Salutations

Pea 18+ 21

[sweetpeaapplepie]

a drawing of us

how does one live and suffer under the pressing throws of late stage capitalism? my heart tires and aches for relief. may my body and mind rest and find solace. may my body know rest. may my soul know peace. may my mind find comfort. may my mind find relief.

my stressed out self and the fuck ass shit I’m dealing with under the cut

BITCH I NEED TO FIND A HOUSE

but where I live is the WORST in the country for renters

NO WHERE IS HIRING!! (thankfully I have a job I’m training for right now)

summer time is slow season and my manager is “clearing out the house” as she says (I don’t understand this and I’m very scared I may be apart of this-my manager has been super weird and like annoyed with me) within my experience it’s hard for me to understand as to why someone may be acting a certain way

I NEED TO FUCKING MOVE

THERES SOMETHING FUCKING DEAD IN THE WALLS OF MY HOUSE?!?

the fuck ass men I live with don’t seem to understand the importance of GETTING IT THE FUCK OUT OF THE HOUSE?!?

LIKE WHAT THE FUCK?!? at least hire someone if your not going to do it yourself

[captummortum]

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Dragons Caught in the Storm (Part 6 - ending)

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5)

Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's. Chapter summary: The wedding.

The wedding was held in the Red Keep on a morning so bright and clear it seemed the very sky had bent itself to the occasion.

You had not slept the night before. From the nerves, from the strange, suspended awareness that everything was about to change, that the life you had known within these walls was ending and something entirely new was about to begin. You had lain awake in your chambers, watching the moonlight creep across the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of servants making final preparations, and waiting for the dawn.

The wedding dress was beautiful. You had known it would be: you had sat through enough fittings, stood still for enough pinpricks, nodded along to enough seamstresses' questions, but seeing it laid out across your bed in the morning light was something else entirely. Cream silk, heavy and lustrous, embroidered with gold thread that caught the light in shifting patterns. Stags and dragons intertwined along the hem. The bodice was fitted, the sleeves long and flowing, the train modest but elegant.

You were laced you into it, your handmaidens settled the fabric over your shoulders and smoothed the skirts, you looked at yourself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. You looked like a princess.

Lyonel had commissioned a circlet.

That had been a battle in itself, your uncle and Maekar going back and forth for days over whether a crown of antlers, however delicate, constituted a political statement. Lyonel had argued that it was merely an ornament, a nod to your house, a gift from an uncle to his beloved niece on her wedding day. Maekar had argued that it looked too much like a crown, that placing it on your head at a royal wedding would be seen as a challenge, a subtle declaration of Baratheon independence.

"Subtle?" Lyonel had roared, genuinely affronted. "If I wanted to make a statement, I would make a statement!"

In the end, a compromise had been reached. The circlet was fashioned to hold your veil. Worn with the veil cascading from it, it looked less like a crown and more like an adornment.

You loved it. You loved it because it was yours, because it was Baratheon, because your uncle had argued for days to give you something that spoke of home on a day when you were binding yourself to a house of dragons.

"Let them see it," Aerion had said when you told him about the argument. "Let them see you are not ashamed of where you come from."

He did not care about subtlety. He never had.

He was waiting for you at the altar in crimson and gold.

The colors of his house, but also the colors of himself, the Brightflame, they called him, and he looked it. His doublet was crimson silk embroidered with gold thread in patterns of fire, his cloak the deep red of dragon's blood, his eyes vivid violet against the warm tones of his dress.

The ceremony passed in a blur of words, lights and the weight of a hundred eyes upon you. You remembered speaking your vows, your voice steady even when your hands trembled. You remembered the brush of Aerion's fingers against yours, the way his eyes never left your face. You remembered the septon's voice, sonorous and slow, and the moment of silence that followed the final blessing, as though the whole sept was holding its breath.

Then Aerion kissed you, a deep, long kiss instead of the chaste, ceremonial kiss that protocol demanded, enough to make the assembled lords and ladies murmur and chuckle and, in your uncle's case, let out a bark of approving laughter.

When he pulled back, his mouth curved into that familiar, insufferable smile, and he murmured against your lips, "Wife."

"Husband," you replied, and the word felt strange and new but not unwelcome.

The feast came after.

But first, there was the gift.

He presented it outside, in full view overlooking the Blackwater, in front of the assembled guests, with theatrical flourish that was entirely characteristic of him. A ship, he announced, newly built and newly blessed, waiting in the harbor to carry you wherever you wished to go.

"Her name is the Storm's Eye," he said, and his voice was quieter now, meant only for you despite the crowd. "Do you know why?"

You shook your head.

"Because it is always calm in the eye of the storm." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that still surprised you. "You carry the storm in your blood. I have seen it. But you deserve a place of calm as well. A place where the winds do not touch you."

You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. "You named a ship after a metaphor."

"I named a ship after my wife." He said it simply, as though it were obvious. "The metaphor was incidental."

The ship was beautiful, from what you could see of her in the harbor below, sleek and well-made, with a crew already aboard and sails the deep gold of a sunset. The Storm's Eye. Your ship. Yours and his, to take you across the Narrow Sea and beyond, to the Summer Isles and wherever else you wished to go.

You did not know what to say. So you kissed him instead, right there in the courtyard, and the crowd cheered.

The feast began at dusk.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed, the long tables draped in cloth of gold, the torches burning bright in their sconces, the air thick with the smell of roasted meats, spiced wine and fresh flowers. Musicians played, their melodies weaving through the noise of conversation and laughter. You sat at the high table between Aerion and your uncle, and for the first hour you barely had a moment to catch your breath: toast after toast, well-wisher after well-wisher, lords and ladies approaching to offer their congratulations and their carefully worded flatteries.

Aerion drank with them all. He was in high spirits, his laughter coming easily, his hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing whenever a particular lord droned on too long. You ate what you could, smiled until your cheeks ached, and tried to memorize the feeling of it all: the warmth, the noise, the strange suspended joy of the day.

Then the dancing began.

Aerion claimed the first dance, as was his right. Then the second. Then the third.

"You will wear yourself out," you told him, half-laughing as he spun you through the steps of a lively reel.

"I am inexhaustible," he replied, entirely serious. "And I intend to dance with my wife as much as I please."

He was a good dancer, which should not have surprised you. He moved with the same careless grace he brought to everything else, leading you through the steps with a confidence that made it easy to follow. When the music slowed, he pulled you closer than was strictly proper, his hand resting low on your back, his breath warm against your temple.

"You are staring at me," you murmured.

"I am admiring you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

"Staring is vulgar. Admiration is a husband's duty." He tilted his head, his eyes tracing over your face with an attention that made your skin heat. "I am merely fulfilling my obligations."

You laughed, he grinned, and for a moment you forgot the crowd, the noise, the weight of the day. There was only the music and his hand in yours and the strange, unfolding realization that this was your life now: this man, this dance, this improbable, inexplicable joy.

The toasts and shouts mellowed as the evening wore on. The older lords retreated to their wine, the younger ones to their flirtations, and the dancing continued in a more subdued fashion. The musicians shifted to slower tunes, melodies that spoke of love, longing and the bittersweet passage of time.

You were standing at the edge of the hall, catching your breath after a particularly energetic dance with your uncle, when Valarr approached.

He was dressed simply, in the red and black of his house, his dark hair neatly combed, his expression composed. He looked tired, you thought. Or perhaps that was only your imagination, projecting onto him the weariness you yourself had been carrying beneath the joy of the day.

"May I have this dance?" he asked gently.

You glanced at Aerion, who was deep in conversation with Daella and Rhae at the high table. He did not see you. Or if he did, he gave no sign.

"Yes," you said. "You may."

Valarr led you to the floor just as the musicians began a new song. It was achingly slow. His hand settled at your waist with the lightest of touches. Your hand rested on his shoulder. You began to move.

Neither of you spoke. This was familiar. This was a thing you had done a hundred times before, in this very hall, to songs not so different from this one. Valarr had always danced with you at feasts, even when you were young and clumsy and likely to step on his feet. He had never complained. He had only smiled, that quiet smile that was meant just for you, and guided you through the steps with a patience that had made you feel safe.

You remembered the first time.

You had been twelve years old, awkward in your first proper gown, terrified of making a fool of yourself in front of the court. He had found you hiding behind a pillar, trying to make yourself small, and he had taken your hand without a word and led you onto the floor.

"Follow me," he had said. "I will not let you fall."

You had followed, and he had not let you fall.

You remembered the time he had taught you the steps. You had practiced together in the library after lessons, moving between the bookshelves, counting the beats under your breath while he hummed the melody. When you had finally mastered it, he had bowed to you with exaggerated formality and declared you the finest dancer in the Seven Kingdoms.

"The finest dancer in the library, at least," you had corrected.

"The finest dancer anywhere," he had insisted, and his eyes had been bright with laughter.

You remembered the feast to celebrate his sixteenth nameday, when he had been expected to dance with every noble daughter in attendance and had instead spent half the evening dancing with you. The lords had grumbled. The ladies had whispered. He had not seemed to notice, or care.

"You are neglecting your duties," you had said, glancing at the line of disappointed partners waiting at the edge of the floor.

"I am dancing with my friend," he had replied. "That is not neglect."

That had been the last gesture of rebellion against his duties. The last floundering against the weight of the Crown.

You remembered the winter feast, the one where the fires had burned low and the hall had grown cold, and he had given you his cloak without a second thought and insisted he was not cold at all, even though his hands had been shaking when he took yours for the next dance.

"You are a terrible liar," you had told him.

"I am an excellent liar," he had corrected. "You are simply too perceptive."

You remembered a thousand small moments, a thousand kindnesses, a thousand times when his presence had been the only thing that made the Red Keep feel like home. The books he had shared with you. The speeches he had rehearsed in front of you. The way he had leaned into you when his mother died, silent, shaking, trusting you to hold him steady.

You remembered the kiss. The only one. The one he had given you to satisfy your curiosity and soothe your fears. You remembered the bracelet on his wrist, the one you had woven with your own hands and he still wore even now, even as he danced with you on your wedding day.

The music swelled, something mournful and sweet, and Valarr's hand tightened on yours.

"You dance well," he said quietly. "You always have."

"You taught me well," you replied.

He shook his head. "You never needed teaching. You only needed someone to remind you that you already knew."

You moved together through the steps, and it was effortless. You did not stumble. You did not miss a beat. You had learned this dance long ago, the two of you, and your bodies remembered it even now, even after everything.

"I am glad," he said after a moment, and his voice was very soft, very careful. "That you will see the world. The Summer Isles. Essos. All the places you used to read about in those books I brought you."

"You brought me far too many books," you said, and your voice nearly broke on the words.

"There is no such thing as too many books." He smiled, but it was fragile, easily shattered. "I want you to see it all. The markets of Lys. The temples of Volantis. The beaches of the Summer Isles, where the sand is white and the water is clear as glass. You used to talk about it, do you remember? You would sit by the window and point at the ships in the harbor and say, 'One day I will sail away on one of those.'"

"And you would say, 'Then I will wave to you from the shore.'"

"Yes." He swallowed. "That is what I would say."

The music was winding down. You could feel it in the slowing rhythm, the way the melody curled in on itself like a flower closing its petals at dusk. You did not want it to end. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, suspended between past and future, between what could have been and what was.

"You will be happy," Valarr decided.

"I will try," you promised.

"No." He stopped moving. The music continued around you, the other dancers swirled past in a blur of color and light. His hand was still at your waist. His eyes were dark. "You will be happy. You will be happy because you are strong, because you are brave, and because you have a heart that does not know how to give less than everything. And he..." He glanced toward the high table, where Aerion was watching you now with an unreadable expression. "He will give you the world. I know he will. He would be a fool not to."

"Valarr…"

"I am saying farewell," he murmured to you. "For now. Not forever. I could not bear forever. But for now." He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, so brief and light you almost did not feel it. "Go. Live. See the world. And when you return, I will be here. As I have always been. As your friend."

Your eyes burned. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, not here, not now, not in front of the whole court.

"Thank you," you whispered. "For all of it. For looking out for me. For being the best friend I could've asked for. I would not have survived this place without you."

"You would have," he said. "You are a Baratheon. Surviving is what you do." He released your hand, stepping back. "But I am glad I was there."

The music ended. The other dancers began to drift back toward the tables, their laughter and conversation filling the silence that the melody had left behind. Valarr bowed to you, a formal bow, the bow of a prince to a princess, correct and proper and utterly, devastatingly wrong.

"Until we meet again," he said.

"Until then," you replied.

He walked away.

You stood alone on the dance floor for a moment, the echoes of the music still ringing in your ears. Your chest ached with a grief that felt both old and new, a wound that had been healing and reopening in cycles for as long as you could remember. You had loved him. You would always love him, in some small way. But that love was no longer the center of your world. It was a memory now. A beautiful, painful, precious memory.

You turned.

Aerion was watching you from the high table. His expression was curious, awaiting.

You walked back to him. You climbed the steps to the high table and took your seat beside your husband. His hand found yours beneath the table. You held on tight.

"You danced with him," Aerion said.

"Yes."

"Are you all right?"

You considered the question. Were you all right? You had married a man you had not expected to marry. You had said farewell to the man you had once thought you would spend your life with. You were leaving behind everything you had known and stepping into a future that was vast and uncertain and full of possibilities you could not yet imagine.

"I think," you said slowly, "that I will be."

Aerion nodded, as though that were exactly the answer he had expected.

"Good," he said. "Because I did not buy you a ship only for you to spend the voyage weeping into your pillow."

You laughed. A startled, genuine laugh that surprised you both. "That is remarkably unsympathetic."

"I am a remarkably unsympathetic man." He leaned closer, his mouth brushing your ear. "But I am also a patient one. And I will be here. When you are ready. When the grief has faded and the memories have softened and you are able to look at me without seeing him."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was serious now, the playfulness gone, his violet eyes steady on yours.

"I do not see him," you shook your head. "When I look at you. I only see you."

Surprise flickered on his face, or perhaps relief, or something deeper that he would never put into words. Then he smiled, that slow, insufferable smile that you had come to know so well.

"In that case," he said, rising and offering you his hand, "I believe we have a wedding night to attend to. And I have been very patient."

You took his hand. You let him lead you from the hall, past the cheering guests and the raised goblets and your uncle's booming laughter, past the musicians who struck up a final, triumphant chord, past the doors that closed behind you and shut out the noise of the celebration.

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

Taglist: @pixel-pixie-xo @alltheloveamelia @foul-human-123 @jakesullyhair @ervsxl @thearchivistshaven @lilianarodriguez263 @teafairy3 @heynowheynowwwwy @loveless-generatiion @x-vadon@whiteolive @meloparo @gcelee @ravenwing681 @kravitzwhore @starkteros @gulokl @turtleonearth @snowwythegloww@rather-melodramatic@blue-rae18@dour-trash@hydramickaelson@foul-human-123@joyfulpersonbeliever@nightcat101@pinky0328@foul-human-123@thestartitaness@beeofthesea@mismwaa@qardasngan@tempt-ress@narcissusgrowingirises@emy635@username199945@darylandbethfanforever9@mirabilis-polaris@risefallrise@ravenlpz@katt-kitty-katt@laeyliaa@sil1@spiderval@thorscrown@kittyblahhh3000@theoriginalwifeofhanjumin@notannadouble@rinsie@whatsupstark@cinematogg@pinkypurplez@amazon0com@xyahx@meyycldiy@emmiwolfsworld@jinmjy@shiraa32@renaissancewhxre@whatsupstark@cinematogg@pinkypurplez@amazon0com@xyahx@whiteoakoak@quincessimus@imhidinginthefridgenow @ellesgirl @bbblackmamba @cathyy222 @chmpgneprblem

@absentlysubtleraider

[no-musee]

Have yall seen THAT tweet of sanji? I drew it hehe

[the-darklings]

thinking about the poly au.... companion is away for a few days for whatever reason and bobby and bb are left alone in the apartment together. Companion comes back to them all over each other and is just like, well at least they're not at each other's throats. I'm ovulating idk I just want Bobby to have an entity bf ♥

you leave for maybe three days. work, family, whatever pulls you out of town. and you spend the whole time mildly anxious about it, because leaving bobby and BB alone in that apartment in those early days is historically a coin toss between icy silence and tension that makes the air feel too tight to breathe. they tolerate each other for your sake. mostly. on a good day.

so you brace yourself unlocking the door, and instead of a standoff (or you know, a crime scene) you find them together. all over each other, hands and gasps, and wet kisses. on the couch, afternoon light cutting across them in golden hues, bobby's shirt on the floor and BB's mouth on his throat, sucking, nibbling, and both of them too wrapped up in each other to notice you come in.

and you just. stand there. keys in hand. and think: well. at least they're not fighting.

because these two have never actually been opposites. not at all actually. BB built himself from bobby. studied him through a wall for months, learned his voice, his cadence, the exact tilt of his grin. BB is bobby refracted, bobby turned up to something inhuman, bobby with the fear stripped out and the wanting left raw and in the open. and bobby, looking at BB, is looking at everything he never let himself be but had potential to be. every feeling he locked behind the door, walking around wearing his own face and saying it out loud, unafraid, unashamed.

they hate that about each other. right up until they don't. right up until the hating curdles into something that was always underneath it, this awful magnetic recognition, and then bobby's got his hand fisted in the collar of a creature older than the house you're standing in and BB is making that low, pleased sound and neither of them will ever admit out loud how they got here.

and you get to come home to it. to bobby finally, finally letting himself have something he can't control. to BB, who has only ever known how to orbit you, learning there's a second sun to warm him. to the two halves of the same ache finding each other in the middle of an ordinary living room on a painfully ordinary afternoon.

you drop your keys in the bowl by the door. “don't stop on my account,” you call out, amused. and bobby goes red to the ears and BB just holds out a hand for you with that molten stare, because of course you're part of this. you were always the center of it. you're the reason they learned to stand each other in the first place. you're the gravity that pulled them into the same room and kept them there.

(and yesss. bobby deserves an entity boyfriend. he deserves to be wanted that ferociously by someone that doesn't know how to do avoidance in the slightest. let the man be devoured a little. it’ll do him good.)

[lamiafemme]

You really start to understand that the “angry black woman” and “mean lesbian” stereotype only exists to shame us for the fact we get reasonably upset about people wanting to horrifically abuse us indiscriminately. Let’s get meaner !

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Kindled Anew (Part 2)

Pairing: Jacaerys Targaryen x f!reader

Series Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep. See part 1 here. Warnings: smut, came back wrong Jace, blood, Valyrian wedding, talks of death, killing.

The war council had convened in the Chamber with the Painted Table, that great slab of carved stone that mapped the whole of Westeros in intricate detail. You stood near the far end of the table, your hand loosely clasped in Jacaerys', watching as your stepmother traced her fingers over the carved representation of the capital.

"The Velaryon fleet is scattered," Corlys Velaryon said, voice heavy with the admission. The Sea Snake had aged a decade in the weeks since the Gullet, the loss of his ships and the near-loss of his heir apparent in the lines around his mouth. "We cannot launch a naval assault on the Blackwater. Not yet. The fleet must regroup, resupply, and repair. It will take moons."

"Moons we do not have," Daemon said. He stood at Rhaenyra's right hand, Dark Sister at his hip. "Every day Aegon sits the throne, our position weakens. The lords of the realm watch and wait. They will flock to whichever side seems strongest. We cannot afford to appear weak."

"A direct assault on the gates, then," suggested Ser Alfred. "The City Watch..."

"The City Watch will not be enough," Rhaenyra interrupted. "I have received word from a source within the Red Keep itself. The Dowager Queen Alicent has promised to open the gates to us. She has promised to order a surrender."

A murmur rippled through the gathered lords. You exchanged a glance with Baela, who stood across the table from you, her arms crossed over her chest. Baela's face was unreadable, but you knew her well enough to see the skepticism in the set of her jaw. Alicent Hightower, surrendering? After everything? It seemed too convenient by half.

"You trust this source?" Corlys asked.

"I trust that Alicent Hightower is a mother before she is a queen," Rhaenyra said. "Her sons have brought ruin upon our house and upon the realm. She knows the war is lost. She wishes to end it before more blood is spilled."

Daemon's expression flickered with what might have been contempt or might have been agreement, it was always difficult to tell with your father. "Then we fly," he said. "We take the dragons and we take the city before Aemond and Vhagar can return from the Riverlands. The dragonseeds are ready. Hugh Hammer and Ulf White have Vermithor and Silverwing. Addam of Hull has Seasmoke. With Syrax and Caraxes, we have five dragons. More than enough to seize the Red Keep and hold it."

"What of the smallfolk?" someone asked. "If we burn the city..."

"We are not burning the city," Rhaenyra said sharply. "We are taking it. There is a difference. The gates will be opened. The garrison will stand down. There will be no need for fire."

Daemon's silence spoke volumes. You knew your father well enough to know that he did not share Rhaenyra's optimism about a bloodless conquest. But he held his tongue, and the planning continued.

A murmur ran through the room. You felt Jace's hand tighten around yours, and when you glanced at him, you saw that his jaw was clenched, his dark eyes fixed on his stepfather. This was the first war council he had attended since his recovery, and he had been silent throughout, but his silence was not passive.

Rhaenyra raised her hand, and the murmuring ceased. Her gaze swept the room. "But we are not stripping Dragonstone of its defenders. Baela will remain here with Moondancer. And Jacaerys..."

Jace straightened, his hand releasing yours as he stepped forward. "Your Grace?"

Rhaenyra's expression softened, the hard mask of the Queen cracking to reveal the mother beneath. "You will remain here as well. You and your betrothed. Dragonstone must be held, and you are my heir. I will not risk you in battle again so soon after..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words. You watched Jace carefully, waiting for the argument. The Jace of before, the serious, earnest young man who had always been so desperate to prove himself, would have protested. He would have insisted on flying with his mother, on being at the vanguard, on showing the world that he was worthy of the crown he would one day wear. But this Jace, the one who had come back from the darkness with fire in his eyes, only nodded once.

"I understand, Your Grace," he said.

Rhaenyra blinked, clearly surprised. Even Daemon raised an eyebrow. Daemon saw everything, catalogued everything. He had noticed the changes in Jace just as you had.

"Good," Rhaenyra said, recovering quickly. "Then it is settled. We fly in three days. The usurper's reign ends at dawn."

The council began to disperse, lords and dragonseeds filing out of the chamber with murmured words and shuffling footsteps. You made to follow, but Jace's hand caught your wrist, holding you in place.

"Wait," he declared. "There is something I need to ask."

Rhaenyra turned back, her expression questioning. Daemon paused as well, his hand still resting on Dark Sister.

"What is it, my son?" Rhaenyra asked.

Jace took a breath. You could feel the tension in his grip, the way his fingers pressed into your skin just a little too hard before he consciously relaxed them. "I wish to be wed," he said. "As soon as possible. Before you leave for King's Landing."

The words hung in the air. You felt your heartbeat stutter in your chest. You had known, of course, that you would marry him eventually. You had been betrothed since childhood, promised to each other before you even understood what that promise meant. But you had assumed the wedding would come after the war, after Rhaenyra sat the Iron Throne, after the realm was secured and there was time for celebrations and pageantry.

Rhaenyra seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. "Jace," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "I had hoped to see you wed in the Great Sept. After I take the throne. The realm should celebrate the marriage of its future king. It should be a symbol of our victory, a declaration that our house endures and prospers."

"The realm is at war, Mother." Jace's voice was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of steel in it that had not been there before his brush with death. "And it will not stop being at war the moment you take King's Landing. Aegon will flee, or he will be captured, but his supporters will not simply lay down their arms. Aemond is still out there with Vhagar. Daeron is in Oldtown with Tessarion. The Hightowers will not surrender while they still have dragons and armies. This war could drag on for months. Years."

He stepped forward, still holding your wrist, pulling you gently with him. "I am your heir. My claim to the Iron Throne must be unassailable. There are already those who whisper about my...parentage." He said the word carefully, without flinching, but you saw the flicker of old pain in his eyes. "Marrying a trueborn Targaryen princess strengthens my position. It silences the whispers. It shows the realm that the blood of Old Valyria runs true in our line."

"He has a point," Daemon said, and there was a note of amusement in his voice. "A strong match, publicly acknowledged, secures the succession and quiets the rumors. The boy is thinking like a king."

Jace shot Daemon a look that was equal parts gratitude and wariness. He knew, as you did, that Daemon's support was never given without calculation. But he pressed on.

"We have been betrothed for years," he continued, turning back to his mother. "Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows we are promised. There is no political advantage to waiting. And if something were to happen to me..."

"Nothing is going to happen to you," Rhaenyra cut in, her voice sharp with maternal ferocity. "You will be safe on Dragonstone."

"Wars are unpredictable," Jace said, and his tone was gentle now, gentler than it had been. "You know that better than anyone. I am not asking for a grand ceremony. I am not asking for tourneys and feasts and a kingdom's worth of guests. I am asking to be wed here, on Dragonstone, in the tradition of our ancestors. A Valyrian ceremony."

Rhaenyra hesitated. You could see her wavering, the queen and the mother warring within her. She looked at you then, her violet eyes searching your face. "What do you say to this?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Jace's hand tightened on your wrist again, and you felt the heat of his skin against yours, the faint tremor of urgency that ran through him. He wanted this. He wanted this desperately, and you understood, with a sudden, crystalline clarity, that this was not just about politics. This was about him. About the darkness he had been through. About the fire that now burned behind his eyes and the need that drove him to hold you closer, kiss you harder, keep you near him every possible moment. He had come back changed, and part of that change was a hunger that had not existed before. A hunger for you.

"I want to marry him," you said, and your voice was steady despite the pounding of your heart. "I do not need a sept or a crowd or the approval of the realm. I only need him."

Rhaenyra's expression softened. She looked at you for a long moment, and then at Jace, and something in her face shifted. Resignation, perhaps. Or acceptance. Or simply the recognition that her son, the boy she had raised and protected and nearly lost, was no longer a boy at all.

"Very well," she said. "We will hold the ceremony tomorrow evening. It will be small, but it will be done properly. You deserve that much."

Jace exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to release some of the tension from his shoulders. "Thank you, Mother."

Daemon, who had been watching the exchange with the detached interest of a man observing a particularly entertaining game of cyvasse, chose that moment to inquire mockingly:

"You're very eager to get this done quickly, Jacaerys. One might almost think you were in a hurry." He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable. "Is there a reason for this urgency? Have you gotten my daughter with child?"

Leave it to Daemon Targaryen to pour oil onto a fire dwindling away. You felt heat flood your cheeks from embarrassment and indignation. "Father!"

Jace's composure cracked for just a moment, a flush rising to his own cheeks. "No," he said firmly. "We have not...I have not dishonored her. I would never..."

"Jace has been the soul of propriety," you interrupted, your voice rising. "Nothing more. We have not lain together. I am not with child."

Daemon held up his hands, a gesture of mock surrender, but his eyes were still calculating. "I meant no offense, daughter. A father is entitled to ask such questions, especially when his daughter's betrothed is so... insistent."

"I am insistent," Jace said, and his voice had steadied again, cooled to a hard and controlled tone, "because I have already lost too much time. I was dead, or near enough. I lay in that bed while the maesters whispered about how they could not save me. And all I could think about, all I could dream about in the darkness, was her. What I would never have. What I would never be able to give her." He looked at Daemon directly, meeting those violet eyes without flinching. "I am not going to wait any longer. Not for politics. Not for propriety. Not for anything. I am going to marry her, and I am going to do it now, while I still can. Is that a sufficient answer for the King Consort?"

Silence swallowed the hall. Daemon looked at Jace for a long moment, then the mockery faded, replaced by respect, or recognition, or simply the acknowledgment of a fellow predator.

"Very well," he said, and turned back to Rhaenyra. "Let them marry. The boy makes a fair point. And it will give the people on Dragonstone something to celebrate before we fly to war."

The ceremony took place three days later, on the cliffs of Dragonstone as the sun sank toward the sea.

It was a small affair by royal standards. There was no time for feasts or tournaments, no time to summon lords from across the realm. But somehow, the intimacy of it made it more powerful. The witnesses were few: Rhaenyra, Daemon, Baela, Corlys Velaryon, and a handful of household knights and servants who had served Dragonstone for generations. The dragons stirred restlessly in the distance, their cries echoing off the volcanic cliffs, as if even they knew something momentous was happening.

Your hair had been braided in the traditional Valyrian style, interwoven with ribbons of gold and black. Baela had helped you dress into the traditional Valyrian attire.

Jace was waiting for you there. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world. Like the fire that burned behind his eyes had found its focus. He looked at you like you were his salvation.

Daemon performed the ceremony. It was an old Valyrian rite, the words spoken in the liquid syllables of a language that had been ancient when Aegon the Conqueror was born. The binding of blood. The joining of fire. The creation of a union that could not be broken by anything less than death.

When the time came, Daemon drew a small dragonglass blade and made a shallow cut on your palm, then on Jace's. You pressed your hands together, blood mingling, and the contact sent a jolt through you like lightning striking stone. Jace's eyes met yours, and you saw the recognition in them. He felt it too. Something more than ritual. Something more than words.

We ask the Lord to shine his light. you thought, remembering the words you had spoken over his dying body.

But you had not needed a lord. You had needed only your own will, and your own blood, and your own desperate love.

"With fire and blood, it is done," Daemon intoned in the Common Tongue. "You are one. Let no man tear asunder what the flames have joined."

Jace leaned forward and kissed you, and despite the witnesses, despite the solemnity of the moment, it was not a chaste kiss. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hand tightening on yours, and when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing.

"You are mine now," he said, so quietly that only you could hear. "No one can take you from me. Not the Greens. Not the gods. Not death itself."

There was no bedding ceremony. Rhaenyra had made that clear from the start: there would be no bawdy crowd, no drunken lords carrying you to the marriage bed, no crude jests and leering looks. This was not a political match made for the entertainment of the court. This was a union of dragon's blood, and it would be consummated with dignity.

Instead, there was a feast in the great hall, with roasted boar and fresh bread and wine from the cellars that had been laid down during the reign of the old King. Jace ate little but drank several cups of wine, his hand never leaving yours. He spoke to the others who had gathered to celebrate, answered Rhaenyra's toasts and Daemon's pointed observations with perfect courtesy, but his attention was always on you. His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. His knee pressed against yours beneath the table. Whenever you caught his eye, he smiled, and that smile was full of promises that made your stomach tighten and your skin flush with heat.

When the feast was over and the toasts were finished and the last of the wine had been drunk, Jace rose from his seat and offered you his hand.

"Come," he said simply.

You took his hand and let him lead you from the hall, up the winding stairs, to the chambers that had been prepared for you.

The room was warm, a fire already burning in the hearth, candles flickering. The bed was large and draped in crimson silk, the pillows plump and inviting. Someone had scattered dried flower petals across the coverlet, rose and lavender, their scent sweet and heady in the warm air.

Jace closed the door behind you and slid the bolt into place. The sound of it was loud in the quiet room, final and irrevocable.

"I have wanted this," he said, his voice low and rough, "for longer than I can remember. I have dreamed of this. In the darkness, when I was...gone...I dreamed of you. Of this. Of finally having you in my arms with nothing between us."

You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. There was hunger there, raw and undisguised, a fire that burned so hot it was almost frightening. But it was more than hunger. It was need. A desperate, consuming need that went beyond desire and closer to worship.

"I am yours," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have always been yours."

He took your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his fingers threading through your hair, and when he kissed you it was not gentle. It was fierce, demanding, his mouth slanting over yours with an urgency. His tongue swept against your lower lip, seeking entrance, and you opened for him willingly, letting him taste you, letting him take what he needed.

His hands moved from your face to your shoulders, to the lacings of your gown. He was surprisingly deft, his fingers making quick work of the knots and ties that Baela had so carefully arranged. The fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you in your shift. The firelight shone through the thin fabric, outlining your body in shades of gold and amber.

Jace stepped back, his eyes traveling over you with an intensity that made you shiver. "Beautiful," he murmured. "You are so beautiful. I do not deserve you."

"You do," you said. "You deserve everything."

He shook his head slowly. "I should have died. I should have drowned or bled out or been eaten by the creatures of the deep. But you would not let me go. You brought me back. You gave me this second chance." He stepped forward again, his hands settling on your hips, his thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones through the thin fabric. "Everything I am now, everything I do from this moment forward, is because of you. Do you understand that? I am yours more than you are mine. You own me. Body and soul. Whatever is left of my soul."

"There is nothing wrong with your soul," you protested, but even as you said it, you remembered the old texts, the warnings, the whispers about those who came back changed. Fire wights, the red priests called them. Creatures of flame, animated by something older and darker than mere life.

Jace smiled, and in the firelight, his eyes seemed to flicker with an inner flame. "I hope you are right," he said. "But it does not matter. Wrong or right, I am yours. And tonight, I am going to show you how much that means to me."

He kissed you again, his hands slid the shift from your shoulders. It joined the gown on the floor, and then you were bare before him, your skin glowing in the candlelight.

"Lie down," he said, and his voice was thick with desire. "Lie down and let me worship you."

You obeyed, climbing onto the bed and settling against the pillows. The silk was cool against your heated skin, a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the fire and the heat of his gaze. He undressed with the same grace he had shown in unlacing your gown, his tunic and breeches falling away to reveal the body you had glimpsed during his recovery, when the maesters had changed his bandages and you had looked away out of modesty. Now you let yourself look.

He was leaner than he had been before, the weeks of bedrest having stripped away some of the muscle he had built in the training yard. But he was still beautiful, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his skin marked here and there with scars: the new ones from the arrows, still pink and healing at an unnatural speed, and older ones from years of swordsmanship and dragon-riding. The scar on his neck was the most prominent, a silver-pink line that traced the path the arrowhead had taken when the maesters finally cut it free.

He climbed onto the bed beside you. His hands found you again, stroking down your sides, over your hips, along your thighs. His touch was gentle at first, exploratory, learning the shape of you. But there was an undercurrent of urgency in it, a barely leashed desire that made his fingers tremble against your skin.

"I have received," he said wryly, "a great deal of unsolicited advice on how to proceed tonight."

You could not help the laugh that escaped you. "From whom?"

"Daemon, primarily." Jace's expression was somewhere between amused and pained. "He was very...thorough. I suspect he enjoyed it far more than I did. He kept saying that I should prepare you first, that I should take my time, that I should not simply impale you like a boar on a spit."

You covered your face with your hands, mortified and amused in equal measure. "I am going to kill him."

Jace laughed, a genuine, warm sound that reminded you of the boy he had been before the war. "Please do not. I think he meant well, in his own peculiar way." He leaned down and kissed your collarbone, his lips trailing a path of fire along your skin. "And he was not wrong. I do not want to hurt you. I want this to be good for you."

His mouth mapped every inch of your body, his lips and tongue and teeth finding all the places that made you gasp and arch and moan. He kissed the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breasts, the soft skin of your inner wrists. He spent long, torturous minutes learning the shape of you, the sounds you made when he found a particularly sensitive spot, the way your breath hitched when his hand slid between your thighs.

He was patient, far more patient than you had expected given the hunger in his eyes. His fingers explored you with careful precision, stroking and circling and pressing until you were trembling beneath him, your hands fisted in the silk sheets, your body arching toward his touch like a flower turning toward the sun.

"Please," you gasped, and you did not even know what you were asking for. "Please, Jace, I need..."

"I know what you need," he murmured against your skin. "I know. Let me take care of you."

His fingers continued their gentle assault, coaxing you higher and higher until you shattered beneath him, your cry swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you through your release. When you finally stilled, trembling and breathless, he pulled back to look at your face.

"There," he said, and his voice was rough with restrained desire. "Now you are ready."

He positioned himself above you, his body a warm weight pressing you into the mattress. You could feel him, hard and insistent against your thigh, felt the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

"This may hurt," he said, and his voice was tight with the effort of holding himself back. "Only for a moment. I will try to be gentle."

You reached up and cupped his face in your hands. "I trust you."

He pushed forward, slowly, carefully, and you felt the pressure build and build until there was a sharp, bright flash of pain. You gasped, your fingers tightening on his jaw, and he froze immediately, his eyes searching your face.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, I'm...it's fine. Don't stop."

He moved again, sinking deeper, and the pain began to fade, replaced by a strange, stretching fullness that was not unpleasant. He was trembling above you, his muscles rigid with the effort of holding back, and you realized how much he wanted this, how much he was restraining himself for your sake.

When he was fully seated inside you, he paused, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, and his eyes were closed, his expression one of almost religious intensity.

"I can feel your heartbeat," he whispered. "I can feel it. Here. Inside you. The blood you gave me. The life you gave me. It's like...it's like coming home."

He began to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually deepened as your body adjusted to him. The pain faded entirely, replaced by a growing pleasure that built and coiled in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. His name fell from your lips again and again, a litany, a prayer, and he answered each one with a kiss, a touch, a murmured endearment.

And then he pulled back, and he looked down at the place where your bodies were joined, and he stopped moving.

"Jace?" Your voice was hazy with pleasure, confused by the sudden stillness. "What is it?"

He did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the small smear of blood on his length when he withdrew slightly, the evidence of your maidenhead, bright red against his skin. You felt your face flush with embarrassment, you had known there might be blood, the septas had warned you, but the expression on Jace's face was not one of concern or distaste.

It was fascination. Deep, reverent, hungry fascination.

"Your blood," he said, and his voice was strange, distant, as if he were speaking from very far away. "It was your blood that brought me back. Your blood that you spilled. Your blood that pulled me out of the darkness."

His hand moved down, his fingers brushing against your inner thigh, and when he lifted them, they were stained with a faint smear of red. He looked at it for a long moment, and then he lifted his fingers to his lips and tasted it.

You should have been disturbed. You should have been frightened. But all you felt was a strange, dark thrill, a shiver of something that was equal parts desire and recognition.

"My sorceress," Jace breathed. "My beautiful, brave, miraculous sorceress. You marked yourself for me. You bled for me. And now I will spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of that sacrifice."

He bent his head and kissed your mound, right at the top of your slit, where the blood had dripped. His tongue darted out, tasting, and you gasped at the unexpected sensation. Then he was sliding back inside you, filling you again, and this time there was no restraint, no careful gentleness. This time there was only fire.

He moved with a ferocity that stole your breath, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, his body driving into yours obsessively. He found a spot inside you that made white-hot pleasure spark behind your eyes, and he angled his hips to hit it again and again, his cock bullying that same sweet spot until your moans broke into sobs and your fingers clawed at his back.

"Yes," he crooned against your ear. "Yes, let go. Let me hear you. Let me feel you. You are mine, my love, my wife, my sorceress. You brought me back from the darkness, and now I am going to fill you with life."

Tears were streaming down your face, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity of it all: the pleasure, the love, the strange, dark magic that hummed between you like a living thing. You clung to him, your body meeting his thrust for thrust, your moans dissolving into wordless cries.

"Please," you sobbed, and you did not know if you were begging for mercy or for more. "Please, Jace, please..."

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come for me, and I will give you what you want. I will give you everything. Come for me now."

His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding that sensitive nub at the apex of your sex, and the combination of his touch and his thrusts and his voice was too much...You shattered. Your vision went dark, pleasure crashing through you in waves so intense they were almost painful. You cried out, his name or a prayer or both, and he followed you over the edge a moment later, his body going rigid above you as he spent himself inside you with a groan that sounded like a sob.

You lay tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. His face was buried in your neck, his lips pressed against the pulse point beneath your jaw, and you could feel his heartbeat thundering against your chest.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again, the blazing fire banked to a warm glow. He brushed the tears from your cheeks with gentle fingers, his touch a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before.

"I love you," he said simply. "More than the crown. More than the throne. More than anything in this world or the next."

"I love you too," you whispered. "Always. Whatever happens."

He smiled that slightly odd smile of his, slightly off, but still so warm and loving. "Then we will have an heir," he said, his hand sliding down to rest on your belly. "If the gods are willing. A child of fire and blood, born of our union. A child who will carry our legacy into the future."

Part 3: pending... Sneak peak/Chapter 3 summary: There is a search for Rhaena and Sheepstealer. Even having experienced firsthand how deadly a wild dragon can be, having witnessed they can be claimed, Jace gets a mad idea to try to bond with other wild dragons residing near Dragonmont on Dragonstone. While Rhaenyra, Daemon and the dragonseeds fly to take King's Landing, the couple left behind on Dragonstone cut their honeymoon short, sneak off, and encounter Cannibal and Greyghost.

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[sceptixfakemon]

this heatwave fucking sucks how am I going to serve my liege like this

[sceptixfakemon]

im never leaving this hellsite

[kwistowee]

"He could vanquish Ser Duncan the Tall‚ but not Dunk of Flea Bottom." A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS | 1.05

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

does the "always pee after you have sex to avoid a UTI" rule also apply to masturbation?

I mean you're going to pee eventually

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

which is also my advice about peeing after sex btw. it's not like you have to do it in three minutes or less just let nature take its course.

[miniar]

It's a good rule if you have a vagina and use it with insertables especially if you're using lube. Just to clear out anything that might have gotten in the urethra at all.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

right yes and what I'm saying is that while that's a good idea it's not necessary to sprint for the bathroom immediately upon finishing. like just drink your fluids and go as usual

[anarchohellenism]

Like as long as you don't let everything marinate there for 12+ hours you'll probably be fine.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

if you go 12+ hours without urinating there are probably some other issues to address!

[targaryenstar]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ OBSESSION — AERION TARGARYEN.

⟢ SUMMARY aerion is desperate. the one girl completely out of reach, just had to be the one girl he wanted. he would make it happen. he would will it.

⟢ NOTES this was so long awaited, i'm sorry guys. been missing the peace of akotsk fandom so crawling back into it. hope you enjoy!

⟢ WARNINGS 18+, if you haven't watched obsession then maybe watch it first, smut, toxic!aerion and reader, coercion.

MASTERLIST

"You can't be serious." Aerion scoffed, fiddling with the corners of the small cardboard box his older brother, Daeron, had given him.

"Try it. I'm serious." Daeron reasoned. "My friend knew a guy who wished for a girl to love him, and shit just— happened."

"This? This thing— this twig? Can grant my wishes? Really?" Aerion's tone dripped with sarcasm. Because the idea of snapping a twig to make a wish come true was a concept of fiction, it sounded exactly like something Daeron's stoner friends would say.

Daeron raised his hands, shrugging at his naive brother. "Don't believe me. Or do. Your choice."

The box sat on Aerion's nightstand for weeks, collecting dust just as the thought did in his mind. A stupid prank from his drunken brother, one he wouldn't entertain. Busying himself with work, running the length of his street for an hour each morning and evening, driving until his gas ran on empty. Trying not to let you consume his every waking moment.

But you insisted on it anyway.

You had been friends since you interned at his father's company, only for a summer just to get some experience and a glowing recommendation. Aerion, to his core, was naturally standoffish, so he hadn't warmed to you until you were forcibly locked in his office with him to help stay up to date on reports. One of the boring tasks that Aerion fought defiantly.

It was that afternoon, he finally warmed to you. Though it was more akin to ice melting. He remained silent, gone were the scoffing and pompous commentary. Then, he began to laugh at your jokes. And that afternoon had been the catalyst to a strange friendship.

A friendship of unspoken words, lingering glances when the other was unaware, living life in show for each other. You played the part of friend well; hiding every ounce of yearning in your chest behind your poker face. He was none the wiser to your ache for him; the way he brought you a coffee every morning on his way toward his office, the way he praised you for everything you did to help him, the silent car rides he would give you home.

You would confide in Valarr, another intern you met, who you had found out was Aerion's cousin. Great. No escaping this man. But Valarr didn't much care for his cousin, wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. So your secrets were undeniably safe with him.

It had been months of yearning of Aerion, veiled with friendly teasing comments and an appropriate distance. Telling Valarr how you wished Aerion would just reject you, so you could move on. But he continued as if your friendship was completely pure, as if he were naive to the way your hands would be less than an inch from each other when you would share his desk for a task. Even when you had left the company after an extended internship, hoping to latch onto someone else at your new job. But your mind refused to unlatch from the pale haired brat you found a friend in.

"I bought you a gift." Valarr had his hands tucked behind his back when he met you at the cafe. You kept touch with him, meeting him for lunch whenever you could. And even today, to celebrate his promotion.

"For me?" You cheered, standing from your seat to embrace him. "You're the man of honor today!"

"Humor me for just a moment. Close your eyes." He took his hands from behind his back, placing the box into your outstretched hands. Your eyes peeled open to see a triangular box, a ONE WISH WILLOW.

"What the fuck is this?" You frowned.

"I was looking for a gift for my dad's birthday and saw that in a crystal shop." He explained, taking a sip of the piping hot beverage you had ordered for him minutes before he arrived.

"You were looking for a gift for your dad in a crystal shop?" Your face scrunched more intensely at your strange friend, the small box still sat in your hands.

"Besides the point." Valarr deadpanned. "It's a One Wish Willow."

"And what does this Willow do?"

"You wish for something and snap it. And your wish comes true." Valarr spoke so casually, as if this were as common knowledge as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.

"You're hilarious." You gave him a wooden stare, dismissing the small box into your purse. "`What do I wish for? A new best friend?"

"I was thinking you could finally wish for my wretched cousin to cease his existence." Valarr suggested. "Or for him to love you as intensely as you do him."

"Hey!" You exclaimed.

"What? Your love makes me sick." A half-truth. He loved seeing you happy, but not where Aerion was involved. He would snap a Willow of his own to wish you would forget your puppy love for his cousin.

"The only wish I'll be making it for you to be quiet."

Perhaps your neutrality with Aerion didn't just sink into his stomach, or fade into nothingness. Perhaps it mutated in his mind, sending him into a vastness of insanity. The constant, unusual fear of saying something stupid, cheering himself up with watching your social media intently, unwilling to let go of the hold he had on you. He had been driven to insanity over you. That very feeling had him sat in the corner of the backyard, in his designated smoking spot that his father had ordered him to use, because the smoke "keeps lingering in the house".

He held the triangular box in his hand, observing the dated red-and-white design, vexed at himself for even considering resorting to this foolishness.

He studied the box between drags, letting the cigarette sit between his lips as he read the words.

Need help? Call today! 1-323-747-7118

He could wish for his infatuation for you to cease, then he could live his life more peacefully, more for himself and less in show for you. He could wish for you to move out of town, forcing himself to get over you and live your lives separately. But Aerion was a selfish man, he knew it. He wouldn't do anything that didn't serve him.

REMOVE FROM THE BOX AND JUST MAKE A WISH!

SPARK THE MIDDLE AND BREAK IT IN HALF.

WHAT ARE YOU WISHING FOR?

"I wish," he sighed deeply, tapping his foot to find the wording.

It were as if something in his mind had snapped, the sound of a twig snapping echoed in his mind. His emotion felt dialled, it had never burned so violently in his stomach, it had never sounded like a deafening ring as much as it did in this moment.

This was where insanity had taken him, wishing for you to love him as he did you, wishing the one girl who was so passive with him to truly, deeply love him. And so, he spoke his wish aloud. For you to love him, to match his desire. Before snapping the willow, a clean break in the middle as it sat in each hand.

"So stupid." He scoffed, discarding the trinket onto the lawn beside him, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out between the fragments. He hoped to wake in the morning and have this useless feeling in the pit of his stomach to be gone, for you to be gone—

His phone chimed, the screen like a stun grenade in the darkness of the garden.

You: Hey, you.

Aerion's mouth dried. This was stupid coincidence, right?

Aerion: Hey.

Was that too blunt? Did he look uninterested? Had he ruined his wish already?

Aerion: What are you doing up so late?

You: Can't sleep.

Aerion: Me neither.

He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear over and over, impatiently waiting for your reply. He lit another cigarette through pure stress, inhaling it as his phone balanced on his knee.

You: Want to go for a drive?

"How have we not done this sooner?" You sighed, settling comfortably into his fully reclined passenger seat, your view of the city below and all its little gleaming lights.

"Busy, I guess." He shrugged. "We live different lives now."

The words felt like a lie as he spoke them. If you wanted to make the time, the two of you would have. But you had become professional and skirting around your feelings, pretending the blossoming in your chest was simply not there.

"That makes me sad." You sighed, looking over at him as his head was already turned to face yours. "I missed you."

Aerion could feel his mind buzz with anxiety, the hankering for another cigarette had his hands balled tightly at his side. "I missed you."

The world looked darker around you. Each different hue now warmer, redder, than it should be. As if a vessel had burst in your eye, the blood coating your vision until all you could see was Aerion. The man who looked no different than when you worked with him a year ago. Hair still unnaturally white, eyes still sunken and jaw still tense. A cigarette dangling from his lip at any given chance.

You had always admired the small details of his face, but only tonight had you truly seen them. It felt like the wires in your brain had been tangled, heightening any sort of feelings you already harboured. His eyes looked darker, smile wider, you could hear the blood passing through his veins, you could hear his heart pumping rapidly.

Your Willow had worked.

Aerion watched you intently; he noticed your tinged cheeks as you smiled at him, he noticed the way you were intensely staring into him, he noticed how you fiddled with the rings on your finger sheepishly. He wouldn't even admit it inside the privacy of his own mind, he would not give Daeron the satisfaction of saying this stupid Willow had worked.

"Want me to drive you home?" Aerion offered. "You look tired."

"No." You answered quickly, reaching a hand out to settle on his chest. "I like it here. With you."

Aerion placed his hand over yours, where his heart was buried beneath, calling out to your flesh above it. "Then you can come home with me."

You nodded. Your mind wasn't your own tonight, you knew better than to go home with a guy you hadn't seen in a year. But it was Aerion, your heart was encased in tattoos of his name, memories of words he'd spoken to you. He felt like home.

Laying beside him in his bed felt feverish. His sheets felt coarse against your bare legs, his hands were weighted as they rest on your hip. You were looking straight at him and all you could make out were the glints in his eyes. His features kissed by shadow and darkness, just white holes where his pupils were.

"You're freezing." He noted. "Do you want some more blankets?"

"No," you whispered, unable to take your eyes from his, "I'm okay."

"I can make you warm. Come a little closer."

You shuffled your legs into his, feeling that hue of warmth return. Aerion's features had brightened, no longer the scary monster in the closet, but the man you loved. The man you pined for day after day, now beside you in a bubble of quiet, intimate vulnerability.

"This might be crazy to admit," he breathed, no longer did he feel a rush of anxiety when you listened to him, no longer did he fear he would mess up the words he spoke, "but I love you. I have loved you, for a while."

Your heart had ceased its rhythm for a moment, Aerion's words the sole focus in those few seconds. "And I, you."

Your days were taken by Aerion, as his were taken by you. You would wake and sleep together, kiss the other goodbye on your way to work, meet for lunch and stay just a few minutes over. He consumed your thoughts, your autonomy, your heart, body, and soul. You were the object of Aerion's desires, there hadn't been a thought that didn't involve you. His mind was held captive by your memory, work on the back burner as he remembered your laughter at his stupid joke.

His father would click in his face, send him reminder emails, all to remind him there was in fact a world outside of you. But it didn't exist to him; he lived in a world without you for years, spent his days and nights in agony wishing for you to be his. And now he had you, he found purpose, he got as he wanted, he would not let his gratitude falter.

Valarr would watch you in concern over coffee, talking as if from another planet entirely. As if you had met the perfect man, and not the parasite his cousin had become.

"Do you not think this is all a bit... sudden?" Valarr frowned, tapping at the sides of his ceramic mug. The sound rang in your ears, taking you from the story you were just telling him of.

"What?"

"You guys seem very in love." Valarr stated.

"We are."

"It's nearly been a month."

You scoffed. "Love doesn't know time, Valarr."

He cared deeply for you, watched you sing and cry and lose your breath with laughter. But he hadn't seen you so in love before. Not to this extent, where you felt antsy without him. Where each moment spent apart felt like a waste of time.

"Just be careful, please." Valarr intoned. "You know my thoughts on Aerion, and I don't think this is healthy."

"And who are you to decide that?" You laughed, gathering your things from the booth beside you. "Call me when you've learnt my love life isn't your business."

And of course, you ran straight to Aerion. Told him all of Valarr's comments, how he felt about your love, how he stuck his nose where it didn't belong. You sat on his lap as he soothed your tearful words, hand dragging up and down your back to calm you.

"He doesn't understand." Aerion whispered. "The poor boy hasn't felt a love like this, he won't understand until he does."

"I just want to be with you, I feel safe with you." You wept onto his shoulder, your salty tears dampening his shirt. "Don't want to leave."

"Then don't. Stay here, leave that wretched job of yours. I earn enough to make you happy, to keep you here with me." His words carried such weight, despite being unaware of the poison laced within them. He was whispering incantations into your ears, to burrow into the folds of your brain, to darken that hue of warmth you saw.

You felt most like yourself with Aerion. Going on walks, watching movies, baking, grocery shopping, visiting him on his lunch break at his office building. You felt both hands leave the wheel when he kissed you goodbye, but the car maintained its speed. It hadn't slowed down when your hands left the wheel, if anything it gathered speed. Your vision blurred, your heart threatened the break the ribcage that guarded it. You felt on the verge of collapse until Aerion would return home, his hands would settle on your cheeks, and all would be right in the world.

Those feelings of derangement would only flare when Aerion was gone, or an obstacle presented itself. And the newest obstacle had been the secretary, disturbing your private lunch break with Aerion.

"Sorry," she peered through the door with a wide grin, a stack of folders in her arm, "your father told me to give you these."

"Just leave them on that shelf." Aerion instructed, his eyes tearing from you for a moment to gesture to the shelf. "Thanks."

Gratitude. For her. Thanking her for the disruption to your conversation. The world paled until the door clicked shut again, and Aerion's hand sat on your knee.

"As you were saying, sweetheart?"

Locking her in her office felt the most reasonable response, hearing her fists slam against the windows as you walked with Aerion to his car once the office building had shut. It felt good, you moved the obstacle. It was necessary.

But it had failed.

Aerion had been called to release her, as he lived the closest. And your blood bubbled beneath your skin.

"No." You spoke. "I haven't seen you all day."

"I know, sweetheart." Aerion always jumped to comfort you, to soothe your every worry as you did him. "But you locked her in, it's been long enough. I'm sure she's learnt her lesson."

Tears burned at your waterline. Aerion was siding with her, choosing her.

"She disturbed us, she can't get away with that. Who knows what else she'll try next?" You fretted, advancing towards him. Your hands rested on his chest, his hands atop yours. A position you assumed when obstructions appeared.

"Feel that?" He whispered. His heart slammed against your palms, a living, breathing reminder of your wishes. Merged into one, spurring him on. "That's for you."

Your heart was clawing its way out of your body, searching blindly for his own. His hands felt safe, secure, as they pulled you closer to him. There was nothing except him in this moment, just the charge of your skin against his.

"I need you." His teeth nipped at the skin of your jaw, grunts falling from his lips. "I want to crawl inside you."

You whimpered, letting him paw at your shirt. The material was nothing short of an inconvenience, he would tear it from you if it wasn't your favourite shirt. But he felt controlled, he saw himself outside of his own body. Biting at your neck, drawing blood and letting it stray down your skin.

"Aerion," you cried, compressed between him and the living room rug.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" He cooed, bunching your skirt up to your hips.

"I need you... please." You breathed into his mouth, your blood marred his lips so deliciously. His smirk shaped his teeth as fangs, you willed him to drink you in more, to consume you.

He burrowed into you, cradling your back as you arched off the floor. You squeezed around him, pulling him into you further, to keep the connection between you both. He set a firm pace into you, breathing his desire into you, as if being inside you simply wasn't enough.

Whether it be owed to the Willow, or Aerion's true heart acting on behalf of him, he didn't care. He wished for you, he yearned for you, and now he had you. He didn't just have your heart, he had your mind, body, and soul. He had you under his thumb, just as you had him.

[vanillamacchiatos]

₊˚⊹ once upon a time ... !

₊˚⊹ princess!reader x aerion targaryen!

chapter one: "the dragon in human form; white feathers & black flames." (part one)

synopsis: after years spent behind the walls of her father's secluded castle, the gates finally open, welcoming guests from throughout all of westeros. amongst those guests, is aerion targaryen, beautiful and brilliant. unfortunately, you've always had a penchant for beautiful things. even if they're dangerous.

tags/warnings: SLOW BURN, like the slowest burn ever, arranged political alliances, aerion being aerion (yes this is a warning,) royal ball/gala is a huge part of the plot, small tones of obsession from aerion, aerion doing those weird tongue flicks, as well as a cliffhanger at the end. and other stuff i missed. read the prologue bc u will NOT understand what's going on if u don't.

word count: 5.4k

author's note: there are very subtle elements pulled from the story of swan lake!! i always thought aerion reminded me of a swan lol. i really enjoyed writing this and i hope u enjoy reading it. this will have a part two!! reblogs and any interaction is appreciated!!

as the mid-day began to settle in, just teetering on the edge of sunset, you found yourself tucked away in one of the much quieter rooms of the palace, a leather-backed book placed absentmindedly in your lap. you were not fully registering nor reading the words on the page, per se, just letting the words and vivid imagery cloud your head as the afternoon warmth began to shine in through the stained glass window just beside you. 

a content, almost sleepy sigh came from you, and just as you were beginning to drift off to that of a catnap, a soft yet urgent knock on the library doors awoke you back into reality. 

“my lady? may i come in?” 

the words of your handmaiden were never rushed, as nothing at the castle ever was. time was so valuable, and it seemed a person was granted so little of it. 

“you may.” you did not look up immediately, gentle hands closing the reading and mentally noting to return to those pages later–the sound of a small creak as the door opened. although, there was something different about her mannerisms today. almost as if there had been some sort of shift in the air. 

her hands were folded neatly in front of her, lingering just longer than usual in her spot a few feet away from you, as if she was trying to find the correct words to speak. 

that alone made you look up, paying her the respect of your gaze, noticing the rather serious expression on your face. 

“have you been searching for me?” you asked lightly, eyebrows gently furrowed as you tried to place the mood of the conversation. your handmaidens were usually always cheery and you hoped they had not grown afraid to speak with you about serious matters.

just as the silence hung in the air for a beat longer, she began to speak; “your father requests your presence, my lady.” 

your fingers gently curled around the edge of that now seemingly uninteresting book laid in your lap, attention sharpening at the nature of her words. what on earth was so urgent? “..does he?” 

another pause followed your speech, looking over to the side with a small sigh, thoughts beginning to race within your head. 

“he says it is rather important, your highness.” 

that was new, because “important” things did not reach you here. at least, not in the way the reached the rest of the world; you’ve grown accustomed to rather dull days. 

then, you stood up slowly, smoothing out the silken fabric to your gown, which was more of a habitual gesture than something attempting to fix your appearance. 

“i suppose i shall not keep the king waiting,” you said, a small smile on your face, trying to almost ease whatever sort of tension that was in the air. beginning to tress outside of the room, you passed her, flashing her a quick smile, hoping to falsely convey that you were not nervous by any means. 

she watched you for half a second longer than normal, as if she already was aware of what was to come. and, if it had caused the castle to shift even the slightest bit; perhaps that meant good news. something was about to change. 

as you began to tress throughout what seemed like endless hallways, you noticed things that had simply never been there before. and, those things were not hard to miss in the slightest, given these walls are the only thing you had grown to remember without fault. 

looking to your right, you paused in your tracks to take a quick glance outside of a large window in the foyer, and to your surprise.. there seemed to be what looked like dozens of castle servants handling banners, trimming rosebushes, tending to things that had been long overgrown. 

you silently reminded yourself what you had even been meaning to do in the first place, picking up the fabric to your gown, footsteps much quicker now–almost like a small run, which was uncharacteristic for you. especially in these halls. 

finally drawing upon the large door to your fathers chambers, your hands were softly placed palm-flat against the carved wood, pushing it open with an almost child-like curiosity. before you spoke, you stepped one foot into his quarters, beginning to speak as you closed the door behind you. 

“father? you wished to see me,” you softly began, gaze down at the ground for a moment as you smoothed out your dress, before your head tilted up to see your father across the room. his hands were clasped behind his back, curtains drawn fully open to let the sunlight in, which was so strange. any other time he would have had those curtains drawn closed tightly, collecting dust and waiting for the next time to be used. 

it seemed he was watching the same thing you had been so perplexed about on your way here, paying close attention to the servants who were currently at work, which was quite earnestly the first time they had tended to any vines that tressed up the cobblestone walls or paid any attention to the flora and fauna in years. 

he seemed rather calm, but almost too collected. as if he were trying to contain his nerves. a heavy sigh came from his lungs, head dipping to look at the ground for a split second, before he halfway-turned his body to look at you, even though he had avoided making any eye contact at first.

you made soft yet cautious footsteps towards him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if touch alone could somehow change the lamentable mood he was currently in. “what troubles you, father?” you said softly, head slightly tilted as you looked up at him with an almost worried expression. 

“my daughter,” he started, his voice taking upon a tone of what seemed like he was reminiscing on something. “you deserve much more than the isolation of these walls.” he continued, emphasis on those last few words that left his mouth. you gave him a small nod, communicating understanding of his words. 

“we cannot remain something of a legend forever,” he started, only the slightest bit of shakiness in his voice. a tone that only you would even begin to understand. “it is time the gates opened again.” 

for a moment, you were dumbfounded. the gates? open? ..for all of westeros? such a thing was almost unheard of. your eyes narrowed for a moment, looking over at the busy servants just outside, and then returning your gaze to your dear father. 

“now is not the time to jest, father..” something in you began to play it off as some strange joke, but not because you did not believe him. it was simply because it was the only rational way to react after spending years alone, taking the same pathways, reading the same novels repeatedly. 

“jest?” a warm, deep laugh came from his chest, almost husky due to his age. “dear child, the invitations have already begun to be drafted.” his words caught you off guard–there really was to be a gathering. a grand one. “this is a need for visibility. our alliances have weakened, and we must regain our house reputation.”

the thought of it was simply unfathomable. you began to imagine platters upon platters filled with exotic foods, chandeliers coming out of the dungeon, and the old ballroom you loved so dearly to become restored. 

you began to become overjoyed, an unmistakable smile crossing your face, an almost excited laugh coming from you. “oh, it shall be simply grand!” you exclaimed, suddenly lunging slightly forward to watch antique glassware and blossomed flowers being transported throughout the castle. your father began to speak, opening his mouth, yet your curious mind had already started racing. 

“will there be music? oh, and dancing?” it sounds almost captivating, but alas, he knew you needed to realize you were not exactly familiar with what you were rushing to step into. “and what of the guests; who shall be attending? how many people?” 

he gently paused your excitement with a soft tone, reminding you that this was only the preparation. “my dearest, you must be patient. i shall not bore you with any details.” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “the seamstresses and dressmakers will be arriving shortly. there will be no further questioning.”

a small, defeated sigh came from you, but the smile on your face could fool your father any day of your true emotions. “yes, father.. i understand.” you said gently, recollecting your thoughts and dimming your excitement. yet, that was only for a moment. 

you began to realize he was not forcing change upon you. he was allowing you to accept it, and by the nature of your response, he knew he had made the right decision. 

it was only a moment longer before you quickly gave your father a tight embrace, incredibly grateful for the opportunity he has granted you with, even if it was for reasons other than simply allowing you to experience what life has withheld from you. “thank you, father. i shall be on my best behaviour, i’m sure of it.” you let go after a moment, flashing him a quick smile, before being on your way out of his chambers. 

as you made your way towards the foyer, you were careful to pick your dress up, pacing down a flight of marble stairs–caucious not to slip. on your path down the stairs, you passed multiple servants and handmaidens, all busied with some sort of task that entailed decorating the palace to its entirety. 

after making a turn towards the entrance of your private quarters, a group of at least five women were already sorting through fabrics and threads, a quarter of the expanse of your rather large room occupied by seamstresses. “ah, there she is. your majesty, come forth, will you?” 

one of the older women motioned with a hand for you to come closer, taking a step back to allow you to stand in front of a large, multi-framed mirror that covered almost the entirety of the wall. you flashed her a quick smile, allowing her to take whatever measurements she needed from you. “did you have any ideas in mind, my lady?” she said to you, granting you creative liberty to some extent.

you took a moment to think, unsure of what you would be expected or even want to wear to such an event where royals were expected to attend. 

“perhaps.. white. a beautiful, pure white gown.” you said softly, looking at yourself in the mirror in front of you in attempts to take into account your features. although, the answer was subtly shocking to the older woman. “white, your majesty? won’t you want to reserve that for your day of wed?” 

you shook your head slightly, a smile crossing your face. “well, i do not assume i shall be married soon, or ever, for that matter. especially not in these.. circumstances.” your thought process was simple; it would most certainly not be easy for any man of high status to marry a princess who has never made any court appearances or even been seen by outsiders. 

your remark had gained the interest of two younger seamstresses who were currently pinning fabric together, beginning to form the underskirt to your gown near the back of the room, “i beg to differ, i heard lords from the capital are attending,” one of them started, her tone rather matter-of-fact, assuming you’d be potentially courted by many suitors. 

a small laugh came from the other. “i heard this is to be the largest gathering since the tourney at ashford meadow,” she said with a grin, seemingly feeding on quick court-gossip. this earned a shock from the other seamstress, beginning to sew ornate stones onto a section of fabric. “one of the dragon princes are attending.. the house targaryen rarely travels west.”

that remark in particular had caught you off guard. you simply had to know more.

“the dragon prince?” you questioned, looking over at them over your shoulder. you had only heard brief mention of any house relating to dragons from your father, when you would eavesdrop on meeting as a little girl. the same dressmaker who had been adding little crystals to the gown came closer, holding up fabrics next to you, seeing what would look best.

“you’ll know him when you see him. snow-white hair.. like that of an old valyrian painting.” she whispered, making this prince sound more like a rumour than a royal. you hadn’t thought that the realm was nearly this complicated. she began to speak once more; “he is–”

the older seamstress gave them a scorning look, reminding them that it was not by any means in good taste to gossip about seemingly one of the most influential house names. “girls. i shall remind you we did not come here to speak in poor taste.” after that warning, the room went quiet aside from the sound of pins occasionally dropping, or the sound of heavy fabric.

softly, you turn back to the mirror, not a sound leaving your mouth, silently thinking to yourself. what was such a matter with this family name, and why on earth were they so important? it seemed you would have to wait for the day to come. 

attempting to break the silence, you speak softly, an innocent question leaving your mouth.

“..what silhouettes are they wearing this season?”

and so, over the course of weeks, the castle changed in ways you could not even begin to fathom prior to the engagement. the change was not all at once, or loud, or gaudy.. it began to change in pieces. 

you had been awake for hours, currently sat at your vanity, simply awaiting the unveiling of the dress you waited weeks for. the conversation you had with those two nosy seamstresses still never failed to cloud your mind, with all the talk of high-ranking lords and ladies, making you much more nervous than excited for a court appearance after many years in solitude. 

the hour was growing late, and the sun had set hours ago, the castle now illuminated with golden candelabras and blown glass lanterns. it was something you only could have imagined in a painted memory. below you, you could hear the faint clanking of metal trays and silverware, paced footsteps moving with an unfamiliar purpose. 

you had been awake since dawn, simply listening to the sounds coming from outside your door. 

a soft knock came upon your door, waking you out of a sort of subconscious daydream. “your evening gown is finished, my lady.”

excitement began to take over the feelings of nervousness, turning slightly towards your door. years of wearing the same light, simply tailored gowns had made you look forward to the arrival of such a grand dress.

you stood slowly as the door opened to many familiar faces–then another, and another. not just your usual handmaidens that always greeted you in the morning time, but others too. the women carried what seemed like never-ending fabrics, boxes tied with ribbon, and a small tray of what looked like pale feathers. 

the dress was not unveiled all at once; first came the fabric. “oh, it is divine.. they’ve outdone themselves.” you said, as your fingers brushed along the satin fabric. “careful,” one of the handmaidens said, earning a soft laugh from you. was it improper to touch the dress you were soon to be wearing?

“is it fragile?” you said, with a slight smile. 

“no, your majesty. just important.”

and with that, they helped you dress slowly, as they always did, but today there was a difference in their movements. there was more attention and much more precision. as if every aspect mattered in a way it hadn’t before, like you were not simply getting dressed, but prepared. 

the fabric settled over you, the gown having an undeniable weight to it. the laces of the corset-style waist were tightened and tied with care, little white plumes intricately placed upon the bodice. 

just as you were beginning to take a longing look at yourself in the mirror, a servant rushed in, pausing at the doorframe. 

“my lady, you must make haste. guests are beginning to arrive.”

you could already hear the strum of violins and the chatter of royal guests downstairs. before leaving the quiet familiarity of your room, you take one last look, allowing yourself to smooth out the silk fabric of your dress and adjust the boned bodice holding the structure together. 

and with that, pushing aside any nervousness or uncertainty, you begin to make hurried footsteps to the ballroom. along your path, you passed many servants carrying refreshments and trays, the heightened smell of rosebuds wafting throughout the halls, and the sound of music getting increasingly easier to hear as you get closer and closer.

before entering what seemed like something out of a storybook, you turned your quick footsteps into slower, more purposeful ones. there was booming laughter and glasses clinking, just behind massive wooden doors; to which were already propped open. 

stepping inside the warmly-lit gathering, your presence does not go unnoticed. 

the volume of some nearby conversations begin to falter, some heads turning to feast upon what exactly the reach had been keeping locked away for so long. out of the corner of your eye, you see another nudge the lord beside him, though you decide to ignore it. many women smiled at you, though, some filled with envy. 

you gravitated towards the end of the room, taking hold of a stem of wine, swishing it within the glass before taking a quick sip. for someone who had such a lavish party in their honour, you didn’t quite see any familiar faces. 

your footsteps were slow, simply listening to conversations happening near you.. talk of alliances, how horrible the last tourney was, an arranged marriage. all things very common for court. while your eyes drifted over the grand floral arrangements, something caught your eye. silver hair. and not the old, aging kind of silver. pure white. 

suddenly a thought from weeks before rang into your ears, almost as if you began to remember something crucial, when that seamstress had mentioned “snow-white hair.” your memories began to fall into place, taking a long and good look at the figure across the room. if your eyes were not deceiving you, he looked around to be twenty years old. perhaps the dragon prince was not all myth. 

and perhaps you had been looking a bit too long, which granted you a cock of his eyebrow, narrowing his eyes as if looking you over. setting his wine down on the table next to him, within a blink of the eye he was beginning to move. 

you turned around, in attempts to walk around the crowd rather than through it–your father right behind you. “she looks just like her mother.” he was standing with a few other lords; all in jewel tones of red, yellow, and green. one of them began to whisper to the other next to him, another speaking; “ah, here she is. she’s been hiding from us all night.”

his remark gained boastful laughter from the men with him, all smiles, to which you cannot place were genuine or if they had ulterior motives. you silently cursed him within your head, given you had completely lost track of a certain white-haired prince. 

“why, yes… yes. i do suppose i’ve been in hiding.” you said with a forced smile, eyes darting around as you endlessly searched a crowd full of individuals for one. and yet, it was as if he had vanished within thin air. how hard was it to misplace someone so striking? 

your father began to speak again. about what, you had no idea. your mind was certainly elsewhere. without taking a second thought to think of what he was speaking of, you agreed by nodding your head. 

after a moment, you excused yourself–there were much bigger things at hand here. “excuse me.” you said, beginning to pace your way through the crowd, pardoning yourself for being in someone's way more times than you could count. 

soon enough, you found yourself on the other side of the room. standing just quite in front of the “elusive” figure you’d been trying to track down all night. 

your first mistake was thinking he would make attempts to introduce himself first. he simply.. leaned against the wall, eyebrows furrowed as he studied you, deciding if you were worthwhile.

he seemed beautiful and charismatic, yet there was most certainly something off, shown within the way he exuded a harsh sort of stillness while the gala around him was soft and warm.

breaking the silence, you began to speak–before he got to it first.

“you’re not what i expected,” he said, his tone rather matter-of-fact, taking a small sip of wine whilst his eyes never let up from your complexion. 

your hands remained folded together in front of you, resting on the fabric of your gown. whatever did he mean by that?

“and what is it that you were supposed to expect?” you added, your head slightly lifting to actually make attempts to make eye contact, your question coming off as charming. 

“someone timid.” he said, before allowing a beat of silence, looking down into his glass filled with crimson liquid. “though you interest me in conversation.”

your eyes narrowed for a moment, beginning to experience a feeling you couldn’t quite place. perhaps a bit of excitement was misplaced as nervousness. 

“..would you rather me hadn’t, your grace?” you replied, a bit of playfulness in your tone, clearly, you weren’t intimidated. 

there was a long pause, before he spoke once more.

“no.” the prince quipped back, rather quickly, like he knew what he wanted to say before you were finished with your sentence. like he didn’t have to think about it. 

alas, you wanted to know more, the result of the conversation was not quite satisfactory. 

you began to speak, though it was hard to ignore you were being almost studied with every movement of your mouth. “may i ask you something?” 

“you already have,” he said, gaining a very subtle roll of your eyes at him. were all princes so persistently irksome? 

he noticed your little face of irritation, almost smiling to himself. “another question, then. go on.” it seemed he strictly carried the conversation, not the other way around. 

you tilted your head to the side, your gaze looking off in a different direction as you spoke. “have you always enjoyed making strangers uncomfortable, my lord?” after those last few words, you returned your focus of sight onto his face. 

undoubtedly, there was an unmistakable smirk painted upon his pale complexion. the tiniest smirk, like he somehow found it humorous.

he didn’t look away when he spoke, not even for a moment, like the act of watching you was part of the conversation itself.

“you speak as though discomfort is always an insult,” he said at last, voice low enough that it barely had to compete with the noise behind him. “it is not.”

your fingers had begun to adjust the fabric of your gown, finding something else to occupy your racing mind with. you allowed the moment of silence to stretch just long enough so it felt more intentional.. and less like you were at a loss for words.

“then.. what is it?” you asked him. his eyes briefly flickered down your hands, watching the movement of gentle fingers, as if he was mentally noting something that other people would ignore. 

“testimony,” he started, his tone stating his words rather simply. “of truth. or, lack of it.” 

his words made you pause. whatever was he hinting at? your expression shifted, quite obviously, before you could begin to control it. a hint of a laugh came from you, followed by an exhale. because, honestly, how else were you supposed to react?

“so.. you go around looking for truths to collect?” you said, your tone was rather light in the way that was careful, “how very devoted of you.” 

at your remark, something changed within his expression. it wasn’t anything of warmth or amusement, at least in any familiar sense.. it was more like recognition. like what you said had very closely met the mark than you intended it to. 

“only the ones worth listening to.” he began, that same unchanging tone of his in those words. your gaze had stayed on him much longer than etiquette would have most likely advised you, as well as the fact that you did not exactly know where boundaries sat in a conversation like this. 

“and what makes mine listening to, my lord?” you asked, a small smile on your face as the corners of your mouth curled up. and, for the first time, he looked away from you. 

it wasn’t a retreat for the conversation by far, much more like a deliberate pause. he looked down into his goblet of wine, as if the answers he was searching for would be found within the reflection of the red liquid. it was almost as if the conversation had ended in being strictly theoretical. 

then, without lifting his head, he spoke. “you assume the question was meant to flatter you.” with a movement of his jaw, his tongue flicked within the inside of his mouth, as if tasting the remnants of the blood-red wine left upon his gums. strangely enough, the mannerism akin to a reptile. 

it was so faint, that if you were not watching closely enough, it would have gone unnoticed. unfortunately, you were. and it did not feel like an entirely human gesture. your mind traced back to prior conversations, remembering how the dressmaker had referred to him as the “dragon prince.” it was true that his peculiar movements did strike you as dragon-like. 

“i found the remark to be quite flattering,” you said, your words coming easily. it was curious in a way that betrayed any thought wondering if curiosity was permitted. 

for a moment, he did not respond. it was as if the question had not offended him or caught him off guard in any way, it was simply as if what you had said was able to redirect his thoughts on the conversation–and, undoubtedly, you as well. 

his gaze lifted once more, studying you with a different sort of interest. he was not simply registering your emotions, or picking apart what you were replying, there was a quiet interest in the way he was taking in every feature about you.

now, that should have made you uncomfortable. but, it made you far less sensible, making you much more curious in return. 

your smile shifted slightly, no longer just polite, but with an air of self-assurance, given the fact you had potentially caught his eye. “you are looking at me as though i’ve said something interesting,” you said.

though, it was not quite a question. he did not look away from you once, yet, his eyes had become focused on each individual feature, like he was trying to piece something together. 

“you have.” he replied, his words simple yet immediate. there was no hesitation laced within his words, which only heightened your curiosity. 

you exhaled through your nose, a faint laugh forming without any bit of resistance. “that is not something i hear often,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly as your gaze now stayed firmly on him. “usually i am told the opposite.”

there was a very small pause from him at your words. “the opposite,” he repeated, unsure of what may be his motives at this rate. 

you lightly nodded, once, as though your admission was something unremarkable. “that i am.. expected to be quieter,” you said, trying to briefly find the correct phrasing, though now tone suggested you were not particularly concerned with perfecting your speech. “less noticeable, perhaps.”

you watched him carefully as you spoke; but not out of fear of his reply or the nature of what he may be thinking. (thought, the potential of his thoughts did interest you.) it was merely because he had begun to react in ways that other noble suitors would not. if he could even be considered a “suitor.”

he absorbed your notion as if it mattered. “and do you try to be?” he questioned, yet the words had landed differently than any previous statement, it was directly giving you a choice as to how you planned to answer. 

‘well, no,” you said, rather honestly. “i think i simply have not had much reason to be otherwise.” your words fell more freely after you spoke, shoulders shrugging for a moment, a breath leaving your lungs that you were not exactly aware you were holding in. 

that gained you silence from him. though, short-lived silence.

not exactly the bad kind, but his attention had shifted much closer to you, even though neither of you had moved any closer–or any further, for that matter. “you’d be mistaken.” he said, gaining a quick quip of your brow. 

“would i?” you questioned, words coming out more inquisitive than you intended. 

he held your gaze, eyes narrowed by a hair, as if he was studying your features once more. beginning to take a quick sip of his wine, those eyes of his hadn’t left you for a moment. 

“you are noticeable regardless,” he said. it should have sounded flat, but it was anything but. his words sounded definitive, like he already had made a decision about you long before you were aware of what it entailed. 

for a moment, you did not respond. but out of hesitation or anything trivial, but because his admission made you suddenly aware of yourself in a way you had not been before. because there was a simple fact; he was looking at you like you were distinct. 

your gaze matched his own more steadily, head tilted slightly to the side, beginning to feel your curiosity shift into something much more deliberate. “that could mean many things, my lord.” you replied.

“it does.” he agreed, his attention not shifting within the slightest. 

you kept your posture rather composed, yet something within you had shifted, beginning to realize that this was becoming something much more than casual banter. your fingers had started to adjust faintly against your gown. 

“you were not meant to be seen often,” he said, as if continuing a thought he had already deemed true. “or you would not react like this.”

you blinked a few times, almost as if batting your eyes–minus the flirtatiousness. you were not used to a man, or a prince for that matter, reading you so well. 

his eyes lowered; but not to your fidgeting hands. he began to focus on the change of your expression, almost silently triumphant in his head that he had managed to have any sort of upper hand over the conversation.

very subtly, he took a step forward. it was not yet invading any personal space, but it was rather close to being deemed intimate. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter;

“who keeps you hidden?” 

your lips parted, almost at a loss for words. “my father," you said at last, though the words felt strange to say out loud. "he believed it.. safer."

the prince regarded your response for a moment, at first, saying nothing. his features conveyed something of no surprise. “i thought as much.” 

he paused for a moment, granting a beat of silence, which could have been for emphasis on his statement. his eyes narrowed for a split second, thoughtfully tracing the inner ridge of his teeth with his tongue. 

“it is a shame.” he stated, the nature of his words catching you off-guard. you were not sure how to react. 

your brows gently knitted together, deciding to dig a hint deeper, your inquisitiveness rather apparent. “..what is?” 

for what felt like the first time during the conversation since you’ve begun to speak.. he did not have an immediate answer. uncharacteristically, he began to search for the correct words, though it seemed several possibilities had crossed his mind before one seemed worthy of being spoken.

“that something so..” he began, head tilting just slightly to the side, almost as if he was studying you intently. “remarkable..” 

there was another short pause before he spoke again.

“..has been hidden behind stone walls for so long.” 

closing notes: did u guys like this or love it. there will be more coming VERY soon. bc i am nowhere near being done w this plot LOLLL dont be shy comment or mssg with any suggestions!!! DONT kill me for the cliffhanger.

[studiofiftyfours]

[ladythedrunken]

??? The man who has always claimed them as his grandsons is now calling them bastards even though he also has a bastard son

[catbayunthestoryteller]

It's not Rhaenyra's fault your only legitimate son was gay and unable to sire a child, Corlys. Rhaenyra tried. You, on the other hand, could not keep it in your pants and stay loyal to your fire. Have you considered that legitimizing your bastards weakens Rhaenyra's claim, as well as officially confirms Joffrey will never be Driftmark's heir? Somebody call Daemon and have him give Corlys a flashback of Vaemond treatment.

This writing is sickening. Jacaerys is turning in his grave. He was the one stood up for your bastard sons' claim in Fire&Blood!

[theyallsee]

KEEP ME COMPANY— VALARR X READER

tags: peasant reader, fem reader (usage of she/her pronouns) reader has been friends with dunk since they were kids, reader and Duncan refer to each other as siblings (they’re not) love at first sight on Valarr’s end, slow burn for reader, YEARNING, lots of yearning, forbidden romance, angst, found family, mischaracterization of Valarr, story follows the akotsk lore (show). Kiera is still in the story but is married to Daeron

warnings: death, mentions of death and I think thats it!

wc: 8.6k

A/N: This is my first time in a very longggg time writing fanfiction. I hope you guys enjoy! (p.s this is going to be a series)

You watch the horses while Duncan digs Ser Arlan’s grave. Drenched in rain and splattered with mud, their coats glisten in the gloom. You find yourself wondering what it’s like to be used simply as living transportation, a quiet thought that keeps you distracted from the present.

You notice Duncan trudging back up the hill, looking exhausted. He looks in your direction, muttering a soft “hey” before bending to lift Ser Arlan’s body. You watch from the tree as he carries the old knight back down the hill. Through the shower of rain, you can make out Duncan gently lowering Ser Arlan into his resting place.

“I don’t know the right words,” he pauses, “I reckon she don’t either, ought to be a septon here…. you were a true knight, you didn’t beat us when we didn’t deserve it-“

Your mind immediately goes back to the many beatings you both had to endure.

“except that time in maidenpool, it was the inn boy ate the widow woman’s pie, not me- I told you.”

You pressed your lips together. The truth was YOU had ate that pie. Blamed it on Duncan, and prayed to the seven none found out the truth. You look down at the ground, your vision blurring until your mud coated boots dissolve into a grey smear. A sharp, stinging ache tightens in your throat, and you force yourself to swallow it down before returning your gaze toward Duncan.

Duncan rose, grabbing the sword that belonged to your ser.

“I’d leave your sword, but it-it’d only rust in the ground.” He said with a shaky voice, “I wish you didn’t die ser-“ Duncan cried, wiping away his tears with his hands. “We’ll take good care of the horses.” Duncan says through sobs.

You could see Ser Arlan being buried, you look away, unable to watch any longer. Your eyes fixed on the damp earth at your feet. You exhale deeply, a long, ragged breath that shudders past your lips as the reality settles on you. A shaking starts in your hands which forces you to lace your fingers tightly together. You bite your inner cheek to keep your jaw from tight, visible quivering, fighting to anchor yourself while the world feels entirely unmoored around you.

Duncan returned up the hill, making his way over to you and the horses. He gives you a quick nod before falling against the tree.

“It’s done.”

He wipes a mix of rain and sweat from his face with a muddy sleeve, casting a long, weary look your way. His eyes shift from your quiet, gloomy form to the horses huddled in the downpour.

“Storm ain't letting up,” Duncan says, his voice thick and hollow. He looks down at his hands, caked in wet mud. “He’s really gone. Just you and me now. I don’t rightly know what we ought to do without him…"

You keep your cloak pulled tight against the biting wind, staring blankly at the shovel down the slope. You don't offer any comfort. You just stay silent, matching the grim, grey world around you.

There is a quiet pause, silence growing heavy between you with unspoken grief.

“Dunk,” you say quietly, your voice barely carrying over the wind. “It wasn't the inn boy at Maidenpool.”

Duncan blinks, wiping a fresh sheet of rain from his eyes as he turns to look at you. “What? But I thought-”

“I ate it,” you interrupt, the truth finally being told. “I ate the widow woman’s pie. I pinned the blame on the boy, and I let you take the heat for it because I didn't want to be hit.” 

Duncan stares at you through the downpour, the slow machinery of his mind processing the confession. For a second, you fear he’ll be furious. But then his large shoulders sag, and a small, weary chuckle escapes him. “Thick as a castle wall, I am,” he mutters, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. “Aye… I should’ve known. You always did have a sweet tooth when we were scraping for scraps. It’s alright. The old man would’ve forgiven ya. He knew how the road makes a stomach howl.”

The admission seems to drain the last bit of energy from his massive frame. Dunk slides down the trunk of the tree, his heavy, wet boots laying out on the grass. Within minutes, exhaustion catches up to him. After a while his chin drops to his chest, and his deep, rhythmic snores begin to synchronize with the rumble of the thunder.

You pull your cloak tighter around yourself, sliding down to sit beside him, staring out into the lashing downpour. You close your eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. Instead, your mind spirals about what comes next.

You are entirely on your own now. No knight to guide you, not much coin to your name, and nothing but three horses and an old man's rusted armor to keep you alive. As the rain beats a steady, unforgiving rhythm against the earth, a cold sense of dread settles deep in your chest, wondering if you and Duncan are going to even survive.

I'll just worry about it tomorrow, you thought before closing your eyes, tuning into the downpour of rain.

A heavy hand gently shakes your shoulder.

"Wake up," Dunk’s rustic voice mutters softly above you. "Come on, wake up. It's morning."

You stir, your muscles aching from sleeping upright against the tree bark. You rub the crust from your eyes, your vision blurring for a moment before focusing on Duncan. He is already up, his towering frame in front of you. His face is dirty and lined with exhaustion, but the wild panic from yesterday has settled into a grim, quiet resolve.

"Sky's clearing up," he says, gesturing toward the horizon where the clouds parted, revealing a sliver of pale blue. "We ought to gather Ser Arlan's things and get moving. The horses are restless."

You stand up, your damp cloak clinging to your skin, and look down the slope. The fresh mound of soft, wet dirt where the old man rests is the only disruption in the wide, empty expanse. The anxiety from last night, the terrifying uncertainty of what you both are supposed to do without your knight returns with a cold, sharp bite.

"Dunk," you say, your voice raspy from the cold air as you pull your hood back. "Where are we even going?"

Dunk pauses, his big hands wrapping tightly around the straps of Ser Arlan's old leather pack. He looks out down the muddy road, his jaw setting into a firm, determined line.

"Ashford," he says firmly. "There's a tourney there. We have the horses, we have the armor, and we have his sword. I'm going to ride as a knight no doubt.”

The late afternoon sun filters through the thick canopy of trees, casting long, golden bars of light over a secluded bend in the stream. It is a few miles away from the main Ashford camp—quiet, private, and beautiful.

You sit submerged up to your shoulders in a deep, cool pool of water, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. The biting chill of the mountain runoff is a welcome shock to your aching muscles, washing away days of grime, sweat, and the heavy, lingering stress of travel. Your damp clothes are piled on a dry rock nearby, and your loose hair floats like dark silk on the surface of the water. For the first time in days, you feel refreshed.

Suddenly, a loud, heavy crashing through the nearby bushes shatters the quiet.

"Ah, bloody briars," a familiar, rustic voice grumbles.

You gasp, instantly sinking lower into the pool until the water laps at your chin, your eyes darting toward the sound. The branches part, and Dunk stumbles out into the clearing, his massive frame hunched under the weight of a heavy wooden bucket and a bundle of coarse cloth. He looks absolutely exhausted, his face smeared with soot and dirt.

He halts dead in his tracks the second he notices the ripples in the pool, his big jaw dropping in utter shock.

"Seven hells!" Dunk blinks, his honest face instantly flushing a violent, dark red that creeps all the way to the tips of his ears. He clumsily drops the wooden bucket with a loud clatter and frantically spins his back to you, his giant hands flying up to cover his eyes. "I didn't—I didn't know you were down here! I swear it by the Old Gods and the New! I should've called out—"

"Stop acting like we've never bathed before" you call out returning with a splash of amusement as you roll your eyes. "I'm under the water. You sound like you walked on the Maiden herself."

Dunk doesn't turn around. He stands completely rigid, his massive shoulders hunched as he stares intently at the opposite treeline. "Aye, but... a lady's privacy is a serious matter. Ser Arlan always said a true knight respects a woman's modesty- you know. I'll just... I'll go find another bend down the creek."

"Don't be a fool," you sigh, leaning your back against a smooth, submerged stone. "You look like you've been rolling in a charcoal kiln, and the horse lines are starting to reek! The stream is big enough for the both of us. Just go down to the shallow rocks on the other side of the bend and scrub yourself down. I won't look if you don't."

Dunk hesitates, his giant boots shifting uncomfortably in the mud. He lets out a low, weary sigh, the sheer weight of his exhaustion finally winning over his highborn notions of chivalry. "You promise you won't look?"

"Dunk, I've already seen you naked, and I don't want to look again, like… ever," you mock playfully, throwing a small spray of water toward his back. "I've seen you covered in mud, blood, and worse. I have absolutely no desire to see your giant arse raw. Go on."

"Alright, alright," he mutters, a faint, embarrassed chuckle breaking through his fatigue.

He trudges a dozen paces down the bank, keeping his back strictly toward your deep pool, and disappears behind a thick cluster of tall reeds at the shallow bend. You hear the heavy squelch of his boots coming off, followed by the loud, bracing splash of a seven-foot man plunging into the freezing mountain water.

For a long while, the only sounds are the rhythmic rushing of the stream and the steady, vigorous splashing of Duncan scrubbing the soot from his arms. The silence between you is comfortable.

"Hey," Dunk’s voice calls out over the water, sounding cleaner and a bit more relaxed. "You think I can be a knight?"

"In actuality, maybe. You’re strong, something a knight should be. But you are of no high honor, no one knows who you are- Ser Arlan was a knight yes- but how many of his stories do you think were tales?"

"Aye, I do not think he would have lied about any of 'em, its not an honorable thing. He would have known that."

"Honorable or not, people tell tales to survive," you call out, the cool water rippling against your chin as you lean your head back against a stone. "He wanted you to be a good man, Dunk. That's why he gave you his sword. But a sword doesn't make you a lord, and the knights up at that tourney aren't going to look at your big arms and offer you a seat at their table. They’re going to look at your rusted breastplate and see a joke."

The splashing on his side stops for a long moment. You can hear the steady rushing of the stream filling the silence.

"I know I ain't no highborn lord," Dunk’s voice comes back, lower this time. "I know my blood is as common as the dirt we buried him in. But Ser Arlan always said a true knight is made in the heart, not the castle. He saw something in me. In both of us."

"He saw two starving kids in Flea Bottom who were too stubborn to die," you shoot back, though the sharp edge of your words is softened by a quiet, protective ache in your throat. "Strength is fine for pulling a cart or hammering an anvil, Dunk. But those great lords will play you with words we don't even know. Look at how they push the smallfolk into the ditches just to ride past. You think they care about what's in a man's heart?"

You hear the water sloshing heavily as Dunk shifts against the shallow rocks. "Then I'll make 'em care," he mutters, a determination hardening his voice. "I'll ride in the lists, and I'll strike 'em down with honor. If I win the small tourney, we eat for a year. We buy real oats for the horses. We get you a dress that doesn't have patches. I have to try."

You stare up at the golden bars of light breaking through the trees. You don't know much about anything in Ashford yet. You only know the promises of survival on the road.

Just don't go getting your giant head cracked open," you say softly, your voice losing its mockery entirely as you pull your knees to your chest under the surface. "I know you’re strong, big, tough! But even a wall crumbles if a real knight hits it hard enough. We’ve lost too many people Duncan. I-I... don't want to lose you."

The warm candle lights flicker against the inn, the air is thick with the smell of stale grease, old smoke, and damp wool. A small, bald boy stands in front of the entryway wearing a long brown tunic.

"Hello there. Are you the stableboy?" Duncan asks him before hopping off his horse, "I want the palfrey rubbed down. And oats for all three. You tend to them?"

"I could, if I wanted." Replied the bald boy.

"None of that, see to the horses." Duncan demands.

"It's fine Dunk, i'll just tend to them." You assure him, hopping off your horse as well.

"He's a stableboy, it's their job- You'll get a copper if you do well, and a clout in the ear if not." He lends the horses towards the boy. "See to it then."

The boy nods, grabbing the horses and leading them in.

The indoors seem aged and lonely. There's a gloomy sense to the inn, as if no one was inside.

You step in right behind him, pulling your dripping cloak tight around your shoulders. Your eyes instantly scan the dim room, and you freeze. A woman shows herself from the corner, you assume her to be the inkeeper. She looks over at the both of you. She greets with a nod, "sit where you like." She tells you. alone on a low stool by the hearth is a blonde boy, as if he was knocked out. Dressed like he just came back from a royal meeting. His blonde hair gleeming in the candlelight.

"There's good lamb roasted with a crust of herbs and some ducks my son shot down. Which will you have?" The innkeeper asked. Duncan from you to her. "Both" he replied, she laughs in response, "That's not enough." She grabs two cups, pouring water inside them before handing one of them to you, "is she your wife?"

"Aye- Wh-what? No, no, this is my sister-"

You giggle at Dunk's answer. "We're siblings."

"Hm. My apologies."

After an awkward pause Dunk clears his throat.

"How much farther to Ashford?" Duncan asks before taking a gulp of water.

"I’d say a days ride." She answers, "Is my boy seeing to your horses or has he run off again?"

"No, he's there."

"Half the town's gone down the tourney." She sighs, "Mine would, too, if I allowed it. I swear, I couldn't tell you why." She chuckles, "Knights are built the same as other men. And I never knew a joust to change the price of eggs. Bound for the tourney yourself?"

"I dreamed of you." A voice called out.

The both of you look over to the sound, the blonde boy has awoke.

He looks up at the both of you, his large, dark eyes instantly shifting into a guarded, defiant stare—the classic defense of man who hasn't slept for days.

He pulls out a knife, pointing it at the both of you.

"Stay the fuck away from me, you hear?"

"M'lord?"

He gets up and pulls something out of his cloak, a coin you see- but what was on it? you couldn't tell .

He staggers up the stairs, blowing air at you.

"Never you mind that one, ser. I'll see about your food."

Dunk blinks, his big face pinching into a confused scowl.

The both of you returned outside to check on the horses. You hear small, squeaky laughs from the stables.

Before Dunk can stride over with his usual clumsy gravity, you step past his shoulder. Looking at the bald boy on the horse you get a vision of an eight old girl running wild through Flea Bottom, hiding in the shadows after her parents were murdered, terrified of the world but forcing herself to look tough.

"Oi!" Duncan calls.

The small boy gasps, "My lord!

"You thief!"

"I—I did not mean to offend you!"

"Duncan, leave him be!" you plead as you walk over to the boy.

"Take that armor off you, NOW! And be glad Thunder didn't kick you in that fool head of yours. He's a war horse, not a boy's pony."

"I could ride him as well as you."

"Close your insolent mouth!" Duncan says to the boy.

"Duncan!"

"I'm a knight, she'll have you know!"

"Huh?"

"You don't look to be a knight."

"What..." Duncan scoffs, "all knights look the same, do they?"

"No," the boy replies. "But they don't look like you either. Your belt's made of rope."

"So long as it holds my scabbard, it serves."

"Are you both going to the tourney then? Do you mean to enter the lists?"

"He wants to, not I!" You answer.

Duncan looks at you with a lifted brow.

"Yeah; suppose I do."

"Take me with you then! Ser... ma'am, please."

"And what might your mother say to that?"

"Not much. She is dead." He says with a gentle tone.

Duncan scowls, "Is the innkeeper not your—you're an orphan boy?

"Are you?" The bald boy asks.

"We were orphans—till our ser took us in... taught us arms and riding, and... and everything really. Best he could."

The little bald boy nods in thought. "If you could bring me to Ashford, I could squire for you. And you both can teach me best."

"No, we do not need no squire, lad."

"Every knight needs a squire, and you look like you need one more than most."

"And you look like you need a good clout in the ear," Duncan snaps. "Fill me a sack of oats—we're off for Ashford, alone."

You walk over to the horses, your boots making a soft, slow sound against the floorboards.

The moonlight filtered through the trees as you and Dunk rode away from the inn, leaving the tavern yard behind. The steady, rhythmic sound of the horses' hooves on the dirt road filled the silence, but Dunk’s shoulders were tense as he held Thunder’s reins. He stared straight ahead, a deep frown wrinkling his forehead.

"Shouldn't have shouted at the lad like that," Dunk muttered after a long while. "Left him with nothing but a copper. I feel bad for leaving him."

You nudged Chestnut to get closer to Duncan matching his pace. "It's understandable, he kind of... I don't know... reminded me of the both of us."

Dunk paused, looking over at you. He looked down at his own rope belt, then back down the empty road toward the inn. "Aye," he said softly, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. "Flea Bottom wasn't much different. Just a couple of orphans looking for a place to go." He shook his head, clearing the thoughts. "But we've barely got enough coin to feed ourselves and the horses, let alone a third mouth."

As the morning wore on, the road began to merge with others, showing signs of heavy travel. You started noticing the tracks of other travelers—the deep ruts of heavy carts, the prints of fine destriers, and the occasional discarded ribbon or scrap of cloth.

In the far distance smoke stained the orange sky. You squint, turning in your saddle.

"Dunk!" You call out. "There's smoke, I think that might be it!" You point a finger towards it.

Duncan slows down behind you, lifting his hand to his eyes, shading them from the sunlight.

"Aye, there she is..." He muttered.

The road choked with humanity long before the castle walls came into view. You and Dunk found yourselves swept up in a slow-moving river of hedge knights, fat merchants, tinkers with jingling carts, and minstrels tuning lutes over the din of the crowd. The smell of roasted meats, dung, and unwashed bodies hung thick in the humid air.

As you crested the final ridge, the valley of Ashford Meadow opened up before you, a sprawling canvas city of vibrant pavilions and colorful banners.

Dunk pulled his stallion to a halt, his mouth slightly open as he took in the sheer scale of the gathering.

"Seven hells," Dunk muttered, his voice hushed with a mix of awe and anxiety. "I’ve never seen so many tents. in such a small area..."

"And look at the size of the crowd," you say, steering your gelding away from a mule that snapped at your stirrup.

"Aye," Dunk agreed, his grip tightening on the reins as he scanned the chaotic fringes of the meadow. "We’ll camp near the trees, away from the town but close enough to hear the heralds. Come on, keep your eyes on the shield. Don't let the crowd separate us."

You and Dunk nudged your horses through the press of the crowd, steering them along the edge of the sprawling meadow.

To your left, the official tourney grounds were already taking shape. Carpenters hammered away at a long timber barrier dividing the lists, while laborers erected tiered wooden grandstands draped in the orange-and-white sunburst banners of House Ashford. Across the river, rising like an island of grey stone above the sea of canvas pavilions, stood Ashford Castle itself—its stout towers overlooking the valley with quiet authority.

"That's a proper castle," Dunk said, looking up at the stone battlements as you reached the base of the bridge. "We need to find the Master of the Games before the lists are closed. A knight can't win any glory if he isn't even on the roll."

"Then let's head straight for the gates," you reply, urging your gelding up the stone incline. "The longer we wait, the longer the line of applicants will be."

You rode through the heavy iron portcullis and into the outer courtyard of the castle, which was buzzing with pages, squires, and castle guards. Dunk dismounted heavily, his great height instantly drawing looks from the local men-at-arms. He caught the eyes of an Ashford knight.

"Pardon, ser," Dunk rumbles, trying to smooth down his travel-stained tunic. "Where might a man find the Master of the Games? I’ve come to enter the lists."

The knight looked Dunk up and down, seemingly impressed by his massive frame but not by his battered appearance. "The Master of the Games is in the Great Hall, under the solar staircase. Follow me."

The knight took you both up the castle stairway and into a small, cobbled room, a stench of ink and dry rye bread lingers in the air. You observe two children playing with wooden swords, bringing a small curve to your lips.

Behind you a small thud was heard. "Oh!" Duncan groaned, rubbing the top of his head where he hit the stone lintel.

In the middle of the room the master sat, writing delicately with his quill. Holding a piece of bread in his hand, not startled by Duncan's attempt to knock himself out. Slowly, he looks up, "What do you want?"

"I- uh... I came here for the tourney." Duncan said, stepping forward.

The master's gaze observed Duncan's massive frame, taking in the worn clothes and travel stains. His eyes flickered back yo you "And you?"

You were halted from observing the room, "work?" you blurted.

The main exhaled loudly, looking from Duncan back down to his book. "My lord tourney is a contest for knights. Are you?"

Suddenly the children darted over to you both, swatting playfully at Duncan's leg. The master hisses "oi! psst!" and they run away, laughter fading into the corridors.

The master then dipped his quil into the black ink. "A knight with a name?"

"Uh. Dunk."

You bit your lip, stepping closer to the two, "Ser Dunk" You correct, trying to make things less awkward. "He was a squire to Ser Arlan of Pennytree when he was a lad" You explain.

"Y-yes he knighted me before he passed, with his very own sword. I have it." Duncan prompts the sword out of his belt. laying it on the table for the master.

"His penny is there in the hilt."

The master dipped his bread into the soup next to him, cleaning his lips with the back of his hand. "Well, a sword it is for certainty. Though i've never heard of Ser Arlan of Pennytree... And you were his what? A squire you say?"

"He always meant for me to be a knight someday." Duncan said softly, "as he was"

A soft gaze fell over Duncan before picking up the sword, "when he was dying, he called for his longsword, and bade me kneel." He nods, "Charged me to be a good- good knight."

"To defend the weak and the innocent." You add,

"Served the realm with all my might, and I swore to him I would."

The master cleared his throat, hacking up mucus and spitting it into his cup. You shudder, glancing away.

"Any knight can make a knight... yes" He puts the cup down with a thud. "Were there any witnesses to your dubbing? Her perhaps?"

You nod, "Aye, yes. I was there"

"any other witnesses I can rely on?"

"Only a robin in a thorn tree" Duncan grins nervously.

The master's face instantly hardens into a serious stare, you feel the room growing cold. "This is Ashford town lads. Know what comes to men here to pretend to have sacred oaths?"

"Aye no sir" Duncan answers quickly, his voice dropping low, speaking for the both of you.

"We hang you, naked by your top and bottom, lower you down, arsehole first onto a sharp point... And fuck you dry."

Your stomach plummets instantly, every muscle within your body turns defensive, your heels are about to spin, to head out the door.

"We call it the Ashford chair. So, let me ask you again- Were there witnesses to your dubbing that I can rely on?"

You're about to open your mouth to say something in defense. Until the master leans in.

"I'm bullshitting you." laughing after. "Ashford chair." He mocks as if it was the finest joke in the reach. "You both take boots to the head? This is the Reach, not the Riverlands.

"Ashford chair..." Duncan snickers, tension leaving his shoulders.

"Think we're trying to fend off some scourge of cottagers scuttling about, trying to enter tourneys?" He snorts, the humor from his face vanishing as soon as it came, "You need coin," he spat another glob of mucus into the cup, "armor"

You glance sideways again.

Horses... men, training! I hope the gods will be good. Ha, imagine a poor farmer charging down Lyonel Baratheon in the lists..."

"Hm, that would be-"

"A different sort of entertainment it would be..." The master cut him off.

"Well, we're not farmers..." You chirp in crossing your arms defensively.

"You're here come dressed like some." The master counters, looking you both up and down with blatant pity. He sighs, "look, my lord Ashford fancies himself lots. Gods know why- Well, means that I must ward off every landed knight vying to challenge." He looks squarely at Duncan. "Understand? There are princes about"

Duncan nods, "no, of course."

He looks back at you, "as for you, go and ask about, plenty of work here to be done." He snorts loudly, "you hear?"

You nod frantically, not wanting to hear the sound of his throat clearing, making you turn around as fast as possible. Halfway to the door when the masters voice called out again, you stop, turning back alongside Duncan.

"And your late ser, he'll be known to the knights assembled here?"

Duncan nods "there was a pavilion, flying the banner of House... Dondarrion..."

"Aye, ser Manfred is of that house."

"Ser Arlan had served his lord father back in Dorne. Ser Manfred will remember us." Duncan explained, a shimmer of hope gleaming in his eyes.

The master laughs dryly, "by scent alone, I wouldn't doubt." He grins, "If he does speak to your good honor, bring him here with you, well before the tourney begins on the morrow, and leave her behind." He says, nodding his chin in your direction.

Duncan looks at you and nods, giving you a weary, apologetic smile. The both of you are about to leave until the master speaks out once again.

"But you're aware that those unsuccessful in the tourney forfeit their arms and armor, and their horses to the victors, and have to ransom them back?"

Dunk froze, "Aye-"

"And you have coin to pay that ransom?"

"oh Gods," Duncan breathed heavily, his face drained of color as he looked down at you.

"I'll find work Dunk" you whisper urgently. "Don't worry."

Duncan swallowed hard, turning back to the desk "I- I won't need coin."

You nod towards the master, following Duncan out of the room but are halted once more when Duncan forgets to duck again.

His forehead has seen better days, indeed.

"Seven fucks!" He bellowed, clutching his head and bending down nearly double his size to fit into the small door.

The both of you hurry your way down the castle's stairway, bursting back into the courtyard. Without a word you take the horses reins and lead them back through the gates, returning back into the bustling center of Ashford. You observe all the banners about. Baratheon- one, Ashford- two.

The bump on Duncans forehead is tiny, but he doesnt stop pressing his thumb against it.

"You know Dunk," You say, steering Chestnut around a pool of water, "If you keep using your skull to test the structure of every door frame in the Reach, you won't even need someone to unhorse you." A grin tugs at your lips. "The architecture will do that for them."

Duncan shot you a sullen look, shaking his head. "The smallfolk build things small- It's not my fault the castle lords want to save on timber by making their doors fit for children."

"It was a stone archway you big idiot!" You mock, laughing as you look up at him, "and you didn't just hit it, you hit it, twice! I'm surprised the master of the games didn't charge us a fine with property damage. 'Ser Duck of House Doorstep' that's got a nice ring to it, mhm.”

"Hmph, whatever, laugh all you like," Dunk grunted with a sheepish smile, "aye, but please keep a look out for a banner with purple lightning."

"Yes Dunk... I know what their banner looks like." You sigh.

You scan the sea of crowds, looking for a safe spot to secure your horses away from the trampling boots of the main thoroughfare. A small, wooden hitching post catches your eye.

"Aye, lets go leave the horses over there!" You point out.

Duncan looks past the crowds, squinting as a passing cart full of birds blocks his view. He grabs onto Thunder's reins, nodding gratefully at the suggestion.

"Good thinking, i'll take them over, you can go find some work if you'd like. Just make sure you keep an eye out, and come find me when you’re done. I won't leave."

"Yes ser Duck." You chime with a curtsey.

He checks up on his face, "Does it look bad? Be honest- If ser manfred thinks i've been brawling in a pothouse before the tourney even starts... he won't even say a word for me to the master... I'll be done before I even begin! And what was that about our scent? Did we not just bathe?"

You shrug, avoiding the last question . “That's if he remembers us," you mutter under your breath, before offering a reassuring pat to his arm. "Hmmm, not bad. It might swell up the morrow, though.”

Dunk lets out a heavy, anxious breath, his grip tightening on Thunder's leather reins. "Right... Let's just hope the gods are good and Manfred's memory is sharp."

He turns to lead the horses through a sudden gap in the crowd, leaving you at the edge of the roaring market. You sigh.

Plunging into the roaring belly of the Ashford market, you walk your way into the crowds. The heat of the stalls hit you instantly, thick with the smell of sizzling grease, damp wool, and fermented cider. You squared your shoulders, swallowed your pride, and started hunting for somewhere to work.

Your first stop was a bustling baker’s stall, where about three boys were frantically kneading dough while a stout woman shoved loaves into a clay oven.

"Pardon, mistress!" you called out over the crackle of the woodfire. "Do you need an extra hand keeping the fires fed or carrying flour sacks? I work fast!"

The baker woman didn't even look up from her peel. "I've got three sons and a cousin doing that for a copper a day, girl! Move along, you're blocking buyers!"

Sucking in a breath, you moved to the next row of stalls. A dyer was hoisting heavy loads of wool out of steaming vats of indigo. The fumes made your eyes water.

"Excuse me! Do you need help rinsing the cloth or stoking the coals?" you asked, leaning over the wooden counter.

The dyer wiped sweat from his blue-stained brow and sneered. "Look at those spindly arms. You'd drop a wet bundle into the dirt before you made it three paces. Go ask the weavers down the lane!"

You tried the weavers. You tried a butcher chopping strings of sausages. You even asked a frantic fishmonger scraping scales off river trout. Everyone gave you the same response—a shake of the head, a harsh laugh, or a shove out of the way. Until you pushed deeper into the chaos until you reached the rowdiest section of the markets: a massive, open-air pavilion operating as a makeshift tavern. The air was thick with the scent of roasted mutton and cheap ale. Outside, a harried, red-faced innkeeper was screaming at two young boys who had just dropped a crate of earthenware mugs.

"Pardon!" you shouted over the din of the drunken hedge knights inside. "You need someone who won't drop anything! I work fast and I don't steal, and I can weave through a crowd better than anyone here!"

The owner looked you up and down, wiping grease onto his apron. "Two silver stags for the whole day and night," he barked. "But if you break a single flagon, I'll take them back. Deal?"

"Deal," you said, rolling up your sleeves.

The next ten hours became a blur of exhausting, back breaking labor. You worked until your feet throbbed and your muscles screamed. You carried heavy wooden trays loaded with foaming tankards of ale, ducked under the swinging arms of rowdy mercenaries, and scrubbed grease stained tables as fast as men could spill their stews. When a massive fight nearly broke out over a game you couldn't figure out, you deftly slid past the brawlers to salvage a tray of expensive wine before it could be smashed.

By the time the sun dawned over Ashford, the tavern crowd finally began to grow rowdy. Your apron was soaked in spilled ale, your fingers were grimy from washing grease slick platters, and your back felt ready to snap.

The innkeeper walked over, tossing two bright silver stags onto the scarred wooden counter. "You've got grit, girl," he grunted, actually looking impressed. "Most folk would've quit after the first hour."

You scooped up the coins, the weight of the silver in your palm instantly washing away your exhaustion.

"Ah... thank you." you say, completely out of breath as your fingers curl tightly around the cold silver.

Wiping a fresh layer of sweat from your brow, you bolted out of the tavern and ran back through the torchlit meadow, navigating the labyrinth of tents back over to where you left Duncan. Your heart hammered against your ribs with excitement, eager to find Duncan, to tell him about your day's worth of hard-earned coin.

The sun began to dip lower, painting the sky with shades of light orange and deep amber, your stomach suddenly gave a loud, hollow growl, reminding you that you hadn't eaten a single bite since the morning.

You find Dunk right when you left him, leaning against a low wooden stool with Chestnut, Thunder, and Sweetfoot's reins still looped around the post. He looks up as your boots crunch over the gravel. You notice the purple and black lightning bolt banner of House Dondarrion snaps loudly in the evening breeze just twenty paces behind him- three.

"Hey!" Dunk calls out, his massive shoulders visibly dropping with relief as he steps forward. "Seven hells, I was starting to think a press gang had dragged you off to work the galley oars. Did you find anything?"

You stop in front of him, panting for a breath, and proudly hold up your palm, letting the twin silver stags catch his gaze.

Dunk’s jaw drops, his wide eyes jumping from the shiny silver back up to your sweat-streaked, triumphant face. "Gods... you actually did it. You found real work."

You nod, "in a makeshift tavern, the owner says I've got grit, real grit, they expect me to show up everyday, you? Find ser Manfred?" You nod towards the banner.

"Aye- no," Duncan sighs, running a massive hand over his neck as his shoulders slouch. "Says that he's been asleep all day, they told me to check back at evenfall… did but, still asleep. Other than that," he sighs, "nothing."

"Who says?" You press, crossing your arms.

"I- uhhh... Women, you know." His face growing a bright red. "Around his tents."

"Whores?" You ask without a care in the world

"Aye, well, not much of a difference is there?"

"Are you claiming all women are whores Duncan?" You ask with a playful gasp.

"Oi! You know what I meant," he rolls his eyes. "I hate when you do that."

"I'm just playing you, gods.”

"Right, right... well," Dunk clears his throat, wanting to change the subject. He points his finger toward a large, shouting crowd gathered near a vibrant cluster of merchant tents. "I’ve seen people gathering up for some sort of show over there. Come on, let's go see to it."

"A show? Aye.” You agree, following him.

The two of you walk over to the crowd. The night air is thick with the scent of sawdust and burning tallow torches. High, dramatic monologue echoes from the center of the ring, spoken in a clear, captivating girl's voice. Eager to see, you step in first, deftly squeezing through the gaps between people. Duncan follows right behind you, his massive frame parting the crowd.

When you break through the crowd your breath catches. Standing on a wooden platform is a young woman dressed in green silk, gesturing wildly toward a massive, terrifyingly realistic dragon. As she speaks her lines, a sudden hiss echoes from the beast's jaws. You flinch violently, stepping back into Dunk's legs.

But as the play continues, you find yourself completely mesmerized. The girl moves with a fierce, dramatic grace, her voice holding the entire audience captive. Suddenly, the dragon’s wooden mouth snaps open, and a brilliant, a roaring blast of fire rises, illuminating the upturned faces of the crowd.

The audience erupts into cheers. You clap frantically, your eyes wide as you look up at the giant beside you.

“How did they do that?" you ask in utter dismay, your mind racing to figure out the trick.

Duncan doesn't look down at you. His eyes are locked onto the stage, set on the girl. As the flames fade, she steps forward and sweeps into a shy bow. A remarkably soft, goofy smile spreads across Dunk's face.

"Dunk?" you ask again, nudging his elbow.

"Huh? Oh... uh, I don't know..." He blinks, looking down at you as if waking from a dream. He scratches his head, right next to his growing bump. "I guess... some sort of powder? Or ash?"

You look from him back to the stage, a knowing smirk forming on your lips. "You like her, don't you."

Dunk’s face turns the same red it did earlier. "What? Just because I smile at someone don't mean I like 'em. Were you not smiling at her as well?"

"So? I'm not turning red like you now, am I?"

"What? No, I ain't—" Dunk stammers, his ears burning a fierce crimson as he frantically tries to close his mouth and look dignified. He catches a few neighboring spectators grinning at his expense. "Okay, enough. Let's go somewhere else. Come on."

He grabs your shoulder with a massive hand, turning you around and steering you out of the tent before you can tease him any further. You let out a muffled laugh, highly amused by him.

The two of you push back through the outer crowd, leaving the tent behind. The cool night air hits your face as you step back out.

You are just about to ask him if he’s ready to seek Ser Manfred's again when a bright, cheerful voice cuts you off.

"Hey! Hey! Halfman!"

Dunk stops in his tracks, blinking in surprise as he looks over the heads of the passing smallfolk. Striding toward you from a row of brightly colored tents is who you assume to be someone Duncan met earlier. A wide, easy grin is plastered across his face.

"By the Seven, I thought that was your head I saw bobbing above the crowd," the boy laughs, clapping a hand against Dunk’s massive forearm. "Who's this?"

"This is my sister.” Duncan states.

He looks at you, his eyebrows shooting up in amusement. "Sister? She looks nothing like you, that's for sure. Unless you took all the height for yourself, halfman."

"Aye, he just calls me that," you scoff playfully, offering him a small shrug. “Who’re you?”

"Er.. Raymun, Raymun Fossoway.” He says, “well, look, I'm sorry, halfman," Raymun continues, turning back to Dunk with a sheepish grin. "I should not have urged you to try my cousin Steffon. Could've broken your hands…. or your knees."

You snort, crossing your arms. "I don't think anything can break his knees. or his hands. You should see what he does to stone archways."

"And he didn't break you," Duncan adds, cutting you a sharp look before frowning at Raymun.

"Well, that's because I'm his blood!" Raymun laughs, waving a dismissive hand. "Well, Lyonel Baratheon is hosting a gathering in his pavilion. Music, wine, food if you're hungry. Follow me"

Raymun turns and leads you through the maze of canvas, guiding you toward a massive, yellow tent. The top holds two golden stags that shakes with the sounds of laughter and a thrumming lute. Inside, the air is thick with the rich scent of roasted meats and sweet wine. The candle lights illuminating those inside.

Almost immediately, the lively music takes hold of the room. Raymun grabs a flagon of wine, cracks a bright grin, and drags you into the center of the clearing. You don't need a second invitation.

Grabbing a chunk of roasted meat from a passing tray, you start dancing alongside Raymun, laughing as he mimics the clumsy steps of a drunken lord. For the first time all day, you feel alive. Completely swept up in the thrum of the strings and the taste of good food.

Through the spinning crowd, you catch sight of Dunk. He stands near the entrance, looking massive and completely out of place until a booming voice roars over the music. It's Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm himself, calling Dunk up to his table.

Duncan steps forward nervously. You catch his eye for a brief second, but you leave him be, turning your focus back to the brilliant music and the endless supply of food. Dunk can handle the lords; you've earned your rest.

The scene shifts as the hours bleed away. The lively music slows to a dull hum, and the high-energy dancing dissolves into a room full of heavy, slumped drunks. The vibrant atmosphere turns quiet and sluggish. You wipe your mouth, finally full and slightly exhausted, and weave your way back toward Duncan from your wooden bench.

Just as you reach him, Lord Lyonel stands up with a loud yawn, clapping Dunk on the shoulder before leaving the tent to leave. Duncan watches him go, but his eyes suddenly snap to a red headed man. He points a thick finger toward a man stumbling through the exit with a woman tucked under each arm.

"There," Dunk whispers urgently, his face hardening. "Ser Manfred. With two whores. Come on."

You follow close behind as Dunk slips out into the cool night air. Manfred Dondarrion is staggering toward the edge of the camp, laughing loudly at something one of the women just whispered.

"Ser Manfred!" Duncan calls out, his boots heavy on the grass as he closes the distance.

The knight stops, swaying slightly as he turns his blurred gaze toward the giant. The two women giggle, leaning against his purple doublet.

"Pardon, m'lord," He rumbles, trying to stand tall. "I am Duncan. I was squire to Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He served your lord father back in Dorne. Do you remember him? I need a voucher for the Master of Games."

Ser Manfred blinks, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus on Dunk's face. A look of pure annoyance flashes across his features. He scowls, waving a lazy, dismissive hand as if swatting away a fly.

"No," Manfred sneers, his voice thick with wine. "Begone."

Turning back around, he stumbles away into the darkness, leaving the two of you standing frozen in the cold night.

Dunk’s broad shoulders slump so heavily that his rusted armor lets out a hollow, defeated clatter. He stares into the darkness where Ser Manfred vanished, his big hands curling into tight, helpless fists at his sides. The harsh rejection leaves a heavy silence between the both of you.

"Come on," you say softly, tugging at his coarse sleeve to pull him away from the path. "Standing here won't change his mind. Let's go.”

Duncan doesn't answer right away. He just trudges beside you, his heavy boots kicking up clouds of dry tourney dust as you make the long, quiet walk back toward your secluded campsite near the edge of the Ashford grounds. The distant town replaced by the dark silhouette of the tall elms.

"He wouldn't even look at me," Dunk finally breaks the silence, his rustic voice thick with a crushing, bitter disappointment. He stares down at his huge, calloused hands. "He saw the mud on my boots and the rust on my plate, and he decided I wasn't worth a single word... I guess."

"I told you how they are, Duncan," you say quietly, your sharp tongue losing its edge as you look up at his dejected face. "They don't care about who you are or what Ser Arlan taught you. To them, we're just dirt blocking their view of the lists. You can't let a drunkard in silk break your spirit before you've even picked up a lance."

"Aye, but how am I supposed to ride if no one will vouch for me?" Dunk mutters, running a weary hand over his face. "If I can't even get into the lists, then buying those oats for the horses, getting you a real dress... it was all just a foolish dream. I am such a fool.”

"You're not a fool," you say firmly, stepping closer to him as the familiar outline of your lone oak tree comes into view. "You're the strongest man in this valley, and we've survived worse than a rude knight. We'll find another way. We always do."

As you step into the perimeter of your camp, you stop dead in your tracks.The low, dying embers of your campfire are casting a faint, warm glow over the clearing.

Sitting right there on your upturned water bucket, completely unbothered and casually poking a stick into the fire, is a small, familiar figure wrapped in an oversized cloak. His bald head gleams perfectly in the dim firelight. You blink, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, utterly convinced that the exhaustion is making you see ghosts. You pull your hands away, squinting hard through the shadows.

“What the—” you blurt out, raising a brow.

“You!”Duncan says from behind you.

The boy looks up from the fire, his large eyes flicker to the both of you.

“What’re you doing?” Duncan asks in dismay,

“Cooking some fish, do you want some?”

“No- I mean, how’d you get here?”

“Did you steal a horse?” You ask thoughtfully.

“I rode in the back of a lamb cart…” The boy stands up.

Duncan scoffs, “a lamb cart… Well you best find another one." Duncan walks past him.

You sigh.

"But you can't make me go. I had enough of that inn."

"Listen, I'll have no more insolence from you, boy." Duncan assures with a finger pointing at him.

"The boy needs somewhere to stay, " you add, unfolding your arms. "He won't do us any harm."

You both glance at each other.

"Are you from Flea Bottom?" Duncan asked

"No." The boy answered

"Hm..." Duncan lowers his sword and sticks it in the ground.

"I washed the sheets, I made the fire, caught the fish, and groomed the horses. I could have raised your pavilion but... I couldnt find one" The little boy shrugs.

Duncan points at a tree, "there's my pavilion."

"That's a tree, Dunk..." You correct.

"Yes, and it's all the pavilion a true knight needs." Duncan sighs, "I'd rather sleep under starts than in a tent."

"And if it rains?" He asked.

Your mind goes back to the day Ser Arlan died. "The tree will shelter us."

"Trees leak." The boy responds, you shake your head.

"Indeed they do."

"So what's your name?"

"Dunk, ser Dunk."

"That's no name for a knight! It's short for Duncan?"

"Aye, ahem, yes, ser Duncan of...." Duncan mumbles, trying to find a right name.

"The tall, ser Duncan the Tall." You add, "I'm his sister, well... not really."

"I've never heard of him. What do you mean?" The bald boy asked.

"Long story, don't want to talk about it..." You sigh.

"Do you know every knight in the seven kingdoms then?" Duncan asked.

The fire crackles, making a popping noise. You flinch.

"Only the good ones."

"Do you have a name?" You ask, plopping down onto the ground near the fire.

"Egg." He responds.

[they-call-me-the-wagglewoster]

THW FLAGS ARE GOOOOOOONE

[captainfern]

Do you think Baelor would get up to mischief in his office like having his little wife thigh riding and cockwarming while he works

of course he would

18+ (smut duh, cock-warming turned riding, praise and pussy pronouns wooo)

the scratch of the quill’s nib on parchment, the slight tink of an inkwell being dipped into, the dripping of wax onto a brass chamberstick, kitten-like mewls muffled against the side of his throat.

baelor shushes you, one hand firm on your hip. his fingers squeeze, kneading flesh, as you gently rock yourself back and forth on his lap. he sits comfortably at his desk, the quiet of his solar illuminated by dozens of flickering candles. you mouth at the side of his neck, feeling the steady thump of his pulse beneath your spit-slick lips, another breathy sound falling from the back of your throat.

baelor shushes you again, hand pulling you further into him. the movement angles you down, his cock stretching you open, the head reaching and rubbing that perfect spot inside you before he stills again.

“don’t start fussing,” he whispers, quill to parchment as if he wasn’t splitting you apart. his cock gives a feeble jerk inside you and it draws a low moan from your chest. he hums, fingers gripping. “you’ve been so good for this long, sweetheart, m’almost finished.”

you whine, heat coiling thick behind your navel. there’s a dull ache in the base of your womb too; the pain of being so close but not quite there as you sit on his cock. one of your hands plays with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, your arm curling over his shoulder, while the other drags up and down his chest, feeling along the soft padding of his doublet.

you lift your head and press a kiss to the hinge of his jaw. you whimper there too, dragging your nose back down his neck, following the shift of his pulse. you hear the quill pause against parchment, and your heart leaps, clattering against your ribs, when the hand on your hip pushes you down even further.

you take more of his cock, pussy stretching full to swallow around the thick of him. it flutters, hot and wet, all silken as he tries to even his breathing. you moan quietly, hips twitching, trying to gain some kind of friction aside from the stagnant press of your puffy clit against the thicket of hair at the base of his cock.

“d’you need something?” your husband asks, tipping his head to speak closer to your ear. he asks, deep and rolling, as if he doesn’t know what you want.

you whine in response, attempting to pick yourself off of his lap, even by just a fraction, to push yourself down again. but he holds you firm, and you let out another airy whine into the dewy skin of his neck, a solid pressure unmoving in the base of your spine.

“uh-uh, none of that,” baelor chides, swatting lightly at the top of your arse. you hear him start writing again, clued by the gentle glass tink of steel into the nearby inkwell. reaching deep inside you, his cock gives another twitch as he speaks, “i’m almost done, sweet girl. be good for me.”

you huff into his neck. “baelor.”

“be good,” he repeats firmly, and you ignore the heat building near-painfully in the pit of your stomach.

it’s a tension you know, but you can’t quite break. it settles, like the ash that cakes thick across the glowing hearth. your cunt clenches around him again, spurred on by the shallow ache in your clit and the hammering of your heart against your sternum. you can feel yourself, with heat pooling in your veins, dripping around him: pussy drooling out onto his lap, wetting the hair, the soft skin of his thighs.

you can’t help the whimper that escapes you, perfectly wanton and needy and it hits your husband right in the heart. the hand on your hip tightens and his cock jerks, and he leans his head to the side to plant a delicate kiss to your warm forehead.

“i know, i know, i can feel her too,” baelor mutters against your forehead as you pant into the side of his throat. a muffled baelor falls from your tongue, and a hum rumbles from his chest. “you’re doing so well, sweetheart. you’re doing so good for me, just hold on.”

you hush out a moan, barely a whisper in response. there’s a light tremble in your thighs where you part around him, the fat of your arse snug against his lap. your pussy flutters again, and you feel something tugging deep across the base of your womb. it makes you roll your hips, just slightly, to drag the pearl of your clit against him and shift the head of his cock over that perfect spot inside you.

“oh, gods,” you whisper, eyes screwing shut as you lean your head against baelor’s shoulder. you hold the back of his neck gently, an anchor for you, while you continue drawing circles across his chest with the other. you huff, smelling ink and cedar and the salt of his skin. “baelor, please.”

your husband doesn’t respond, but you hear the moment he finishes his work. you hear the slide of parchment against lacquered wood, and you hear the drop of the quill into it’s cup.

“so needy,” baelor says, leaning back in his chair and taking both of your hips in either hand. you pick yourself off of his shoulder to match his gaze. he smiles at you, close-lipped and knowing. “but you did so well.”

you nod as he urges you to lift your hips. you do, gladly, heat sticky between your legs as you rise. his cock slips from you slowly, and you moan when just the head remains, your body quivering as you hold you position. baelor looks you up and down, a gentle stroke of his eyes over you, before pulling you back to him.

he fills you instantly, and your lips part around a soundless moan as he knocks up towards the base of your cervix. your pussy takes him, wet and warm and wanting. you drool out onto his lap as he guides you, drops you up and down over and over.

baelor’s eyes lower for a moment. there’s a subtle, almost disbelieving shake of his head as they settle on where your pussy parts around him. “gods, you’re making an absolute mess of me.”

you whine, hands clutching his shoulders now as you roll your hips. the thick stretch of his cock renders you breathless as you chase your release—the release which has sat immobile in the pit of your belly for the better part of an hour.

his gaze flicks back up to you as you rut yourself onto his cock. he leans in then and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing your moan as you return it. it’s wet and needy, a desperate exchange of tongues and spit, and you feel his lips curl into a smile as you whine into it, chasing more, more, more—

“this is what you needed, isn’t it?” baelor whispers against your mouth before your head tips and you rub your cheek against his, feeling the scratch of his beard. you puff out a whine, barely a distinguishable sound, as your release packs hot in your womb and deep across the base of your spine. your husband coos at your lack of response, hands kneading your hips. “oh, my sweet girl, my perfect girl, that’s it. that’s—yeah, that’s it.”

you moan, cunt clenching tight around the thick of him. he groans, hips angling to meet you, the chair beneath the pair of you creaking with your combined movements.

“she’s needy today too, isn’t she?” baelor mutters, and your entire body burns from the inside out as you listen to the constant wet schlick-schlick-schlick of your pussy as you take his cock. you moan, and he shushes you gently, hands heavy on your hips. “it’s alright—s’alright, sweetheart, i’ve got you.”

the pressure in your womb and at the base of your spine finally bursts apart, and you come around your husband’s cock with a shaking moan of his name into the candlelit quiet of his solar. your cunt wraps tight around him, and he responds to the fluttering and your moaning with a deep, grumbling sound of his own, his cock jerking and his balls twitching tight as he chases his own release.

you writhe in his lap as you come, heat swimming through you. whining, you grind yourself through it as his hips meet, and your legs are still shaking, your heart is still racing, when he moans your name and spills deep inside you. you choke on a gasp at the thick warmth that fills you as his cock twitches deep where he sits up against the plug of your womb.

baelor breathes you in, muttering your name as he spills, and spills, then finally, as you pull your head across to kiss him, he stills. he kisses you back, gentler this time. your teeth skim his lip, and he pulls back with a small smile and a gleam in his mismatched eyes.

“you feeling better?” he asks you, breathing deeply, a hand lifting from your hip to cup the side of your face.

you lean into the contact like a puppy, closing your eyes and humming a pleased yes before he’s bringing you back to him for another kiss.

[torstherapy]

[tinsnip]

Per @spoonstrek