—primal—in his gut, and then his self-doubt and anxiety creep in. Those nagging little voices in the back of his mind that say she can do better than you. Always reminding him that those closest to him end up getting hurt. Dunk’s jaw clenches tight. 

“Reckon it’s been a while since we’ve had a bath that wasn’t in a river or a rainstorm,” he finally says, breaking the silence, but his voice is unnaturally stiff for how long you’ve known one another.

“I like this better,” you tell him, reaching for a cake of soap and one of the washcloths hanging over the edge. A dip in a cool river on a hot summer day was one thing, but soaking in warm water after an endless week of cold spring rain makes you wish for a hot bath every night. 

“Course you do,” he grumbles, teasing—hand running through his shaggy, sun-streaked hair. You flick water in his direction, and that finally cracks him. Dunk’s mouth twists into a smile, and his eyes finally shift to meet yours again. Brave enough, Egg had said. What secrets could you possibly keep from one another like this? Your heart gives a small flutter. 

Dunk reaches for the other washcloth, soaking it before dragging it over his face. He scrubs hard, the stubble on his cheek and jaw rasps beneath the cloth. Next to him, you do the same, washing away the muck—and you both fall into an easy rhythm. 

Rinsing the cloth, Dunk scrubs along the back of his neck, then down one thick arm. You glimpse the way his muscles move and flex—feel warmth rush to your cheeks. He switches hands awkwardly to scrub the other arm, nearly sloshing water over the edge of the tub. You bite back a smile and finish rinsing the soap from yourself.

“Turn around,” you say quietly, before you can think better of it. “I’ll get your back.” Dunk blinks, caught off guard, as if the thought of needing to wash his back hadn’t occurred to him, or maybe he tried avoiding it. His eyes flit to your face—blue mixed with gold flecks—careful to keep his gaze from drifting any lower. “You’ll miss half of it otherwise,” you tell him. It’s the first proper bath he’s had in at least two moons, and there’s no sense in doing a half-arsed job. Dunk’s lips part, the first words of protest on them. “You can’t reach the middle,” you interrupt with a small, knowing kink in your lips. “You never could.”

That earns you a huff that almost passes for a laugh. He shifts, twisting around in the small space so his back faces you. You take him in—broad and strong—selfishly. Ser Arlan liked to say he was as slow as an aurochs, but he’s as strong as one, too. The firelight and shadow trace every line and ridge of muscle, every scar. Some are thin as thread, some jagged and pale, and one or two still carry a faint, angry tint even though it’s been moons since they healed. 

Your throat tightens, heart aching, seeing them all. You’ve tended to what feels like most of them over the years. What we deserve and what we get is never in balance. You press the soapy cloth to his shoulder—the one he’s been favoring for the last few days—and feel him melding into your hands. Then, quietly, Dunk says, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know,” you answer, dragging the washcloth across his freckled shoulders, then down toward the center of his back, scrubbing away the road grime, “but I want to.” There’s nothing but doting affection in your voice, and he goes quiet at that—mind and heart racing. Tell her you big oaf, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he just sits there, falling further in love with his best friend like a damn fool. 

Your fingers trace the edge of a scar near his shoulder blade. He clears his throat. “Wasn’t even a proper fight,” he mutters, feeling like he needs to explain it, but you remember him stumbling back from the town to camp that evening, all bruised and bloodied. “Bloke tripped over his own feet.” Big men get punched more than little men. You let out a quiet laugh, working the cloth lower along the broad stretch of his back to wash the suds away.

He hasn’t cut his hair in some time, and his dirty red-blond locks hang to his shoulders in damp clumps. Mindlessly, you run a hand through his hair, fingers catching on a little knot—the muscles in his back tighten and his breath hitches. Dipping a wooden tankard into the tub, you pour water over his head. Dunk grumbles, and you almost laugh at the churlish protest. But he doesn’t protest when your soapy fingers sink into his hair, brushing against his scalp. 

The water laps at the sides when he moves, and your knee slides against his hip. He stiffens—afraid you’d be skittish—and you pretend not to notice the way the tips of his ears go red. Instead, you gather his hair at the nape of his neck, squeezing the suds through it. “Tilt your head back.” He obeys, almost too quickly, nearly knocking the back of his head into your chin. A small laugh escapes you, and he smiles too, boyish and sweet.

You finish rinsing the soap from his hair, and in a moment of boldness and bravery, you half-lean over his shoulder to press an innocent enough kiss to his cheek or temple—and then his head turns. 

It’s not the first time you’ve kissed him. There have been times like this before, when you meant only to peck his cheek, but he’s shifted at the last second, and you’ve caught the corner of his mouth—always quick to pull away, flushed, flustered, and most of the time laughing at how clumsy you both can be. As graceful as an aurochs and a newborn foal, the two of you. 

But this time is different. 

You don’t pull away, and neither does Dunk. 

A heartbeat longer, and you lift your hand to his jaw, fingers brushing the familiar line of it and all the little scars you’ve traced a hundred times over with your eyes over a campfire, but never your hands. Dunk makes a soft, surprised sound against your mouth—one that turns into a half groan when your lips press more firmly to his and when he feels how close you are to him. And that flutter in your chest and stomach comes back.

The stubble on his cheek and jaw grazes your skin when he shifts closer, not realizing he’s doing it. When you part, it’s only for the need of breath. He whispers your name, low and uncertain, his brows furrowing, trying to make sense of something that’s been gnawing at his heart for years now. Wanted to do that for a long time, he thinks, but saying it aloud will make him feel a fool.

Dunk turns around in the tub to face you properly, hands seeking out your waist, settling there, warm and rough and gentle—like how they always have been when he helps you on and off Storm—and draws you to him, half into his lap. Only now his thumbs stroke over your ribs, right under the soft swells of your breasts, mindless. His breath is slow and uneven against your cheek, and suddenly, he’s unsure what to do with his hands, with you, with the way your bodies have come so close together.

Your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, and his lips part slightly beneath the touch. His eyes flick down for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re staring,” you whisper, though your gaze hasn’t left him either.

He lets out a soft, nervous breath. “Can’t help it.” His honesty makes warmth bloom in your chest, a flush creeping up to your neck and face. Your hand drifts from his jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers slipping into the damp curls there, and Dunk’s grip tightens.

“I’ve been wanting to do that,” he finally admits quietly, almost embarrassed to say so. “For–for a long while.” Gods, he’s lost track of all the nights and days he’s thought about hauling you to him—bending down or lifting you—and kissing you, often and well. You’ve thought the same, especially when you’d find little things to bicker harmlessly over, about grabbing into his tunic and hauling him down.

You twist his hair through your fingers—half smiling with a hazy look in your eyes. And Seven Hells, it’s not the first time he’s seen you look at him like that. Dunk, you fool. Thick as a castle wall. “Will you kiss me again, Ser Duncan?” You ask. One corner of his mouth lifts sheepishly, a combination of his title and your request.

He cranes his neck to the side, lips finding the spot where your ear and jaw meet. “As often as you’d like, m’lady.” Dunk murmurs, his voice rougher than usual. The sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. 

Then he pulls back enough and something in his expression falters. The playful edge fading. His bright blue eyes search yours, weighing whether he ought to say what it is he’s thinking. He worries it’ll ruin it. “Only ever been you,” he finally says. Brave enough. “From the start.” He swallows, gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “Didn’t know what to call it at first, but” —a crooked smile tugs at his mouth— “was you all the same.” 

Only ever been you. The hand still tangled in his damp hair slips down, grazing his neck before stopping over one of his pectorals. You feel the warmth of him and the steady thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. Dunk looks uneasy after saying it, as though he expects you to laugh it off the way you’ve both laughed off a hundred other almost-moments. You don’t. “From the start?” you ask softly.

Dunk gives a loud breath through his nose—embarrassment and fondness. “Near enough.” His gaze drifts briefly to your mouth before he catches himself and looks back up. “First time you patched me up, reckon that might’ve been it.” It was how gentle you were, even as you were cursing him and telling him to be more careful, paired with a quick peck of the lips to his forehead. Didn’t much matter how any other woman looked at him after that—he only wanted you.

Your lips kink upward. “You were half-delirious with fever,” you remind him. 

“Aye,” Dunk admits. “Still knew it was you.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His hands shift, sliding around to your back. “Good,” you whisper. “Because it’s only ever been you for me, too.” My missing piece.

Dunk just stares at you for a moment, earnest and stunned. Then relief washes across his face, and he grins. “Good,” he says, echoing you, a little breathless, ears still burning red. “Else I’d have to win you over proper, and I’ve never been much good at clever words.” And before you can answer, he leans down, kissing you again. It’s slow and warm and nigh bittersweet for all the things neither of you had managed the courage to say for all those years. 

He keeps one arm loosely around your waist, foreheads bumping once or twice when one of you shifts, small things that would have sent you both scrambling away even hours earlier. It only makes you smile now. Eventually, Dunk clears his throat. “Turn around,” he tells you. Your brows knit slightly. “I’ll get your back,” he echoes. You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you.

Then his fingers touch your back, ghosting over your spine. You suck in a small breath. His hands are warm, calloused, and careful. The washcloth drags over your skin as he scrubs and wipes away the last of the soap and grit. When he reaches the small of your back, his hand pauses, like he’s deciding just how far he intends to go. You lean forward just a little, encouragement. Dunk’s hand lingers, but then he finishes, draping the cloth over the tub’s side again, but he’s not done. You washed more than just his back. 

He reaches for the tankard, dips it into the water, and carefully pours the warm water over your head. Dunk gathers your hair, working the soap into it, fingers dragging softly against your scalp, clumsy at first with his big hands, then steadier as he realizes you’re leaning back, pressing into his touch. You hum, content, as he works the lather through the length of your hair, the same way you did for him. Now and then, his fingers catch a tangle. He mutters an apology, carefully easing it loose. When he’s satisfied, Dunk reaches for the tankard again, rinsing away the suds. 

After, neither of you rush to get out—the water is still warm enough. You lean back against Dunk, head pillowed on his shoulder, and he lets his head rest against the edge of the tub. One of his hands drifts to your belly, absently tracing circles. “Egg’s going to be insufferable, you know,” you tell him. 

Dunk’s thumb pauses its slow circle. He breathes out a quiet laugh. You tilt your chin so you can glance up at him. His head is still tipped back against the rim of the tub, but there’s that familiar crooked smile pulling at his mouth. The thought of that sharp-eyed little prince looking between the two of you with that knowing grin of his settles between dread and reluctant amusement in Dunk’s mind. He shifts slightly beneath you, water lapping against the sides of the tub. “So,” he starts, “what do we tell him?”

You blink at him, then snort. “Oh, nothing.” Dunk lifts a brow. “No need.” You settle back against him again, stealing his warmth. “He already thinks he’s arranged the whole thing.” You rest your hand over his on your stomach, fingers threading together.

Dunk laughs—a hearty one that rumbles through his chest and into your back. “That sounds like him,” he says, his arm tightening around you, holding you a little closer. “Seven help us if he decides he’s our matchmaker,” Dunk adds, half-amused and half-resigned as he leans forward, planting a soft kiss on your temple—unthinking this time as if it’s only natural. Then his forehead drops forward until it rests against yours again, arms tightening around your middle, savoring everything about this moment before the water goes cold.

[ASOIAF taglist: @angeliod / @batmomphd / @beelanie / @certifiedlittleshit / @chonkercatto / @crispmarshmallow / @crvshnburnn / @darkravenqueen98 / @dollvi3e / @dulcehobi / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @theexaustedmermaid / @fictionaldistraction / @gallimaufrea / @hb8301 / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @idkjj04 / @instabull / @javisjeanjacket / @joossieisdabomb / @katie007123 / @kitkat160 / @ksziggy / @ladygrimmx / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @lehlyx / @lilacandgoooseberris / @lillianastras / @lostingoogletranslate / @lucyhotchner / @marzipaanz / @michellepreg / @midnightmuze / @mikariell95 / @missflutterlhamaa / @misskatiewrites / @moonlightsspirt / @moshpot24x / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @m1ndbrand / @nenelysian / @nerdy4itall / @newtsniffles / @notbrookie / @nyotamalfoy / @paprikabadger / @poisonedsultana / @purestxblood / @qhbr2013 / @safe-within-the-stars / @sandronebabyy / @sapphirehearteyes / @savagemickey03 / @schniiipsel / @singular-itae / @thewintersnoozer / @watercolorskyy / @writingsbymaree / @vigil-mort / @vymyn / @xcallmetaniax / @xinyourdreamsx / @xxgardenxx / @23victoria ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my A Song of Ice and Fire taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[moonmaiden1996]

A Claim's a Claim Part Thirteen

Be warned 18 plus, smut ect

Dunk blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. A bird chirped through the small slit window at the top of the wall, sending a shard of light into the shadows of the room. The fire in the hearth had burned down to dull glowing embers, casting a faint, orange glow across the floor. Curled beside him, you slept softly, your quiet purring mingling with the faint crackle of the dying fire. Red rested on his chest, your hand tangled in his shirt, eyes half-lidded as they traced delicate patterns across your cheeks. His arm wrapped around you, warm and protective, pressing your body gently against his.

He did not remember falling asleep, only the memory of your lips against his, your hands drawing him close, and the way your body had invited him into your warmth.

Oh gods, what if you regretted it? What if you awoke, saw him, and screamed? The thought made his chest tighten. The entire hall would have him strung up before noon. Why would someone as beautiful as you ever desire someone like him?

"Good morning," you murmured, stretching languidly as you shifted against him, nudging your face closer. Your skin still glowed with the flush of sleep, the scent of you intoxicating and warm. Even in the morning, you looked and smelled divine. Dunk blinked down at you, frozen for a moment, afraid that any sudden movement might make you bolt like a frightened foal.

"Mornin’," Dunk squeaked, eyes wide as you pressed closer, moving sinuously against him. Those eyes of yours, sharp and unrelenting, held him captive, and he could feel your warmth pressing against him, soft and full.

"I have a thought," you said, your lips curving into a teasing smile as you wriggled toward him.

"My lady?" His brow furrowed in confusion.

"This is very much how I want to wake up every day," you purred, leaning forward to meet his lips.

Your tongue glided along the entrance of his lips, seeking an invitation as Dunk’s mouth parted in a quiet breath. The kiss deepened slowly, not hurried but warm and certain, like the first rays of morning spreading through the room. Your lips moved against his with a soft patience that made his chest tighten, the gentle brush of your mouth coaxing him closer.

Dunk answered clumsily at first, unused to such tenderness, yet he melted into it all the same. His hand shifted at your back, drawing you nearer until there was hardly a breath of space between you. Your warmth seeped through him, the faint taste of sleep and sweetness lingering on your lips.

You hummed softly against his mouth, pleased, the sound vibrating through him and setting his heart to racing. When your fingers curled a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt, Dunk felt something steady and bright unfurl in his chest, while something hungry and primitive settled in the pit of his stomach. Yet it didn't stop there. That hunger settled between his legs. His cock was thick against his stomach, ball arching as your stomach pressed against him, making you pause. 

Dunk jolted upright, almost tumbling off the edge of the bed. Heart still hammering from the intensity of the kiss, chest tight with a mix of heat and panic, he pressed a hand to his face, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking at it as if he could physically pull the foolishness out of himself.

“Stupid… so stupid,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and tight. “Why… why did I let her feel that?”

He scrambled to the side of the bed, pacing the narrow space like a caged animal. Fingers tugged hard at his hair, and every frantic step made the flush in his neck climb higher.

From the bed, you blinked, watching him with a slow, growing confusion. Dunk was muttering, pacing, pulling at his hair like he was battling an invisible storm. For a moment, it was almost comical, the way he couldn’t decide whether to sit, stand, or run in circles. Then your gaze flicked down and froze.

The outline of his cock pressed against the fabric of his breech , impossible to miss. The moment hit with sudden clarity. Your confusion sharpened, replaced by a flash of surprise as realization settled in.

Dunk froze mid-step, catching the faintest hint of awareness from the bed. A strangled noise escaped him, half groan, half gasp, as he yanked at his hair again, eyes wide. “No… gods, no! Stupid! I… I can’t...why...”

The pacing became more frantic. Each muttered curse, each tug at his hair, made the flush on his face burn hotter. He could feel the weight of exposure, knew the tent in his trousers would not go unnoticed, and panic set his mind racing.

“Hopeless,” he hissed, stepping again to the side of the room, hands clenching, muscles taut. “Completely hopeless… how did I… gods, how did I let that happen?”

Dunk’s pacing came to an abrupt halt when the mattress shifted behind him.

The quiet rustle of blankets broke through his spiral of muttered curses. He half turned, still dragging a hand through his already ruined hair, only to freeze when he saw you had risen onto your knees on the bed.

The covers pooled loosely around you, the morning light from the narrow window catching softly on your skin. Even kneeling tall on the mattress, you were still much shorter than the towering knight standing beside it.

Dunk looked impossibly large from that angle. Seven feet of awkward panic. Broad shoulders tight as drawn bowstrings, chest still rising and falling too fast, one hand still tangled in his hair as if he had forgotten it was there.

His freckles stood out stark against the deep red flush spreading across his cheeks and nose. Before he could resume his frantic pacing, you leaned forward and reached out.

Your hand pressed gently against his chest, trying not to swoon at the wall of muscle that greeted you. 

Dunk jolted like a startled horse, shoulders jumping beneath your palm. His head snapped down toward you, eyes wide and startled, as if the touch had rooted him to the stone floor.

“Dunk,” you said softly.

Your hand stayed where it was, warm and steady against him. Your fingers spread slightly over the fabric of his shirt, grounding, reassuring. The frantic energy running through him seemed to falter under that simple touch.

“Easy,” you murmured.

For a moment he looked as if he might bolt anyway but your palm remained firm and calm, and slowly, very slowly, the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. His breathing was still uneven though. His chest rose and fell beneath your hand in quick bursts. Up close he looked utterly undone.

Even kneeling, you had to tilt your head back to look up at him properly. “It’s alright,” you continued gently. “You look like your ready to face a dragon.’’

Dunk swallowed hard.The sound was loud in the quiet room.

“I… I shouldn’t have…” he started, voice cracking slightly as the words tangled together.

Your thumb moved in a slow, soothing motion against his side, rubbing small circles through the fabric. The gesture made him stiffen again, though not from panic this time.

“I’m pleased,” you said.

The words struck him like a lance. His head snapped down toward you so fast his soft tassels of hair tugging around his face.

“P-pleased?” The word came out small and uncertain.

You nodded calmly. “Yes. I am very pleased to have that reaction from you...I feel rather excited by it.”

For a heartbeat he simply stared. Then the color in his face deepened spectacularly. The red flush spread from his cheeks down his neck and up to the very tips of his ears.

Dunk suddenly seemed very aware of the entire situation again. His shoulders hunched slightly, one hand awkwardly dropping from his hair as if he did not know where to put it. His gaze darted anywhere but your face before helplessly returning again.

“And,” you added thoughtfully, “it wasn’t exactly a surprise.”

Dunk blinked. “…What?”

Your lips curved faintly. “I know what you were doing when you slipped off into the forest at night,” you said lightly. “And when you went to bathe.”

The reaction was immediate and devastating. Dunk gulped so hard the movement of his throat was unmistakable. His eyes went wide. Truly wide, like a deer frozen in the sights of a crossbow, every instinct telling him danger was near but leaving him too stunned to move.

“Y...you… knew?” he croaked. The words scraped out of his throat.

You nodded once.

The poor knight looked as though he might combust on the spot. “Oh gods,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides now, fingers flexing once before curling into loose fists as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

Slowly, you leaned upward on your knees, bringing yourself closer to him.

Even then, you had to stretch slightly to reach him.

Dunk went perfectly still. Not stiff with panic this time, but frozen with attention. His whole focus locked onto you as you moved closer, his breathing catching slightly. Your face lifted toward his until only a small space remained between you. Your lips hovered inches from his. Dunk’s eyes flicked down to them immediately before darting back up again, the motion quick and embarrassed.

“So,” you asked quietly, voice soft with curiosity, “did you think of me?”

His mouth opened. Closed. His gaze dropped again, cheeks burning so hot they almost hurt. The massive knight shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other like a boy caught confessing a terrible secret.

After a long, mortifying second, he gave the smallest nod.

Your smile deepened. “You should have asked me,” you whispered. Claiming his lips once again. 

Your lips closed the last inch of space between you. The kiss was nothing like the earlier ones, it was deeper, hungrier, almost desperate.

Your hands slid up to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt as you pulled him down toward you. Dunk made a startled sound against your mouth, but the moment your lips moved against his again, slow and needy, the protest died in his throat.

Your mouth pressed insistently against his, warm and coaxing. The kiss deepened quickly, breath mingling as your lips parted and met again and again, softer and then more urgent. There was a quiet desperation in it, like something long held back finally breaking free.

Dunk responded before he even realized he was doing it.

One massive hand moved to your shoulder, the other hovering uncertainly near your waist as he bent instinctively toward you, drawn by the warmth of your mouth and the soft sound that escaped you when he kissed back.

Then suddenly Dunk pulled back. The movement was abrupt, clumsy as stumbled half a step away from the bed, breathing hard, eyes wide with confusion and worry.

“I can’t,” he blurted.

His hand dragged through his hair again, curls sticking up wildly now. His cheeks were flushed deep red and his gaze darted anywhere but your face.

“I would never dishonor you like that,” he said quickly, voice thick with embarrassment and sincerity. “I mean… not without… I wouldn’t just…”

The words tangled hopelessly. On the bed, you only smiled.

It was a soft smile, warm and patient. Slowly, deliberately, your fingers moved to the lace at the front of your dress.

Dunk noticed immediately. The huge knight froze mid-sentence.

Your fingers tugged lightly at the lace, loosening it just enough that the fabric shifted. Not enough to reveal much, but enough that the neckline softened and dipped, you breast heavy against the bodice.

His eyes dropped before he could stop them, drawn helplessly to the movement. The sight of you kneeling on the bed, dress slightly loosened, morning light brushing your skin, was enough to make his thoughts scatter completely.

When his gaze lifted again, you were biting your lip softly as he blinked at you.

The small gesture sent another wave of heat rushing straight to his face. “It is not dishonor,” you said gently. Your voice held none of the uncertainty he felt. Only quiet certainty. “It is only dishonor if it is taken,” you continued softly. “If it is forced. If it is without care.”

Your gaze held his steadily. “But between two people in love…”  Your fingers rested lightly on the loosened lace, your eyes still locked with his.  “…it is not dishonor at all.”

Dunk stood there completely still, towering over you, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it. His face was still red, his breath uneven, but the panic that had filled him before had shifted into something terrifying.

Dunk stood where he was for a long moment, towering and uncertain, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides as if he had forgotten what to do with them. The warmth that had rushed through him moments ago still lingered, but it tangled now with something heavier. Worry. Hesitation.

His fingers flexed once, then curled loosely as he shifted his weight from one large foot to the other. The mattress creaked softly as you watched him from the bed, his massive frame caught between desire and restraint.

“I… I might hurt you,” he said quietly.

The words came out slower than before, careful and uncertain. His voice had softened, almost ashamed. His gaze dropped toward you, lingering for a second before flicking away again, like he couldn’t quite bear to hold your eyes while admitting it.

“You’re… small,” he added awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His large hand disappeared briefly into the curls there, scratching nervously. “And I’m… well.”

He gestured vaguely to his massive frame with the other hand, shoulders lifting slightly in a helpless shrug, as if the sheer size of him explained everything he couldn’t quite put into words.

On the bed, you watched him for a moment before shaking your head gently, the movement slow and reassuring.“You do not need to do anything complicated,” you said. Your voice was calm, steady, cutting gently through the storm of nerves swirling in his head.

“I… I’m inexperienced,” he admitted quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush as embarrassment caught up with him again. One of his hands dragged across his face before dropping back to his side. “I don’t even know how.”

The confession clearly cost him something. His ears had gone red again, and he shifted his weight awkwardly like a boy admitting a secret he’d tried very hard to hide.

“I am just as inexperienced as you are....but I want to feel good,” you continued softly, leaning forward just a little as you spoke. “And I know you will make me feel good.”

That made him look up again immediately. His brows lifted and his eyes widened slightly, surprise flashing across his face. Well not surprise but shock at your boldness. The certainty in your tone seemed to stop him in place. Dunk blinked, clearly unsure how to respond to that kind of confidence.

“We only need to do things that feel good,” you said simply.

Dunk stared at you for a moment, clearly trying to process that idea. His brow furrowed deeply, lips pressing together as if he were turning the thought over and over in his mind.

Then, after a second, he muttered almost helplessly,

“Just being in the same room as you feels good.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. The moment they were spoken, his eyes widened slightly in alarm. His shoulders stiffened and he looked faintly horrified at himself for letting something so honest escape aloud.

Your smile widened immediately, warm and fond. “That is very sweet,” you said.

Dunk’s face reddened again at the praise, his gaze dropping toward the floor for a moment like he didn’t quite know where to look. “But I ache for you,” you added quietly. ‘’My core weeps. I can feel the slickness on my thighs and I cannot bare it. I want you.’

Before he could respond, you leaned forward and grabbed the front of his shirt. The suddenness of it caught him completely off guard. Dunk made a startled sound as you pulled.

For someone so large and strong, he was surprisingly easy to topple when he wasn’t expecting it. His balance shifted forward, boots scraping lightly against the stone floor as he tried and failed to steady himself.

The next moment he tipped forward.

With a soft thud of shifting blankets and tangled limbs, the enormous knight tumbled onto the bed.

The mattress dipped heavily beneath his weight, the frame creaking loadly under the sudden impact. His copper strands spread messily across the pillow as he landed, one arm half trapped beneath him while the other flailed briefly before settling against the blankets.

His chest rose and fell quickly as he tried to catch up with what had just happened, freckles standing out against his flushed face, eyes wide with bewilderment.

Seven feet of knight, completely disarmed.And you, leaning over him now, had him exactly where you wanted him. Beneath you.

Xxxxxxxxx

The tent of his breeches seemed all the more imposing from this angle, rising unmistakably beneath the fabric between you. A moment ago you had pulled a seven-foot knight onto the bed with surprising confidence, but now that he was actually beneath you, that boldness began to melt away.

Uncertainty crept in where determination had been.

Your shoulders drew in slightly, the earlier confidence softening into something far more timid. The bold temptress from moments before faded, and in her place remained the hesitant maiden who had no more experience than the man beneath her.

Dunk noticed the change immediately.

He lay back against the pillows, curls spread messily across the linen where he had landed, his huge frame half sunk into the mattress. His breathing was still heavy from everything that had just happened, his broad chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

His eyes, dark and intent, never left you.

The intensity of that gaze only made your cheeks warm further.

“Can I touch you?”

The question came out softer than you intended. It wasn’t the confident voice of a seductress now, but something far more awkward and honest. If anything, the question only deepened the look in his eyes. They had gone nearly black, wide and focused as he watched you above him. For a moment he seemed almost stunned by the gentleness of the request.

Then he nodded. Slowly. Very slowly. His gaze followed every small movement you made.

“Can you… can you take this off.”

Your fingers reached for the corner of his shirt as you spoke, lightly tugging at the fabric near his shoulder. You glanced up at him as you did, your expression shy now, a faint blush spreading across your face.

Dunk didn’t hesitate.

No sooner had the words left your mouth than his hands moved. In one swift motion he grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up and over his head. The fabric dragged across his broad shoulders before he tossed it somewhere across the room without even looking.

Your eyes widened. For a moment you simply stared. The expanse of his chest was even more impressive without the shirt to hide it. Broad and powerful, dusted with freckles and faint scars that spoke of training, travel, and battles fought long before this quiet morning.

Your gaze moved slowly across him, almost reverent. Carefully, you placed your hands against his chest. The skin there was warm beneath your palms.

At first the surface felt softer than you expected, the natural give of flesh beneath your hands, but as your fingers spread and pressed lightly you felt the true strength underneath it. Dense muscle shifted beneath your touch, solid and powerful, the strength of a man who had spent years swinging swords and carrying armor.

Dunk sucked in a quiet breath.

The sensation of your hands exploring him sent a visible shiver through his massive frame. His head sank a little deeper into the pillow as he watched you, eyes still dark, his expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. He still couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

Dunk lay still beneath you, his broad chest rising slowly under your palms as you explored the unfamiliar landscape of him. Your hands moved cautiously at first, fingertips brushing across warm skin, tracing the lines of muscle that shifted subtly under your touch.

Each small movement seemed to affect him. His breath caught when your fingers drifted across the center of his chest, and a faint shiver ran through his massive frame when your palms slid outward along his ribs. For someone so large and strong, he looked almost vulnerable like this, stretched across the bed dark eyes tracking you

Slowly, as if drawn by something deeper than thought, he lifted one hand.

The movement was careful, almost hesitant. His large fingers hovered near your arm for a moment before settling lightly against you, as though he were still unsure he was allowed. When you didn’t pull away, the tension in his shoulders eased.

Your hands continued to roam curiously over him, growing a little bolder with each passing second. You traced the slope of his shoulders, the firmness of his upper arms, marveling quietly at the sheer size of him beneath your fingertips.

Dunk watched every movement. His gaze followed your hands with intense focus, his breathing growing deeper as the warmth of your touch spread across his skin. The flush on his face had softened now into something warmer, his earlier panic fading into quiet wonder.

His hand slid gently up your arm, large fingers brushing against your shoulder before resting there. The touch was careful, almost reverent, as though he feared moving too quickly might break the moment.

Then he leaned forward. The distance between you closed slowly this time. There was no sudden urgency in the movement, only quiet certainty.

His lips met yours again. The kiss was soft at first, lingering and warm. Dunk seemed to savor the contact, his mouth moving gently against yours as if he were still learning the shape of the moment. His hand remained at your shoulder, steadying you as he kissed you again and again in slow, tender presses.

As your hands continued to wander across his chest, he responded instinctively. One arm slid carefully around your back, drawing you just a little closer while still leaving you free to move.

A quiet sound escaped him into the kiss, low and surprised, as your fingers traced along the strong line of his collarbone and down again.

For all his size, there was something almost shy in the way he kissed you.

But there was warmth there too. Growing confidence. Each kiss lingering a little longer than the last as he let himself sink into the feeling of your hands exploring him and your body leaning over his.

And all the while, his darkened eyes kept drifting back to you whenever the kiss broke, 

Fingers fumbling for his string belt, swallowing hard when he’s finally bare in front of you. Cock bobbing in the air. Your very breath left you. It was long, thick, heavy, standing proud in the cool air of the room. It was monstrous, and there was not a single thing you wanted more. 

‘’Show how to make you what feels good,” you whisper, pulling yourself towards him, practically astride his thigh, wet core softly grinding against sheer muscle as your hands attempt to encircle around him, trying not to get giddy around the weight of him. So thick.

His breathing hitches when your unsure fingers wrap around his cock, head falling back slightly as he moaned.

“Is that good?” you’re biting your lip, eyes flickering between Dunk's flushed face and where your fingers press against his length, and Dunk has the sudden urge to kiss you.

“Y-yess...gods yess...my lady” his throat is suddenly too dry, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Move your hand up and down.” you do, and Dunk has to swallow back another moan, hips twitching up because he’s suddenly this close to coming, just from your touch. Just from that hungry look in your eyes.

“Good, that...you’re doing so good, My lady ” he pants, grasping for the back of your neck to kiss you, feeling so fucking elated when you whimper against his lips. your movements are sloppy, and your grip is just a touch too tight but he couldn’t care less. That fact you were willing to touch him way enough to have him worship your for the rest of your life 

‘’You can call me by my name, Dunk.’’ You cooed.

‘’You…arghh…gods will alwayaghhhs be my lady.’’ Dunk panted, through the sloppy movements your finger brushes against his tip, and that knot in his stomach coils tight, thighs tense as you move your hands.

“Gods…wait…“  but you twisted your wrist again, and Dunk was coming, gasping loaded as his hips bucked uncontrollably as wave after wave of hot burning bliss coursed through his body. Spurt after spurt coating his chest in long white streaks, his cock twitching and throbbing under your touch,

And you felt amazing, to have this beast of a man beneath you, completely at your mercy. 

‘’You are…’’ he groaned as another spurt erupted from his length ‘’incrediable…just let me…a minute please’’ Another spurted erupted less ferocious as he dribbled down your fingers, his body trembling beneath you.

‘’Shhhh my love, we have all the time in the world for that I can wait.’’

Do not hate me!!! The reader will get off but Dunk needs some sage advance from our resident daddy Baratheon... and our dearest reader has Lady Rowen for girl talk as after seeing Dunk you would need moral support.

Comment and like if you can!!!

@swordofanduril @karmaswitch @mmkkzz @jellyforbrains @thhriller @lanadelray1989

[anyarose011]

"The One Where Dunk Meets the Family"

-> Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader

Summary: When Ser Arlan died, Dunk thought he would be alone for the rest of his life. Never did he think, within the first year of his master's death, would he have two companions dear to him. One of them, he would later court and thus, help find her own family. Her happiness means the world to him, make no mistake of that...but he's selfish, and he doesn't want her to leave.

Warning(s): Past violence, PTSD mention, Dunk is Self-Loathing, Sexual Euphemisms, and Non-explicit smut.

10 years later, and I finally finished it! Thank you to everyone who showed your love and support. I'll clarify that Ashter is an original character because there was nothing almost nothing on the Baratheon family other than Lyonel so I'm just bullshitting for a joke in the end lmao. Also, much like many other stories, since this is through a different perspective if you ever reader "Her [italicized" than that means YOU, gentle reader. I hope you enjoy the final part!

Part 3 of 3 (Masterlist)

Word Count: 6.6k

Ser Duncan had to use one hand to count how many times he’d seen her cry.

The first was when she sprained her ankle after playing a game of tag with Egg just two months after they were traveling together (although she would still deny it).

The second was when she awoke from a particularly terrible nightmare a week later (although she would blame it on her ankle). Still, that was when she first told him about the reoccurring dreams she had of her family. So, naturally, he’d ask her every so often about them.

The third was when the sun was beginning to set, and he found her lying in the forest with blood seeping out of her leg like a fountain. The father who attacked her had a knife to her neck. Ser Duncan wasn’t an honorable knight at that moment; he was just Dunk. The same, scrappy child who couldn’t save an innocent person because he was weak-.

No…because he was just a boy. He couldn’t save Rafe, but he could save her. And he did.

He told her to close her eyes after he landed the first punch on the man who attacked her, and she only sobbed in response.

She still cried that day, even when she was safe and he bandaged her up the best he could. She would tell him later that it was a mix of pain in her leg, but the euphoria of being alive. Yet, when the nights would grow darker, and it was only them awake, she’d bare her soul to him. How she was terrified of dying, but more so, what would happen to her and Egg if he had died.

All Dunk could do was hold her.

The final, and most recent time, was four months after he confessed how deeply he cared for her, and she was embracing her mother.

There was no goose chase or scavenger hunt that caused it. The three of them were traveling far into the east of Westeros, just between north of the Grassy Vale and west of Fawnton. It was midday when they came upon village of only 30 houses (if you could call them that), and a population of 102.

It was on that specific day, for no reason at all, the Witch of Westeros carried an old, beaded necklace around her neck; one that she seldomly ever wore. The first time she did, and Egg (as nosey as he was) asked where she got it, she said it was one of the only pieces of home she had left. She couldn’t remember if it was a brother or a parent who crafted it for her.

As they traversed through the village, with their female companion limping with a walking stick, an older woman sharing her hair approached. She touched the beads, and whilst she was averse to strangers touching her ever since being attacked in the woods, this time…she studied the woman in front of her.

“Mother?” Left her lips, and it was history.

Dunk and Egg stood side by side just a few feet away as the women cried together. The young squire tugged on Dunk’s sleeve.

“Should we leave them be, ser?”

He nodded. “I believe that would be best-.”

“It’s a giant!”

A high-pitched scream made Dunk look over his shoulder and saw a girl even smaller than Egg run to him. Before he could realize what was happening, the child struck him with the twig she wielded.

No one did anything as she continued to hit his calves with a twig that weighed, at most, the same as she did. Finally, laughter tore through the once weeping women. The mother let her daughter go to pick up the small child.

“Alright, alright! That’s enough.” She dried her teary eyes, holding her. “That’s not a way to treat our guests who brought your auntie home.”

The little girl relaxed, although perplexed, at the news. She traveled back to her mother’s side, introducing herself to the child.

“I’m sorry.” Her mother apologized, looking between Dunk and Egg. “Not many of us travel far outside of home. She, and frankly many of us, have never seen anyone quite like you.”

He nodded. “It’s s’alright. She uh…She’ll make a fine fighter one day.”

The mother laughed, then, running her fingers over her daughter’s cheek, sweetly said her name. “Who are these nice young men I must thank?”

“This,” she gestured towards the young boy. “is Egg. He squires for the greatest knight in all of Westeros, Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Greatest knight?” Her mother clicked her tongue.

Dunk shook his head, smiling politely. “No, I wouldn’t say so.”

“Then let me.” She stated. “You brought my daughter home safe and sound; after twenty years…There is nothing knightlier than that.”

He didn’t know what to say half of the time he was alive, but in all of his years of living, nothing could come to mind. He simply nodded.

“Ser Duncan and I are….” She sprouted up with conversation when all was too silent. Though she hesitated, after finally meeting his eyes, she smiled tenderly. “We’ve been courting for a few months now.”

Her mother hummed. “Splendid. Have you been a true gentleman to her, or will I need to have the entire village usher you out with pitchforks?”

Dunk’s blood ran cold, and his heart leaped in his throat. “No.” He coughed. “I-I have tried my best to be nothing but kind to her and-.”

“Essie,” she set the little girl down. “go tell your Papa and aunties and uncles that their sister is home. Do not make a fuss of it when you say so, just tell them as if she was always here.”

She bolted away, and the mother took Dunk’s hand. “Come now. I do not care if there will be a feast later in celebration. Right now, I shall make custard for just the three of you.”

Egg was the first to be by her side, not having a single complaint. Once the mother let go of Dunk’s hand, she soon took it. Dunk was quiet for most of the day, even when they made it to his lover’s childhood home; one so small he had to practically hunch over as he stood.

When her mother asked him hundreds of different questions, ones he tried his best to answer, he remained silent afterwards. As the mother and daughter were catching up, the door flew open, and in came numerous men, women and children.

Egg and Dunk had counted fifteen in total. They all had been her siblings, their spouses, and children. As it was crowded in the tiny house, Dunk stepped out; both from the overwhelming emotions of everyone weeping happily, or the lack of elbow room.

Of course, his squire accompanied him.

“Will she stay here now?” Egg asked as they tended to Chestnut and Thunder.

Dunk didn’t say anything right away. Even in the twenty minutes they had been in her village, it hadn’t occurred to him. He swallowed, looking back at the house.

“I don’t know.”

“Would you want her to come with us?”

“I want her to be happy.” He said, reaching into his rucksack and handing an apple to Chestnut.

“Even if it means she stays?”

“That’s her choice.”

Egg spoke of it no more. Another hour later, she finally came out of the house. Even whilst she wanted to be with her companions of nearly a year, neighbors and others from the village would practically prod at her for stories and explanations.

A part of Dunk (a horrible, ugly part he wished he could drown in the deepest ocean) was envious. Not from how practically everyone was pawing for her attention, but for how they surrounded her in love and adoration for coming home.

It was almost as if the gods were reminding him that he would never have that…

His jealousy only lasted for so long. Once he saw how happy she was, and how her face shined like the sun it was so bright, he could only feel joy.

There was a feast with the entirety of the village once the sun fell. Surprisingly, she spoke more to her traveling companions than she had earlier. Dunk would never admit it, but he was happy.

Still, when he wasn’t speaking to her or Egg, all of the children in the village would crowd around him, begging for stories of how he saved damsels in distress and slayed dragons.

All he had to do was “challenge” them to see who could knock him off his feet, and that saved their questions.

When the dinner was over, everyone was drunk, exhausted, or all of the above, that was when they retired for the night. She decided to sleep in her mother’s home that first night, while Dunk and Egg were in the one abandoned house in the village.

Luckily, the family had left just a few weeks prior, and it wasn’t as dirty as it could have been.

The next day, as it was one of the last hot days of summer, every mother in the village asked if Dunk and the Prodigal Daughter would take their children down to the lake and go swimming.

“In all of your years as a knight,” she asked as dozens of children (led by Egg in the front) walked ahead of them. “did you ever believe babysitting would be a task for you?”

“I’ve had to watch over Egg, haven’t I?” He questioned.

“I heard that!” Egg yelled from up front.

The children were already in their bathing costumes (which were old, tattered weightless clothing that their parents would not mind if they were unusable after swimming) when they finally made it to the lake. They dashed into the water, yelling and squealing joyously as they splashed and shoved each other.

While Dunk slipped off his shirt, she did as well along with her skirt; revealing a thin dress that trailed down to her ankles. It was swimwear that she had prepared to actually go into the water with; unlike what she wore that one morning when she found Egg’s toy boat.

He looked away from her at the thought of it.

“Be at ease, ser.” She teased, her eyes lingering on his figure. “This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me like this.”

“I know.” He explained. “That’s why.”

“You’re aware I’ve seen you without your shirt on as well?” She questioned. “And in your underclothes that are tight as skin?”

He scoffed. “A sight no doubt so horrible you’d need a maester to treat your eyes.”

She traced her hand over his bare arm down to his hand. Standing on her toes, she beckoned his ear down to her mouth, whispering.

“You’re handsome, and I’ve always thought so. Now, quit sulking and come play in the water with us.”

He stood straighter, pulling away to see her grin. He couldn’t help but smile even as he said. “I’m not sulking.”

“You always do.”

“Are you certain your leg is fine to swim, m’lady?”

“Even if I sink, I’ll have a strong knight to save me.” She pulled him into the lake, and Dunk felt as if he could breathe again with the coolness of the water chilling his skin from the beating sun.

He kept a close eye on her and Egg. Well, he did for all of the children, taking every few minutes to count their heads to make sure none had wandered off. Yet, he would always find his gaze trailing back to Egg, seeing if anyone was roughhousing too roughly, or to his lady, seeing how she’d gaze around the water’s edge.

Ever since the men had watched her bathe in the river, she never was careless ever again. Even when Dunk started to accompany her and Egg, she’d always wash herself quickly, or scout around the area to make sure no one was hiding.

Moments like this, Dunk would get her to speak of a new book she read, or a story of her many travels, and he would be the one to keep watch.

Twenty minutes after merely wading and floating, it was her idea to play a game.

“Sea Beasts.” She called it after corralling all of the children together. “One of you starts in the middle between the rest of the lake and land, and we try to pass. If the Beast tags anyone, they become a beast, and the game starts again and again until last one standing.”

Egg was the first Sea Beast, and of course, he attempted to tag both her and Dunk. He failed, but managed to get some of the other children. As time passed, laughter was heard alongside excited shrieks and petty arguments of ‘You didn’t get me!’ or ‘I was already on land!’, one of the children managed to make Ser Duncan the Tall a beast.

Leaving the Witch of Westeros and nine other children facing dozens of others, and what many would call a living giant.

Of course, when the game started, it was Dunk who chased after her. She shrieked as he did, but giggled once he wrapped her arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest.

“No, no!” She playfully squealed. “Release me, you foul loathsome beast!”

He laughed into her neck as she “fought” him off, climbing over his shoulder and reaching out to the remaining children, screaming.

“Avenge me! Sing songs of my sacrifice, tell my wife and children I love them!” She slowed her speech, going limp in Dunk’s arms and shutting her eyes. “Live for me…thus…I die.”

The gaggle of children ‘mourned’ their fallen companion, wailing in pretend agony as the giant Beast floated away with her. Egg, on the other hand, was trying to smother his laughter behind his hand from the tomfoolery of it all.

“It’s a shame you’re somehow dead from me holding you.” Dunk jested.

“Perhaps…” she whispered softly, eyes still shut. “true love’s kiss will bring me back?”

He furrowed his brow. “I killed you; I’m the beast that caught you. Why would you wish for me to kiss you?”

She sighed. “Duncan, you are perhaps the one man in all of the nine, yes, nine kingdoms who would take a child’s game so seriously, you would talk yourself out of kissing a woman who-.”

His lips pressed gently against hers, using one arm to cradle her face, and the other to wrap around her waist, keeping her steady and above water. She matched the level in which he kissed her, though that didn’t make it any less passionate.

The two sat out of the game soon after, and took to sitting on land, carefully watching the children play. Despite how cold the water had been, the sun shined brightly onto the surface of the earth, leaving them still in their swimming outfits. Amongst the sounds of children’s glee, there were the birds singing so sweetly. It was perfect.

“Is it alright if we stay here for a short while?” She turned to Dunk. “Just another day at the very least?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure if the mothers and fathers would want their children out here for that long.”

“I mean in the village.”

He stared at her, seeing how she tried as always to remain unshaken or neutral in her face. But he had traveled with her for nearly a year; he knew that she was wanting reassurance.

“You never need to ask for permission.” He said, squeezing her hand. “We will stay as long as you wish.”

“I know that it wouldn’t be the best for Egg to stay in one place-.”

“-It would be the best,” he stated. “for Egg to be around others his own age, and to understand that if he likes a girl, her family is just as important as his.”

She looked back out to the water, watching as Egg splashed other children, and would try to swim away only for others to corner him. He looked so happy.

A smile slowly spread upon her face; one she attempted to hide. “Even if his family is of the dragon and hers wouldn’t be?”

“Aye. He’ll grow into a man first before he grows into a prince.”

“And what if he already was one?” She jested. “In technicality, he was a prince ever since he was out of the womb.”

“You know what I mean.”

They watched them play for another ten minutes. Ten minutes in silence between each other, only being broken by a different boy or girl every so often saying ‘Watch this! Watch me! Are you watching?’ as they would do a trick (usually jumping from a minor height). Then, she spoke.

“You said your father died in King’s Landing?”

He stared ahead, still keeping his eyes on the boy. “I think so. I worked in a pot shop in Flea Bottom, and a cook said he was a thief. Most likely was hanged.”

“Mine died there too.”

Dunk looked at her, not saying anything. His eyes were only softened.

“I didn’t…” She took a deep breath. “The only reason we know anything happened was because I asked my mother yesterday where he was, and she said he went missing a month after I was taken. She said he went to King’s Landing, and I remembered it. I was six, and with two men who’d taken me, when I heard someone call my name. It was so crowded, it smelled horrible, and I had no idea it was my father’s voice. All I knew was that one of the men picked me up and ran away. An hour later, the other man came back, and his hands and knife were covered in blood. I asked what happened, and he only told me to shut up, or he’d stick me with it too.”

Rubbing her eyes, she brought her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and sinking her nails into the paper-thin material of her dress. Dunk sat up, his shoulder brushing hers.

“He was a brave man.” He said.

“He was devoted.” She added. “I can’t fathom the heartbreak my family went through. Losing the youngest in the dead of night, only then to never know what happened to the father. My mother could never decide if he abandoned them or had died. I wish…I wish I knew him more, but I hope it eases my family to know that he didn’t go quietly or without a fight.”

“Of course it does. It eases them greatly that their daughter is safe and sound as well.”

She combed her hand through his damp hair. “And that she brought home a handsome fella.”

He scoffed yet leaned into her touch. An hour passed, and after a quarter of the children were tired out, they decided it was time to go back to the village. She slept in her mother’s house again that night.

When the sun rose, Dunk couldn’t find Egg. Just for a moment, his heart began to beat with anxiety the longer he looked for him. All was well when he saw her shaving the boy’s head outside her mother’s house. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from their smiles alone, he had a feeling he shouldn’t interrupt.

“She’s quite different than when she was as a baby.” Her mother stood beside him, carrying a basket of clothes. “Although, I suppose that makes sense. Would you say you’re the same as you were when you were a child, Ser Duncan?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure, ma’am. Probably just as feeble minded.”

“Help me with the laundry.”

Without question, he followed her to the back of the house. They spoke as they took off garments drying on the clothesline and hung-up ones from the basket.

“Why a hedge knight?” She questioned. “My daughter says you could have been a grand one with the Targaryens or Baratheons.”

“If I’m being honest,” he unclipped a dry blanket. “it’s all I’ve ever known. I believe it’s been the best way my ser could’ve taught me to be a true knight. I wanted it for my squire as well. He comes from…a difficult family.”

“He’s the Lost Prince; you needn’t be afraid that I know.” She stated, ignoring how his face fell. “I don’t favor them per say, but you must be doing something right if the boy calls me by higher titles than I deserve. I am confused though, aren’t you knights meant to take a vow of chastity?”

“Only some orders, not all.” He explained, though still found his cheeks heating, having an inkling where the conversation was going.

She hummed, the smile never leaving her lips. She folded a dress. “Then I must rip the bandage off. If my daughter were to remain traveling with you, what are your intentions with her?”

“To protect her.”

“How long have you been courting?”

“Ever since the beginning of the summer.”

“Four months then, I suppose? After when the bandits attacked you?”

He swallowed thickly. “I should have been with her and the boy. We had gotten too comfortable traveling alone and believed there would be no one to-.”

“-Rest thy chest, dear knight. I do not ridicule you.” She eased. “Do you believe she’ll walk unshaken ever again?”

“I’m no maester, m’lady.”

She hummed. “I see you only have two horses. If she chooses to go with you, I’ll give you another.”

“That would be kind of you.”

“And if she were to choose to stay…what then would you do?”

He stopped his workings to think. What would he say? He knew what he would do, but would that have been the “correct” answer? He made a vow first to train Egg as best as he could not just into a squire, but a man when he grew older. He loved her, he knew that long enough before he’d even had the courage to tell her when he nearly lost her.

But here…she was so happy.

“The knight gets to sleep in a bed for more than two days, and he’s the last to awake.” Her teasing voice caressed his ears, and he saw both her and Egg walking hand in hand.

Her mother giggled. “Now no disrespect from you, he is my guest.”

“Then why’s he doing the laundry?” Egg questioned.

“Because he’s a respectable man, and if you are as well,” she held out the empty basket. “then you’ll take this into the house without back talk.”

He groaned, but took the basket anyway, mumbling under his breath. Her daughter squeezed his shoulder as he passed by, and he stopped his complaining. She leaned against her stick.

“Mama, have you been kind to him?”

She snickered. “Of course I’ve been. How is your leg?”

“The same. I probably won’t be able to make coin from dancing anymore. May I speak with him alone?”

“Of course.” She kissed her cheek. “Come find me later, I wish to ask you something.”

When they were alone, she led Dunk onto a nearby hill, laying down and gazing up at the cloudless sky that belonged in a painting.

“She didn’t frighten you?” she questioned.

“No.” He chuckled. “Simply asked me to do laundry and ask what my intentions were with you.”

“And what are they?” She brushed his cheek with the back of her fingers.

Shutting his eyes, he said easily. “To protect you and defend you.”

“And love me?”

“Above all.”

She retracted her hand to toss over his chest, cuddling close into him. He rolled onto his side, cradling her and opening his eyes to make sure no one was around to sneak up on them.

“Egg said my nieces and nephews invited him to sleep at their house tonight.” She scratched his head. “I was thinking it’d be alright, but said I’d ask you first.”

He hummed. “Why couldn’t he ask me himself?”

“He knew you’d more likely say yes if I asked.” She whispered into his ear. “And I want time just for us, if that helps.”

There are two instances in life where Ser Duncan is reminded that he is only a man: Whenever he is knocked down off his feet from a foe, or from her.

“How far are they?” He shuttered under her touch.

“Three houses down.” She kissed the shell of his ear, pulling away so he’d look at her. “If anything happens, it’ll be a short sprint.”

He kissed her forehead. “I see no harm then.”

The rest of the day was spent doing chores of all things around the village. He wondered too if she was avoiding him on purpose, only giving longing glances and wry grins across the way whenever he’d see her.

He could scarcely look at her without feeling his body grow warm just from the sight of her smile.

Later, after what felt like an eternity, night had fallen and it was just them alone together (finally…). They ate a light dinner, relaxing in the quietness between them. It was unspoken when they decided to retire for the night.

“What do you think of it?” She questioned, only wearing her underthings and combing her hair as she sat on the side of the bed.

“Of what?” He asked, finding her movement hypnotic as he sat against the headboard.

“My home."

“Quiet…peaceful, even.”

“Enough to stay?”

All was quiet in the bedroom, only a single candle in the corner of it bringing in light. She set the comb on the nightstand, sitting expectantly and staring at him. Dunk avoided her gaze just for a moment. How would he tell her? How could he tell her?

“I said I’d train the boy as how I was, and I mean it.” He started. “I will do whatever you wish between us. If you want to never see me again, or have me wait for you, I shall.”

She looked at him for a moment longer, before climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. He wrapped his around her waist, resting his face in the crook of her neck. Gods…how long had it been since he had a moment to hold her like that?

“I love my mother,” she said. “and my brothers, my sisters, my cousins, my nieces and nephews I didn’t know I had…but I’ve known you longer than I have with them; really know them. I’m not the baby that was stolen out of her bed anymore, and they know that. Wherever I go, Aegon is my shadow.”

He laughed through the tears that threatened to spill. “Only Egg?”

“You would be perfectly fine if I weren’t with you. I don’t know how the boy would feel.”

“I wouldn’t though.” He held her tighter. “I’d be a mess.”

Her lips caressed his cheek. “You’re a strong man.”

“Even if I’d be alright, I’d want you with me.”

Resting her head against his, she asked. “Do you want me now?”

“Only if you’ll have me.”

“Gods, how could I not?”

They kissed as if they had never had before. Of course, they had, several times. More so in the dark nights, when Egg had gone to sleep, and they wished each other goodnight. Those were always quick and soft, just to feel some sort of touch before the day was over.

But then…in that dimly lit room, Dunk felt a rush through his bones as his hands traced over her skin. Her body started to move, and he grunted into her mouth. His hands lightly gripped her hips to stop.

“I-I can’t.” He stammered, breathless. “I want you…I want you to feel it first.”

“Feel what?” Her name left his lips as she kissed his neck. “Tell me, I don’t know.”

“You do.”

“But I don’t. I am merely a maiden who has never lain with a man before.” She jested, yet held a seriousness in her eyes when she held his face in her hands. “Have you, Ser Duncan? With man or woman?”

 “No.”

He would not say that, on his twentieth name day, Ser Arlan paid a woman of the night to “deflower” him for his present.

His ser had paid for two hours, and Dunk spent the whole time merely talking to her. Well…the first hour had him shaking like a leaf, and her trying to sedate his worries. The latter half was where she told him she wanted to open a flower shop and marry a childhood friend.

She kissed him that night, but truth be told, he loved talking more. On one hand, he hated how he couldn’t remember her name…on the other, all he could think of was hers.

Her words of comfort and of spitfire, her longing glances, her gentle touches, her wit, her bravery.

If the Seven were just and true, then they’d allow him to die by drowning himself in her.

“What is it you wish to do to me?” She asked.

His chest felt heavy, and if he were standing, his knees would have given out. “Whatever it is you wish. I-I have no idea what I’m doing.”

They chuckled together in their embrace, and she kissed his nose. “Have you seen a naked lady?”

“Aye, not up close but…”

She took off the bottom half of her underclothes, and Dunk immediately looked back to her eyes after a glimpse between her legs.

“It’s alright.” She soothed. “I want you to look.”

Hesitantly, he did. She sat farther up on the bed, baring herself to him and reaching between her legs. “I will admit, the part most men cannot find does hide sometimes…but now.”

The more he looked, the more he found resemblance in it…

“It looks like a Butterfly flower.”

She chortled. “A what?”

“Do you remember the blue flowers all by the roadside a few months back?”

“I think?” She couldn’t hide her hilarity. “Why on earth do you remember that?”

That question was when he finally paused. Pursing his lips, he looked away. “That morning when I found you by the water…I had found some of them and wanted to give them to you, to tell you that I…wanted to court you. I didn’t even know I crushed the petals until you were gone.”

Her breath stammered as he spoke, and she hovered her mouth over his ear. “Would you have done something if I hadn’t run off?”

He faltered. “I would’ve kissed you and nothing more. You deserve to be on a bed, not grass-.”

She kissed his lips quickly, just enough to surprise him. Blood rushed downwards just at the sight of her smile, and he wondered why that was what caused it.

“You can touch me there if you want to.” She teased. “Just don’t crush it.”

He looked back down, then at her. “If it’s alright…I’d rather much kiss it.”

She blinked, and despite knowing her for ten months, courting her for four, and seeing all sides of her, he never imagined she would ever look so confused as she did then.

“…Huh?”

Why did she have that look on her face? “I-I’ve heard from ladies of the night that it feels good, and I want you to?”

“Don’t do it if you don’t want to.”

“I do, I just said so. I want to know what it feels like.”

“Sorry, it’s just,” she smiled, trying to wipe it away with her hand. “many men don’t want or offer to do it.”

This time, Dunk moved forward. “Maybe I’m not many men?”

It wasn’t the first time he flirted with her, but it’s the first time he wasn’t scared to do so (even after he started courting her, he would sometimes worry if she’d slap him if he were to make a coy comment).

“I suppose you aren’t.” She giggled. “Now, are you going to let me be the only one naked as the day I was born, or are you a gentleman?”

She wasn’t so haughty anymore when he stripped. If anything, she wore the same look he did the first time he saw her seemingly naked. Still, he laid her down as if she was something precious and put his mouth on her.

Dunk never understood how a man could become dependent on the taste of drink, whether that was ale of cider. Sure, if they were a sad man, he could comprehend it. But he himself wasn’t sad.

So, why couldn’t he decide whether he was addicted to her touch when she threaded her fingers through his hair, the sounds she made when he ran his tongue over her, or just the taste of her?

Maybe he was greedy, because maybe it was all three.

Even when she went silent after releasing a cry he knew no woman could make, he was still starving. It was after she pushed him away while breathlessly laughing, did he stop.

Dunk couldn’t stop smiling, even though he ached.

When she recovered, she threw her legs over his thighs and slowly sank onto him. Perhaps the gods were real: They fulfilled his wish to drown in her. He couldn’t get close enough as he wanted to, despite how their sweat glued their hearts together, and her nails scratched his skin as if to open him up to her.

He realized she liked it when he made noise in her ear. It didn’t matter if he thought he sounded stupid, she loved it.

“I-I thought you’d stay.” He confessed into her hair. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

It was vulnerable, and surely she must’ve heard how close he was to crying. A part of him hated himself for sounding like that, but all fell away when she rested her head against his and said.

“You’ll see me everyday when you wake up.”

After she cried for all of Westeros to hear, he rose her off of him and relieved himself on the floor. He saw stars for the next few moments, placing his hand over his eyes to steady himself. Her gentle hand ran up and down his back, and she kissed his shoulder.

“I’ll clean it up if you clean the both of us.” She said.

He panted. “Thank you.”

“It’s not much, you’re doing-.”

“-No, thank you for this.”

She made a face, but it soon softened. “Of course…I love you. You never need to thank me.”

“I know, and I love you too, I just…” He didn’t know what to say, so he just kissed her as if he hadn’t ruined her.

Because he was always sweet.

After he cleaned them up, they laid on the bed without the covers; for their “activities” and the air outside made it too hot.

When all was quiet, and she was playing with the ends of the oversized tunic she wore, she broke the silence.

“Do you know where I wish to go again? Storm’s End.”

He hummed. “Why’s that?”

“Although I may never be able to dance again, mayhaps Ser Lyonel will have found a true witch to cast a spell so that I may galivant until midnight.”

Dunk chuckled, wrapping his arm around her waist, and pressing her back against his chest. “You’re funny.”

“No, do you wish to know what funny is?” She snorted.

“Tell me.”

She sat up, setting the stage as if she were telling stories for money like she would do. “Three months into our journeys together, when it was still winter, we arrived at the great hall. Ser Lyonel made it a festivity he planned to last the whole week. Nothing but drinking and merriment would he accept. Do you remember Ashter?”

“His little brother?” Dunk questioned.

“Yes, the one that kissed me when we were children.” She paused, looking at him and her smile widened. “Ease your face, dear knight.”

“My face is eased.”

“You look as if you’ll bite through your jaw, you’re clenching your teeth so tight!” She laughed. “Besides, Asther said it was me kissing him that gave him revelation he prefers the company of men. Which is why, imagine the shock he gave me when he said that Lyonel had drunkenly told him he had no idea who to be more jealous of between us?!”

Dunk furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she somehow found this hilarious. “do you think Lyonel meant to ask one of us to his chambers whilst we were there? Or perhaps both, how do you think he would’ve done it? Would he have cornered both of us in the hall, or would he have asked us separately?”

Ser Duncan the Tall was a jealous man. It wasn’t honorable, and it wasn’t to speak on her character as if she were unfaithful. He just was that way.

“If you must pull the answer out from my teeth,” he sighed. “even if he had asked, I would’ve only wanted one of you in a room with me.”

She tilted her head as if she was taking it seriously, then said. “Well good ser, if you miss your Baratheon stallion so much-.”

“-I speak of you and only you!” He meant it.

Once she saw how genuine he was, and how he looked as if he was between bursting a blood vessel and crying, she ran her nails lightly over the hair on his chest.

“I wouldn’t have gone with him.” She vowed. “He’s a funny and beautiful man, but my heart had already been taken by a greater knight.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t love me that quickly.”

“You’re right, I didn’t.” She admitted. “I barely knew you. Yet, how dare you deny that I found you alluring in both body and soul?”

“Alluring?” He chuckled.

“Yes, alluring! You bewitched me.”

“I bewitched the witch?” He pressed his face close to hers before his fingers found her sides, tickling her.

She laughed wildly as she did at the lake when he caught her. Perhaps he wasn’t addicted to her only when they made love.

Perhaps, it was always just her.

They stayed the rest of the week, and Egg had two more sleepovers after that. When the air was starting to become a little colder, and the leaves were beginning to turn from green into gold, they saddled up their horses.

“Won’t you come back?” Essie, her youngest niece asked.

She smiled. “Of course I shall. We all will.”

Her mother wiped the tears she tried to hide, embracing her. Dunk saw her whisper something, and her daughter hugged her tighter. Pulling away, they kissed each other goodbye, saying they loved one another.

After more hugs and goodbyes (if they were not for her, more were for Egg from the fellow children, and a good few were also from the children or her family members for Dunk), the three companions set out for new horizons.

“Do you think you shall marry there or elsewhere?” Egg boldly asked an hour into the journey.

“Depends, little prince.” She spoke before Dunk could choke out a response. “Will your family be paying for our wedding?”

“Only if your mother makes custard for it.”

Dunk spoke up. “Don’t I get a say in this supposed wedding of mine?”

“No.” They answered in sync before laughing.

When Ser Arlan died, he thought he would be lonesome for the rest of his days. Yet, simply within the year of his death, Dunk found two people he would walk through fire for. Even if they were to tease and taunt him, he wouldn’t change it.

The happiest years of his life were those few he spent on the road with them, and when he would inevitably pass on, he knew those were the last moments he would relish in.

It was more than he thought he would have, nonetheless deserved. Still, seeing both Egg and her smile…that was enough.

[padmespetal]

✸ WELCOME TO THE FAMILY IV — modern!targaryen au

synopsis. your frantic search for aegon continues as uncomfortable truths surface and you realize that perhaps you never stood a chance of surviving among the dragons.

word count. 9.8k

warnings. smoking, dysfunctional family dyanmics, english is not my first language so sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes

note. there is A LOT of stuff going on in this chapter, be prepared, and do not fret it’s not the last one!! as always hope you enjoy reading🤍 ( and sorry to everyone who I forgot to tag!!)

previous part.

When you arrived in King’s Landing for your first year of university, the city did not greet you gently.

It nearly swallowed you whole.

The descent into King's Landing International Airport had been turbulent, and you had gripped the armrest like it might detach and send you spiraling into the Narrow Sea. You had cried somewhere above the clouds, quiet and ugly tears streaming down your cheeks you hoped the man beside you would mistake for fear of flying. It wasn’t that.

It was the weight of leaving.

You could still vividly picture your mother’s hands at the departure gate. Your father pretending not to cry. Your childhood bedroom back home, now stripped of any remnants of you living there.

As you got off the plane the late august breeze greeted you, slightly ruffling your hair. You were in a t-shirt and shorts. It was still warm in King’s Landing at that time.

As you walked through the security check and went through passport control you noticed how the airport was way too bright, too loud and too alive.

Announcements echoed in three languages. People moved with the brisk confidence of those who belonged there.

In the middle of it all you stood still for a second too long, two oversized suitcases at your sides, backpack digging into your shoulders and your entire life compressed into a few small bags.

You had made it.

—

The Uber ride into the city was obscenely expensive, but you didn’t care. You’d rather pay a ridiculous amount of money than drag your things through public transport while navigating a city for the first time.

You watched King’s Landing through the cab window, unfolding like a fever dream in front of your eyee, you had dreamed about this since you were a little child.

Glass skyscrapers glinting in the late afternoon sun, old stone buildings squeezed between new steel monstrosities, golden banners hanging from lampposts in honor of some political gala you would later learn was hosted by the Targaryens. The Blackwater shimmered in the distance like molten glass.

You pressed your forehead to the window.

This was the Capital. This was where everything happened. And somehow, you were here.

When the car dropped you off in the district you’d be living in — not quite glamorous, not quite grimy, somewhere in the liminal middle — you nearly cried again. This time from exhaustion or relief you weren't quite sure.

The building you would call home for the next four years wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t grand. It was narrow and slightly crooked, brick darkened by years of rain. But it was yours.

You dragged the suitcases up three flights of stairs because the elevator was “temporarily out of service,” a sign that would, as you would later discover, never be removed. By the second floor you were sweating. By the third you were bargaining with the Seven.

Your landlord arrived fifteen minutes late. He was an older man with a round belly, who smelled faintly of cigar and sweat. He inspected you suspiciously as if making sure you weren’t some kind of hooligan.

After deeming you respectable he croaked out the few rules you had to follow, notified you when he’d come for the rent and handed you over the keys.

He wobbled down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.

You stood there with the key in your hand, giddy with excitement.

Inside, the apartment was painfully bare. There was a bed in what you presumed would be your new bedroom. A tiny table in the living room. A kitchenette that looked like it could combust if you boiled pasta too aggressively. White walls that felt too big for your small existence.

You stood in the doorway, chest heaving, hair sticking to your neck.

And you whispered to the empty room, almost shyly. “I’ll make you mine.”

You promised yourself you’d fill it with thrifted lamps and mismatched mugs and music playing at midnight. You’d study at that tiny table until your eyes burned. You’d cry here. Laugh here. Fall in love here, maybe.

You didn’t know with whom. You didn’t know how. But you knew this was the beginning.

—

Your first morning at King's Landing University felt like preparing for war.

You woke up before your alarm. Your stomach churned violently. You brushed your teeth twice because you were convinced your breath smelled like anxiety. You changed outfits three times. You applied an appropriate amount of makeup, that hopefully wouldn’t melt off in the heat.

You googled “how to not look like a first year” and immediately closed the tab because every suggestion required money you did not possess.

What if you got on the wrong bus? What if you misread your schedule? What if everyone else already had friends?

What if you embarrassed yourself so spectacularly on day one that the humiliation echoed for four years and you’d have no friends and you would be miserable for the rest of your life?

Your brain was cruel like that.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your hands were trembling.

“Stop,” you whispered to yourself.

You were not a coward. You had moved across the country. You had boarded a plane alone. You had survived airport security with two overweight suitcases and dignity mostly intact.

You could survive a campus.

—

The bus ride was chaos. You missed your stop the first time and had to circle back, cheeks burning as if anyone noticed. You clutched your phone tightly, the KLU digital map glowing like sacred scripture.

When you finally got off at the right stop, clutching your bag for dear life you saw the campus gates looming in the distance.

They were massive, wrought iron intertwined with golden accents, the university crest etched proudly at the center.

Beyond them sprawled a city within a city — modern glass lecture halls, older ivy-covered stone buildings, fountains spraying water into the air like something out of a film.

It was enormous and terrifying at the same time. Labyrinthine.

You stepped through the gates. And that’s when something in you shifted.

There were people everywhere. Not uniformed rich kids, not polished crownlanders like you had feared.

There were students with sun-darkened Dornish skin and silver jewelry that chimed when they walked. Tall Northmen wrapped in oversized sweaters despite the killing heat. Girls speaking rapid Braavosi into their phones. A group of Dothraki boys laughing loudly, all sharp cheekbones and braided hair. Stormlanders in athletic jackets. Someone wearing a Myrish band tee.

It was chaos and it was beautiful.

And no one was looking at you. No one cared about you.

Your heartbeat slowed.

For the first time since landing, the weight on your chest loosened. You were a stranger here — yes — but so was everyone else in some way.

This city did not revolve around you. Your awkwardness was not revolutionary. You could be anyone you wanted to be.

You stared at your phone again, trying to locate the building for your first lecture. The name of your professor glared back at you:

Lyonel Baratheon.

The surname alone felt intimidating. You'd imagined some ancient, booming-voiced academic who’d chew up first years for breakfast.

You were navigating the map on your phone trying to get to class when— you aggressively bumped into someone.

The collision was abrupt and humiliating.

“Oh shit!” you yelped as your phone slipped from your hand and clattered against the pavement.

You bent down instantly, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, I—” Your eyes immedieately shot up to your unfortunate victim as heat spread to your cheeks.

The girl in front of you looked like she’d stepped out of an art exhibit.

Bubblegum pink hair fell in glossy waves around her shoulders, the color vivid against her deep brown skin. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to draw blood. She wore layered gold jewelry and a denim jacket splattered with paint like it had stories to tell.

She was stunning. Not in an intimidating way. Just… radiant. For half a second you were sure she’d snap at you. But instead, to your utter relief she laughed.

It wasn’t mean or annoyed liked you had expected it to be. On the contrary it was warm and bright and conspiratorial.

“It’s all right,” she said, voice lilting with an unfamiliar accent you couldn’t quite place but loved immediately. “Let me guess. First year? Wandering around wondering where the seven bloody hells you’re supposed to be?”

You blinked. “Yeah,” you admitted, scratching the back of your neck. “Right on the spot.”

She snorted. “Same.”

You both stood there for a moment, awkward and smiling.

“I don’t really know anyone here,” she added, glancing around as if hoping a familiar face might materialize.

“Me neither,” you croaked out, equal parts embarrassed and relieved.

There it was. The shared vulnerability. The invisible thread.

“What class are you heading to?” she asked, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.

“Um — hold on.” You fumbled with your phone, unlocking it quickly. “Professor… Lyonel Baratheon.” You said it like you were invoking a curse.

Her eyes widened dramatically. “Oh shit! Me too!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! Oh thank the gods,” she groaned dramatically. “I was about to cry in a bathroom stall if I had to walk in alone.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

“We should go together,” she said decisively. “At least if we get lost, we’ll be ditching first day together. You know like…solidarity!”

“Solidarity,” you echoed, grinning.

She extended her hand suddenly, as if remembering something important. “Oh by the way I’m Kiera. Kiera of Tyrosh.”

Tyrosh. That explained the color.

You shook her hand and gave her your name, feeling something click into place in your chest — small but certain.

The two of you began walking, eyes darting between the digital map and the physical world, narrating your confusion like sports commentators.

“Is that the humanities building?”

“No, that says engineering.”

“Why is everything so far apart?”

“Because they obviously hate us.”

You missed one turn. Then another. At one point you almost walked into the fountain.

But you were laughing. Actually laughing.

By the time you finally stood outside the correct lecture hall — slightly out of breath, slightly flushed — the anxiety that had threatened to swallow you whole that morning had thinned into something manageable.

Students were filing inside in clusters. You hesitated.

Kiera nudged you gently with her elbow.

“Ready?”

No. But also — yes.

You took a deep breath.

And together, with the girl you had just met fifteen minutes ago, you stepped through the doors of Lyonel Baratheon’s class for the very first time, unaware that this chaotic, pink-haired collision would become one of the most important friendships of your life.

And just like that, your life in King’s Landing truly began.

—

Same lecture hall. Same slanted seats that made your back ache if you leaned wrong. Same faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Same professor.

But everything was terribly different.

Kiera wasn’t beside you anymore — hadn’t been since she’d dramatically dropped the class halfway through second year, declaring that she refused to let “a man with that much main character energy grade her essays.” You could almost hear her whispering commentary in your ear now, something irreverent and comforting.

Instead, the seat next to you was empty. And your leg would not stop bouncing.

At the front of the hall stood Lyonel Baratheon, as enigmatic as ever.

His curls were particularly unruly today, dark strands falling into his eyes as he paced in front of the whiteboard. Small silver hoops glinted in his ears when he turned his head. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t broad. He didn’t resemble the stag of his ancestral sigil in any obvious physical way.

But spiritually? He was all storm.

Not because of the volume which he spoke, in truth he never shouted. Not in intimidation either, he didn’t demand impossible workloads or assign heaps of homework.

No, his storms came in passion. In the way his hands moved when he explained something he loved. In the way his voice sharpened when discussing injustice or softened when describing history like it was something alive and breathing.

He genuienly cared. Which was more than could be said for professors like Ashford, who taught like he was reading off a teleprompter in his own head.

Normally, you adored this class. Today however, you could not absorb a single word.

Your heartbeat had not steadied since dawn. Since Daeron’s name had flashed across your phone screen while you were still half asleep.

Since his voice filled with a strange unease — had said, We can’t find him.

Aegon was gone. He had left his phone behind. Hadn’t packed a bag. Hadn’t told anyone.

Just… gone. Your stomach twisted again at the memory.

A part of you clung desperately to the logical angle — he hadn’t planned anything elaborate. He hadn't take anything with him.

No clothes missing. No food taken. That had to mean something. He was a smart boy. Impulsive, yes. Moody. Dramatic in the way only a ten year old Targaryen could be.

But he wasn’t reckless.

Still, he was alone in this cavernous city. He could be anywhere.

Some grimy bar in Flea Bottom or on a bus north to Winterfell for all you knew. Wandering the Blackwater docks or sneaking into a sept. Thought you highly doubted that last option.

The endless possibilities clawed at your brain.

You kept your phone face-down on the desk in front of you. If you turned it over, you knew you’d refresh your messages every thirty seconds. You’d stare at the screen willing it to magically light up.

So you didn’t look. And yet you didn’t listen either.

Lyonel’s voice washed over you in waves — articulate, animated, entirely wasted on your fraying focus. Your pen hovered uselessly above your notebook. Your handwriting, when you tried, came out crooked and illegible.

The minutes dragged. Every second felt swollen, spanning into one infinite loop.

A class you once cherished now felt like deliberate torture. Like being trapped behind glass while your house burned and all you could do wass watch.

You checked the clock mounted above the door. Three minutes left.

Your leg bounced harder. And then finally —

“Alright,” Lyonel’s familiar voice rang out, cutting through the haze. “I’m expecting the assignments to be handed in by this time next week.”

A chorus of groans erupted around you. “Now now, I told you all about this three weeks ago. No excuses.”

You shoved your notebook into your bag. You needed to move. To call someone.

Kiera? She was probably in class too, but at least she’d answer on the first ring.

Daeron? He was probably trying not to die from a hangover.

Maekar? The thought alone made your pulse spike.

You didn’t know. You just knew that sitting still was impossible. You were halfway to the aisle when—

“Miss.” Your name followed, precise and unmistakable. You stopped mid-step and turned, jaw tight. Your patience was running thin.

Lyonel was leaning casually against his desk, one eyebrow arched in that infuriatingly perceptive way.

“Yes, professor?” You couldn’t quite keep the edge out of your voice.

He tilted his head at your tone. “Has my class bored you?” If this were any other day, you would have probably laughed.

“Of course not,” you replied quickly, adjusting your bag strap. “It’s just—”

He straightened a little, studying you now. Not accusatory, just assessing.

“You were not listening to a word I said the entire lecture,” he said calmly. “I tend to notice when my best students stop engaging.”

Your throat tightened. That word — best — landed heavier than it should have.

“It has nothing to do with the topic,” you said. “I’m just… busy.”

Busy was certainly one way to describe a missing Targaryen heir.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer. You could see the storm gathering behind his eyes — not anger, but concern.

He didn’t believe you. But thank the gods, he didn’t press.

“Well,” he said after a pause, pushing off the desk, “the reason I stopped you wasn’t to interrogate your academic devotion.”

You blinked, not sure where this was heading.

“The student exchange application from Sunspear arrived this morning.”

For half a second, you just stared at him. Your eyebrows squinted.

The what?

And then your brain placed it.

Back at the beginning of the year — in one of those restless, impulsive moods where you felt suffocated by routine — you had applied for the exchange program in Dorne. Hosted in Sunspear. A semester under the Dornish sun. Slower pace of life. With new professors and a new perspective.

You had told yourself you needed the warmth. A change that would do you some good. Distance from King’s Landing’s grim relentless pulse.

You had filled out the application at two in the morning and almost forgotten about it entirely. Ninety percent of you had assumed you wouldn’t get in.

Apparently, you had.

“Oh,” you said dumbly. You should feel ecstatic.

People fought for these spots. Kiera had once joked she’d commit mild crimes for a term in Dorne. The opportunity meant prestige and valuable experience. A different academic network.

It meant escape. Instead, all you felt was the frantic need to leave this building and start searching for Aegon.

Lyonel’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “I hope you won’t pass up on this opportunity because of… whatever is weighing on you so heavily.”

Your chest tightened.

Were you really this transparent? Or maybe he just saw too much.

“I’ll… think about it,” you managed.

But not now.

Now there was a missing boy with too many feelings and a tendency to do impulsive, stupid things.

Now there was an entire dragon family in quiet panic. Now there was no room in your brain for sun-drenched courtyards and Dornish lectures.

Lyonel nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer for what it was — insufficient, but honest.

“Very well,” he said.

You didn’t wait for his dismissal. You turned and hurried up the aisle, heart hammering, fingers already reaching for your phone before you’d even cleared the lecture hall doors.

The corridor outside suddenly felt too bright. Too normal.

Students were laughing outside. Complaining about assignments. Discussing their lunch plans.

And somewhere in this sprawling, indifferent city — Aegon Targaryen was missing.

The sky above King’s Landing was painfully blue. How could the world look so normal?

You descended the stone steps two at a time, heart hammering. You had left behind Dorne and exchange programs with Lyonel Baratheons classroom. None of that mattered right now.

Aegon was still missing.

You pulled out your phone, thumb hovering.

You had mentally decided that calling Kiera would be your best and safest option.

You pressed her contact. It rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey.” Her voice was steady. Grounding.

“Hey—what’s up? Any news of Aegon?” The words tumbled out too fast as you pushed through the crowd of students.

“Unfortunately, no,” she replied, and you could hear street noise behind her. “Valarr’s dad told us to meet at Maekar’s. They’re trying to handle the situation.”

Of course he had. You hadn't doubted for a single moment Baelor Targaryen would be the voice of reason in all of this.

He was always calm and measured about these things. Endlessly strategic. He was the second most important man in the family after Daeron the Good for a reason.

You exhaled shakily.

“Where are you right now?” Kiera asked.

“Still on campus. Just finished Baratheon’s lecture. I’m… I think I’m skipping the rest of today.”

The words felt foreign on your tongue. You never skipped class.

“Okay,” she said simply. No teasing comment. No mock gasp of academic betrayal this time. “Wait at the front. Me and Valarr will pick you up.”

“Okay.”

You ended the call and stood near the iron gates, people brushing past you, their conversations blurring into white noise.

You opened your messages. Aegon’s name stared back at you.

You knew his phone wasn’t on him. Daeron had said it was still on his desk.

But you typed anyway.

You

hey egg. bad time to disappear. you’re kind of giving us all a heart attack.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

You

please come home.

Your fingers hovered. He wouldn’t read it. Not now, maybe not ever.

What were you trying to accomplish? To ease the guilt clawing at your chest, to ease the storm in your mind? A poor attempt that you had reached out?

Before your thoughts could spiral further, a car screeched to a halt in front of you.

A sleek black Mercedes benz pulled up beside the curb where you were standing.

The passenger window rolled down and Kiera’s bubblegum pink hair spilled into view. “Come on, get inside.”

You didn’t hesitate.

The door opened and you scrambled in. Normally you’d admire the interior , the soft leather seats, the ambient lighting, the faint scent of expensive cologne that lingered in the air.

Right now, you barely registered it.

Valarr was behind the wheel, his posture straight, hands steady on the wheel. He had inherited his father’s composure — that terrifying ability to compartmentalize even under pressure.

“So,” he said after you muttered your greetings, eyes fixed on the road. “Did he say anything? Any indication he’d want to run away?”

You swallowed.

“No. We just… we talked about Dyanna before I left.” Your voice softened at the name. “But I didn’t think he’d run away because of that.”

Valarr’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. The car fell quiet for a moment.

“Should I have known?” The doubt crept in before you could stop it. “Should I have seen something?”

“No.” Kiera turned in her seat sharply, fixing you with a stern look. “Absolutely not. None of this is your fault. Do not blame yourself for a single second.”

“It doesn’t feel like that,” you muttered, watching the city blur past.

They drove toward the Red Keep district, the buildings growing grander, older, more suffocatingly opulent.

Valarr spoke again. “My father thinks he ran because of the Lannister charity gala tonight.”

You blinked. It sounded like a place for the members of the great houses to drink obscure amounts of alcohol and silently insult each other.

“The what?”

“He probably didn’t want to attend,” Valarr said carefully. “Thought disappearing would get him out of it.”

A gala? Aegon hadn’t mentioned a word about it.

“That would make more sense,” you murmured. “But why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Valarr’s eyes flicked to you in the rearview mirror. “Maybe he felt embarrassed about it. Does that sound like something Aegon would do?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The car turned into the long driveway of the Targaryen manor — red stone, manicured hedges, iron gates that whispered old money and older secrets.

You all stepped out at once, the tension thick between you.

—

As you stepped through the entrance door, the house was louder than you’d ever heard it.

Voices were overlapping as footsteps echoed off the wood. The air was heavy with restrained panic.

Baelor stood near the window, phone pressed to his ear. He was dressed in a white shirt and navy vest. “Yes, we have notified them..” He gave you all a nod as you entered, acknowledging your presence.

Maekar sat rigid in an armchair, jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack.

Daeron was slouched on the couch, pale as a ghost and hollow-eyed. Part of you wanted to reach for him and ask him if everything was alright. Even if you knew nothing was.

Aerion was conspicuously absent, likely outside, avoiding the emotional circus.

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Rhae said as Daella lounged nearby. The tension in her shoulders was barely masked by her posture. “It’s kind of a… disaster.”

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, scanning the room. “I can see that.”

“Baelor’s speaking to grandfather — Daeron" Rhae clarified. “He says we need to keep this quiet. No pr circus. It’s better this way. We don’t want all of King’s Landing to know a Targaryen child is alone in the city.”

There were many things left unsaid in that sentence.

To protect the family reputation. You thought bitterly.

“Oh, fuck me,” Maekar muttered darkly from his chair. You looked around at all of them.

“So what do we do?” you asked expectantly. You thought they would have devised some kind of plan by now.

Baelor ended his call and stepped forward. Voice as measured and composed as ever. “What we do is we wait and we stay calm.”

Your eyebrows shot up, turning to look at him. “You’re joking— I mean the kid is missing!.”

“Yes,” Baelor’s voice cut through the air, his mismatched irises not revealing anything. “And the City Watch has been notified. They’re searching. We have to trust they’ll find him. Until tonight’s charity gala—”

When you heard him say the word ‘charity gala’ you snapped. That was it. This was the last straw. The anger burst out of you before you could cage it.

“The lot of you are unbelievable!” Your voice cracked through the room like thunder. "All of you!" All their eyes were trained on you now. “Your son is missing and all you care about is finding him in time for a stupid charity gala?”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Rhae gulped as Daella watched on in disbelief. Daeron’s lips quirked up in amusement and Kiera opened her mouth to say something but Valarr grabbed her hand.

Maekar scoffed as Baelor pinched his brows. “Get her out of here. She’s clearly hysterical.”

Something in you snapped.

“No, you!” you shot back. “Maybe if you spent less time scowling and more time showing emotional maturity toward your children, they wouldn’t feel the need to disappear!”

The words hung there. Ugly and irreversible. He knew you weren't only talking about Aegon right now. Everyone did.

The way Daeron was constantly in and out of taverns, how the girls always avoided being home as much as possible, how Aemon had decided to leave for Oldtown, how Aerion always strayed into trouble. And now Aegon, missing.

Maekar stared at you, genuinely taken aback at the nerve. He opened his mouth, perhaps to fire you on the spot, would have been reasonable, but no words came out.

The patio door swung open and Aerion strode in, his eyes sharp, assessing the tension in the air.

Baelor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Perhaps we ought to listen to her…” He reluctantly nodded.

Heat flooded your cheeks as the reality of what you’d just said sank in.

“He couldn’t have gone too far,” Baelor reasoned. “We can maybe search the neighborhood.”

“That sounds better than just sitting around,” Kiera added quickly, showing her support. Her hand still interwoven with Valarr’s.

Baelor nodded. “I’ll stay here with the girls for updates. Valarr and Kiera, you go together.”

Daeron shifted, about to speak, but Maekar cut him off and raised a finger at him.

“You. Are not going anywhere boy. I’m keeping you in my sights after that stunt you pulled last eveing.”

His tone was final. Which left you with.

Baelor’s gaze moved to you.

“Aerion and you can check the city center. If he wanted to blend in, that’s where he’d go.”

You and Aerion both opened your mouths to protest but Baelor’s look shut you up instantly.

Great, of all people, him. The one person who hated your guts and who you hated in equal measure. If not more.

To your surprise Aerion grabbed his keys without a word, already heading for the door.

You composed yourself and swallowed your pride. Aegon mattered more than your pettiness right now.

And if that meant searching King’s Landing with the one Targaryen who looked at you like you were an inconvenience. So be it.

—

Aerion’s car was exactly what one would expect it to be.

A black sleek Porsche, low to the ground and gleaming like it had never known dust. The kind of car that didn’t just move through the city, it roared through it.

As you opened the passenger door, a shiver crawled up your spine. Not because of the fine leather interior. But because of him.

You slid into the seat beside him in silence, spine rigid, hands folded in your lap as if bracing for impact. The door shut with a heavy click that felt far too final. You could only hope he didn’t drive you into a ditch out of spite.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He started the engine. It purred to life smoothly, controlled power, and you rolled out of the manor gates without ceremony.

The silence inside the car was suffocating. It pressed against your ears, against your ribcage. It was charged and volatile, testing both your patience.

You kept your gaze forward, watching the estate disappear in the rearview mirror. Your heart still hadn’t settled from the argument. From Maekar’s scoff and from your own outburst. Would he fire you once he realized what you had done?

Aerion’s jaw was tight, sharp profile illuminated by streaks of sunlight filtering through the windshield. His hands were steady on the wheel.

He looked completely unaffected. But you could tell he wasn’t.

You could feel it.

“So…” you began carefully, more to break the unbearable quiet than anything else. “I think we could maybe start looking near the bay area.”

He didn't respond, he didn't even glance at you.

The city blurred past, ancient stone buildings, café umbrellas, a few pedestrians crossing the street recklessly.

He took a sharp breath through his nose.

“The impudent little idiot couldn’t find a better time to disappear,” he muttered finally, words edged with bitterness.

You turned toward him.“He’s your brother.” You reminded.

The words left you harsher than you had expected.

His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He’s an idiot.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your calm. “He’s ten.”

“And therefore incapable of basic reasoning.”

“He’s scared and he's alone,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

Aerion’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“I can’t believe I have to do this,” he continued after a beat, voice low and irritated. “With you of all people.”

You blinked at him. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He didn’t answer. The car’s engine hummed steadily beneath you.

You pressed on. “Did I do something to you? Insult you? Exist incorrectly?”

Still nothing.

You studied his profile — the sharp cheekbones, the cold line of his mouth, the faint scar near his temple you’d only ever noticed in certain lighting.

“Because trust me,” you said, heat rising in your chest again, “I’m not exactly thrilled I have to search for Aegon with you of all—”

“I don’t hate you.”

The words were so out of character you didn't want to believe he was the one saying them. You stared at him dumbfounded. That was not what you had expected.

His jaw flexed before he swallowed, and for a brief, disorienting second, his eyes flicked toward you.

There was something there. Something that had never been there before. Not contempt and not anger. Something sharper. More dangerous and unfamiliar.

You opened your mouth—

And then movement caught your eye through the windshield.

“Wait—do you see that?”

You leaned forward, pointing. Ahead, the central park had transformed into chaos.

Colorful stalls lined the pathways. Banners fluttered in the breeze. A stage had been erected near the fountain as music drifted faintly through the air.

It looked like some kind of carnival. A festival perhaps?

Aerion followed your gaze.

“Reckon he could be there,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

If Aegon wanted anonymity, distraction, noise loud enough to drown his thoughts and distract him— this would be it.

Aerion pulled into a parking spot along the curb, movements efficient and precise. The engine cut off and the silence returned.

You stepped out into warm sunlight and the distant scent of fried dough and roasted meat filled your senses. Laughter carried on the wind. Somewhere, a child shrieked in delight.

You glanced back. Aerion was still standing by the car, unmoving.

“Are you coming?” you asked.

His expression shuttered instantly, the brief vulnerability from earlier long gone, replaced by the familiar cold.

“I’ll circle the perimeter,” he said flatly.

You sighed. Of course.

“Fine.”

You turned and headed into the festival alone. The air was practically electric.

Stalls sold honeyed pastries and mugs of dark, brewed beer. Children crowded around a puppet show, shrieking at exaggerated dragon costumes. Artists painted faces in swirls of gold and crimson. A group of musicians played something lively and off-key near the center.

You scanned every head of hair, looking for a light blonde buzz. Every slight figure. Every possible little boy.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You spotted Tanselle near an arts-and-crafts table, painting what looked like a wooden shield in careful strokes of red and orange. You almost approached her, almost asked if she’d seen a bald little boy trying to look inconspicuous—

But something barreled into you. Or rather someone?

You stumbled backward as a large dog nearly knocked you flat onto the grass.

“Hey—!”

“Thunder!”

The voice shrieking was familiar. Childlike.

Your heart slammed against your ribs and you turned sharply.

There he was. Aegon.

Dressed like any other boy — striped green shirt, loose shorts, slightly dirty and dusty. No expensive clothes. No fine posture drilled into him by etiquette tutors.

Behind him came Duncan the Tall, sprinting in long, frantic strides, two equally massive dogs bounding beside him.

“Thunder, get back here!” Duncan called, breathless.

The dog that had nearly flattened you barked happily and ran back to him.

For a second, you just stood there gaping.

Relief crashed into you so violently your knees nearly buckled.

Duncan reached you first, chestnut hair messy in the sunlight, freckles flushed across his nose.

“I am so sorry!” he blurted. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him—Thunder, sit! Sweetfoot, Chestnut, calm down!” The dogs obeyed instantly, tails wagging furiously.

You barely registered them. “Aegon.” Your voice was breathless.

You crossed the distance in two strides and pulled him into your arms. His face pressed against your stomach.

You squeezed him like you were making sure he was solid, real and warm. Made of flesh and blood and bones and not some strange hallucination of your mind.

He stiffened in surprise, then slowly relaxed in your embrace.

“Are you alright?” you whispered, hands moving instinctively — caressing his head, checking his shoulders, his arms, his face for cuts or bruises.

To your relief you found none.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

But there was something in his eyes. Guilt sparkled in his violet irises.

You swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind your own.

“Don’t do that,” you choked. “Ever again.”

His shoulders sagged slightly.

“The next time you want to get out of a stupid charity gala,” you said more firmly, pulling back to look at him, “you come to me. We figure something out together. You don’t just disappear.”

His lips twitched. But before he could respond—

“I’m sorry—what?” Duncan interjected, staring between you. “Aegon… as in—?”

“Yes,” you confirmed gently. “As in Aegon Targaryen.”

Duncan’s eyes widened in comical horror.

“He told me he was a farm boy!” he exclaimed, pointing at Aegon. “Said his family had goats!” He blurted out.

You turned slowly toward the boy in question.

“Egg.” You gave him a sharp look as if reprimanding him, but you couldn't find it in your heart to be cross with him. Not right now.

He raised his shoulders in exaggerated innocence. A small, guilty grin tugged at his mouth.

“He was very convincing,” Duncan added weakly.

You huffed a shaky laugh, relief still flooding your veins. “I bet.”

“Thank you,” you told Duncan sincerely. “For looking after him.”

He blinked. “I didn’t know I was looking after him.”

“You were,” you said softly. "Believe me."

Aerion silently appeared behind you. His eyes locked onto Aegon instantly. He scowled as his gaze fell upon Duncan.

“Well,” he drawled, voice cool. “Found the prodigal idiot. Or shall I say idiots?”

Aegon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. You shot Aerion a warning look.

“Let’s go,” you said gently, placing a hand on Aegon’s back.

He hesitated, glancing at Duncan and the three happy dogs. He petted them and promised to meet them sometime and then bid farewell.

You thanked Duncan one last time before giving him a quick hug. He still looked dazed as you led Aegon away from the carnival noise. Poor guy.

—

The walk back to the car was quieter this time. Aegon walked between you and Aerion, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Did you really think no one would notice?” Aerion asked coolly.

Aegon didn’t respond.

“You left your phone,” you added softly.

He kicked at a pebble. “I didn’t want them to track me.”

“We were all terrified,” you swallowed.

That made him glance up.

“Even my father?” he asked, skeptical.

You didn't hesitate. “Everyone.”

That seemed to land somewhere.

Aerion unlocked the Porsche and the doors clicked open.

You guided Aegon into the back seat before sliding into the passenger side again. This time, the silence felt different.

Less sharp and more fragile. Aerion started the engine once more. As you pulled away from the curb, you finally allowed yourself to breathe properly.

You pulled out your phone. Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed a message to Kiera.

You

we found him.

You paused. Then continued.

You

he’s safe, everythings alright. we're together with aerion, going back home.

You hit send. Within seconds, your screen exploded with notifications.

But you didn’t look at them yet. You leaned back in the seat, eyes closing briefly.

Aegon was behind you alive and unharmed. That was all that mattered.

The city rolled past outside the window, golden in the afternoon sun. And for the first time all day, your heartbeat began to slow.

—

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you when the sound of a chair scraping against polished marble echoed through the foyer.

Maekar was already on his feet. The house suddenly felt wrong. Too quiet.

When you had stormed in earlier with Kiera and Valarr, the place had been absolute chaos—voices ricocheting off vaulted ceilings, the twins anxiously chattering between each other, Aerion smirking outside like he was enjoying seeing everyone so riled up.

Now the air was eerily silent once again, as though someone had wiped the house clean of all sound.

Baelor must have left with Valarr and Kiera. The Lannister charity gala was still being hosted tonight ; no doubt they had gone to prepare. Daella and Rhae were likely upstairs in their own rooms, getting ready for the same event.

Maekar crossed the distance between himself and Aegon in three strides.

“What were you thinking?” His voice cracked like a whip against marble. Aegon shrank beneath it.

You noticed, not for the first time, that Maekar never raised his voice thoughtlessly. It was always controlled. Measured. The anger was real, but it was forged, hammered into shape before it ever left his mouth.

“Someone could have taken you,” he continued, now towering over the boy. “Or worse! Do you know what kind of situation you put us in? You’re not some stable boy to go running around wherever you please!”

Aegon’s shoulders curved inward. You felt the urge to protect him somehow, to wrap a hand around him or assure him everything would he alright.

He looked like something fragile, something caught in a storm without shelter.

“I am sorry, Father.”

His voice was small and meek. Almost swallowed by the house. He was shaking like a lear.

Maekar’s jaw flexed.

He turned away abruptly, as if the sight of the boy’s lowered head did something unbearable to him.

And you saw it then, for the first time, the lines carved deep around his mouth, the exhaustion beneath his eyes. Grief had aged him unevenly. There were days he looked carved from iron, almost immovable. And then there were days like this, when he looked like a man stitched together only by heartache.

“Go to your room. Wash yourself,” he commanded at last, quieter now. “We are attending the gala tonight.”

The decree fell final and cold.

Aegon opened his mouth, defiance flickering for half a second but one look from his father extinguished it.

Aegon glanced at you instead. As if asking you for some kind of apology. You just nodded. I’m not mad at you.

Then he disappeared down the hall.

“You too, boy.” Maekar turned to his other son.

Aerion had been leaning in the doorway, silently witnessing the scene, arms folded over his chest. His eyes glittered with something sharp and unreadable. For a moment you thought he might argue as he so often did, unable to resist striking flint against steel.

But Maekar only tilted his head. Warning him not to challenge further.

Aerion said nothing. He merely brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours deliberately, and vanished upstairs.

And then it was just the two of you.

You became suddenly aware of your appearance—the wind-tangled hair, the crease in your blouse, the faint smear of city dust along your wrist. In this cathedral of glass and stone, you looked painfully human.

Maekar remained in the threshold. The house behind him was cavernous. Grand and immaculate as ever.

And in that moment you realized why you felt so uneasy in this house, it was haunted.

Haunted by ghosts and memories.

The picture of Dyanna’s portrait flashed in your mind, the one tucked away in the room just above the sweeping staircase.

Graphite on paper. She was smiling in it, soft almost amused, as though she knew some secret no one else did. Whoever had drawn it had captured her gentleness, the warmth in her eyes.

And you knew the ghost of it followed Maekar everywhere.

“I…” he began. The word seemed foreign in his own mouth.

He glanced toward the stairwell, ensuring no one lingered within earshot. His pride demanded privacy even when he was being vulnerable. Especially then.

“I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.”

For a moment you wondered if you had imagined it. Maekar Targaryen did not apologize. He issued statements, corrections and orders. This is the closest you had ever heard him come to an apology.

You swallowed, shifting on your feet.

“I shouldn’t have said those things either, sir—”

“Please.” His voice frayed. “Just… Maekar.”

The name hovered between you.

You had said it countless times in your mind. To Kiera. In frustration. In quiet understanding. In arguments with yourself about why he unsettled you the way he did.

But never like this.

“Maekar,” you repeated softly, testing the word on your lips.

Something in his gaze shifted.

“And you have nothing to apologize for,” he continued, exhaling sharply, almost laughing at himself. “You were right.”

The admission seemed to cause him physical pain as he winced. “I know I’m not the best father.” His gaze drifted, not meeting yours. “Hell. I don’t even know if I qualify as a good one.”

You absorbed that confession like a septon. Ready to decree mercy.

He pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose, as though staving off a headach or memory.

“I don’t…” His voice faltered. “I can’t.”

He had been raised in a dynasty that worshipped restraint.

In a family where love was implied through expectation, not spoken.

Where sons were shaped and not comforted.

He didn’t know how to love properly.

His affection came out sharpened. He feared softness the way other men feared failure.

“He’s my last son.”

The words were quiet, but they rang with terrible clarity. Not his last in blood. But the last one still untouched by something darker, by his own shortcomings.

Daeron had grown distant. He had lost himself in the dreams and had numbed it all by drinking. Aerion burned too brightly, too cruelly at times. Even Aemon, golden and composed, carried his own private fractures.

Aegon was still unformed clay. His last chance at being a good father.

You stepped closer, careful as one might approach a wounded animal.

“I know,” you said.

His eyes were glass-bright now, though no tears fell. Maekar would sooner break than weep.

“They know you care,” you continued carefully. “But sometimes it’s…” You searched for a word that would not wound him. “…harsh.”

He considered that. You could almost see the machinery of pride grinding against reflection.

“That’s why Dy—” He stopped himself.

The name caught in his throat like a shard of glass. Alas he forced himself to finish it.

“Dyanna… she knew how to handle them. To be… gentle.”

The sketch of the woman with black curls was burned behind your eyelids.

“I don’t know how to be a father and a mother.”

The confession landed heavily between you.

Dyanna Dayne Targaryen haunted this house not through superstition, but through her absence. Every moment, every waking hour of every day.

Her presence lingered in the way Daella folded her hands. In the way Rhae hummed under her breath when she was nervous. In Aegon’s soft heart. In Aerion’s fury. In Daeron's silence. In Aemon's absence. In Maekar’s fury.

“You don’t have to be both,” you said quietly.

He looked at you then, not as an employee. Not as an inconvenience. But as though you were something steadier than the very marble beneath his feet.

And for a moment, the steel left him.

“Perhaps Aegon could stay home tonight,” you suggested gently. “He’s shaken. The gala will only—”

“No.” The walls snapped back into place as if they had never been lowered.

“Aegon is blood of the dragon. His place is beside his family.”

The old creed was back. The armor on him once more. He straightened his cuffs as though adjusting himself back into position, mentally and physically.

You felt something inside you wilt. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” you whispered.

Because you could not soften him if he would not allow it. You could not mother his children while he demanded they be warriors.

He held your gaze one second longer than necessary.

There was something unspoken there. Perhaps gratitude and a pinch of frustration. Perhaps even fear of needing you too much.

He said nothing more. He turned and ascended the staircase.

You watched his back disappear.

You remained in the foyer alone, listening to the stillness.

Soon, doors would open. Suits would be buttoned. Dresses zipped. Faces composed.

And somewhere in the quiet of his bedroom, Maekar would stand before her picture—small and private—and wonder whether he was failing the ghosts as much as the living.

He loved his children fiercely. But love, in this house, was always earned before it was given.

—

You sat on the garden porch with your elbows resting on your knees, staring out at the backyard as though it were a painting you had memorized but still could not fully understand.

The first time you had stood here, the house had felt like a museum—too large, too polished, too aware of your smallness. The stone had seemed colder then. The glass sharper and the silence heavier.

Now it felt… almost familiar.

The pond in the far corner reflected the dying light of the sun, its surface trembling faintly with the breeze.

The purple flowers beside it swayed gently, stubborn little bursts of color against the disciplined geometry of trimmed hedges and imported marble.

The goal post still leaned slightly to the left from when Aegon had collided with it during your first makeshift match. The course he had built stood empty.

He was a good boy.

Sweet-hearted, quick-witted and a little bit wild. Sometimes too smart for his own good.

And you—God help you—you cared for him. More than you had ever cared for anyone’s child. More than you had allowed yourself to care in years.

He had undone something in you. Loosened that invisible rope that was choking you.

He taught you that not everything required perfection. That sometimes you could laugh too loudly. That sometimes it was alright to be messy and barefoot and unapologetically soft.

Your throat tightened.

The sun sank lower, bleeding orange and crimson across the sky like something wounded. The overhead porch light flickered to life with a dull hum.

You wiped your eyes quickly when the door behind you creaked open. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew who it was.

The footsteps were quieter than Aerion’s, less deliberate than Maekars’s. Slower, almost reluctant. And his presence was undeniable.

You looked up. Daeron stood there, framed in the doorway.

His dirty-blonde hair hung loose around his face, not yet disciplined by whatever gala expectations awaited him. He wore a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly, dress pants slightly creased as though he’d been sitting too long on that couch in the living room. He had not put on his blazer yet.

The corners of his mouth were upturned in a sad little smile.

His eyes—those unmistakable Targaryen violet irises—held secrets and knowledge far older than he was.

He stepped outside without asking permission and came to sit beside you on the steps. Close enough that your knees almost brushed, not touching. But almost.

The silence between you was not empty. It was crowded with unsaid things. You took in a sharp breath, not knowing how to proceed.

After a moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, tapping it lightly against his palm.

“Where’d you get that from?” You raised a brow at him. “I thought you were under house arrest or something.”

“Father always keeps a pack in his study room.” He revealed.

“Want one?” he asked. You didn’t smoke and normally you would have refused. Old you would have definitely made some comment about lung cancer and poor coping mechanisms.

But your chest burned in a different way tonight. So you just nodded.

He slid one between your fingers and brought the lighter up, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand.

For a second his knuckles brushed your cheek. The cigarette caught and the smoke curled upward and dissolved into twilight.

He lit his own and leaned back on his hands, staring at the garden. For a while neither of you spoke.

The smoke drifted between you like a ghost. The heavy smell settled into your bones.

“My mother planted those,” he said at last, nodding toward the purple flowers by the pond.

His voice had shifted, it was softer. Stripped of its usual fatigue

“She said they reminded her of back home.” Of Dorne you thought.

The word lingered unspoken but heavy. Warm sands and sunburned terraces and laughter that did not echo in these cold marble halls.

You picked at the skin around your thumb, unsure what comfort could possibly sound like here.

“Now you know the truth,” he continued quietly. “This is who we are. This is our family.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know it’s hard to believe but… we weren’t always like this. We weren’t always so broken.” The word broken seemed to dissolve into the evening air.

“I’ve always had the dreams,” he added after a pause. “But… my dreams aren’t like yours.”

“Like mine?”

He shook his head faintly. “Yours are hopes. Futures you build in your head. Perhaps memories.”

He looked at you then. “But mine come true.” The air in the garden suddenly felt colder.

You had heard whispers, of course. Of such things as dragon dreamers. But you had never actually entertained the thought as something real. It was more of a good night tale wetnurses told children.

But hearing him say it like this, without any mysticism, with so much pain in his eyes, it made them real.

“They don’t feel like dreams,” he continued. “They feel like memories from a place I haven’t been yet.”

His gaze drifted to the pond.

“I see things." He swallowed.

"Little things, like a broken glass before it shatters or a phone call before it rings" He explained.

"Sometimes bigger things.”

He took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Sometimes I see fire.”

The word sat between you. Not metaphorical fire. He meant real fire.

“I know I’m doomed to hell,” he added with a faint, crooked laugh. “Likely one without wine.”

You didn’t smile. There was something hollow beneath the humor.

“And Aerion,” he went on quietly, “he wasn’t always so cruel.”

You glanced at him, not believing his words..

“He liked fishing,” Daeron said. “And we used to play outside, in this very garden. Pretending we were dragons, ready to conquer the world.”

You searched his face for irony. You found none.

“And then Father made a man out of him,” he murmured. “As he surely he will do with Aegon.”Bitterness laced the words.

“I tried talking to him,” you said hoarsely. "Your father."

Daeron’s mouth twitched, as if knowing what reply to expect. “And?” He offered regardless.

“There’s no point in flogging a dead horse.” You whispered.

He nodded, as though you had confirmed his suspicion. The cigarette between his fingers had burned almost to the filter.

“I dreamt of you,” he said quietly, your hand stilled on the railing.

“Before I met you,” he clarified. “Weeks before.”

“I saw your face,” he said, eyes distant now, unfocused. “I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know why you were there or who you were. You were just… standing in our hallway.”

Your heartbeat quickened.

“I remember feeling warm,” he continued. “Like the sun through a window in winter. And I remember thinking, this must be what angels look like.”

The admission was simple. There was no teasing or seduction in his voice. Just… honesty.

“And then,” he said softly, “a few days later you walked through the front door.”

You swallowed, smoke catching in your throat. So his dreams were real.

“You can’t fix us,” he said abruptly. It wasn't a challenge or an accusation, it was a fact. One he had come to accept a long time ago.

The dragondreamer had seen too much to believe in fairy tales.

But before you could respond, a sharp knock sounded against the glass of the door behind you. It was Aerion.

He stood inside, dressed in a deep red blazer. He gestured sharply for you both to come in.

Daeron didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything more. He merely flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his polished shoe.

You followed suit and stood up.

—

When you stepped inside, the sight before you stole your breath.

Maekar stood at the center of the foyer, immaculate in a black tuxedo. The cut was severe, perfect. His posture unbreakable.

Rhae and Daella wore black and red gowns with silk that shimmered under chandelier light, ornate detailing tracing their waists like something out of an old dynasty portrait. Their white hair pulled into sleek buns.

Aerion looked like a prince of something dangerous.

And Aegon— Aegon wore a suit identical to his father’s, only smaller. A black hat rested atop his head, slightly too large. You knew why.

Your chest ached. They looked perfect. So regal, so untouchable. Like the picture of a dynasty that did not fracture behind closed doors.

But you knew the truth.

“Daeron, fix your hair and put on your blazer,” Maekar commanded without looking at him. “We are leaving.”

The children filed toward the door one by one.

“Our driver will drop you home,” Maekar said to you, voice controlled once more.

“It’s alright,” you replied softly. “I prefer to take the bus.” You were a simple girl after all.

He hesitated. Something flickered in his eyes. Then he nodded, too tired to argue. “Very well.”

The door opened and the cold evening air rushed in. Aegon was the last one to linger.

He looked at you as though memorizing your face. Apology and fear and hope were all tangled in his violet gaze.

“I’ll see you,” you whispered.

But something in your chest tightened painfully and something in your brain was screaming at you. Liar.

—

When you reached your apartment, the hallway light flickered the way it always did.

Usually it would have comforted you—that small, predictable imperfection. The faint hum of the fridge when you stepped inside. The familiar creak of the floorboard near the kitchen. The soft yellow lamp you always left on in the corner of the living room, casting everything in a gentler shade.

The books on your shelf stood untouched, dirty dishes in the sink.

Tonight it felt completely wrong. Too small and too quiet for your loud thoughts.

You locked the door behind you and leaned your forehead against it for a moment, listening to the echo of the latch sliding into place.

The world of dragons and marble and suffocating legacy was on the other side now.

And yet somehow — they were still here with you. In your lungs. In your throat. In your mind and perhaps in the very carvings of your soul.

You moved without really thinking. Brain on autopilot. Out onto the small terrace.

You didn't bother with removing your shoes or your jacket.

The terrace was barely large enough for two chairs and a small rusted table, but you had always loved it.

The city stretched out beneath you in a blur of headlights and neon signs. You had always found serene peace here.

The traffic pulsed like veins. Sirens wailing in the distance. Life, messy and anonymous and ordinary, carried on without dynasties or dragonblood.

You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly and stared down at the moving lights.

And somewhere in that silence, something inside you had already been decided. And the clarity was so terrible you almost didn't want to see it.

The way rot sets in quietly. The way winter arrives not in one storm but in gradual frost.

You loved that boy so much. That was the problem.

You loved him in a way that was beginning to frighten you. In a way that blurred lines and hollowed out parts of you that had once belonged solely to yourself.

You loved him enough to know you could not stay and watch him be reshaped into something harder. Something cruel.

You sighed and slide the balcony door open. It clicked shut behind you as you stepped into the living room.

Your laptop sat on the coffee table where you had left it that morning, dark screen, slightly ajar.

You sank down onto the couch and opened it fully. The glow illuminated your face in pale blue.

You opened your mail and inbox blinked with unread messages. Assignments. Notifications. Reminders that you had another life beyond House Targaryen.

You clicked on “compose.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment. Then you began to type.

To: Lyonel Baratheon

Dear Professor, I hope this email finds you well. After careful consideration, I have decided to take part in the exchange program to the University of Sunspear this semester. Please let me know what steps I need to take in order to carry through my full application.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you signed your name.

You didn’t allow yourself to think about Dorne’s heat. Or it’s distance. Or how fitting it was that you would be leaving for the very place Dyanna had once come from.

You opened a second email.

The cursor blinked accusingly.

To: Maekar Targaryen

You swallowed and began.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. Due to personal and academic commitments, I will be stepping down from my position effective immediately.

You paused. The words looked sterile. Cowardly.

You deleted the last sentence and rewrote it.

Dear Sir, I am sorry to inform you that I can no longer continue working for you as Aegon’s babysitter. This was not an easy decision, and I am deeply grateful for the time I have spent with your family. However, I believe it is best for everyone if I step away.

Everyone. What a lie. It would not be best for Aegon. It would not be best for you. It would not be best for anyone.

You hesitated again and your vision blurred.

You added one more line before you could stop yourself.

Please tell him I am proud of him.

Your breath hitched the moment you typed it. You quickly erased it.

You closed the email with a simple:

Thank you for the opportunity. Sincerely.

You stared at both drafts on your laptop screen.

You imagined someone else in your place looking after him. Someone colder. Or worse—no one at all.

You pressed your palm against your mouth to stifle the sound threatening to rip from your throat.

You were not his mother. You were not his sister. You were not bound by blood or name or dynasty.

You were a girl with a bus pass and a scholarship and a future that did not include burning with them. And yet the tears spilled over, hot and relentless.

You clicked "send" on both of the emails.

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[moonmaiden1996]

A Claim's a Claim Part Twelve

Long Chapter...but very worth it

Dunk was half a heartbeat from ripping Lyonel’s hand from his arm and his arm from his torso, and then shoving a polished drinking horn into the man’s mouth just to silence that ridiculous, booming laugh echoing across the hall.

The feast had swelled into full life around them. Music thundered from fiddles and drums, tankards clashed, and voices rose in layered conversation and song. Though the hall was already crowded, there were still more guests expected by morning, and Dunk could easily imagine the space soon packed wall to wall, bodies pressed close together, swaying and writhing to the pounding rhythm of the music.

Not that Lyonel seemed troubled by the closeness.

From where Dunk stood, he could see the Storm Lord’s arm slung casually across the back of your gown, his large body curved protectively and possessively around yours as he bent low to hear whatever soft words you were murmuring into his ear. His wild dark hair had tumbled loose, falling forward over his brow as he laughed again, glancing up briefly at Dunk and Egg with wicked amusement dancing in his eyes.

Dunk clenched his jaw.

“Why do you lament, Ser?” Egg leaned forward, his lip curling into a small frown as Dunk took another long gulp from his tankard. “Go over there and take back your woman.”

“She is not my woman to take,” Dunk snapped, his voice sharp with bitterness. “It seems the lady has made her position quite clear.”

“I do not believe you, Ser. It is quite clear where the lady’s intentions lie. Why must you be so obstinate and pigheaded?”

“Are you looking for a clout round the ear?”

Egg opened his mouth to retort, but your voice cut through their bickering.

“What are you two arguing about now?” you asked dryly. “I leave you for barely one song and you are already at each other’s throats.”

Dunk shot you a look. “I am surprised you would notice, with Lord Baratheon towering over you like that.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was merely making a request of our noble host.”

“You should have requested he move his bloody hands.”

“Ser,” Egg hissed, glaring at him, but Dunk kept his eyes firmly on his tankard.

“I asked if he might permit us to stay in one of the lodges or in one of the spare rooms,” you continued, unfazed. “There is going to be a storm tonight.”

“See, Ser,” Egg said triumphantly.

Dunk huffed softly, though his shoulders eased a fraction.

Xxxxxx

As the night wore on, the roar of music softened into scattered laughter, and the press of bodies gradually thinned. Guests drifted away in loose clusters, spilling into adjoining chambers or out toward the tents pitched beyond the hall. Servants swarmed in their wake, quick-footed and tireless, clearing tables, scraping trenchers, gathering discarded cups, and wiping away the sticky residue of wine and spilled ale in preparation for the morning’s breaking fast.

Dunk had barely noticed the change, he wasnt drunk but be certainly wasnt somber. His focus had narrowed into something sharp and ugly, honed by drink and anger.

When Lyonel made a final attempt to pull you after him, that devilish grin still stretched across his face, something inside Dunk snapped taut.

Lyonel’s hand slid boldly around your wrist, tugging with playful insistence. You resisted at once, feet bracing, body angling away. The grin only widened. “Come now, my lady,” Lyonel coaxed, laughter thick in his voice. “The night is young yet.”

Your refusal was firm, polite, and final. Still, he tugged again, and again, until a passing servant halted sharply, glaring in open disapproval. You wrenched your hand back with a sharp twist, the motion sudden and fierce enough that Lyonel stumbled a step before two men seized his arms, dragging him backward amid roaring laughter and shouted jests.

Lyonel only pointed at you as he was hauled away, eyes bright with mischief and challenge. “We are not finished yet!”

Dunk’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.

“Follow me, my lady,” said a servant quickly, bowing and gesturing toward a narrow passage branching off from the hall. “Your chamber is this way.”

The corridors beyond were dim, lit by widely spaced sconces that cast flickering pools of amber light across cold stone floors. Your slippers scuffing softly as you were hurried along, the servant’s grip firm but respectful at your elbow. The echoes of laughter and music faded behind you, replaced by the hush of thick walls and distant murmurs.

You were led through a low doorway and into a small side chamber tucked deep within the keep.The room was plainly furnished: a narrow table, a single lounge  chair, a washbasin, and one modest bed pressed against the far wall beneath a small, shuttered window.

You were led through a low doorway into a small side chamber tucked deep within the keep.

The room was plainly furnished: a narrow table, a single lounge chair, a washbasin, and one modest bed pressed against the far wall beneath a small shuttered window.

“Our good lady has secured us lodging for the night,” Egg announced cheerfully as Dunk ducked inside.

Dunk took in the room at a glance.

The bed. One small bed.

His expression darkened immediately. “There is only one bed,” he said slowly, turning toward the servant. “Is this another one of your tricks women?”

You only glared back.

The servant flushed crimson, hands fluttering helplessly as he shook his head. His gaze darted nervously between Dunk’s towering frame and your composed stance, clearly fearing he had offended someone far above his station.

“No...no, ser, the fault is ours” he stammered. “Hunter Hall is little more than a feasting hall with a handful of proper chambers. The rest of the guests will sleep in tents. This was the best I could secure.” With that the servant bowed and scurried out like his arse was on fire.

“We can make do, Ser,” Egg said hastily, stepping forward as though to soften the blow. “We always do. At least it is a dry roof over our heads.”

“And who asked you?” Dunk snapped, the words lashing out like a whip.

Egg recoiled at once, shoulders jerking back as though struck. His mouth fell open in startled hurt before snapping shut, his chin lifting stubbornly. “Ser...you need not be so harsh. Like a bear with a sore head. One I would not like to spend the rest of the night with.”

Dunk’s temper flared hotter, his fists curling at his sides. “You do not have to stay here,” he shot back, voice sharp with barely leashed fury. “You can sleep in the stable for all I care.”

Egg’s eyes flashed. His small frame went rigid, jaw tightening. “Then indeed I shall.”

Before he could storm past, you reached out, seizing his shoulders, gentle but unyielding, halting him mid-step. He stiffened beneath your grip, surprise flickering across his face.

“It will be far too cold and wet tonight,” you said firmly. “Why don’t you fetch some kindling and firewood instead? The warmth will help him sober.”

Your gaze never left Dunk as you spoke, eyes locked on his hulking silhouette across the chamber.

Egg hesitated, glancing between you and Dunk. His lips pressed into a thin line before he nodded sharply. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.

Silence crashed down in his wake, the candle on the table flickered, its flame shuddering in the sudden stillness.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your heart hammered painfully in your chest as you stood frozen, breath shallow, fingers slowly curling into your palms. Then you turned on Dunk.

“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?” you demanded. “You have done nothing but sulk and snap since we arrived.”

He stood rigid near the hearth, massive shoulders tight as drawn bowstrings. Firelight caught in the sharp planes of his face, throwing deep shadows beneath his brow and along his clenched jaw. His cheeks were flushed with drink and emotion alike, blue eyes storm-dark, burning with restrained fury.

“That is my business, my lady,” he said flatly. “Do not concern yourself with a low hedge knight.”

The words struck like a slap.

“Well, at least take the bed,” you shot back, stung. “I will sleep on the floor. Perhaps some sleep will fix your manners.”

He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh. “And have you freeze?” His eyes cut sharply to you before he straightened to his full height, looming. “What kind of man do you think I am?” The candlelight trembled as his shadow stretched across the walls. “Your future husband would have my head.”

“Future husband?” Your voice caught. The candle’s glow shimmered in your eyes.

“Lord Baratheon,” he snapped. “That laughing twat?” His voice was sharper than steel, anger and hurt colliding in every syllable.

“Dunk…why would I marry a man I have just met?” you growled back.

“You seemed to have no trouble when it was a poor hedge knight you thought you could manipulate,” he shot back, stepping closer, his towering presence swallowing the space between you.

“That is not fair! That is not the same…”

“Save it,” he snapped, voice cracking despite his fury. “I do not want to hear your pretty lies.”

“They are not lies,” you pleaded, hands lifting helplessly between you.

“Then why does he get to touch you?” he demanded, pain raw in his voice. “Why does he get to pull you close and whisper in your ear while I stand there like a bloody fool?” His hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening. His chest rose and fell heavily, breath harsh and uneven. “You think I did not see the way he looked at you?” he went on, voice breaking. “That is how a husband looks at his wife.”

The words hung between you, heavy and unforgiving. His breath stuttered. The fight drained from him all at once. His shoulders sagged, massive frame slumping inward, as though the weight of his feelings had finally grown too heavy to bear.

“I do not like it,” he admitted hoarsely. “I do not like them looking at you. I do not like them touching you. And I hate myself for it, because I have no right.”

The confession landed harder than any shouted accusation.

Your anger faltered, dissolving into something softer, more fragile. “Dunk…”

But he turned away, dragging a rough hand down his face, blinking hard as if to drive back thoughts he did not trust himself to voice.

“Take the bed,” he muttered. “I will manage.”

He crossed the room in two long strides and dropped heavily into the chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. His broad back faced you, shoulders hunched, head bowed, as exhaustion, anger, and longing warred visibly within his powerful frame.

And for the first time that night, the space between you felt wider than the great hall itself.

Xxxxx

Dunk was ashamed.

The wine had long since burned away, leaving behind only the dull ache in his skull and the heavier ache in his chest. The haze of drink had softened his doubts, dulled his restraint, but now, in the thin hours before dawn, clarity had returned, sharp and merciless.

He had not slept. Not truly.

He had dozed in uneasy fragments, slipping in and out of shallow half-dreams, each one haunted by your face, your voice, your hurt. At some point in the night, Egg had returned. Dunk remembered the soft scrape of the door, the careful tread of small boots, the faint hiss and crackle as kindling caught and flame bloomed in the hearth. Warmth had slowly filled the chamber, chasing back the damp chill of stone and storm.

That warmth had stirred his dreams.

And he frowned now, staring into the dim glow of dying embers.

His words replayed in his head, again and again, each one heavier than the last.

Pretty lies.

No right.

Future husband.

Each phrase struck like a hammer. He shifted on the narrow lounger, the wood groaning beneath his weight, and turned his head toward the bed.

Egg lay burrowed against your side, small and curled, tucked safely into the curve of your body like a child beside his mother. One of your arms rested protectively around his shoulders. The blanket had slipped down slightly, exposing the gentle rise and fall of your breathing.

It was a picture of peace.

A picture that twisted painfully in his chest.

That was how he had dreamed of you.

Not like this. In his dream, Egg had been replaced by a copper-haired boy, sturdy and bright-eyed, his small hand fisted in Dunk’s tunic you wore. And where Egg now lay, there had been a dark-haired girl, curled beneath Dunk’s chin, her warm breath ghosting across his throat as she slept. And you. You had been pressed against his side, your body soft and heavy with child, your stomach just beginning to round, his hand splayed reverently across it as though afraid you might vanish if he let go.

The thought made his throat tighten.

“Dunk…”

Your voice drifted softly across the room.

His breath caught.

You shifted in your sleep, turning slightly toward him, the firelight grazing the gentle planes of your face. In the muted glow, you looked almost unreal, ethereal, as though spun from candle flame and shadow. Your lashes lay dark against your cheeks, your lips parted in a quiet murmur, the faintest crease drawn between your brows.

His heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

For a fleeting, foolish moment, he wondered if you dreamed what he had dreamed. If somewhere in the fragile realm of sleep, your thoughts had brushed his.

If that was why you had spoken his name? He only watched, chest tight, as you settled again, your hand tightening unconsciously around Egg’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

And in the hush of the chamber, with the fire sighing low and dawn still a distant promise, Duncan the Tall lay awake, aching with shame, longing, and a hope so fragile he feared it would shatter if he so much as reached for it.

Xxxxx

The morning had broken sullen and grey.

The storm had battered the land through the night, rain slashing against stone, wind howling through the eaves like something alive, but by dawn it had spent itself. In its wake came a sky washed startlingly blue, sharp and bright as polished steel. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of soaked earth and crushed leaves. Birds called tentatively from the orchard beyond the hall, their cautious songs growing bolder with each passing moment.

It was perfect hunting weather.

And a blessed relief.

The men had been restless after the feast, tension simmering beneath forced laughter and too much ale. Whatever had passed between Dunk and Egg the night before had seemed patched over by morning light. Egg hovered near him at first, cautious, but Dunk appeared almost oblivious to any lingering strain. He had listened to Lyonel’s booming stories, nodding along as the Storm Lord described past hunts and reckless charges through forest and field. Dunk trailing after Lyonel with surprising ease, long legs keeping pace beside the lord’s, his deep voice occasionally rumbling with a reluctant chuckle.

You had half expected steel to flash before sunrise. Instead, they disappeared over the threshold together like old companions.

That left you in the hall with the women.

They gathered around a long trestle table set near the windows, wives in fine silk, daughters glittering with hopeful ambition, sisters sharp-eyed and observant. Their gowns shimmered in jewel tones against the pale morning light, their hair carefully dressed despite the earliness.

Pleasant enough company but after months of traveling beside armor and horses and the endless squabble between Dunk and Egg, the shift felt strange. The air was softer here, perfumed, restrained. You found yourself unexpectedly missing the rough familiarity of the road. Missing the bickering over maps and rations. Missing the way Dunk would scowl while Egg lectured him.

“Look… Lady Fossoway.”

The whisper tickled your ear.

Rosalane, daughter of one of the Baratheon bannermen, leaned close, her perfume sweet and cloying. She pointed subtly toward the far end of the table.

You followed her gesture.

There, perched slightly apart from the others, sat a red-haired woman with a curving figure and strong arms. A thick, rosy-cheeked baby rested heavily on her lap, tiny fingers tangled in the fabric of her gown. The woman’s posture was careful, composed, but her shoulders held a faint stiffness, as though bracing for something unseen.

You blinked, studying her more closely.

“Huh. That’s no lady,” another voice murmured, smooth and cutting. “A whore, I heard.”

You glanced sideways. Maudet, you thought her name was.

“She was with child,” Rosalane murmured sympathetically. “at least he did the right thing.”

“The right thing?” another snapped. “If every lord married the woman he got pregnant, there would be no eligible men left for the rest of us.”

Soft laughter rippled down the table.

“I heard she was just a servant.”

“Not anymore,” Maudet replied with a knowing tilt of her chin. “I hear his keep now owns more than a quarter of the orchards. If talk is true and their apples spread to every corner of the realm, she will be very rich indeed.” Her lips curved faintly. “Pity I did not meet the lord first. A wealthy husband would suit me very well.”

A few hums of agreement followed.

You felt your jaw tighten.

“Have any of you actually spoken to her?” you asked evenly, setting your cup down with a firm thud that silenced the table. “Asked her story?Rather then gossip?”

A few eyes darted away.

“To think we would be seen talking to her,” one scoffed. “What would people say?”

You let out a soft breath through your nose. “I expect they would speak and gossip as they always do,” you replied calmly. “Just as you likely did with me.”

The hush that followed was instant and complete.

Mouths parted. Eyes widened.

“Please do not deny it,” you continued, your voice steady though your pulse quickened. “I have no doubt you spoke of little else when word arrived that a woman had been won in a tourney by a hedge knight. Traveling with him, unmarried. I am surr it filled many long evening.”

A few women flushed. Others stiffened.

“And if I had not been received warmly by our host,” you added quietly, “I suspect I would have met the same cold welcome you offer Lady Fossoway.”

Several of them at least had the decency to look ashamed. Rosalane stared at her hands. Maudet pursed her lips but said nothing.

A few lifted their chins defiantly.

You rose slowly from your seat, smoothing your skirts.

“So,” you said gently, “I think I shall greet her instead. Please feel free to join me, if you wish.”

Without waiting for an answer, you turned and crossed the hall.

The red-haired woman noticed your approach immediately. Her back straightened, fingers tightening protectively around her child. Wariness flickered across her face, quickly masked with polite composure.

Up close, you could see faint shadows beneath her eyes. The baby blinked up at you with solemn curiosity.

You offered her a warm smile. “Good morning, Lady Fossoway,” you said kindly. “May I sit?”

For a heartbeat, she searched your face, measuring, perhaps expecting mockery.

When she found none, her shoulders eased, just slightly.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Of course.”

Behind you, the table of women remained very quiet.

Xxxxxx

Lady Fossoway was rather striking.

A cascade of ruby-red curls spilled over her shoulders in a thick, gleaming wave, the sort of red that caught the light like burnished copper. The babe balanced on her lap had inherited the same curls, though his were softer in shade, a dulled copper halo bouncing wildly as he squirmed and grabbed at her bodice ties.

His cheeks were round and rosy, his small fists determined and strong.

“You have such a beautiful babe. I am…”

“The Smiling Lady,” she finished for you with a playful curve of her lips. There was intelligence in her eyes. And steel. “The dearest hedge knight’s pretty lady. I have heard the songs.” Her smile deepened. “And they do your beauty no justice.”

You laughed softly.

“I am surprised,” she continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that you left those gilded bitches to come speak to the evil whore.”

“Better a whore than a bitch,” you replied sweetly.

For half a heartbeat she stared, then she threw her head back and laughed, full and bright and entirely unashamed. It was a good laugh.

Before either of you could say more, hurried footsteps sounded behind her.

A messy-haired young lord rushed forward, his grin so wide and open it warmed you instantly. He leaned down without hesitation and pressed a lingering kiss against Rowen’s porcelain cheek, his thumb brushing reverently along her jaw, clumsy but affectionate.

“Rowen, and my little rosy apple,” he murmured fondly before scooping the baby from her lap with practiced ease. “Ser Duncan you must come meet my son.” he preened at the pair before he glanced up, only then did he notice you. He halted mid-sentence, blinking.

Rowen’s smile turned knowing. “My love,” she said warmly, “this is Ser Duncan’s good lady.”

He straightened at once, nearly fumbling the child in his haste to bow properly while still holding him.

“I am Raymun Fossoway,” he said quickly. “You will be traveling back to the Reach with us...”

“I will not,” you replied gently, smiling as though you had not just unsettled him entirely.

He blinked again. “But I….Ser Duncan?” His eyes shifted past you.

Dunk stood five paces away, yet somehow he still loomed. Arms folded across his broad chest, shoulders heavy beneath the morning light, he watched the scene with a stillness. The breeze stirred his hair slightly, copper strands catching gold in the sun. His jaw flexed once. “We will speak of this later,” And his voice…It was gentle. Soft even.

Not angry, not sharp. There was something almost pleading in it, something vulnerable that did not fit the size of him. His eyes met yours and held, blue, uncertain, wary like a dog waiting to see if it would be struck or forgiven.

“You may speak,” you replied evenly, “but there is a great possibility I will not listen.”

His throat worked visibly at that.

You turned back to Rowen, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rowen.I hope to speak again soon…Have a good hunt, Ser Duncan,” And then you walked away.

You did not look back.

xxxx

Raymun shifted the baby higher on his shoulder and leaned closer to Dunk, lowering his voice though not nearly enough. “I know that look,” he muttered. “Good ser, you are in very big trouble.”

Dunk did not answer.

His gaze remained fixed on your retreating figure, the sway of your skirts, the proud lift of your chin, the deliberate steadiness of your steps.

“I know women,” Raymun continued, grinning. “And when a woman gives you that look, you had better get on your knees and start apologizing.”

Still Dunk said nothing.

But something inside him twisted, It had not been anger in your eyes. It had been hurt and worse…disappointment. His fingers flexed unconsciously at his sides, as though he might reach for you, though you were already too far.

Raymun clapped him once on the shoulder. “Go on,” he advised kindly. “Hunt your stag with the men, but if I were you? I would hunt for forgiveness first.”

Dunk swallowed eyes still trained on your fleeing figure. Ser Duncan. Not Dunk. Ser Duncan. He didn't like it.

xxxxxx

You returned to the room only to retrieve the dress's you had painstakingly carried with you since your first journey with Dunk. The sunlight streamed through the tall, arched window, spilling across the alcove and casting the threads of your work in sharp relief. You settled into the warm light, carefully unpicking each stitch, one slow, deliberate pull at a time, your fingers nimble and precise.

Delicately, you lifted each item. A ring, a pendant, a small pear brooch, placing them with quiet care into your bundle. Each piece felt heavier than its weight in gold, carrying the memory of your mother’s hands, the faint scent of home, and the promise of your escape should it ever be needed.

Outside, the sounds of the world continued unabated: the rhythmic clatter of the hunt on the courtyard stones, the distant laughter of the women preparing for the day, the occasional voice of servants bustling about in orderly chaos. The music of life and activity was both comforting and distant, as if you were cocooned in your own small bubble of purpose.

You paused only briefly to glance at the line of sunlight catching a gilded buckle or the sparkle of a hidden jewel, then resumed, determined. One by one, every piece of gold, every delicate trinket, every treasured item stitched into the lining of your garments was freed and carefully placed into the bundle. Your heart remained resolute in you choice.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dunk sat hunched in the small chamber, the weight of the day and the firelight pressing down on him. He had been there for hours, waiting for you, half expecting that you would not return. Your pack lay half-unpacked at the foot of the bed, the finer dresses and silks hidden deep within absent.

He curled inward, arms wrapped tight around his knees, chin resting against his forearms. The lantern threw long, flickering shadows across his shoulders, making him appear smaller somehow, more vulnerable than you had ever seen him. The fire crackled, throwing sparks across the floor, and the moon hung heavy and pale in the window, spilling silver across the boards. The distant music from the hall drifted in like a reminder of a world he was only half a part of.

The door creaked, and Dunk stirred, eyes lifting in the dim glow.

“I thought you had gone… your dresses… was missing,” he murmured, voice low, half accusation, half hope.

You lingered in the doorway, silent, before stepping forward. Gently, you knelt beside him and placed a small bundle beside him.

“What’s this?” he asked softly, curiosity warring with tension.

“This is all the jewelry and gold my mother set aside for my dowry,” you said, your voice steady though your hands trembled slightly. “Or became an escape fund. In case my father ever tried to… force my hand.”

Dunk’s throat bobbed. His fingers hovered over the bundle but did not touch it, as if afraid to break the fragile weight of your words.

“If you are still hellbent on sending me away,” you continued, your gaze locking with his, steady and unwavering, “then I will leave. Use this to make a new life for myself But I wanted to ask… is that truly what you want?”

Your eyes searched his face for any flicker of intention, any sign that your fears were justified. “If you can look at me and say you don’t want me….not as your companion, not as anything else…then I will go and you will never see me again.’’

Silence stretched between you, thick as the shadows in the corners of the room.

His eyes burned into yours, blue and fierce beneath heavy brows. The quiet was broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.

“Well?” you whispered. But silence met you.

‘’Then I guess I have my answer..’’ your turned only slightly before you heard the low sound of his voice

“I don’t want you to go,” Dunk said suddenly, voice low but fierce, almost shaking with the effort of holding back emotion. Eyes trained on thr floor. “I want you to stay. Stay with me. I want you marry me. I want to put a ring on your finger. I want to give you a castle and land gods even a cottage, I don't care. I just want to hold you in my arms.” His voice trembled, raw with longing, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tight clenching of his fists as if the words themselves were a struggle to contain.

“I want you to give me… freakishly tall children, so they’re beautiful and clever,” he added, a small, vulnerable twist at the corner of his mouth. “I dream of those things. Gods help me, even when I’m awake. I find myself looking at you and imagining all sorts of foolish, impossible things, and I…I don’t even know how to begin to tell you. I don’t want your dowry. I would give my everything to be by your side. Every ounce of my soul, it the only thing I own…and the horses you can have them as well if you like,,,and me sword.” he looked up with burning eyes.

A soft laugh escaped you, trembling with joy and relief, half sob, half delight. As you launched yourself across the room and onto the startled knight. Even the soft oomph did nothing to lessen the joy that flooded you. Leaning into him,your hands rest on his chest, seeking the warmth that radiated from him. Dunk stiffened beneath your touch, muscles taut, his massive arms hanging uncertainly at his sides as if afraid to make the wrong move.

“We can use it to buy you armor, or a horse, or even a keep,” you whispered, tilting your head up at him with a laugh. “I don’t care.”

His brilliant, crooked smile flickered, hesitant. One large hand lifted slowly, hovering near your back as though testing the waters, then drew back slightly as if unsure if you would shy away. Finally, with a breath that rumbled low in his chest, he wrapped one arm around you, careful and deliberate, not yet letting himself pull you fully against him. The other rested lightly on the bed, bracing, his broad frame seeming almost too large for such tenderness.

You pressed closer, tilting your face into the curve of his neck, your hands threading into the thick hair at the nape, gently urging him closer. His blue eyes, bright and vulnerable, searched your face for permission, and when your laugh and soft squeeze met his gaze, his restraint finally melted.

Slowly, cautiously, he lowered his head toward yours. The first brush of lips was tentative, almost questioning, a whisper of contact. His mouth was warm, roughened by travel and hard days on the road, tasting faintly of smoke and ale, yet impossibly gentle. You melted into him, tilting your face to deepen the connection, letting your fingers anchor him firmly to you.

Each kiss after was still careful at first, measured, as if he feared he might break the moment by moving too fast. But your laughter, soft and light against his lips, encouraged him, giving him permission to let the longing he’d been holding back spill freely. He kissed you with growing confidence, slow and sweet, each brush of lips a quiet claim, every press a declaration of relief, fear, and joy entwined.

His broad chest rose and fell against yours, and the warmth of him seeped into every inch of you. He whispered your name against your mouth, voice rough and breathless, and you clung to him, fingers tangling in his hair, guiding him closer, soft laughter spilling into the kiss when he nuzzled your cheek.

When he finally pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, the firelight glinting off the moisture there, his forehead rested against yours. His lips twitched, the faintest tremor of a smile breaking through.

“You… you are mine?” he asked, voice rough with awe and disbelief.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless, smiling through the tremor in your voice. “And you are mine.”

A shiver ran through him, and then a low, relieved laugh rumbled from his chest. One arm held you tight, protective, while the other rested lightly over the bundle of your dowry, forgotten in the joy and warmth of the moment, as if the world outside had melted away entirely as your lips collieded again.

Soooooooo thoughts? I wasn't really sure how I wanted this to go so I just wrote and hoped for the best.

I am more excited for the next chapter. How are we feeling about a bit of spice to get us all warmed up for what's to come 🤭🤭.

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