I Ask Myself What Beth Dutton Would Do :)

26. She/they :) Just here for the good vibes☀ I’m probably following you from one of my fandom blogs💕❤️

[faelinda]

The urge to write a Jeyne Arryn x fem!reader fic

I want her to slap me across the face and degrade me

[deankarolina]

Lady Jeyne Arryn & "Companion"

[sintaera]

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

When the maester accidentally gives Prince Maekar Targaryen something that most certainly does not ease his headache, Maekar finds himself instead with one other problem. He burns.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; sexual content, possessive behaviour, rough sex, maekar goes absolutely feral on you, explicit sexual content, p in v, fingering, maekar absolutely dominates you, this is pure filth, minors dni.

The maester had pressed the small vial into Prince Maekar’s hand early that morning with a respectful bow and a few murmured words about easing the headache that had lingered since the previous night’s long council. Maekar had taken it without thought, swallowed the bitter liquid in one go, and headed straight for the training yard.

The sun was already climbing and the clash of steel felt good in his hands and at first the draught seemed to do its work.

The dull pressure behind his eyes faded. He moved through his drills with sharp precision, sweat soaking his tunic, muscles warming in that familiar, satisfying way.

But as the morning wore on, a different kind of heat began to build.

It started low in his gut, a restless warmth that spread through his veins like slow fire. By the time he sheathed his sword and made his way back to his chambers to wash and change, the warmth had turned into something far more insistent.

His cock thickened without warning, swelling and lengthening until it pressed heavily against the front of his breeches. He frowned and adjusted himself, but the touch only made it worse.

The ache settled deep in his balls, heavy and tight. By the time he stripped for a quick wash, he was fully hard, the shaft flushed and already leaking at the tip. He tried to ignore it while he dressed, choosing the supple leather breeches he favored for court.

It was a mistake.

The material hugged every inch of him, and as his cock strained harder, the confinement became exquisite torment.

The broad head caught against the lacing with every step. Precum beaded steadily and soaked into the fabric until a damp patch formed against his thigh. He gritted his teeth and forced himself toward his solar, telling himself it would pass.

It did not.

By midday the need had grown unbearable. Maekar dismissed his squire with a curt word and locked the door of his private solar behind him. He stood there for a long moment, one hand braced against the heavy oak, breathing hard.

This was beneath him.

He was a prince of the blood, a warrior who had led men into battle, not some green boy who could not control his own body. Yet his cock throbbed insistently, the leather of his breeches now visibly damp where the head pressed against it.

Every beat of his heart sent another pulse of heat through the thick length. He could not go to the feast like this. He could not sit beside you, his wife, and pretend composure while his mind supplied image after filthy image of what he wanted to do to you.

With a low curse he unlaced his breeches and freed himself. His cock sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped in a steady string onto the floor.

Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing once, and hissed at the sensation.

The touch was almost painful in its intensity.

He stroked upward in one rough pull, thumb dragging over the leaking slit, spreading the slickness down the length. A groan tore from his throat.

He tried to keep his mind on duty, on the letters that still needed answering, on the training schedule for the new recruits. But every stroke pulled his thoughts back to you. Your voice, soft and even as you spoke to him at meals. The way your hips moved when you walked.

The soft sounds you made when he was inside you. He imagined bending you over the desk in this very solar, rucking up your skirts, and driving into your cunt in hard, punishing thrusts while you clutched at the wood and cried out his name.

He imagined filling you so full of his seed that it leaked down your thighs for hours afterward, marking you as his in the most primal way.

His hand moved faster, rougher. The wet sound of skin on skin filled the quiet room. He braced his other hand on the desk, hips jerking forward to meet each stroke. Precum flowed freely now, making everything slick and hot. He could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter at the base of his spine. His balls drew up even further. He was close, so close, and the need was overwhelming.

“Fuck,” he growled under his breath. His strokes grew erratic, almost desperate. “Wife. My wife.”

The orgasm hit him hard. His cock jerked in his fist and thick ropes of seed spilled across the wooden floor in heavy pulses. He kept stroking through it, milking every drop, your name still on his lips in a rough, broken groan. For one brief moment relief flickered through him, warm and sharp.

It lasted only seconds.

The heat did not fade. If anything it roared back stronger, hotter, more insistent than before. His cock remained thick and heavy in his hand, only half softened, still twitching with aftershocks.

The ache in his balls doubled.

Fresh need surged through him so fiercely that his knees nearly buckled. He stared down at himself in disbelief, at the mess on the floor and the way his shaft was already filling again, hardening once more as if he had not just spent.

The potion, whatever the maester had given him by mistake, had turned a simple release into fuel for the fire.

His mind flooded with even more vivid images of you. Of taking you. Of ruining you. Of claiming you so thoroughly that you would feel him for days.

Maekar let out a low, frustrated snarl and cleaned himself with a cloth from the basin. His hands shook slightly as he laced himself back into the confining leather.

The pressure was worse now.

Every step would be torment, his cock felt enormous, trapped and leaking again almost immediately. He was riled beyond reason, restless, on edge in a way he had never experienced.

Discipline had always been his strength. Today it felt like a fraying thread.

He forced himself through the afternoon duties anyway. He reviewed reports. He spoke with his captains. He tried to focus on anything but the constant, throbbing ache between his legs and the way his thoughts kept circling back to you.

By the time he bathed and dressed for the feast, the need had grown into something almost feral.

His cock strained against the leather with every movement, the head catching and rubbing until he was gritting his teeth against the sensation.

He was leaking steadily now, the front of his smallclothes soaked.

The failed attempt at relief had only made him more desperate, more possessive, more determined to get you alone and take what his body was screaming for.

The great hall was bright with candlelight and alive with sound when he arrived. Roasted meats and spiced wine scented the air.

Music drifted from the gallery above. Nobles filled the lower tables, laughing and calling to one another. You were already seated at the high table, and when he took his place beside you, you turned with that calm, lovely expression and spoke in your quiet voice.

“The roast swan is particularly good tonight. The cook used those spices from the Summer Isles you favor.”

Maekar managed a short nod. His cock was now a thick, throbbing bar trapped along his thigh, the leather stretched so tight across the swollen flesh that every small shift sent sparks of sensation through him.

He could feel the steady leak of fluid making everything slick inside his smallclothes. Under the table he reached for you, but instead of taking your hand his palm settled on your thigh, fingers spreading wide and gripping hard. The silk of your gown was warm from your skin. He squeezed, feeling the soft give of flesh beneath, and did not let go.

You continued speaking in that same even tone, as if the world were perfectly ordinary. You mentioned a letter that had arrived from Dorne, the new tapestry being hung in the queen’s solar, the way the Pentoshi singer’s voice carried so clearly through the hall.

Your words were soft and pleasant, meant only for him.

Each one sent another pulse of need straight to his groin.

He imagined silencing that sweet voice with his cock, pushing between your lips until your eyes watered, or better still, flipping up your skirts right there and driving into your cunt while the court dined on unaware.

The failed release in his solar had left him even more riled, the images in his head sharper, more urgent. He wanted to ruin you. He wanted to make you take every inch and every drop until you were shaking and marked and his.

He leaned close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Keep using that voice and I will not answer for what I do to you before the night is done.”

Your eyes flicked to him, a flicker of awareness there now, but you kept your tone steady as you reached for your goblet. “The singer is quite talented. Do you think the queen will request another song before the dancing begins?”

Maekar’s fingers dug deeper into your thigh. His cock jerked hard in its prison, another thick bead of precum soaking through the leather. He was riled beyond reason, restless, shifting constantly in his seat as he tried to find relief that would not come.

The head of his shaft felt raw from the constant friction. His balls ached with the need to empty again, even though he had already spent once that day.

He could smell you beside him, that warm skin and faint floral oil you used, and it made his mouth water and his cock throb harder. He wanted to drop to his knees under the table, push your thighs apart, and lick you until you shook and came on his tongue.

Then he wanted to flip you over and take you from behind, hard and deep, while you were still fluttering from your release.

The courses came and went. Servants moved around them with platters and pitchers.

Maekar ate almost nothing.

He drank more wine than was wise, hoping it might blunt the relentless throb between his legs, but the alcohol only made the heat spread faster through his blood. His cock felt enormous, straining so fiercely that the laces bit into the swollen flesh. He shifted again and again, trying to ease the pressure, but nothing helped.

Every time you spoke, every time your shoulder brushed his or your hand moved near his, he imagined those hands wrapped around his shaft, stroking him, or your mouth stretched wide while he held your head and fucked your throat in steady thrusts.

The memory of cumming earlier with your name on his lips only made the current need sharper. It had not helped. It had made everything worse.

When a servant leaned in too close to refill his cup and accidentally brushed his arm, Maekar snapped a sharp word that made the man flinch and nearly spill the wine.

He regretted it at once and pulled you closer with the hand still gripping your thigh, as if your nearness could somehow anchor the fire raging inside him.

You glanced at him again, that same quiet concern in your eyes.

“You seem very tense tonight, my prince. Shall I send for the maester to have another look at your head?”

He turned toward you, voice a low, rough growl meant for your ears alone. “The maester can rot. Whatever he gave me has my cock hard as iron and leaking like I am some desperate boy. I tried to find relief with my own hand earlier and it only made the need worse. All I can think about is getting you alone, bending you over the nearest surface, and ruining this sweet cunt until you cannot walk without feeling me. Until my seed is running down your thighs and you smell of nothing but me for days.”

Your breath caught, just slightly, but you recovered and took a sip of wine as though he had merely agreed with your earlier remark about the singer. Your hand, however, slid over his under the table and pressed down firmly, a silent answer that sent another bolt of raw lust through him.

He lasted through the start of the dancing. Barely. When the musicians struck up a lively tune and couples began moving to the floor, Maekar stood. His cock was a constant, painful throb, the front of his breeches now visibly darkened if anyone cared to look. He took your hand without asking and led you from the hall with long, purposeful strides. Several lords called after him. He ignored them all.

In the corridor he moved quickly, pulling you along until he found a shadowed alcove behind a heavy curtain. The moment you were hidden he was on you. His mouth crashed down on yours, rough and demanding, tongue pushing deep as his hands tore at your gown with impatient fingers.

Fabric ripped, the sound was loud in the small space as your breasts spilled free and he palmed them hard, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they tightened and you gasped into his mouth.

He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down your throat, biting hard enough to leave dark marks, sucking until blood rose to the surface beneath your skin.

“Could not wait another fucking minute,” he snarled against your neck. One hand dropped to his laces, freeing his cock with rough tugs. It sprang out heavy and flushed, the head dark and shiny with precum that dripped steadily onto the stone.

Veins stood out thick along the shaft. His balls were drawn up tight and aching.

He hiked your skirts roughly, bunching the silk high at your waist, and shoved two thick fingers between your legs. You were already wet and hot. He groaned at the slick feel of you coating his fingers and pushed them deeper, curling them once before pulling them free.

“Good. Already soaked for your husband’s cock.” He did not waste time with more preparation. He lined the broad, leaking head of his cock up with your entrance and thrust in hard, burying himself to the root in one powerful stroke.

The stretch was intense.

He felt your walls clench around his thick girth, struggling to take him after the long hours of denial. He gave you no time to adjust as he pulled back and drove in again, setting a brutal, relentless pace from the first thrust. The wet sound of his cock slamming into your cunt filled the alcove. His hips snapped forward again and again, skin slapping against skin, each deep stroke jarring your body against the stone wall.

“Fuck, yes. Take it. Take every inch of me.” His voice was ragged with lust and hours of pent-up need. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise while the other fisted in your hair, pulling your head back sharply so he could bite at the junction of your neck and shoulder.

“This is what you do to me. Tried to take the edge off with my own hand and it only made me want you more. Now you are going to take my cock until I decide you have had enough.”

He fucked you without mercy, the potion and the long day of torment making him almost savage.

Each thrust was deep and punishing, the broad head dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every withdrawal before slamming back in to the hilt.

His free hand came down on your ass in a sharp slap, the crack of it loud in the small space. He did it again on the other cheek, harder, watching the skin bloom red beneath his palm.

“Mine. This cunt belongs to me. Mine to use. Mine to fill until it overflows.” Another slap, then another, the sting making your walls tighten around him. He felt you flutter and clench and grinned against your throat, feral and satisfied. “You like that. Like when I take what is mine. Like when I ruin you.”

Your body responded, walls pulsing around his thick cock as the first orgasm crashed through you.

He did not slow.

He fucked you straight through it, hips driving harder, the wet sounds growing louder as your release coated his shaft and dripped down your thighs.

When he finally came it was with a guttural roar, slamming deep and holding there as his cock jerked and pulsed, flooding you with thick, hot ropes of seed.

He kept thrusting through it, short, hard jerks of his hips, pushing his cum deeper inside you, making sure it stayed. It leaked out around his shaft anyway, running down your thighs in warm, messy rivulets that soaked into the bunched silk of your gown.

He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His cock twitched with aftershocks, still half hard thanks to whatever the maester had given him.

Slowly he pulled out, watching with dark satisfaction as his seed spilled from your well-fucked cunt in a steady stream.

He turned you around, lifted you easily into his arms, and carried you the rest of the way to your chambers without bothering to right your torn clothing.

Once inside, with the heavy door barred behind them, he laid you on the bed and stripped away what remained of your gown with impatient hands. His own clothes followed in quick movements. His cock, still slick with your combined fluids, stood ready again, flushed and heavy.

He climbed over you, spreading your legs wide with his knees, and thrust back in without preamble. This time he took you slower but no less roughly, each stroke measured and deep, grinding the base of his cock against your swollen pearl on every downstroke. He pinned your wrists above your head with one strong hand, the other gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his burning violet eyes.

“Look at me while I ruin you properly, wife.” His voice was lower now, rough with spent lust and lingering fire. “I tried to find relief earlier and it only made this need worse. I am going to fill you again. And again. Until you cannot take any more. Until you smell like my seed and everyone who comes near you tomorrow knows exactly who you belong to.”

He released your wrists only to hook your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half so he could drive even deeper. The new angle made every thrust hit that spot inside you with devastating accuracy.

He pounded into you with steady, powerful strokes, the bed creaking beneath the force of it. His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your swollen pearl and rubbing tight, relentless circles while he fucked you. “Come for me again. Now. I want to feel this cunt milk me while I fill you.”

When you came, clenching and fluttering hard around his thick cock, he followed quickly, burying himself as deep as he could go and pumping another heavy load into you.

This time he stayed inside afterward, rolling to his side and pulling you with him so your back was to his chest, his cock still nestled in your warmth.

One hand stroked down your side, over the marks and red prints he had left, soothing even as he remained possessive. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, softer now.

“The maester is going to explain himself at first light,” he muttered against your hair, though there was no real anger left in him. Only deep satisfaction and the fierce, abiding devotion he felt for the woman in his arms. “Whatever he gave me tonight, it has made me want you more fiercely than I have in years. But I would have wanted you anyway.”

His hand slid down to cup your ass, squeezing gently over the heated skin where he had spanked you. “Rest while you can. I am not finished with you yet.”

The night stretched long and heated. The fire the remedy had lit in his blood burned hot for hours more. He took you again sometime in the deep hours, slower but still intense, your bodies moving together in the dark with quiet, desperate sounds.

You had both drifted into uneasy sleep afterward, tangled together, his arm heavy across your waist.

It was near dawn when he stirred again.

You felt him wake behind you, his body pressing closer along your back. His skin was clammy against yours, hot and damp with sweat, and he was trembling.

A low, shaky breath left him as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck. One of his hands slid down your hip, then between your legs, fingers finding where you were still slick and sensitive from earlier. He made a broken sound, half groan and half apology.

“I am sorry,” he murmured against your shoulder, voice rough and thick with sleep and lingering need. “Wife… forgive me. I cannot stop. The fire… it will not let me rest.”

You felt the thick, hard length of him press against your entrance from behind. He was shaking as he pushed in, slow at first, then deeper, burying himself inside you with a trembling thrust. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you back against him as he began to move. The strokes were not gentle. They were deep and urgent, his hips rocking forward with a desperation that made the bed creak softly. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you open for him.

His skin burned and chilled at the same time against your back. You could feel the fine tremors running through his muscles, the way his breath hitched with every thrust. He pressed his face into your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there before he bit down, not hard enough to break the skin but firm enough to leave another mark, a sharp sting that made you tighten around him. A muffled groan vibrated against your flesh.

“I want to hurt you,” he said, the words slipping out raw and unfiltered between shaky breaths. “I want to mark you. Make you feel this for days. I want to ruin you until you cannot think of anything but me inside you.” His voice cracked on the last word. He thrust harder, the apology coming again even as his body betrayed how much he meant it. “I am sorry. Gods, I am sorry. But I need… I need to hurt you like this. Need to feel you take it.”

His teeth sank into your shoulder once more as his hips snapped forward, the bite grounding him even as he lost control. One hand slid up to cup your breast, squeezing almost too tightly, while the other held your hip in a bruising grip. He fucked into you with short, powerful strokes from behind, his cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. The trembling in his body grew worse. He was shaking against you, clammy skin sliding over yours, his breath hot and uneven on your neck.

The sound of his teeth scraping against your skin was drowned out by the wet, rhythmic slap of his pelvis crashing against your ass. He wasn't just fucking you; he was trying to merge with you, his movements frantic and devoid of any gentleness. Every time his cock bottomed out, it felt like a physical assault on your insides, a blunt force that left you breathless and reeling.

“Tell me you want it,” he growled, his voice a guttural rasp. He shifted his grip, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your hip, leaving white marks that would surely turn purple by morning. He pulled back almost entirely, teasing the entrance of your pussy for a fraction of a second before slamming back in with a violent, bone-jarring thrust.

You let out a choked scream, your fingers clawing at the sheets, but he didn't let up. He leaned forward, his chest crushing you into the mattress, his weight pinning you down as he continued to hammer into you. The friction was intense, the heat between your bodies becoming suffocating. He reached around, his hand leaving your breast to wrap firmly around your throat, not enough to choke you, but enough to let you feel the absolute power he held over you in this moment.

“Look at me,” he commanded, though you were facedown. He forced your head to the side, his violet eyes dark and blown out with lust and a desperate, starving kind of need. “I'm ruining you, aren't I? I'm breaking you open.”

He accelerated the pace, the short, powerful strokes turning into a blur of raw motion. His cock felt thicker, harder, stretching your walls to their absolute limit. He began to bite again, not just your shoulder, but the nape of your neck and the slope of your shoulder blade, marking you with a territorial hunger.

The apology was gone now, replaced by a low, animalistic moan that vibrated through his chest and into your back. He was close, his muscles locking up, his entire frame vibrating with the effort of holding back just a few seconds longer to savor the feeling of you tightening around him.

“I'm going to fill you... I'm going to leave it all inside you,” he hissed, his grip on your throat tightening slightly, tongue licking at the sweat that accumulated on your neck.

“Take it,” he growled softly, the words half apology and half command. “Take what I give you. Even when I am like this. Especially when I am like this.”

Another bite, this one lower on your shoulder, followed by the wet heat of his tongue soothing the mark. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic, the potion’s last embers driving him to claim you one final time before it released its hold.

You felt him reach his peak with a broken moan against your skin, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled another heavy load, hips jerking through the release.

Maekar didn't give you a second to recover. The moment the last pulse of his orgasm faded, he gripped your hips and violently flipped you over, manhandling you onto your back with a force that knocked the wind out of you. You hit the mattress hard, your legs splayed wide, leaving you completely exposed and vulnerable beneath him.

He didn't wait for you to catch your breath, your eyes wide with desire. He surged forward, his hand snapping up to wrap firmly around your throat.

He didn't squeeze enough to cut off your air entirely, but the pressure was constant, a heavy reminder of his dominance that forced your chin up and your chest out. His eyes were still dark, blown out and predatory, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he looked down at you.

“I told you I wanted to ruin you,” he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. “I'm not fucking finished.”

He positioned the head of his cock, still slick and swollen from his first release, against your soaking entrance and with one brutal, uncompromising shove, he slammed back inside you. The impact was jarring, his cock sliding through the pool of his own cum to bottom out deep against your cervix. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, but his grip on your throat tightened, pinning you down and forcing you to take every inch of him.

He began to fuck you with a renewed, aggressive energy, his hips snapping forward in a relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a heavy, wet thud, the sound of his pelvis crashing against yours echoing in the room. He wasn't looking for pleasure now; he was claiming you, driving himself into you as if he wanted to leave a permanent mark on your insides.

“Take it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. ”Take all of it.”

He shifted his weight, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other remained locked around your neck.

The position left you completely open, your pussy stretching and gripping him with every violent plunge. He began to pick up the pace, his movements becoming frantic and raw.

He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of your collarbone, biting hard enough to draw a whimper of pain and pleasure from your lips.

The friction was agonizingly intense, the mixture of his cum and your own lubrication creating a loud, squelching sound with every stroke. He was hammering into you now, his cock hitting your depths with a force that made your entire body shake. He watched your face, savoring the way your eyes rolled back and your breath came in ragged, broken sobs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated hunger.

He stayed buried there afterward, still trembling, still holding you tight as if afraid you would slip away. The apologies came softer now, murmured into your hair between shaky kisses to the bite marks he had left.

“I am sorry, wife. For the bite. For the words. For needing you so fiercely it feels like it will tear me apart.” His hand stroked down your side, gentler now, though the tremor had not fully left him. “The maester will answer for this. But you… you are everything. Even when I lose myself like this.”

The worst of the fire finally began to fade as the first pale light of dawn crept through the shutters.

Maekar’s eyes flew wide, the reverent haze shattering in an instant. Violet irises, still dark with the remnants of lust, locked onto the marks he had left, deep, angry crescents of teeth sunk into the curve of your shoulder, the mottled purple and red where his fingers had clamped like iron vices during the peak of his release. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat.

“Gods, woman, look at what I have done to you?”

The words were barely finished before he ripped himself from your body with violent suddenness.

The thick drag of his cock withdrawing punched a broken gasp from your lips, the sudden emptiness was jarring, followed by a hot, messy spill of his spend that leaked thickly down your thighs and onto the ruined sheets. He recoiled as though scalded, shoving himself upright and backward in one brutal motion, his broad, sweat-slicked chest heaving.

He stared down at you like a man who had just woken to find blood on his hands. One hand hovered in the air between you, fingers trembling, before he yanked it back and clenched it into a white-knuckled fist against his thigh.

The protective cage of his body was gone, now he knelt above you, silver-gold hair wild, the pale dawn light carving harsh lines across the sharp planes of his face and the corded muscle of his arms.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice hoarse and cracking. “I— I used you like a beast. Like some half-mad dragon that doesn’t know its own strength.” His gaze raked over every mark, every bruise, every place his mouth and hands and teeth had claimed you through the long, brutal hours of the night. Shame and something darker, possessive, almost feral, warred openly in his expression.

He swallowed hard, throat working. For a heartbeat he looked like he might reach for you again, but he stopped himself short, muscles locked tight with the effort of restraint. The bed creaked under his shifting weight as he put another deliberate inch of distance between you.

“Tell me,” he demanded, low and rough, eyes still wide and frantic. “Tell me I didn’t break you. That I didn’t take more than you could give.” His voice dropped even further, almost pleading beneath the growl.

“Because if I have… if these marks are more than passion’s price…” He trailed off, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped, and for the first time since he’d dragged you into this bed, Maekar Targaryen looked truly afraid of what his own hunger had wrought. “I am going to fucking kill that fucking fool, oh Gods, my love.”

His hand lifted again, hovering over the worst of the bites on your shoulder without quite touching. The tremor in his fingers was visible. “Speak, little one. Now. Before I lose what little control I have left.”

You were still breathless, lungs burning, body trembling from the sudden, brutal emptiness he’d left behind. His spend was leaking hot and thick down your thighs, your cunt still fluttering around nothing, sore and slick and used. The marks on your shoulder throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the ache between your legs was deeper, sweeter.

You reached for him with one shaky hand, fingers brushing the tense muscle of his forearm before he could pull farther away.

“Maekar,” you rasped, voice hoarse from screaming his name through the night. “Look at me.”

His eyes were still wide, wild with guilt, but you held his gaze and gave him the truth, raw and unashamed.

“I liked it,” you whispered fiercely. “I liked it. Every mark. Every time you bit down and fucked me harder because you couldn’t stop yourself. Whatever that maester gave you…” A shaky, breathless laugh escaped you. “It made you so fucking sexy. Like you were burning from the inside out and the only thing that could put the fire out was me.”

You shifted on the ruined sheets, letting him see the mess he’d made of you, the glistening streaks on your inner thighs, the way your body still trembled with aftershocks, the vivid proof of his hunger painted across your skin.

“I wanted it,” you continued, softer now but no less certain. “I wanted you like that. Rough. Desperate. Like you’d die if you didn’t get deeper inside me. The way you growled my name when you came… Gods, Maekar, I’ve never felt so wanted in my life.”

His breath hitched. The horror in his violet eyes cracked, something darker and hotter flooding in to replace it. His cock, still half-hard and glistening with your combined release, twitched visibly against his thigh.

You saw the moment the fear lost its battle with need. His hand finally closed the distance, fingers trembling as they traced the bite mark on your shoulder with something that was no longer just shame and guilt, but that it was possession, renewed and burning.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice low and rough, almost broken. His thumb pressed into the deepest tooth mark, making you hiss. “Tell me you wanted the beast. That you still want him.”

He leaned over you again, caging you in, but this time the tension in his body was different, coiled, hungry, barely leashed. The pale dawn light caught on the sweat still clinging to his chest, the faint tremor in his arms as he held himself above you.

“Because if you keep talking like that, little one…” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, to the way his spend continued to drip from your well-used cunt. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep myself from taking you again. Harder. Until every mark on you is fresh and you can’t walk without remembering exactly who put them there.”

His eyes were wide again, but not with fear this time, but with hunger and he was waiting for your answer like a man starving.

You reached up with trembling fingers and brushed a strand of silver-gold hair from his forehead, your voice soft and breathless in the quiet dawn.

“Maekar… can you go slow for me?”

For a heartbeat he simply stared at you, violet eyes wide and searching, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were still asking for him after everything. Then something in his expression cracked open, raw relief, aching tenderness, and a love so fierce it looked almost painful.

He nodded once, jaw tight. “Anything,” he rasped. “Anything you want, my heart.”

He lowered himself over you with deliberate care, one hand sliding beneath your head to cradle it while the other stroked gently down your side, avoiding the worst of the bruises. His cock, still slick with the evidence of his earlier frenzy, nudged against your entrance. He paused there, forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Just feel me.”

The first slow push was almost reverent. He sank into you inch by careful inch, letting you feel every thick ridge, every pulse of him as your body stretched around him again. The mess he’d left behind made the glide obscenely wet, but he moved like he was afraid to hurt you, deep, steady, and so achingly gentle that your eyes stung.

Maekar kissed you like a man worshipping at an altar. Soft at first, then deeper, his tongue stroking yours in time with the slow roll of his hips. Each thrust was measured, loving, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt, grinding there so you felt every inch of him claiming you anew.

“So good for me,” he praised against your mouth, voice rough with emotion. “My brave girl. Taking everything I gave you and still wanting me like this.” He kissed the bite mark on your shoulder with exquisite tenderness, tongue soothing over the indents his teeth had left. “These marks… they’re mine now. Because you wanted them. Because you wanted me.”

Another slow, deep thrust. He groaned quietly into your neck, the sound half-reverence, half-restraint. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together beside your head, squeezing gently as he rocked into you.

“I love you,” he breathed, the words slipping out raw and unguarded between kisses. “Even when the fire takes me. Even when I lose myself in you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you feel how much.”

He kissed you again, slow, deep, and devastating, while his hips continued their unhurried rhythm, each thrust a promise, each roll of his body against yours an apology and a devotion all at once. The morning light painted both of you in soft gold as he loved you with everything he had left.

He felt it the moment your body began to tighten around him.

Maekar’s rhythm never quickened, but it deepened, each slow, deliberate thrust grinding against that perfect spot inside you with devastating precision. He watched your face the entire time, violet eyes dark and intent, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every soft sound that escaped you.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and rough with love. “Let go for me, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

His free hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit with gentle, circling pressure that matched the unhurried roll of his hips. He kissed you through it, deep, lingering kisses that stole your breath, then moved to the marks on your shoulder, pressing his lips there like a vow.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he praised, the words hot against your skin. “Taking me so sweetly. Letting me love you the way you deserve.” Another slow, grinding thrust. “Come for me. I want to feel you fall apart around my cock. I want to feel how much you still want me.”

The combination unraveled you.

Your orgasm built like a slow, inevitable tide, deeper and more overwhelming than the frantic ones from before. Your back arched, thighs trembling around his waist as the pleasure crested. You clenched hard around him, pulsing in long, rhythmic waves that dragged a broken groan from his chest. He held you through it, never stopping the steady, loving rhythm, fucking you gently through every crest and aftershock while whispering your name like a prayer.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours as you shook beneath him. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me. That’s my girl. My brave, perfect girl.”

He kept moving through the last tremors, slow and deep, letting you ride out every last ripple while his arms cradled you close. Only when your body finally went soft and pliant beneath him did he allow himself to bury his face in your neck, hips stuttering once, twice, then stilling as he followed you over the edge with a low, reverent groan of your name.

Even in the afterglow, he didn’t pull away. He stayed buried inside you, kissing the tears of pleasure from your lashes, stroking your hair, murmuring soft praises against your skin while the first true light of morning crept across the bed.

He pulled you closer, wrapping himself around you protectively, his lips brushing the marks on your shoulder with something close to reverence.

“Sleep,” he whispered, voice hoarse but steadier. “I have you. I will always have you.”

And for the first time since the remedy had taken hold, Prince Maekar Targaryen let the tension drain from his body, holding his wife close as the unnatural heat finally cooled, leaving only the deep, steady truth of what he felt for you beneath the stern and possessive surface.

[idksmtms]

The Farce (Maekar Targaryen x Niece!reader)

A/N: I feel like I could have done this better but I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you so much for the ask anon!

Summary: Ser Duncan only knows that you are Baelor’s daughter…

Word count:  ~2.4k 

Trigger Warnings: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, canon typical INCEST, Targcest,(significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), just some fun and fluff never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

You smiled sweetly at the towering hedge knight as he bowed and greeted you. You had only really met Ser Duncan in passing thus far. Egg often dragged him off before he could do more than smile at you, and you did not wish to encroach on the little boy’s fun. But this day was bright and sunny, and fortunately very slow, giving you ample time to become acquainted with the hedge knight. 

“Will you both walk with me to the gardens? It is far too lovely a day to waste, and I believe we will all convene for tea there in the afternoon,” you asked the two, pinching Egg’s cheek teasingly. The boy huffed but smiled at you and nodded, looking to Ser Duncan as if to ask if he would be alright. The knight nodded enthusiastically and gestured ahead of himself, waiting for you to begin walking before falling into step half a stride behind you. 

“So, how do you find Summerhall then, Ser?” You asked him, gazing happily at the lush grass and trees all around you. 

This was your most favourite of times. All the plants were in bloom, and the true beauty of Summerhall shone for all to see. The entire family was gathered in the wonderful castle for a few weeks, your father and brothers having come to visit for an escape from the demands and mugginess of King’s Landing. 

“It is truly wonderful, my lady,” Dunk answered enthusiastically, both hands resting comfortably on the pommel of his sword. “I’ve not seen anything like it.” 

“That is good to hear,” you answered sweetly, taking a deep breath of the fresh air, the sweet smell of blooming flowers reaching you daintily. “You know, I used to dream as a child that I would one day be the mistress of Summerhall. It is my favourite of all the crown’s holdings.” 

“Unfortunate then that your father is the prince of Dragonstone, my lady,” Dunk jested, though he flushed a bright red when he thought of how it must have sounded. But you laughed a little and nodded in agreement and the tension began to leave his shoulders. “Still, I’m sure you visited your uncle often, and you have come for a lovely time now.” 

You paused a little at that, furrowing your brow as you turned to look at Dunk. 

“What do you mean, Ser?” You asked, head tilting a little. Dunk’s own look of confusion appeared on his face. 

“Uh, I just meant that this must be a lovely escape from King’s Landing for you is all. Visiting your uncle?” He frowned a little, wondering if he had unintentionally misstepped (it wasn’t an unlikely possibility). 

You paused and stared at him for a moment before it dawned on you that he did not know. Oh, bless the poor knight. You smiled a little, biting your lip to hold in a giggle and a smirk as you thought of the little fun you could have with this. 

“Oh, Ser, she is not-” 

“No, no, he is right, Egg!” You interjected quickly, widening your eyes at him in the hopes that he would join you in your jest. “I am only visiting my uncle and cousins of course!” 

Egg frowned for a little while, the furrow of his brow deep, but when he caught the discreet little wink you shot him behind Dunk’s back, he let out a little ‘ahhh’ noise and understanding dawned on him. He hid a giggle behind his hand and attempted to school his features as Dunk nodded at you and relaxed once more. 

“Yes, as I was saying,” you continued, walking with a little more skip in your step now, “I used to wish to be the Lady of Summerhall when I was younger.” Dunk nodded with your words, smiling a little. “I- hah, this is a funny story really, but when I was little I would promise everyone that when I grew up, I would marry my father. I used to sit beside him and hold his hand and say that we would be married because he was a valiant knight. And then I learnt that Summerhall belonged to my uncle Maekar, so instead I began telling everyone that I would marry him!” 

Dunk chuckled at that, eyes squinting shut as the two of you laughed in unison. Egg giggled too, looking up at you with shining eyes, and you reached over to rub his back gently. You loved that boy far too much, he could get away with anything with you. 

“Ah, well,” Dunk shook his head as his laughter subsided, “I’m sure you’ll find a good husband yet.” You could not help your smirk then, turning your face away to hide. 

The three of you rounded the path and came upon the large space used for the gardens, sprawling spaces of grass dotted with bushes and trees and flowers. A gazebo was built at a little distance, and you could see the servants already setting up the space for your tea in a moment. 

“Will you join us for our tea, Ser Duncan?” You asked, turning to him with a little squint as the sunlight hit your eyes. 

“Uh, I’m not sure, my Lady, it may not be proper,” he answered nervously, scratching at the back of his neck as he glanced between you and Egg. 

“Of course you will join Ser Duncan,” Egg told him, hitting him on the arm for being so silly. You smiled and nodded likewise. 

“Of course you will,” you repeated, beginning to walk over as a line of attendants brought out pots of tea and trays of cakes. 

You could see the other members of your family beginning to arrive as well, Valarr and Aerion, Daeron stumbling over the grass and the little ones led by their Septa. 

“Hello, hello,” you called, sighing as you entered the shade of the gazebo. 

“Hello, sister,” Valarr greeted, wrapping an arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Cousin,” Aerion greeted with a grunt, and you stuck your tongue out at him, smiling as he rolled his eyes. Dunk hid a smile behind his hand and stood behind the chair Egg had jumped into, vigilant as always. 

“Cousin,” you greeted in a deep voice, mocking him as you always did, smirking to yourself when Ser Duncan coughed to hide his laugh. Oh yes, your jest was truly on now. 

You would have felt bad for teasing him so, truly you would have. He was so sweet and innocent that it was not necessarily fair to be playing with him so, but it was so immensely fun that you simply could not resist. 

Next to arrive was your father, a book tucked under his arm as he strolled lazily toward the gazebo. He smiled in your direction, walking over and pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then seated himself at the head of the table as he always did. 

“Father, I was just telling Ser Duncan of how I wished to marry you as a child,” you told him with a giggle, hoping this would add to the farce. Prince Baelor smiled gently, huffing a little laugh and shaking his head as he raised an eyebrow at your antics. 

“You were an obstinate girl, if nothing else,” he said, picking up his cup of tea. “You used to grab ahold of my hand because you wanted to stay with your father all day, and no one could tear you away. You oft attended small council meetings in this way.” You giggled, glancing at Ser Duncan who was rapt. “And then you decided I was not good enough for your hand, so you set your sights on Maekar. Poor man was rather confused why you chose him, but you would always say you wanted only the most valiant and brave of knights and then walk right up to him.” 

You beamed at that, cheeks flushing with heat as you thought of how everything had turned out. It was rather funny that little you had predicted your own future. 

“You see now, Ser Duncan, I did not lie,” you told him with a smile. 

“Oh no, I never believed you did, my lady,” he said quickly, frowning a little as if you had been serious. But your little smile eased him and after a moment of silence he continued, “you must have a good kinship with your uncle then.” And just as he said that, you spotted Maekar marching toward the gazebo. Your smile was uncontrollable at the sight of him, and you nodded enthusiastically at Ser Duncan.

“Oh yes, my good ser, I have a wonderful relationship with him,” and then you could not stop yourself. You stood up and skipped the last few steps to reach your husband. His face softened at the sight of you, and though he did not smile, it was enough for you. 

You reached out and fell the last few inches against his chest, throwing your arms around his neck. You pushed up onto your tip toes, pressing your mouth firmly to his and kissing him in the way you had wished to all morning. He let out a little hum against you, gripping you tightly as a chorus of groans and murmurs about how you should ‘knock it off’ rose from the table. 

Ser Duncan watched all this with a furrowed brow, feeling as if he had been kicked in the head by a horse. He stared at you beaming up at Prince Maekar, at the way you caressed the man’s bearded cheek and pressed little kisses to his mouth before pulling him away and leading him to the table. He felt as though he had been pulled in one direction, only to be whipped around and sent in another.

“Why… is that a common greeting among uncles and nieces in your family?” Dunk asked incredulously, looking around the table then to Egg. No one was reacting as if it was anything other than normal. 

“Huh?” Egg was too engrossed in trying to fit an entire pastry into his mouth in one go, and he could not care less about the little joke you had played on Dunk. 

“I asked if… is that normal for you Targaryens?” He asked hurriedly, voice a little panicked. 

You had arrived back at the table by then, settling your husband down in the seat next to yours, and pressing a small hand-pie into his plate. 

“Oh very normal, Ser,” you answered instead of Egg, smirking mischievously. 

“What is normal?” Maekar grumbled, flitting his eyes between you and the hedge knight. 

“For uncles to greet their nieces so,” Dunk answered, eyes wide with shock as he still could not stop himself from looking between you and Maekar. He had forgotten his propriety, though it mattered little in that moment. 

Maekar’s frown deepened at that, glaring at Ser Duncan with a little tilt to his head. 

“How would you wish me to greet my wife then, hedge knight?” He spat, sensing offence somewhere but not quite sure where and how. 

“Your wife?!” Ser Duncan spluttered, staring incredulously between you and your husband. 

You could contain your giggles no longer and were almost bent in half as you laughed. Maekar looked at you suspiciously, wondering what about this situation was so funny to you, and Ser Duncan just stared in steadily amassing confusion and mortification. 

“Stop that,” Maekar grumbled, reaching over and hitting Egg’s elbow lightly to make him stop shoving pastries into his mouth until they burst before refocusing on the picture in front of him. “What is this farce?” 

“I am sorry, Ser Duncan!” You finally gasped out, wiping at the corners of your eyes. “I truly am. I only wanted to have a little joke,” you smiled brightly, the picture of innocence, as if that would make it alright. 

“What joke did you play?” Maekar asked, raising an eyebrow at you as you leaned into him a little. 

“I merely omitted that I was Lady of Summerhall as well as the Crown Prince’s daughter,” you answered innocently, blinking quickly at him with your little smile. He just sighed and shook his head, pressing a hand to his eyes in frustration. As if he did not already have enough to deal with concerning his children. 

Ser Duncan still looked frozen and confused, mouth a little open as he connected all the dots he had missed. 

“So… you are his niece then?” He asked, a deep frown formed on his brow. 

“Yes, Ser,” you answered politely, offering Maekar your cup of tea after he declined any from being poured into his own. He took it and sipped from it quickly, pretending he did not enjoy it. 

“And… he is your husband?” He asked then, hands on the edge of the table as he tried to steady his thoughts. 

“Yes, Ser,” you answered again, leaning back in your chair with a little sigh of contentment. 

Everyone else had gone back to their conversations, ignoring the little scene that had played out in front of them with a shake of their heads. 

“But you are his niece…” he trailed off, mumbling to himself as Egg patted him on the hand and told him to ‘hush now, it was not to be thought about too much’. 

“Yes, she is my fucking niece and my fucking wife too,” Maekar interjected angrily, hitting the edge of the table a little. “Enough with this nonsensical questioning!” 

Duncan swallowed and nodded, averting his eyes as you sighed and shook your head. 

“How has your morning fared?” You asked Maekar quietly, allowing him to grab your hand and begin caressing the back of it gently. 

“A fucking nightmare, as usual,” he grumbled, squinting a little as he looked out over the grass. “And no better now that I know you were wasting your own teasing the simpleton.” You scoffed at that, but allowed yourself a little smirk of triumph. 

“He is not a simpleton, only unused to our odd customs. And I was only playing a little joke, it has been a long time since I have had such an opportunity,” you responded playfully, caressing his bearded cheek. Maekar brought your hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it before sighing, slumping a little more in his chair, and murmuring an “mhm”. 

“But she is his niece… but she is his wife…” came a quiet mumble from across the table, the hedge knight’s eyes unfocused as he tried to reconcile his confusing afternoon…

[eowyns-fantasy]

in heat

Alpha!Maekar x Omega!Niece!Reader

Tags/Warnings: 18+, Smut, A/b/o Dynamics, Age Difference, Older Man/Younger Woman, Targcest, Uncle/Niece, Breeding Kink, Knotting, Mating Bites, Porn Without Plot

Summary: Your uncle's arrival for your upcoming wedding to Valarr triggers your first heat.

Words: 1.3k

Note: This is purely self-indulgent smut that I have written for myself for my birthday. Also, not edited at all.

Valyrian blood came not only with the ability to command dragons. For some, it came with heightened senses, greater strength, a generally domineering personality. In the Common Tongue, those of this disposition were called Alpha. Warriors, leaders, fierce protectors. 

But where there was Alpha, there needed to be its contrasting force. Omega. Meant to calm others with their allure, their beauty, and eager to yield to someone worthy. Fertile. Able to proliferate the blood.

Those of the blood who did not inherit either were called Beta. They were the same as Common Folk.

Since the death of the dragons, the Targaryens had suffered a decided lack of Omegas, and Alphas had begun to dwindle as well. 

Only one of King Daeron’s four sons, who had been a Beta himself, presented as Alpha. His youngest. Some had feared he would try to challenge Prince Baelor, as Daemon – born an Alpha and a bastard – had challenged Daeron the Good. But Prince Maekar loved his brother deeply and fought at his side to protect his claim.

His virility as an Alpha was proven when he fathered six children on his wife, though she perished after the sixth. Some said that it had been cruel to marry a Beta woman to an Alpha, for there was no way for her to keep up with his appetites. 

Maekar’s eldest was a Beta, his second as well, the others too young still to tell their designation, if they had one. He had not remarried. Had spent his biannual ruts in seclusion, locked away for others’ safety. 

And then, you happened. His oldest niece. No one had expected you to present as anything, but they certainly rejoiced when you did. A new Omega. The first in decades. You were promptly promised to Valarr, the heir’s heir. To bear the Beta man children who would hopefully be luckier than he and inherit your blood, strengthen the main line again.

You had developed your glands, matured into the willowy body so known for Omegas, but you had not had your first heat. No one knew when it would happen, only that it would be soon. 

Whoever had allowed your uncle to come to the Keep for your upcoming nuptials to Valarr had been a fool. Only smart enough not to leave you alone with him, not to let you touch. 

But with so few Alphas and Omegas around, they had forgotten. You did not need to be especially close, nor touch. The moment your uncle entered the castle, you could smell him. 

It was the sweetest, most addicting scent you had ever known. And soon after, your body betrayed you. The slick that coated your thighs was thick and copious as you writhed in your bed, belly stabbing with the pain of emptiness. Your heat had come upon you, and you laid there, keening, needing, knowing that the only one who could help you was your uncle and his knot.

In between waves of arousal, you gathered all the pillows, blankets and fabrics you could find, building a nest atop your bed, something to be proud of – a good place to have pups, to be bred. 

The moment it had happened, you had been sequestered in your chambers, two guards at your door, trusted men. Only women were allowed to come inside and attend you. 

Two days passed like this. You did not know this, but Maekar was suffering as much as you, if not more. He had known, too, the moment he entered the castle, that you were meant for him. That he had triggered your first heat had only confirmed it.

As soon as his brother became aware of your predicament, Baelor had ordered him confined. Maekar had cursed at him, accused him of a lack of trust, but ultimately he had known that his eldest brother was right.

Oh, how right he had been. He should have done more.

Maekar watched you, watched how you took his cock, your cunt all too eager to swallow him, squeeze the life out of him. 

Four guards – two at his door, two at yours, had not been nearly enough, once his rut had begun, triggered early due to what you had awakened in him. 

Your mewls were heavenly, sinful, everything in between. They were his entire world. He rutted into you with a force that would surely bruise, but your heat would not let you feel it, working overtime to heal you quickly, to make you receptive and resilient. 

Every thrust had his knot catching more, the ridges rubbing against your gummy walls. 

“She wants me to breed her, doesn’t she?” he growled, leaning down to mouth over your throat, over your mating gland. Something deep down inside him knew he should not do this. If he bit you there, Maekar would make your womb useless to all but him. It would not bear pups for any seed but his. But just the thought of you, swollen with child – with children – that were not his, had him wanting to rage, destroy, and take you far away. 

He would not let anyone separate you from him. As a last effort, Maekar tried to recall how small you’d been as a babe, how innocent, tried to grasp onto the image to stop himself from knotting you, from claiming you, but it would not hold. 

Maekar could only see you as you were beneath him, grown, tits ready to fill with milk, hips wide, perfect for birthing. And you were moaning his name, begging him for his cock, for his knot, for his seed. “Please, kēpus, please, I want it, want your pups, please, need it.”

His groin was soaked with your juices, the evidence of how ready you were. With your legs drawn over his shoulders, pressed to your front, you were as close as you could be, panting against each other. 

The longer he fucked you, the higher your wails became, the more incoherent your babbles, and he knew that you were close. 

“Kēpus,” you moaned when your muscles tensed and the mindless bliss of your orgasm took you. 

Your cunt clamped around him, spasming, and it was this which caused his knot to lock you together, his own release only two small rocks of his hips behind, flooding you with spurts of cum as his head lowered to your nape, and pierced the tender, inflamed skin of your glands. 

The horror that raced down his spine was but a shadow compared to the joy, to the lust. It was like he was coming again, and his cock jerked, filling you even more. You would have overflowed, had his knot not kept it all inside. 

He saw how your abdomen swelled with the sheer amount of seed he had released into you.

You could feel the fullness, too. You trembled around his cock, cunt still fluttering, trying to draw even more from him – everything he could give. 

Maekar had never known this pleasure, this rightness. 

On the rare occasions Dyanna had managed to coax a knot from him, it had not been like this. She had borne it out of love for him, but he always knew that it had been uncomfortable for her. Not with you.

You whimpered around it, and moved, fucking yourself on his still hard cock. Utterly insatiable. “More,” you demanded, breathless, “please, I need more, it needs to take, uncle, kēpus, please.”

When Baelor reached your chambers, Maekar had already begun taking you again, each thrust jolting your body, the bite mark at your throat sluggishly weeping blood. 

He growled at his brother and bared his teeth, covering you with his body, but he did not stop rutting into you. Baelor did not meet his eyes, instead glancing somewhere over his shoulder, a faint, embarrassed flush on his face. 

“Peace, brother,” he reassured, “we will not take you from her.” We can’t. You’ve claimed her. Your niece. Who had been meant as a bride for your nephew.

[targlove]

The Great Sept of Baelor

Part four to 'The Godswood Escape'

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x female reader

Summary: The wedding is finally upon them.

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: very brief description of unhappy marriages/unwanted pregnancy(?) (her sisters), Aerion once again making an inappropriate sexual comment, ignorance regarding sex from the reader (because medieval times). The reader's sisters and niece/nephew are named.

A/N: well hello, i’m back! i’m still very much on my backpacking trip, but i’ve finally found some time to proofread this. i’m not too sure how i feel about it, but i’m tired of putting this off so i hope you guys enjoy it! i have some ideas for a fifth part (and maybe beyond that) and then an epilogue of sorts, but i have no clue when i’ll have for time, motivation/energy, inspiration etc. to write it. will probably be a while, so stay tuned (if y’all are still here by then).

Cross-posted on AO3 (registered users only).

She was going to throw up.

Her dress was laced too tight, the carriage was shaking back and forth violently as it followed the cobbled road from the Red Keep towards the Sept of Baelor, and the sounds of thousands of people screaming at her passing made her head hurt. Was it too late to climb over the wall now?

Her only comfort was the presence of her sisters on the opposite side of the carriage. Alerie en Myrielle had arrived with their husbands and children in the late afternoon the day before, not long after the altercation with Aerion. The sight of her beloved sisters had brought her immediate comfort and joy. She had not seen them since Myrielle's wedding a year past, and she had missed them dearly. She had immediately introduced them to her dear betrothed, who had been thrilled to meet his new sisters-in-law.

To say they were captivated with him would be an understatement. Their expressions matched the once they held when they were little girls, gazing longingly at the brave knights that passed through their father's keep. After a while, Valarr had to leave to attend to some duties with his father, and once he was out of sight, they had squealed at her, grabbing her hands and hugging her.

"The Gods have truly blessed you, sweet sister," her oldest sister, Alerie, called out, a broad smile on her face. She giggled back in response, being reminded fondly of their time as young girls, before any unhappy marriages and unwelcome duties had destroyed their child-like joy and optimism. They had all dreamed of marrying a gallant knight and a kind, worthy Lord, who would kiss them gently and care for them for the rest of their days. It seemed the Gods decided she was the only one of her sisters to be allowed that kindness.

A sorrowful smile graced her features at that thought, and she grabbed their hands gently. "He is a better match than I could have ever wished for, I know. Now, you’ve fussed over me long enough. How are you two fairing? Myrielle, I know the Gods have blessed you, as well."

She glanced gently at her sister's stomach, which had a noticeable swell to it. Her two sisters shared a knowing, bittersweet look, before Myrielle simply nodded at her.

"Yes. A true blessing," she whispered sadly. It was clear in her posture that she did not wish to speak of it any further, so she reluctantly turned back to Alerie.

"And you? How are my darling niece and nephew?" She said hopefully. She knew Alerie held no love in her heart for her lord husband, but her children were everything to her. She loved them more than life itself, she knew, so perhaps the topic would brighten their spirits. Even Myrielle, who had never been much for children, adored the little troublemakers.

"They are more than well. Arthur learned how to walk recently! Lyra has been delighted to finally have someone to run around with. She seems eager to pass her mischievous ways on to her brother. Just last week, he found his way into the stables and pulled a horse's tail! He was quite lucky the creature didn't kick him. I almost fainted when Lyra told me."

The three sisters giggled loudly at the tale. She was overjoyed to finally be with her family again. She had almost forgotten what it was like to be with them, having spend the last year alone at her father's keep, his only unwed child. It had taken her mind off the wedding for the rest of the day.

Even their warm presence and reassuring words could not calm her this time. She was not sure why she suddenly felt so overwhelmed. Perhaps Valarr's comforting welcome this past week had fooled her into believing all that truly mattered was the two of them. While that may hold some truth, she still had to face the Lords and the Realm now regardless. She would have to do that, over and over again, for the rest of her life. Could one ever be ready for that?

All she could do was try to steady her breathing as the carriage continued, undeterred by her internal panic. Her sisters continued to speak to her in a reassuring tone, one laying a comforting hand on her arm, but the ringing in her ear meant she could not make out any of the words. She had not even noticed that the carriage stopped moving and that the shouting outside got louder as a Kingsguard opened the carriage door. Both of her sisters gave her a reassuring squeeze and smile before they nodded towards the door, urging her on. She took one last, deep breath before she found the courage to climb out of the carriage.

Her dress trailed behind her as her feet found the ground, her sisters lifting the train slightly. Her dress was beautifully intricate, covered in gold thread, pearls and other small gemstones. Beaded embroidery covered the top of her chest, following along the neckline. Her shoulders were mostly bare, which made her feel awfully exposed. She had loved how it looked during the fittings, but she hadn't fully realized how she might feel with the entire Realm gazing at her naked shoulders. Her dress was rather tight on her upper body, but flowed beautifully down her hips, all the way to the ground. The bottom part of her dress and the train were decorated with both the sigil of her own house and that of her soon-to-be husband in complementing colors. Her sleeves went wide below her elbows. They were wider than she had ever worn them, and while it looked beautiful, she was not too sure about the practicality of it. How was she meant to eat at her own wedding feast like this?

Her head was covered in a small diadem. Her father-in-law had said it once belonged to his own wife, her future husband's lady mother, so she made sure to be very careful with it. It was a delicate golden band with one singular red gemstone at the center, and it complemented her dress beautifully. The diadem carefully kept her long, fluttery veil in place. It was so long that it trailed behind her for several feet when she walked up the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.

Her father was waiting for her at the top of the stairs, his arm outstretched for her to take with a wide smile on his face. The entrance to the Sept was wide open, and she could see a glimpse of her intended at the end of the aisle. Only at the sight of him did she feel like she could breath properly since she left the Red Keep.

When she finally entered the Sept, she did so with a wide smile and adoration evident in her gaze.

It had not been as scary as she had expected. The Lords did not look upon her with contempt, or the Ladies with anger or jealousy. In fact, they had all seemed rather satisfied at the events that had unfolded in front of them that morning. Everything had gone well; she did not trip while approaching the Septon and Valarr, nor did she suddenly forget her vows.

Despite their closeness over the past week, he had never kissed her properly. He kissed her hand daily, and she had been brave enough once to give him a brief kiss on the cheek, but that’s the furthest it had gone until today. It was gentle and lovely and filled with their sweet devotion to one another. They had both been nervous to take part in such a public display of affection, however, so it still remained brief and proper.

She was seated next to her husband now, and while all eyes still remained on her, she did not care about it anymore. His hand rested lightly on her thigh under the table, as if to comfort her, and it was all she could focus her attention on. Was it really that warm in the Great Hall, or was it just her?

Her new family was spread out along the long table that covered the dais in front of the Iron Throne. She sat at the center of the table, with Valarr to her left. King Daeron was seated by her husband’s side, eating his meal in silence. She had not met King Daeron until today, which struck her as odd, but she did not dare to question it.

The King's other son, Prince Maekar, was seated beside him, and his children after him. Valarr had ensured that Aerion would sit as far away from them as possible, so he sat at the far end of the table. That slight seemed to infuriate him to no end, as he had not seized to glare at them since the feast had begun.

Maekar's daughters were sat next to each other, leaning into each other's side. They were whispering to each other conspiratorially, giggles escaping from them every once in a while. The sight made her smile, reminding her of her own sisters. The little boy, Aegon – who had insisted that she call him Egg – sat in between them and his brother Daeron, who was in turn seated besides his father. One of Maekar’s children was missing, Valarr had explained to her when she inquired, but he was off to the Citadel to become a Maester, so he was not likely to attend any family affairs.

Her father-in-law was seated beside her, and her brother-in-law sat to his father's right. She had not seen much of Matarys since her arrival in King’s Landing. The young man had much in common with his cousin, Daeron, as they were both rather quiet and lost in their heads. He seemed kind enough, though, so she imagined he was simply much shyer than his elder brother.

Her own family sat to his right, beginning with her father and continuing with both of her sisters and their lord husbands. Alerie's children had witnessed the ceremony earlier in the day, but their bedtimes had arrived right when it was time for the feast, much to their displeasure.

When everybody had finished their meals, it was time for the newlyweds to take to the dance floor. When his father gave him a slight nod, Valarr gave her a warm smile and stood up from his chair. He held out his hand for her to take, and she took it gladly, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.

They quickly fell into a pleasant rhythm as other couples slowly started to join them in a waltz. His hand rested delicately on her back, as if he was scared to touch her. Her left hand rested on his broad shoulder as he spun them around the room.

"Are you enjoying the feast, my love?" He asked, leaning down to whisper into her ear, as if it was a secret.

She simply nodded at him, her face radiant with a smile that had hardly left her face the whole evening. Her face felt flushed in the cozy warmth of the hall, but his touch on her waist and her hand burned much hotter.

“I don’t think I can say it enough, but you look absolutely radiant today, my dear.”

She looked at her feet shyly, her face burning at his words.

“Thank you, Valarr. You look quite dashing yourself.”

His eyes glimmered at her again, a blush taking over his face. She was glad to know that their effect on each other was mutual.

After that, it seemed to held each other just a bit closer for the rest of the evening. They continued to dance for what felt like hours. After a while, she got tired of the dancing, so he led her back to the table with his hand in hers.

When they got there, however, Aerion decided it was the opportune time to come and pester them. He walked towards them with a smug look on his face, a sway in his step that made it clear he had had enough wine for at least five men. She saw the resemblance to his drunken brother a bit more at that moment.

"Valarr," he slurred at her husband, though his eyes were fixed on her, "isn't it time for the bedding now?"

Valarr got to his feet quickly, ready to reprimand his cousin. His grandfather, who was still seated next to him, laid a hand on Valarr's arm, stopping him in his tracks.

"No need to rush, boy. I'll let you two go."

King Daeron got up from his chair slowly, therefore urging everybody else in the room to stand up as well, including her. He seemed to have mistaken Valarr's anger at Aerion with his excitement to bed her, which made heat rise to her cheeks. He was also clearly unaware of the animosity between his grandsons, or simply did not care. She silently wondered how the head of the royal family could be so unaware of its inner workings.

"Time for the bedding!" The King called out suddenly, a slight smile on his wrinkled face. The crowd cheered loudly at his words, and lords and ladies alike started approaching them. Fear pooled in her stomach, and she gave Valarr a panicked look.

Clear displeasure crossed his face before he spoke up loudly.

"There will be a consummation, yes, but we will not have a bedding ceremony."

His eyes were pointed at Aerion in particular, who let out an irritated huff.

"What are you so scared of, cousin? Is your cock not big enough to please her?"

A few other lords laughed at his lewd joke, but the severe look on the Young Prince's face kept most of them silent. She was not entirely sure what he meant with that joke, in truth. Her septas had only discussed the basics of her duties with her when it came to the bedding. She only had to lay on the bed and let him do his duty to her, they had told her, and then Gods willing, she would be blessed with heirs of her own.

Whatever the implication of the joke was, though, it made Valarr clench his teeth and ball up his fists. She did not wish them to fight at her wedding. All the Lords and Ladies of the Realm were watching, and while Aerion had very little to lose, Valarr had a reputation and position to uphold as the heir’s heir.

She took a small step towards her husband, grabbing his hand silently to give it a squeeze. His tense posture loosened at her touch, and his angry expression melted into a grateful one when he looked at her in the corner of his eye. She took a step closer to him, wrapping her arm around his while she leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"Do not let him drag you down to his level," she whispered.

He did not respond, though he looked at her with a soft gaze and gave her a thankful nod.

"The feast is over," he announced loudly, "I suggest that everybody returns to your chambers. We will do the same."

A couple people cheered at them, but the majority still stood by silently. Aerion let out a growl, rolling his eyes at them before storming out the door drunkenly. When he finally exited the Great Hall, it felt like everyone in the room let out a breath they didn't know they were holding. After Aerion's departure, the guests started slowly pouring out of the grand doors.

The newlyweds followed quietly, still arm in arm.

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[ghostlybfgf]

heyyy do you think you could write something with uncle!baelor brat taming his niece 👉👈 maybe she didn’t want to go to ashford so she’s been whining/drinking and he has to teach her how a targaryen princess should behave

I've been slow on the uncle baelor train but omfg it''s too good, I'm obsessed with him. 💗

is it a crime?

summary: your uncle has had enough of your attitude, deciding to teach you a lesson.

pairing: baelor targaryen x niece!reader

word count: 4.5k

warning(s): SMUT, targcest, age gap, unspoken feelings, baelor being the best softdom, pussy slapping, rings, oral (m and f receiving)

a/n: this is not entirely proofread so i hope it is okay!!

Ashford Meadow had proven more boring than you had hoped.

As celebration for the young Lady Ashford's nameday, everyone it seemed from the lower quarter of King's Landing to the far Westerlands beyond The Reach was granted invitation. Your own father, Prince Maekar, had received his own not a fortnight before, dragging you and the rest of the hoard with him that was that of your brothers. Albeit, only the one, seen as your younger sisters resided home at Summerhall with their ladies maid, and the other two brothers who weren't training to be a maester in the citadel, had run off leaving you with Aerion. Only older by a year and somehow his petulance proceeded him, angering you entirely through the whole day's ride to Ashford itself, even though you kept quiet, following closely behind your father's stallion. Your irritation was evident to all who came across you.

Though not all bad, the people of the town were generous, herald announcing you upon arrival as Lord Ashford welcomed you in, introducing his daughter to which you bowed politely. She was a good few years younger than you, the yellow of her dress lighting up her sweet features smiling brightly. You felt for her, as much as you did yourself. How unfortunate to be surrounded by such centered authority while being put aside. Though not that it mattered, the endless week-long celebrations just for her, perhaps it was the harshness of your own reality speaking— shoved behind your own brothers even as you were the one stood proudly in their sted.

She complimented your crimson dress, and you replied back of the flowers crested atop her head. The others didn't seem to bother nearly as much as you, your father and uncle greeting princely and reserved, but grateful, your cousins mirroring them humbly. Aerion however storming through the stone archway after them, without a care, only slowing when he reached your father's view. Careful as to not be reprimanded by the one person who would, you laughed to yourself. 

Coward.

The members of the royal family were gifted between the comfort of the Ashford castle and the tourney tents for the daytime festivities. And that included your own temporary chamber readily made with your chests you had brought for travel, filled only with your day dresses and linens, your sentiment left at home. The beds were made spotlessly, the presence of your blood not a known appearance, and it showed, the generously sprayed scents of citrus and sweetgrass filling your nostrils it almost made you sneeze.

But it wasn't the castle that you preferred, it was the circle of pavilions out in the fields. A lengthy walk from the courtyard, but you found your way, strolling through the endless stream of market stalls and eager merchants. You wandered further, out beyond the setup of the noble houses, planted carefully for miles to see. Baratheon, Tyrell, Fossoway, all bearing their coloured sigils and flags proudly on patches of territory. The familiar crimson and black fabric met your eyes a distance away from the others, a calculated choice by either one of the prince's you wagered.

Paired kingsguard lined the perimeter, from your father's tent to your own, the red trail of carpet in rolled out in between and you stepped over carefully, as not to dirty your skirts. Thought to the princes weighed on your mind, the idea of your father and uncle marking up legal parchment tiredly and fulfilling duty bored even in your mind. They had given you instruction to remain close, if not in the castle walls then with an escort, though such plans were squandered by curiosity. The tourney was to begin on the morrow, and tonight the very opening ceremony where they were to introduce the potential champions. Every knight to be readying their sword and shield to compete, helms and steel polished so loudly you could still hear it over the bards singing. And the forecasting buzz excited you.

You were to be scolded for it you supposed, a princess on her own was never a welcome sight. And it was a lone you left with the few servants and men manning the tents, earning you weary looks. Not that you had minded, by inching further the corners to the edge of the pavilion, you found your cousin. Valarr. Baelor's son, skillfully training and huffing with sword in hand, sweeping it back and forth as if to face an invisible opponent. He, as well as your brother, Aerion, were entered in the lists for tomorrow, Valarr already a realm favourite by a mile. The same couldn't be said for your brother.

Your feet padded toward him, away from your carpeted walk and out onto the thinly cut grass, crunching beneath you. Your voice called out through the afternoon air, "Should you need a sword when jousting?" He jumped slightly, sword swinging down to his side respectfully as he turned to face you, clasping it back into it's sheath at his hip. 

"You never can be sure." Valarr smiled, walking steadily towards you as he shook his head, the damp strands of sweat from the sun beading lightly at his skin, and your eyes raked over him recklessly. His tunic and armour was discarded, left only in the white undershirt and black trousers pulled together by string. He was an agreeable man, young and brave, dark haired and mismatched eyes that shone, much like his father's.

You both had a favourable relationship, around the same age as Aerion and you, there wasn't a time when you weren't close, often acting in childish japes against him together just to rile him up, gentler memories than that you could speak of most. There once seemed a fondness that you wished could grow, begging your father in younger years you would rather marry him than a brother or a fat old lord. It was not looked on of distaste, talks once occurring of such possibilities, though it did not come to fruition. Your longing to be close to him, closer to the respected part of your family formed into a disappointment at the news he was already betrothed, a young lady by the name of Keira of Tyrosh. Their union was that of something sweet and humble, understated in the likes of an heir, all ill feeling falling into nothing as you had met. Spending time with her also, she was made in your eyes, a beautiful addition to the family, you two often conversing with one another at feasts, seated purposefully together as you talked of things reserved to very unladylike in company, not that neither cared.

In a world such as this, it was rare for a friend. And you were grateful to know some. And having them by your side was a greater partnership than you could ask for, still unmarried and unbound yourself you dreaded the day your wandering eyes could no longer take hold. Over time it wasn't the attraction of your cousin that whittled you sharp in your seeking, it was that of your uncle, his own father. Everything you had longed for in the boy from nature to appearance reflected Baelor, and you had longed for it more moons than you counted.

"I see, well I didn't mean to impose. I was merely.."

"Escaping?" Valarr finished your sentence with a knowing smirk, raising an eyebrow out of his own curiosity.

"Something of the sort you could say. I prefer to bide time away from their legal matters. I believe we've all had enough of castles." Your laugh came untethered, free as he matched it, lowering his head.

"A welcome break this is then I'd agree."

You both stayed there for a while, a leisurely conversation, easy, standing there under the heat of the afternoon sun, smiling and jesting harmlessly until the distant horns sounded. 

The opening ceremony for the tourney.

The two of you shifted, eyes flicking to each other by design.

"I suppose I will let you prepare." You took a step backward toward the sound, and he nodded, the smirk remaining as he inched to his tent, black armour readily clad on the stand just inside of it, squires following him in readiness.

"Then I suggest you should catch up, my father and yours will not be too pleased to see you late."

And he was right.

You did your best to catch up with the others, swayed and halted by the trails of people swarming toward the lists. No sign of familiar faces showed until your sight landed on that of the large royally decked out stand overseeing the lists, there already seated your father and brother, Lord Ashford and your uncle Baelor, as well as the many noble spectators beside.

Without tempting a shove you broke free from the mass of rowdiness, sneaking behind the walled stand, reaching around the back where it was empty, unseen, the various staircases to different openings facing you. You took your chances on the one, and thankfully through blind faith, it was the right one, the flats of your day slippers tapping lightly onto heavy wooden planks, the landing of the stairs opening up into an open mouthed stage, lined with few gilded, carved chairs from back to front. The four men sat at the very front, waving lightly as the crowd cheered and pulled in, orange lantern light from the grounds casting onto their faces and yours as you snaked in. You excused yourself into the empty seat next to your father, who greeted you with a head turning gaze, scowling lightly but settling as you did so, shifting in place.

"Daughter."

"Father."

There was little time for niceties, not even an apology for lateness, though it didn't go unnoticed. Baelor glanced silently, twisting the rings on the knuckle of his fingers as he watched you be seated, you were barely allowed out at such a time, especially to watch such debauchery it had been narrowly agreed on the account of your age. That and your father's stressful distaste for having any other children of his out sight. So you remained close, enduring near every court council and tourney alike, which had exhausted you as it would any lady. And it wasn't that you uncle did not enjoy your company, such things should be taught, and there is no better than experience. After all you are blood and beloved by his sons also, however it was you and your brother's relentless need to disobey direct orders.

Much like you hadn't been keeping time, sneaking off through every court encounter and feast where you were advised to be present. Baelor had still been irked by the previous passing tourney event in a nearby village, where Aerion had named you the 'Queen of love and beauty', vying for your honour, despite strict instruction to crown the other Lord's young lady, in advance to secure alliances. Even if through petty words and flattery or legal matter and battle, every part of it mattered, it was how to upkeep the realm, how a proper prince and princess should. 

And he would be a lying man if he hadn't wished his brother would correct your behaviours, praying such endeavours would not be found on the young lady's nameday. Particularly yours, though no daughters himself, he hadn't seen someone act such a way, even the way you slumped in front of those watching, it was unsightly. But he stayed vigilant. 

The late afternoon sun soon drifted, the moon shining luminant over the darkening sky, the lists only lit by the lined fence of torches. You believed it to be splendid, not paying much mind to anything else, only the chatter and gossip around you, and that of the squires offering wine. You hadn't been much for drinking, a few sips here and there at a rare banquet, but something ticked within you, your family tilted and you left to your own devices, you sank more cups than you had originally meant to, ordering them back and forth until they had to stand beside you just to refill. The poor young boy in your clutch pouring almost as many cups as your eldest brother would for himself. 

Had the others not been engrossed and keeping an eye on you, they would have noticed your growing chaos, your spirits unusually high as you shuffled and giggled in your chair, seemingly at nothing at all. But the noise, and rambunctious crude cheers from those around had tickled you more than you could stop it. You tried covering your mouth at first, hiding your face into the fabric of your sleeve, your face a beat red. 

But what was worse, was when the mob fell quiet, the knight's entrances soon upon the lists, accompanied by the thrum of drums and trumpets. Your gaze flicked around, leaning against the back of your chair, keeping yourself propped up as the murmurs lessened, only broken by a slurred male voice.

"Lord Ashford fucks his sheep."

Few laughs and agreeing yells from the crowd came, but everyone else stayed untouched by the rude jest, the old lord himself letting his head fall slightly in displeased embarrassment. Even your father and brother only faltering lightly as to stay stoic, though you couldn't contain it, blurting out a sharp laugh that echoed into the palm of your hand. You were unsure if it was the wine or your own boredom that let it spill from your loosened lips, even despite sobering up after a while, though most heard it. 

All eyes falling on you coldly.

The men beside you turned one by one, nobles eyes behind you flicking from you and your kin insulted, your father's hand reaching for your own as to swat you to stop, but it wasn't him who was the one to act.

No, it was Baelor. And he'd had enough.

He rose unshakable and agitated, punctuated with every short step it took to stand at your chair, hand clasping tightly around your forearm. He glanced at his brother and back to you, the man already oblivious and clueless on what to do himself, and so he took it as intervention— taking the matter into his own hands.

Thankfully in the turn of heads, not many had seen the way you'd been dragged from the stand, the herald already announcing the first knight into the lists, followed by the repeated rampage of applause and cheer. It was swallowed completely behind trees and brush as the stretch grew further, your feet stumbling after your uncle in his grip as he pulled you back through the celebrating fields to the group of tents fiercely.

His hand only released you as he swung you carelessly inside of a tent. His tent. And you had barely any time to take in the sights of the embellished space before he was shaking you in his hold, firm hands clutching at your sides, blue and brown eyes squinting at you.

"What were you thinking?"

"Uncle Baelor I.."

"Enough this is not how a princess of the realm should be acting, your father is—" He pushed on, harsh tone cutting into the air as you spoke bitingly.

"Fuck being a princess." You egged him on, pushing your luck in the knowledge of your wrongdoing, although you couldn't tear your eyes away from him, the way he pressed into you. So close, so passionate even in his anger.

His fingers squeezed deeper into your skin,ignoring your careless jibe, his grip not enough to hurt, but enough to move, his face falling disapprovingly from side to side as his gaze raked over you, checking. If there was a reason to act out, surely it would be present, a cause.

"What is the reason, you should not be acting out in such a way."

You rolled your eyes, angered and yet ignited.

"You have brought me here to scold me? Like a child?"

"Quite rightly. A child no, unlike the brat you're being." 

It struck sharply in the middle of your chest, a fateful blow that scored no injury, but his words were enough. Something that he had held himself from for longer than he should, the creases in his face pulled taut, stern but something more. Apologetic. In truth Baelor did not want to harm or offend you, paying more attention than most even in the fleeting moments, at the way your face fell at the absence of your youngest brother, or the times you isolated yourself from court. Someone such as you didn't act out without reason, but it couldn't go on. Especially feeling you tense coyly underneath him, and not out of fear, the glint in your eyes said otherwise, and he knew of that look.

Baelor softened slightly, retreating as he opened and closed his mouth, moving a steady hand to cup your cheek, inching you to look at him. 

"I see beyond it niece.. you are of my blood," Your eyes raised to him, a flicker of the your feigned scowl before faltering as you watched him intently. The low lamplight radiating his face a way you hadn't abled to look upon so closely. He was handsome yes, he always had been, and you were no stranger at sneaking glances at men much less him. Even as a girl you'd recalled the contrast to what you knew of your valyrian blood, he was warmer, gentler, tanner skin meeting the dark of his hair. 

"And as blood you must learn how to act properly, as the princess you are." He emphasised the word, almost aware of how it felt.

"Even I understand the weight of a prince.. it may not be quite the same, but it is close enough." You nodded slowly, gaze tempting to his lips, the way they moved, heavy and lightly scarred, the way his thumb inched at yours, stroking the corner softly. He took you in in such a manner he tried to refuse himself of, appreciating the growing intimate heat that had spawned, not only from his own anger, but compassion, caring for you in the a way an uncle would, a protector would. But another feeling crept up, his eyes following when others weren't, tugging you away somewhere private, it wasn't by intention, not entirely, but desire. A smirk etched onto your lips, his thumb brushing over it as you did, peeking to the curve of your mouth, opening slightly around the pad of his finger as your teeth grazed it. 

And that was the breaking point, a lesson had to be proven. Your teasing had grown to much, or was that just his own guilt speaking? The want perhaps? His hunger bubbled deep from his centre, the womanly full figure under the outline of your dresses stirred him, his palm opposing the one on your placed at your cheek, planting onto your side. He backed you both up carefully, steps moving in tandem with his until you stood before the bed.

"Sit."

The warmth of his scent hit your face, like pine and smoke, and you obeyed silently careful as to push further, hand placing out behind you to ease yourself down the bedframe and onto the wooden chest your legs knocked against. You smoothed at your skirts, meeting his ardent look, his fingers scratching at the salt and pepper of his fine beard decisively. They moved down tentatively to the leather over his belt, moving seamlessly over thick metal and black fabrics, and your mouth watered, the anticipation making your legs cross, his knee coming between them to stop them. It wasn't going to be simple, he wasn't letting you off so easily.

"If you want to earn your place, you are to do the things are you are told to." Baelor shrugged his cloak off, letting it fall just beside you on the furniture, the material teasing a your bare leg under the ruffle of your dress. He pulled himself free in one tug, his length falling hard into his hand with one pump of is fist. It was a sight, thick and rigid, the veins tracing up the side of it temptingly, twitching with need.

"Do you understand?" You nodded slowly, fingers reaching out in front of you barely paying attention to his voice, opting to hold him instead and allowed it, gripping him in your palm so tight it made him hiss, your gasp slicing the air.

"Good, now open your mouth." He pushed between your lips with one push, cock sliding onto your tongue and filling your mouth and out of your hands He urged your head down, your hands bracing down to the thick muscle of his thighs, squeezing gently with every drag of him, the head reaching the back of your throat until your nose brushed his base. You inhaled, the faint hairs tickling at your skin as his heavy musk filled your senses, sending a wave of arousal to your core. 

"There you go my girl.." He encouraged through gritted teeth, the authority still present in the tremble of his voice. He thrusted deeper, hips straining little at your mouth until the blunt flesh teased too far, the rhythm and weight of him making you gag and splutter around his cock. Your eyes rolled back as the spit curled from the corners of your mouth, pooling down your chin in earnest just as the dampness tainted your small clothes, beads of your own arousal coating your cunt with need. 

He felt it, the way you desperately tried to rub yourself onto the cushion beneath you, letting out a whine around him, not so slyly. Though he ignored it, no matter how much it tugged at him, the feel of your tongue in urgency made his breaths shallow and ragged, hips sloppy against you, stalling as he let go, hot white spurts of his seed coating and painting your tongue. You swallowed it gratefully, the faint sweet salt of him gushing down your throat as he pulled free, connecting his tip from your plump lips in a string of saliva. 

Your tear strained eyes followed him as he ducked down, taking you into his arms, wrapping them around you gently, placing you down onto the plush of the his bed. He crawled over you in no time, lips ghosting yours, red and wet with him, "You've done well.. let me take you." His voice was softer, a mumble against you as he pressed himself to you, pushing his face into yours in a fervent kiss, tongue swiping just across your mouth before moving. His lips insistent all over you. Your jaw, your neck, the curve of your collarbone and down to your breast. His hands moving delicately to detangle the lace of your bodice, opening your body up to him through the unnecessary finery, laid bare and wanting for him. His body wound over yours, edging back toward the side of the bed, boot pushing at the carpeted floor, mouth latching onto your nipple, licking carefully over the soft bud, sucking it into his mouth with a guttural groan. Fingers gracing down under your ribs and at your waist until he found himself at the curve of your mound.

You shivered, the cool air hitting the wet of your cunt, hole weeping as he pressed his fingers through your folds. 

"Beautiful.."

He wasted no time, beard tickling your inner thighs as he pressed a searing kiss, lips meeting the puffy pearl of your clit shamelessly, a teasing lick tracing your entrance. Your fingers threaded through his hair, clutching the top of his head, urging, a silent demand. His head lifted only slightly at your impatience, removing the palm at your waist to earn a sharp smack to your cunt. You yelped, arse wriggling against the sheets at the tender sting to you sensitive bundle, arousal dripping lewdly out of you. 

"Proper ladies are patient are they not?" He warned keenly, the rumble vibrating through your skin, and although he meant to punish, he'd refused sufficiently, your taste making him moan against you as his tongue finally slipped inside. The firm muscle plunging into your wetness feverishly, his hands grasping at your thighs as he linked them over his shoulders, anchoring you to him. Solely at his mercy. 

You felt your body set alight, writhing against him, flexed arms enveloped securely around you, fucking you into his face with every flick into your tightness. Your fingertips tugged the sheets as hard as you could, attempts to free yourself, to inch yourself, to cover your face, your eyes squeezed closed as your body shook. And he did not relent, gaze piercing into you over the curve of your body, his face suffocated by your cunt, lust blown and beyond forgiveness. You rocked against him, chasing the electricity of the attack on your clit, his mouth wrapping around it with a languid suck, your other hand tangling further into his dark hair as your mouth fell agape, moans rolling willingly.

"Uncle.."

He groaned into you, deeper than he'd meant to sending a shockwave through you that pulsed in your core, hips rising and falling into him, fucking you in and out as your thighs clamped, tighter around his head. His mouth alone making love to your cunt in ways you had not known, had not dreamed of, not even in your filthiest, immoral dreams. He moved you to him harsher with ringed fingers, cold shocking you, urging your hips to ride his face, tongue fucking you wholly, working you tightly, your eyes widening as you falter, coil snapping, shaking back down onto the mattress.

Your vision became blurry, white dotting your vision, your head throwing back in the endless throws of pleasure, letting out a small cry as you let go, cunt gushing all over his face, your juices dripping dow his chin and mouth. He pressed on, riding you through your orgasm as you chased it, thighs shaking and trembling, equally overstimulated and overwhelmed. He holds you in place, and you don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with. He feels your tremble, and he soothes around the sensitive mound as you whimper, pressing soft, chaste kisses to your clit and folds before rising. 

He stalls for a moment, rising up on his knees above you, taking you in, such a sight, such a beauty. His beloved girl, hie niece. He cannot deny the way he shames himself, curses at himself and the Seven above for giving in, but still teasing his tongue to his lips to taste the remnants of you, humming tenderly. You support yourself up onto your elbows, wanting more, about to ask for more, to beg for him, to take you properly and claim you fully but he pulls back before you can, standing back onto his legs at the floor.

"We shall be needed back at the ceremony. I suggest you follow me shortly sweet niece." The roughness in his voice betrays him, straightening his collar as he tucks himself back into the confines of his breeches. You groan lightly and he shoots you a look of warning, distant fire in his eyes. You allow yourself to fall back onto the bed as he rounds it, picking up his cloak before clasping it tightly at this neck, making a start to leave before he can abandon honour completely.

Though one thing is known between you both as you lay there and he paces away, it was not done.

[opheliaandherpeaches]

Always Her Never You

Summary: Baelor accidentally calls his new wife (aka his brother's daughter) the wrong name during an intimate moment and now he must beg for his lady wife's forgiveness. Will it be granted to him?

Baelor Targaryen x Targwife!reader

cw: MDNI 18+ NSFW, Swearing, afab!reader, angst with no comfort, p in v smut with plot, (only in the beginning) use of female pronouns and y/n, implied age gap, (20's and early 40's) typical targcest, reader is maekar's daughter. reader has targ features (only the purple eyes are mentioned) open-ended ending.

a/n: This is just a quick lil story I wanted to write so I really doubt it's any good. I am severely disappointed in HoTD season 3 so I'm just pretending it doesn't exist ok bye hope you guys like it.

"Seven hells... you are perfect..." Baelor targaryen moans out as he buries his cock deep inside of you, willing your womb to stretch and accommodate his thick and long cock with each firm and powerful thrust. your legs are hoisted up by his shoulders and you are sure you will break in half if Baelor goes any faster.

Bringing up a hand, he grips the plush and soft skin of your hip to better drive into you and with his free hand, it slowly trails up your body and stops at your chest. not wanting any part of his wife's body to feel neglected, baelor starts by slowly pinching your nipple just to see how you would react, and as your back sharply arches off the bed, the prince struggles to hide his satisfied smirk and increase the pace on his ministrations until he can feel his own release approaching and you are left screaming out in pleasure.

His thrusts become borderline brutal as he chases his release but even in the most intimate of times, he is nothing if not chivalrous and what kind of husband is he if his wife doesn't come first?

"Baelor! Baelor! I am close!" you moan out loudly, followed by a string of pleasepleasepleaseplease as your own release rapidly approaches and suddenly you find your thoughts invaded by your husband and nothing else. You instinctively bury your face into the crook of baelor's neck and wrap your arms around him, letting out one final "I love you!" as your release hits you hard. Your walls spasm and contract against baelor whilst you ride your high.

"Such a good girl for me.." baelor praises lowly as he watches you come apart and unravel on his cock, your walls becoming tighter around his cock, seemingly milking him for all he has. His thrusts lose rhythm and stability as his balls draw up tight, the tell tale sign that his release is not that far.

"Fuck...! S-So good... so tight!! Nnghh- I love you, Jena!" Baelor roars out as he spills inside of you, pure ecstasy coursing through his blood and body but it isn't until he opens his eyes and looks down at you with tear-filled eyes and a horrified expression that he realizes what he had just done and the realization leaves him equally horrified.

baelor's mouth opens to speak but the sounds of your sob stops him before any sound can come out. You quickly pull your legs away and almost trip over your own feet trying to get off the bed, unable to contain or stop your tears from falling and for the first time, the diplomatic prince finds himself as a lost for words and unsure of what to say.

"Y/N please, I only mean to explain myself," Baelor pleads as he follows you off the bed, and stands behind you, silently begging you to turn around and speak to him but you do not even spare him a glance once you find your linen shift on the ground, beginning to feel more like a paid whore and less like the wife of the crown prince.

in truth, you feared this might have happened. you vividly remember your aunt and you always loved her, but the guilt of somehow replacing her has clung to you ever since the betrothal was announced and suddenly ever memory of you pretending not to hear the rumors flashes before your eyes. perhaps the gossiping lords and ladies were right, perhaps you will never be as loved as Jena was by Baelor.

"My sweet girl.. please, I beseech you." the dark-haired targaryen pleads once more, desperate to explain himself and to mend the rift he had just created but mindful to not let his emotions get in the way. An uncomfortable silence invades your chambers as you search for your robe to cover yourself, your husband's seed still slightly running down your inner thigh but the irony is not lost on you.

"You still think of her." you whisper the obvious, amethyst eyes coming up to meet baelor's mismatched ones. you don't know how you expect him to answer and you can tell the statement takes him aback by the way his eyes widen slightly, but somehow you cannot find it within yourself to truly be mad at him or blame him, you never wanted to replace the Lady Dondarrion but knowing that you will always be second to memories is a difficult truth to live with. Baelor sighs as he stands in front of you, eyes darting across your face and the wall behind you, mind running every possible situation as to not hurt you but he cannot find the words that would appease you.

"...Everyday." Baelor confesses. deciding that you deserve to hear the truth even if it is not what you wish.

and with just a singular word, your place in baelor's world is cemented and the truth is finally revealed.

you do not yell

you do not burst out into tears again

you do not throw anything

not even a slap across the face

you only let out a sigh.

in what? you do not know. Disappointment? Anger? Frustration? What you do know is there is a heavy pit now formed in your chest and these walls begin to feel too small and this man standing in front of you feels too much like a stranger and your father always cautioned you to be weary.

You can only weakly nod your head as you tie your robe tight around your body, swallowing every tear and curse word you know before losing your composure and showing Baelor what it means to be married to The Anvil's daughter. Without another word you walk past baelor and out of the chambers, you feel nothing like the anvil's daughter, let alone like a ferocious dragon from a powerful family. Baelor instinctively reaches a hand out but he stops himself midway, feeling undeserving to comfort you when he was stupid enough to ruin such an intimate moment with you and to so crudely confess to thinking of another woman, so, he regrettably watches your fleeting figure while only hoping that come the rise of the sun, he might yet be able to win you back.

Your eyes once again become blurred as tears threaten to spill but your stubbornness does not allow you to cry until you are away from anyone who might find joy in your sorrow. you let your legs carry you to wherever your subconscious deems safe enough and that just so happens to be your father's private chambers.

"Princess," a knight standing in front of maekar's chambers nods his head in acknowledgement and without another word, opens the large wooden doors and steps aside for you to enter. You murmur a quick thank you as you enter the threshold of your father's rooms, the nostalgic smell of it all doing little to calm you.

Maekar, sitting at his desk with a few ledgers sprawled out, turns his head towards the sound of his doors being open but his face imperceptibly softens and he rises to properly greet you. "My daughter," he greets, walking towards you but his small smile just as quickly drops as you burst into tears a few feet away from him (you were always a daddy's girl and could never hide your emotions from him)

"Gods be fucking good.." Maekar whispers more so to himself as he stops walking, having never been good with emotions or comforting people with emotions, especially when his daughter out of nowhere breaks out into a sob the second she is inside. "What has gotten into you?" Maekar gruffly, his way of asking if you are alright. You struggle to catch your breath and can only cling onto your father, tears staining his doublet but that's the least of his worries. "Is it Baelor? Did he raise a fucking hand to you? I swear to the seve-"

"He did not strike me, father." you quickly clarify, maekar's face already becoming red as he immediately begins to assume and prepare for the worst, his shoulders drop slightly but his body is still a tad rigid as he awkwardly brings a hand to gently caress the top of your head, not entirely fond of the sounds of his daughter sobbing... when you're practically wailing in his ear.

"Whilst we were.... coupling-" you begin to explain,

"For fuck's sake girl!" Maekar protests as he takes a small step away from you but still keeping a "comforting" hand, not wanting to hear even the littlest bit of what his daughter and brother do.

"Father please! Just listen!" You try again, understanding that no father wants to hear about his daughter's sex life. "Whilst we were in our chambers, preforming our.. martial duties.... h-he called me by the wrong name.."

Now it is Maekar's turn to be speechless at the reason for his daughter's tears and sudden appearance. he blinks once.. then twice.. then once again because surely, his hearing no longer works and he grossly misheard what you just said.

"I'm sorry?" Maekar's already permanently furrowed brows furrow more, looking down at his daughter, waiting for you to say something completely different but the tears do all the talking for you and it is then that maekar realizes he heard you just fine.

"I'll fucking kill him." Maekar promises lowly after a moment of silence, already planning how to kill baelor and storming towards the door but you are the only thing standing between life and death for Baelor. You run up to your father and wrap your arms around his broad chest. "No father!" you cry out in panic, which even confuses you, any other lady would have carried out the grim deed herself but here you are pleading for his mercy. because for now, you don't know what you want to happen to baelor but you know that unfortunately you still love him but you cannot stay in those chambers when the memory of that woman haunts each brick stone. "Might I be able to sleep here tonight? I will sleep on the floor if I must but I do not want to go back." you plead and your throat constricts towards the end and it breaks maekar's heart, seeing his confident and outspoken daughter reduced to an insecure and trembling girl and he would rather face a thousand rebellions alone than to ever see his daughter so heartbroken and scared.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. You needn't plead like some starving dog. You take the bed." He pats your head one final time and presses a quick yet tender kiss to your temple as he gestures to his awaiting bed before returning to his own desk, still seething with anger but the sight of you asleep so peacefully does tug at the strings of his heart.

neither father nor daughter knows what's to come in the morning but you cannot help thinking back to the happy moments of your marriage whilst your eyelids grow heavy. even if your marriage is forever tainted by a woman who no longer walks the earth, you cannot deny that it felt nice to be the only woman.

[caitlynluna]

My reaction to Baelor calling y/n Jena ! I need some revenge! lol

[idksmtms]

Please I’ll give you my firstborn for a smutty af hate sex enemies to lovers vibe with baelor targaryen x niece reader?!?! Like maybe he sees her out with aerion similar to rahneara and daemon getting caught in the brothel getting it on and then they get into trouble but baelor takes reader back to somewhere dingy in the castle and she keeps talking back to him so he ends up fucking the shit out of her against the wall down one of the corridors… but he’s filthy choking her and keeping her quiet while she’s trying to push his buttons and tell him that he’s old so mustnt know what he’s doing etc etc ???! I cannot for the life of me find any rough sex with baelor when I know that man has it in him to be a dom!

Disobedience and Rage (Baelor Targaryen x Niece!reader)

A/N: Sorry for taking so long… you do not need to give me your firstborn, I think we’re even 😭 (and yes, I will die on the hill of Baelor being a dommm) 

Summary: Baelor is filled with anger when he catches you gallivanting off with your brother into the dangerous night of King’s Landing.  

Word count:  ~4.2k 

Tags: 18+/MDNI, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, (significant) age gap, younger!reader (20s), Targcest, canon typical INCEST, bratty!reader, period typical sexism (girls not wearing trousers/having sex/being outside on their own, etc), mention of Aerion x reader, SMUT, choking, degrading dirty talk (slut, whore), hand riding, PinV sex, (technically virginity loss but unrealistic), never proofread, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not claim to own any of the ‘A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms’ characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

“Your grace?” The knock at Baelor’s study was timid, the head poking around it even more so. The messenger was a young man, his face a little red and his breaths coming out as pants as he quickly slid in when Baelor beckoned him. 

“Yes?” He asked politely, putting his quill down and leaning back in his seat as the boy fidgeted in front of him, gazing down at the carpet rather than Baelor. 

“A… delicate matter has arisen, and the guards thought it would be better to inform you first before anyone else.” The boy picked his words carefully, glancing up at Baelor’s face then looking back down, like a nervous mouse venturing into new territory. 

Baelor’s brow furrowed, hands lacing in his lap as he leaned forward a little. 

“And what is this matter?” He asked, a certain firmness underlining his words. 

“Uhm,” the boy cleared his throat, cheeks going red. “Your niece and nephew, Princess Y/n, and Prince Aerion, were found in a brothel in Flea Bottom. It is not clear if anything untoward has happened, but the Princess is disguised in peasant’s clothes. A few gold cloaks were patrolling the area and they recognised Prince Aerion. The two have been smuggled back to the castle and the gold cloaks know to stay silent, but Ser Roland and Ser Donnal thought it best to inform you.” 

Baelor glared at the boy, though it was not meant for him. His jaw clenched tight, the muscle there ticking. His eyes became like stone and ice, and he harshly twisted a ring around his finger. 

He could not believe it. He could not believe the two of you would be so stupid. Well, he could believe it of Aerion, but you? He knew you were difficult, but to be so reckless? Baelor sighed, sharp and heavy, and then nodded to himself. 

“Thank the sers for their discretion and tell them to make sure the gold cloaks are paid well for the duties they have done. Take some payment for yourself as well, for your own duties and discretion.” Baelor offered the boy a pursed lip smile as he instantly began to bow and thank him for his generosity. He waved his hand in the air, nodding as the boy bowed again and began to leave. “One more thing,” Baelor called as the boy’s hand landed on the door handle. 

“Yes, your grace?” He asked quickly, almost stumbling as he turned around to face Baelor properly. 

“Where are the prince and princess?” 

“Both have been taken to their respective chambers, your grace.” 

“Thank you.”

Baelor’s footsteps were heavier than usual as he walked to your chambers. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides and his mind raced. 

There was no one that got under Baelor’s skin quite like you. It was an odd thing, you being his niece, most likely his favourite of all his brother’s children, but your attitude was simply… irritating. 

Aerion was irritating and predictable. He thought himself a dragon, believed himself above all others in his company and treated them as such. He was cruel and violent, but predictable at the end of the day, enjoying his drinking and whoring. 

You were just as irritating as your brother, but you had a more nuanced approach. You were generally happy and sweet, easy with your smiles and not particularly over the top with your demands. But when you became a victim to your own curiosity, or heaven forbid someone denied you of something you truly wanted, you became utterly insufferable. You were sharp with your tongue, rude and insubordinate. You threw tantrums with fits of crying and screaming and glared like anything. Baelor was sure that if you had been born as a dragon in the old days, you would have been like Vermithor, proud and vicious, or even like the Cannibal. 

He stood in front of your door, a fire simmering under his skin, setting his temper on edge. It would be better to settle himself, to ensure that he stayed calm and patient, that he did not give you the rise you expected out of your superiors with your behaviour. But it was late, and he was tired, and his patience had become increasingly short since Maekar and his brood had come to stay in the Red Keep over two months ago. 

He knocked once, hard and sharp, and then entered, uncaring for whatever response you may have offered him. He looked around the space, only to find it empty of your presence. Baelor felt that fire blaze a little more, fed by this sudden change. His hand clenched into a fist, his jaw clenched so hard it popped, and he swiftly spun around to head back out of your chambers. 

Baelor instead made track for Aerion’s chambers. If you were not in your rooms, then that would be where he found you, surely begging to garner more trouble. He caught up to you just at the corner before the hallway housing the boy’s chambers. 

You were dressed as the boy had described, like a little male peasant. Your trousers were patched and worn, your boots old and scuffed, and the grey throw over sort of thing you wore on top of your tunic had not seen better days for a very long time. A threadbare hat was pulled tight over your hair, and you were devoid of the jewellery you usually decked yourself with in droves. 

You were pressed to the wall at the corner, peeking around to see if there were any guards or servants walking the halls late at night before you decided to sneak to Aerion’s door. Baelor marched up to you and grabbed you by the arm just as you began to turn around at the noise. 

You gasped, mouth dropping open with a noise of indignation at the tight grip on your arm. When your eyes travelled up the velvet doublet and landed on your uncle’s bearded face, you blinked owlishly and gulped. His face was the picture of barely restrained rage, his eyes blazing with the fire so characteristic of your blood, the one that thrummed inside you at the sight of him. His nostrils flared when he huffed a breath and his mouth was set in a firm line. 

“Hello, Uncle,” you smiled sweetly, that charming smile that so oft got you away from punishment. 

“Do not greet me with such delicacy when you know very well that I am aware of your actions this evening.” His words were biting, harsher than you had ever heard them, and the smile slowly slid off your face. You blinked quickly, straightening up a little and hoping that if you softened your stance, he would let go of your arm. 

“I was only saying hello,” you answered demurely, as if your words were not pure provocation, and he almost growled. He tightened his hold on you, and rather than saying anything else, he began dragging you back down the hallway and away from Aerion’s chambers. You squirmed in his grip, whined a little, sharply asked him where he was taking you, but he did not say anything. 

Twists and turns in hallways and a set of staircases that were practically crumbling finally found you in an alcove in a dingy party of the castle where the torches were few and far between and the windows loomed dangerously over Blackwater Bay. The air was scented with the sea and you could hear it lapping at the walls below, a sharp drop down. This must be the place where all royals were berated for deeds that could not be voiced near any possible prying ears. 

Baelor practically tossed you away from him, letting go of you harshly and watching you stumble a little as you grabbed at your arm and rubbed at the place where his fingertips had dug in. You were pouting angrily, huffing and complaining about the bruises that would surely bloom there, but he ignored your grating voice. 

“I am the hand of the king,” he began firmly, glaring down at you. “Do you think I have the time to be handling irresponsible, disrespectful, young maidens intent on ruining their own lives?” 

Each word was spat from his mouth as if they were too disgusting to have even been formed there. His chest heaved with the effort to contain his anger, and you could not help but to trace your eyes over the lines of his broad shoulders, his veined hands clenched into fists. 

“You need not handle it,” you broke out petulantly, clasping your hands together and rocking back and forth on your heels. “You are not my father. It is not your job to be my disciplinarian.” 

This was surely not the answer Baelor was looking for as it only fueled the fire in his gaze. He took one stomping step forward, the sharp hit of his boot on the ground sending you stumbling back with a little gasp. 

“I may not be your father but I still have a rule over you, insolent girl. My brother has enough on his plate without knowing that his daughter is not only hellsbent on sullying her own reputation, but that of her house and the crown too.” 

You had never heard your uncle speak so sharply. You had watched him become stony when he reached the end of his patience, watched him dismantle a lord that had stepped too far with carefully chosen words, but you had never seen him lose his temper so. 

“I did no such thing!” You argued in return, crossing your arms tightly over your chest and glaring at him in return. “I only wanted to go out into the city like my brothers and cousins do, and the easiest way was to dress up as a peasant. It was Aerion who took me into the brothel and Aerion who kissed me first!” 

Baelor’s eyes widened a fraction, both irises flickering with a flame, and he stepped even closer to you, hands clenched and jaw grinding. 

“It does not matter who did what first. It matters that you were found in a brothel, compromised by your own brother!” His voice rose, sharp and hard in your ears. You had never heard him shout before either. 

“Surely that is no big thing,” you waved off, attempting another approach as you rolled your eyes and huffed. “Many a prince and princess have been caught sharing kisses, and even more of them have been Targaryens.” 

Baelor shut his eyes for a moment, taking in a sharp breath as he attempted to keep a handle on the temper that was already out of control. He leaned in close to you, so close he could smell your perfume, far too clean and flowery to be a peasant’s. You pressed yourself back a little, feeling the wall against your hands. 

“It is important in the wake of the Blackfyre Rebellion that House Targaryen stands strong,” he lectured, voice low, his words trembling a little with his rage. “We must show a united front, garner the respect of the bannermen and the common people.” Then he gritted his teeth. “How the fuck do you think we are meant to do that when the people see you gallivanting with your brother in brothels, sullying your reputation for all to enjoy?” Baelor was almost shouting in your face, his words callous and rough and so biting you felt them sinking their teeth into your skin. 

You stared at him with wide eyes, mouth dropped open and chest heaving with your breaths. You stared at him like a beast you had never encountered before, the kind of predator that one only discovered as it was unhinging its maw and readying to take a chunk from its prey. Your hands trembled at your sides and your spine went a little rigid, but if someone attempted to pull you away at that moment, you would have slapped them. 

“Are you jealous that Aerion and I were able to have fun, Uncle?” Your voice was taunting, spiteful, angry yet seductive. You were smirking a little, the kind that only appeared as a glint in the eye. “Perhaps you are only angry because you sat alone in your study while Aerion and I discovered true pleasure? It must be difficult to have had access to such joys as the Hei-” 

His hand shot up and gripped at your throat. His palm pressed into the front, cutting your voice off, and his fingers dug into the sides, pressing in just enough for you to feel it. The grip pushed your head harshly back into the wall, straightening your spine. His thumb dug up under your jaw and you gasped. 

Your eyes were bright and sparkling, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. He was filled with heat and anger and his eyes reflected only that. His chest heaved and pushed into yours, his breaths shooting from his nose. 

You had once watched a bull get loose of its ropes from your window. It had been huge and black, twisting and turning back and forth to keep watch on any who may have tried to come close to it. Though the beast had two black eyes, they had burned like coals in its anger. It had set its eyes on one of the farmer’s sons, a young boy holding the tattered rope for his father. The creature had planted its hooves, one of them coming up and pawing harshly at the ground. You remembered the sound, the drag of the hoof against the cobbles, the huffing the creature let out, the bellow from within it as it readied to charge at the boy. 

You felt like the boy now, being stared down by a large beast, chomping at the bit to destroy you. Except, you were quite sure that the boy did not want the creature to lose all control as you did. 

One of your hands rested on his shoulder, clenched into his doublet there, then moved down a little to grasp his collar instead. You licked your lips as you gazed up into his eyes, pushing further into his hand. 

“Would you kiss me, Uncle?” You asked then, smirking as you watched his eyes flash with surprise. You had not often seen him surprised either. 

You did not let him answer, using your hold on his collar to drag him down to your mouth, but you were not very strong and he had been forged by battle. Whatever illusion of control you may have grasped for a moment was quick to dissolve. He leaned down just enough for your mouth to brush his, just the edges of your lips grazing the edges of his. 

“Do you think you deserve one after your behaviour this evening?” He murmured, and you could almost taste him, could feel the words entering your mouth and settling in your throat. 

“Yes,” you breathed out instantly, holding him tighter. “I think I deserve many kisses from you, regardless of my behaviour on any evening.” He smirked at that, a glint appearing in his eye that was more touched by mischief than rage like before. 

“You are an insolent brat,” he breathed, brushing your nose with his. “You are disrespectful, and careless, and flaunt your own depravity as if it is something to be proud of.” 

“I am proud of it,” you responded, your voice as light as his. “If it were not for that, I would never have been in the position I am in right now.” 

Baelor’s chest rumbled, and you were not sure if it was a groan or a growl. You licked your lips again, watched him closely.

“Tell me, Uncle,” you began again, the taunting in your voice too obvious, “when you heard the news, did you think of your own days of mischief? Of your own hot nights in brothels? Or are you perhaps too old to remember those days now?” You quirked your brow at him, biting your lower lip a little as you leaned as far forward as you could under the grip of his hand. You brushed your nose against his, hoping to coax him into a kiss. 

His hand tightened on your throat, pressing you back to the wall harshly, and you gasped. He leaned in closer, his chest a firm wall in front of you, his warmth engulfing you like flames in a housefire. His other hand ran down the side of your body, brushing your breast, your ribs, then your thigh. He dug his fingers into the flesh there and hoisted your leg up and over his hip. 

You gasped, almost moaned, and held tight to him as he spread your legs a little in the position, pressing his front between them heavily. Your leg curled over his hip and around onto his back, your cunt pressing firmly against his pelvis. 

“Perhaps you should be sullied,” he growled out, panting against your mouth. “Perhaps you do not deserve your honour if you cannot respect it.” 

You could not bite back a retort, could not say anything in response with his mouth so close, with the heat clawing at your skin and turning you damp. You felt the pulse between your legs, felt the haze gathering in your mind. 

You stuck your tongue out and dragged the tip over his lips. It was the final push, the thing that made him lean in and claim your mouth. His kiss was a conquest, his mouth firm on top of yours, devouring your lips. His beard rubbed against your cheeks and chin, rough and bordering on overstimulating in its harshness. 

He clenched his hand on your thigh even harder, digging his fingertips in so harshly you keened with the blunt pain. His tongue was in your mouth, invading the space, and you moaned around it. One of your hands rested on his shoulder, palm pressed to the curve, fingertips digging into the back of it. Your other went to the back of his neck then up into his hair, carding your fingers through the short strands at the back of his skull as he sucked the air from your lungs. 

Baelor reached down and grasped the hem of your tattered trouser, fingers digging between your stomach and the fabric. They slipped into the top of your small clothes too, gripping harshly and pushing down. You dropped your leg from his hip, just enough to allow him to rid you of the clothing, and when it was kicked off of that leg, you raised it right back up. Your cunt pressed to his pelvis again and you shivered at the feeling of his thick trousers rubbing almost harshly against the sensitive skin. 

Baelor pulled his mouth from yours and kissed across your cheek and jaw, harsh things that pressed his teeth to the flesh more than his lips. He went to the spot behind your ear and bit there as you gasped and whined, head thrown back and eyes fluttering. 

“You are a fucking nightmare,” he spat against your ear, biting the shell of it. “You are a nuisance, a nymph and a devil personified.” 

He bit you there again, hard on the thin skin, and you squealed. He pulled back, just enough to bring the hand that gripped your thigh up to his mouth. He spat against his palm, the sound thick and vulgar in your ear, and you watched it with hazy, half-lidded eyes. He slid the hand down between your bodies, then pressed the flat of his palm firmly against your cunt. 

You were wet there, slick and sticky, and his palm slipped a little as it pressed the lips of your cunt open and rubbed against your hole and clit. You moaned through closed lips, rising up a little on one foot, almost to escape the unrelenting pressure. He rubbed it back and forth, ensuring the heel of his palm pressed firmer to your nub. The heat of it, the roughness and the wetness combined made your face contort in pleasure-pain and you were torn between humping his hand like a desperate animal and rising up to your toes to run from it. 

He did not give you a choice, and if you rose, he chased, making sure your nub was constantly rubbed, constantly pressed. You whined and moaned, breathless and spent and a creature incapable of coherence. You came once just that way. 

Baelor watched you as it happened, kept his face close but his eyes open, catching your eyes screwing shut and your mouth dropping open, feeling the shudder of your entire body as you spilled against his hand. 

“Do you wish to be called a slut?” He murmured against your skin, bending his head to lick at your neck. “Do you wish for the walls to whisper ‘whore’ as you traipse by?” You mumbled something in disagreement, your mouth slack and unable to form around the ‘no’ you attempted to say. “You behave as though you do. Look at you now, slack-jawed and dumb. You are a slave to your own pleasure.” 

You moaned even just at his words, at the way they spiked through your ear and went straight to your brain and your core. You had not known that seeing Baelor in this way, seeing him so angry and undone, seeing him so vulgar would be your undoing. 

Baelor pulled his palm away from your cunt but used the hand to undo the laces of his trousers. He shoved the hem down just enough to pull his cock out, and then he notched it at your entrance. You breathed harshly, squirming in his grip, but he did not relent, pushing his chest into yours and pinning you to the wall. He held you there with his torso and gripped your other thigh to hoist you up into his arms. You gasped at it, digging your fingers into him to steady yourself at the change in balance. 

He held each thigh in one hand, hooked them firmly over his hips, then pushed his cock steadily into you. He groaned against your face, his mouth pressed haphazardly to your cheek. You clenched your eyes shut and turned your face to the ceiling. You were being speared open, like someone had stuck their thumbs into a tangerine and was peeling it apart. You hoped the fruit felt half as good as you did in your destruction. 

Baelor pulled his hips back and hurriedly pushed them in again. Once more. Then it was just happening over and over. You were wrapped around him, your cunt suffocating his cock, your legs like vines over his waist, your arms like ropes around his shoulders, tying him close. You were surrounded by him, his body heavy over yours, his face in your eyes, his scent in your nose. 

He looked almost in pain as he fucked you, eyes screwed shut and mouth dropped open. His breaths were hot puffs and groans against you, wetting your cheek where your faces moulded together. You licked his cheek, dragged your tongue over the hair of his beard and the clean tasting skin underneath. 

The two of you became lost to the pleasure in his hurried motions. His cock dragged and pushed inside you. Your clit pulsed and rubbed deliciously against the place above his cock. You felt everything begin to implode inside you. You felt the pleasure rising higher and higher, felt it in the tips of your toes where they curled inside your boots. You gripped him tighter, sucked him in. You moaned into his chin and bit the flesh of his cheek. You pulsed, writhed, filled up with heat. 

“Unh!” You moaned it right from the depths of your throat, from that thick place that was only used when in the throes of pure instinct. Your hands scrabbled against his back, and you pushed your hips forward to fuck him to the last. 

Baelor gripped your thighs harshly, dragged one hand up to the curve of your behind and dug his fingers in the plush flesh there. He used it to pull your hips closer, to curve them up so he could fuck you even deeper. He pumped and pumped and then came into you, pulsed and spurted and filled you with his seed. He moaned when he came, long and low like an animal. 

Both of you panted, wild and hot still. The air was sticky between you, charged and angry still. You blinked your eyes open, looked right into his. He stared back at you, and both of you would blame the other for having such a blazing gaze. You stared, he stared, and then his mouth was hot on yours again, kissing you like it was far more important than breathing. When he pulled away, he kept his eyes shut as he murmured, “insolent, depraved, creature.” And you could not be sure if he was speaking about you, or himself.

Taglist: @mxxny-lupin, @risefallrise, @thorins-queen-of-erebor (I know you said in a comment you're not a fan of this type of stuff, but I felt too guilty not tagging you so I'm sorry if you did not want to see this :')

[opheliaandherpeaches]

Why not me?

Summary: Ever since your husband Baelor Targaryen accidentally called you the wrong name and confessed to still loving his first wife, he has been living with the consequences and soon he realizes that he might lose what could be a great love when his brother threatens to send you away.

Baelor Targaryen x Targwife!reader

cw: MDNI 18+ NSFW, afab!reader. angst and heavy groveling. implied age gap (20's and early 40's) typical targcest. reader is maekar's daughter. use of female pronouns and y/n. Swearing. reader has targ features. mentions of violence and death.

part one

It had been nearly the turn of three moons since your uncle did the unimaginable and called you by his deceased wife's name during what should have been a moment of bonding between lord and wife. three moons since you last spoke to your husband, or even stayed in the same room as him for longer than a few short minutes.

a woman your age could not know greater pain. knowing that perhaps your marriage was never entirely your own, nor your husband, but how could you live in that truth when you were not given the proper equipment to deal with such a thing? you were a royal princess by blood and many men would break oaths, alliances, and throw away their loyalty to everyone else for your hand, so how was it that a member of your family no less, could make you feel less than insignificant? you looked in the mirror all you saw was that you were not Jena Dondarrion, and little by little, it began to break you. your mind turned against you. you could barely eat and you barely slept because all you could think about was your aunt and impossible questions you were not sure you wanted the answers to.

you began thinking if you were chosen to be baelor's new wife because maybe you reminded him of her, perhaps not in looks, but in mannerisms maybe, maybe your laugh sounds similar enough where baelor can pretend it's Jena for a few seconds. maybe you were picked because you weren't as pretty as she was and baelor preferred it that way? you drove yourself to the brink of madness with these comparisons and second-guessing.

the morning after the incident your father demanded that all your belongings be brought to his rooms so that you could temporarily be relieved of your wifely duties (maekar really just wanted to keep an eye on you out of concern but he would never admit that) but gradually maekar began seeing changes in your personality and routines. seldom did you leave your father's chambers for the better half of a moon. you were always good at avoiding people maekar recalls, even if it was at your own expense. which meant you avoided the library because you can paint with your eyes closed how warm Baelor looks when he manages to escape his duties and hide away with you with a book. you avoided the grand hall because you knew Baelor would try to speak to you either while you break your fast or when you join him and your cousins (step-sons?) for supper. and much to your dismay, you avoid the gardens because each flower brings back the bittersweet memory of your uncle proposing to you in front of your favorite flowers. No place is safe you figure, so you remain locked inside your father's rooms.

for every memory in the Red Keep you have with Baelor, he is sure to have tenfold of memories with his first wife.

and that is where you go every time you close your eyes,

to your memories.

after you cry yourself to exhaustion or your father slips you milk of the poppy when the tears cease to quit, you replay memories to keep your mind from truly breaking.

If baelor cannot be what you need in the world of the living then in your memories he will be the most loving and devoted husband and in your sleep he will say I love you, y/n.

"Maekar please," baelor voice rings out across the stoney hallways, both brothers having just finished an unmemorable small council meeting, baelor picks up the pace as he attempts to catch up to his little brother whom he does not remember being so fast.

"Brother!" the dark haired Targaryen calls out once more but to no avail, any other highborn lord would be mortified at making such a display of himself but baelor cares not since only few know what is at stake. Panic begins to settle into baelor as maekar continues to give his brother metaphorically, the cold shoulder, and literally, his backside as he continues to walk down the long hall. baelor understands that his chances of reconciliation are slim but all he cares for as he damn near bursts into a jog, is to at least hear from his brother that his wife is okay. Baelor sighs as he halts in the middle of the hallway lined with knights, and as maekar continues to stomp further away from baelor, it's obvious where you get your stubbornness from.

baelor hates what he must do next, but when it comes to matters of his wife, he is willing to make the greatest fool of himself.

"Your prince commands you to halt!" baelor barks out the order with that uncharacteristically demanding voice, and immediately 4 knights come to place themselves in front of maekar who comes to a screeching halt, all their hands on the pommel of their swords because they all know who stands in front of them. baelor feels guilty using his birthright over his brother but he is also optimistic that some good might come out of this forced interaction.

"Fucking insolent mule-brained wretch..." Maekar darkly mutters under his breath as he very reluctantly turns to face his older brother and begins to walk in the opposite direction with a deadpan expression, inching closer and closer to his brother until they are around arms length from each other and the knights have to pretend they are not listening in. "Do you understand why I have yet to kill you?" Maekar begins, eyes narrowing in disdain for the man in front of him, and hands holding tightly onto the journals he holds to stop himself from jumping onto his brother until he's pulled off.

"I beg your pardon?" Baelor responds, having not expected his brother to open with such hostility.

"I mean truly, how idiotic can a man be? You dare call my daughter by another woman's name? Have you taken leave of your fucking senses, brother?" Maekar retorts, scarred face becoming increasingly red and knuckles turning white as he grips onto his journals.

"I do not wish to quarrel. I only mean to ask about the well-being of my wife." Baelor's eyes become filled with desperation and concern as he pleads with his brother, chest tightening at the idea of his beloved wife being upset over him. Maekar lets out a small huff, eyes rolling almost to the back of his head. "You have been asking for three godsdamned moons if your wife is okay and to answer your question, your grace, y/n is not fucking okay! Her constant wailing has been a stake in my side and she now refuses to eat or to even rise from bed. I haven't the faintest fucking idea how I am meant to help my daughter feel better when I already have imbecilic sons that also require my fucking attention!" and it is like a boulder being finally lifted off maekar's chest with a final sigh.

baelor heart breaks somehow even more, his brother's answer is the opposite of what Baelor wanted to hear and now he is discovering how his stupid mistakes are now effecting others. "I beg, please tell me what I might do to repair this. I can see this is putting a great st-"

"Do not even begin to imply my own fucking daughter is burdening me! because need I remind you she now sleeps in my rooms because of you." Maekar shouts and hisses, having to take a few seconds to calm himself down before seriously considering fratricide.

"I know, maekar. I do," baelor sighs out, running a hand through his short hair. "I live with the consequences of my own faults every morn, and every night I do not fall asleep next to y/n it pains me greatly. But it pains me even more knowing that what I feel is nothing in comparison to the grief I had caused." and the younger Targaryen scoffs at that, how noble baelor must think he sounds.

"You will see my daughter whenever she and I allow it and not a moment before. Now I must go before I harm the heir to the throne. Good day to you, brother." Maekar responds without giving his brother any opportunity to respond and finally, maekar is once again saved from being sent to the dungeons.

"My child," maekar calls out once entering his private chambers, walking to his desk to set down his journals on top of his large wooden desk, but once he turns to face you and sees an empty glass vial on the nightstand and your sleeping form hidden under the furs, he sighs and walks towards you. gently, he raises a few of the furs and can only stare at your peaceful face in admiration and unease.

how he wishes his own wife were still alive.

This cannot go on any longer. maekar thinks, at the rate you are currently going at, you will have consumed the Red keep's entire supply of milk of the poppy and make the gardens dry out. So, as a father maekar must think about what is to be done. On one hand, he would have allowed you to live with him for as long as you wanted, but on the other, he can only shield you from so much and at the end of the day, he is still a prince of the crown and has duties that would keep him from you.

for that entire night maekar contemplates like the battle strategist that he is. Thoughts of annulment come to mind first but a royal divorce is not something commonly practiced, baelor is sure to sniff you out if you were to move to a different wing of the keep, and maekar can't think of a third option until the sun peeks out over the Rhaenys' hill and it hits him dramatically like in the plays.

Summerhall.

only a day's ride away and not unfamiliar to you or your family. it was big enough for a woman of your station and you already had a few trunks and chests over there, though it had been awhile since you last stepped foot inside of summerhall. That morning when you eventually woke, maekar quickly explained his plan for you and immediately you agreed, claiming that a change of scenery would be nice for you. While presenting the idea to his parents proved to be a challenge, Daeron and Myriah had never seen their son so concerned and emotional, so they had no choice but to allow their favorite granddaughter to leave the warmth of the keep. that same day, you began packing your clothes and necessities. Your father had left to assemble a company and to ensure everything would be ready for your arrival so you took these few moments to enjoy the tranquility of the silence.

until it was no longer silent.

you let out a yelp of shock as the doors to your father's chambers burst open, you instinctively brace yourself with your arms covering your face but the moment you hear that one man's voice, you freeze. like a doe coming face to face with a wolf.

how you wish you could be the wolf.

"You mean to leave me?" Baelor breathlessly questions with a wild look in your eyes, having just knocked out two of your father's guards just for this moment.

For a long moment you both stand motionless, you almost can't believe he's standing in front of you. "How do you know?" is the only thing you can squeak out, you mentally slap yourself for sounding so small, so very terrified.

Baelor reaches you in four short strides and for a moment you think he really will raise a hand to you but what he does instead shocks you even more.

he falls to his knees and buries his face into your skirts, clinging to them as if you are a figment of his imagination and he'll awake any minute.

"I am nothing without you, y/n." your husband whimpers out, his entire body violently trembling and you could swear you feel a few damp spots on your skirts. "I belong with you.. I belong to you. I will abdicate the iron throne if you ask it, you may drain mine and the realm's coffers dry if that is what you wish but I beg you, please do not leave me."

"It is my father who wishes for me to leave." you respond in a neutral tone, though you can feel your resolve crack. so you stick to keeping both arms at your side because you know if you do not, your hand will somehow find itself caressing his skin, even if you are still mad at him.

"My brother is a fucking fool." Baelor hisses, finally looking up at you. his cheeks glistening with what you can only presume to be tears that silently fell. you've never heard Baelor swear before, since you were a girl he told you that he found such words has no necessity in the world you live in.

"Your father does not love you like I do. No lord in all of Westeros could ever hope to possess even half the love I have for you. I understand why I must be punished but you do not have to leave what you know to be your home." You feel tears prick your eyes and threaten to spill over but you cannot lie and say that this moment isn't exactly what you wanted.

"I care not for anything that is not you. I cling to your pillows every night, I-I spray your perfumed oils in the air so that I might remind myself of your smell... and I even order the kitchens to prepare your favorites every meal even when I know you shan't join me but please.. do not leave me." your husband begins to ramble, his voice strained and unsteady but you can tell he's earnest.

"Baelor... I-I..." you trail off, looking down at the man begging on his knees in front of you.

he lets out a shaky sigh as he nuzzles the side of his head on your leg, eyes fluttering closed. "Even hearing you say my name makes me feel as though I am being blessed by the Mother herself... please... I want to give you everything... more crowns, more gowns, I wish to give you children you can call your own.. I wish to be nothing other than your husband. I am not worthy of you but if you would allow me to prove just how much I worship you... ñuha rȳbasor jorrāelagon..."

his words send sharp pangs through your body, you desperately want to reach down and smash your lips onto his but there's still a storm brewing within you and you aren't sure what to lead with.

your heart or your mind.

"I can never replace your first wife," you whisper as you lock eyes with baelor. you'd almost forgotten how warm his eyes feel and you hate how much you've missed him. but you can't ignore how these past months have affected you so, nor can you forgive him so easily for his past transgressions.

baelor shakes his head at your statement, not to reprimand you or shame you but to dispel such thoughts from out your head.

"I was but a boy when I met Jena, but here I am before you, as a man full grown. You needn't ever compare yourself to her because I married either one of you at different points in my life. She is my past and I cannot help but love my children she has given me, but you..."

he pauses, finally rising to his full height to gently take your hands into his.

"you are my future."

"so please, Queen of beauty and of my heart... return to me and I will make sure you will never come to regret this decision." he murmurs softly, leaning down slightly and lowering his voice to something adjacent to a purr. tears begin to cascade down your face as you fling yourself onto Baelor, sobbing into his chest whilst your arms wrap around him. Baelor protectively wraps his long arms around your body and turns you so his back is facing the open doors. you feel soft kisses being pressed on top of your head, kisses that slowly chip away at the high brick walls you have surrounded yourself with.

"I love you, y/n" Baelor whispers into your hair, it would take all of the armies in Westeros to pry him off of you at this moment.

"I've killed men for less," suddenly a third voice appears but you both recognize it in an instant. your spiritual twin. your father.

he slowly walks up to you both as you two pull yourselves off of each other, his broad arms stretched across his chest with an un-amused expression and demeanor. "Brother," he simply greets, no real bite behind his words.

"brother," Baelor nods, holding you close by his side as you look up at your father with large doe-like eyes, visibly more scared than your husband. though you can't tell for sure who should be more scared.

"I see you two have made up." maekar observes with a cocked eyebrow, looking at the pair of you like insolent children about to recieve a scolding.

"we did." Baelor responds with a cheerful smile, pressing a firm kiss to your temple as you let out a small chuckle, wiping your face dry of any tears or half formed tears.

"ah." maekar responds with a curt nod, walking up to Baelor and silently motioning for you to take a few steps away from him. you already know what's to come but it seems as though your husband does not.

maekar delivers a quick yet powerful backhand slap to his older brother's cheek, seemingly not even breaking a sweat. "That's for upsetting my daughter."

Baelor's head whips to the side forcibly, letting out a grunt more in surprise than in any real pain but before he has even a second to recover, he feels himself being hit in the abdomen with much more force this time. (Baelor would later note that it indeed hurt, quite a lot.)

"And that's for making me hear about how you and my daughter fuck. Now both of you get the hell out of my chambers. I need a break from the both of you." Maekar grunts out, pushing his silver locks back into place and out of his face.

You cringe at your father's violence towards your husband but better him than me you think as you help your husband back to what is now your chambers again. how you've missed these walls but this time around shall be different.

you slowly begin to regain your self-confidence and resume your hobbies and all the things you loved before. though you may forever hold insecurities, you can now comfortably live with them and work on them.

and if all else fails, you'll let your father beat the shit out of your husband.

taglist!!: @xxxkat3xxx @diannana @baelorenthusiast @mondtaenzerinsworld @analuisacoelho2008-blog @bia-n-t-d @effieinwonderland @antobooh @kittiowolf210 @giovax @isisssmunoz @cwufst @ccmoonshine @luvxlena @gotham-lady @horrorjunkieweirdo @reevesdriver @only4thefics @perla434 @thecardinalsinnerwp @xkatherinexo @seltansworld @shhhhehe @afyreinjuly @voldemortsnose99 @youngkingdomnacho @xinyourdreamsx @vikliapustina-blog @someonehereisstupid @sigilofdragonfly @fandom-puff @kyvillasstuff @blueflowerstranger @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @fushigurosbabygirl @saturnknows @claerysa @lolabunnyworldss

[caitlynluna]

Baelor certainly graveled. I’d accept his apology him on his knees begging for forgiveness.

I love Maekar even more! I couldn’t help but laugh when he slapped Baelor, no hesitation just let him be slapped. Cause Baelor certainly deserved it. Also of course she was able to mention that his sons were imbeciles.

“Better him then me” lmfaoo 😂😂

[haythams-blade]

ℂ𝕠𝕕𝕖𝕩𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣, 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟚𝟘- 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖

Haytham Kenway x f.reader

Summary: Haytham recovers from his fatal stab wound, and his wife is concerned for their future.

Rating: all my works are +18 // Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, talk of death

{a//n: This follows after the death of reginald birch, probably gonna make a mini series since this is just an extension of my other Haytham/reader works! I'll eventually stop writing in third person. }

Haytham had nearly died in her arms.

The wound was still there, a puckered and angry scar just beneath his left collarbone, tracing a path dangerously close to his heart. She had memorized its geography—the ridge where the skin had been stitched, the paler pink of newer tissue, the way he flinched when he thought no one was watching. She saw everything. He thought he was so careful, so controlled, so Haytham about it all—but she saw, and even now she couldn't rid the image from her mind.

(y/n) snapped herself from the memory, as she stood in the large french kitchen, her hand resting on the swell of her bump as though she could quiet the restlessness of the child by sheer will. The last of the evening sunset was creeping in through the shutters in red & gold slats, illuminating the dust that floated between the rooms like tiny ghosts. She watched them for a moment, those motes of nothing, and envied them their weightlessness.

She was now almost nine months gone now, and the child inside her seemed to know it. The child’s kicks had grown more insistent and purposeful, as if the baby were becoming increasingly impatient—a trait they undoubtedly inherited from their father—ready to take its first breaths of life, and to meet it's parents.

But (y/n) wasn't sure if she was ready. Not yet. Not when "what came next" for her and her family still felt like a question with no answer.

She exhaled slowly and looked down at the shaving kit in her hand, and the shaving bowl in her other hand, the straight razor resting against its edge, the brush and soap tucked beneath her arm. She had been looking forward to this small act of tenderness all day, tending to her husband, caring for him in the way only a wife could.

As she made her way through the hallway to Haytham's chambers, she heard familiar footsteps coming from behind her, quick and heavy in the way that meant Jim Holden was moving with purpose.

"Ma'am."

She turned to meet Jim, who stood in the hall doorway, his familiar frame filling it almost entirely. His hair was unkempt, his shirt collar open, and there was a look on his face that she had come to recognize as his particular brand of professional concern, the kind that tried very hard not to look as worried as it actually was.

"I don't suggest you go in there right now," he spoke with a tone of guilt as he nodded in the direction of her husbands room.

She felt the familiar tightening of anxiety in her stomach. She knew it meant that her husband, and sister-in-law were having another dispute.

"What are they arguing about now?" she asked, though she suspected she already knew.

Jim hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Lucio," he sighed. "Haytham's still wound up about it. Wants to make the boy pay for what he did."

She closed her eyes for a moment. Of course he did. His pride was hurt and he had become paranoid over the young man.

"How long?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe longer. Jennifer started it this time, if that matters."

"It doesn't."

Jim leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms, trying to hide his weary amusement. "No. I didn't think it would."

(y/n) set the shaving kit back on the hallway table, then picked it up again, then set it down once more, unsure of how to proceed .

But she decided that she wasn't going to stand here and wait for two people she loved to tear each other apart. Not today.

"Let's go," she said, already dreading what was to come.

~

The two made their way toward the bedroom where the argument was being held, and the pair stood together outside Haytham's bedroom door. (y/n) leaning slightly against the wall for support, Jim standing close enough to catch her if she swayed or fainted, which she had done twice in the last week.

(y/n) signalled for her friend to wait outside in the hallway.

She took a step forward, her hand reaching for the door handle. But Jim caught her arm gently, his touch unexpected.

Jim hesitated. "Are you sure? You don't have to listen to this. Please, let me," he said quietly so they weren't heard. "You shouldn't be exerting yourself. Not in your condition."

She smiled tiredly, appreciating her friends concern but knowing that this was something she had to do herself.

"Thank you, Jim," she said, "but this is my husband. My family. I have to try."

Jim studied her for a moment, then nodded respectfully and stepped back. Once again she looked down at the shaving supplies in her hands, she needed this task. She needed the ordinary. Any distraction would do.

The voices inside were unmistakable.

"—so you'll just kill him, then," Jennifer argued. Her voice carried the particular sharpness it took on when she was upset, the clipped, precise enunciation of someone who had learned long ago that anger was only effective when it was controlled. "A boy. You'll kill a boy."

"A boy who drove a blade into my chest, and he won't be a boy for much longer." Haytham replied.

His voice was lower than it used to be—rougher, still carrying the gravel of fever and exhaustion. There were moments when his wife heard it, and she would feel a fresh wave of fear, because it reminded her of those terrible days when his voice had been nothing more than a rasp at best.

"He was acting out of grief, Haytham." Jennifer's voice cracked on his name. "His mother was Birch's prisoner. A slave. She died because of Birch's doings—and what you allowed Birch to do. And now you want to hunt him down, and kill him for trying to avenge her, like we did father?"

"He is a threat, I cannot take the risk of allowing him to live." Haytham replied coldly.

"He is a child who lost everything!"

"Children grow up, Jennifer. And a threat unaddressed is a threat that festers."

(y/n) closed her eyes briefly. Of course. It was always about Lucio now, about the wound that had nearly taken Haytham's life. The boy had been young—too young, she thought, to understand the full weight of what he'd done. But Haytham had allowed Reginald Birch to keep the boy's mother as a prisoner, a slave in all but name. That knowledge had fueled Lucio's rage, and he'd struck in the only way he could when he had the chance.

(y/n) felt Jim shift beside her. She reached out, without looking, and placed her hand on his forearm to still him, as she tried to eavesdrop on the argument.

Inside, there was now a silence. The heavy, and dangerous type, the kind that preceded either reconciliation or destruction when it came to the Kenway's.

(y/n) held her breath.

"Do you hear yourself?" Jennifer's voice had dropped to something quieter now, more dangerous. "Do you actually hear yourself? You talk about threats, strategies, and the Order as though the rest of us are just pieces on your board. As though what happened to that boy is just...collateral. His mother's death was acceptable loss." She paused.

"You nearly died, Haytham. And you still haven't learned, and to think you had grown into a better man than father."

"Jenny—"

"No. You don't get to 'Jenny' me. Not this time."

(y/n) heard movement—the scrape of a chair, perhaps, and the sound of footsteps.

"You let Birch keep that woman. You knew exactly what was happening Haytham, and you did nothing. And now you want to kill the person, who has every reason right to hate you for it, you took his mother from him, you and your order. That's not the Kenway way, Haytham. That's not even a human way."

"And what would you have me do?" Haytham's voice was rising now, and his wife could hear the pain in it—the physical pain that came with raising his voice, with the deep breath it required, with the wound that was still healing.

"Let him come for me again, or even better my wife and child? Let him find me while I'm—" He stopped. "While I'm like this?"

"You do not get to use you're family as an excuse—" her voice dropped with venom, "—your wife has been here, tending to you, carrying your child, while you've been unconscious or raving with fever. And now you want to drag her into your vengeance? Is that what a good husband does?"

"Jenny." (y/n) knocked, before placing her palm flat against the door. She didn't push it open. Not yet. "That's enough."

The voices inside stopped.

Jim looked down at her with a grimace. "You sure about this?"

"No," she said honestly. "But I'm going in anyway."

She pushed the door open with the hand that wasn't holding the shaving kit and stepped inside.

Haytham was sitting on the edge of the bed. Or rather, he was attempting to sit on the edge of the bed, his left hand gripped the mattress, his right braced against his thigh, and his jaw was clenched tight enough that she could see the muscle working beneath the skin. He was wearing a loose shirt, unbuttoned halfway with dark chest hair showing, his face was drawn with pain and frustration in equal measure, but she couldn't help but admire how attractive he looked with his dark hair down—she couldn't help but wonder if their child would inherit his good looks. She also noticed his skin held color again, no longer the greyish pallor of the infection, but there were still shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before all of this. He looked like he had aged so much in the last few months. But she did notice a couple grey strands. Still, in her eyes he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. He aged like fine wine.

Jennifer stood by the window, her arms crossed, her expression caught somewhere between righteous anger and worry for her brother. She looked like she was at her wits end, though she would never admit it. She was wearing a dress that her sister-in-law had lent her.

"(y/n)," Haytham said, his voice softening despite his anger. "You shouldn't be up. You should be resting."

She ignored the comment and all it's irony, focusing instead on the tension that filled the room.

"I've come to shave you," she smiled gently, her voice steady despite her growing exhaustion. "Jenny, would you mind giving us some time? I think we've all had enough argument for one day."

Jennifer's eyes narrowed stubbornly like a true kenway, and she held (y/n)'s gaze challengingly. For a moment, (y/n) thought she would refuse—but then Jennifer uncrossed her arms, her posture relaxing slightly and released an exasperated sigh.

"I didn't mean for you to hear—"

"I know. But I think all of this town can hear the two of you bickering. You definitely share the same stubbornness." She smiled half heartedly, and held up the shaving kit. "Now please let me shave the stubble, it doesn't suit you my love."

She turned from Haytham to Jennifer, who was now looking out the window with a pout on her face, trying her best to give her brother the cold shoulder.

"Jenny. I'm sorry."

Jennifer turned her attention back to (y/n). "For what?"

"For not getting here sooner." (y/n) sighed, and set the shaving kit down on the small table by the door and crossed the room to Jennifer. "You're both exhausted, and you're both hurting, and neither of you is thinking clearly. I know that because I'm not thinking clearly either."

Jennifer stared at her. Then, slowly, something in her posture softened hesitantly. The crossed arms loosened, the rigid set of her shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

"Fine," she huffed.

(y/n) reached out and pulled her into a hug. Jennifer stiffened for a moment, she was never good at this, never comfortable with tenderness, especially now after everything she's been through, but then she relented, and her arms came up around she reciprocated the hug.

"I'm sorry too," Jennifer apologized gently. "I shouldn't be causing more stress to this already stressful situation, I know this isn't healthy for you or the child."

"It's not good for any of us," (y/n) reminded her softly. "But we'll manage. We have gone this long without killing each other, let's not break that streak before we get back to England okay?"

She released Jennifer and gave her a gentle push toward the door. "Go get some air. Talk to Jim. He'll make you tea, and you'll pretend it's not terrible."

"I heard that," Jim called half defensively from the hallway.

"I know you did." she yelled back.

Jennifer moved toward the door, passing (y/n) with a curt nod. As she reached the doorway, she paused, her hand resting on her sister-in-laws arm.

"Take care of yourself," she said, her voice quieter now. "And take care of of my niece of nephew. Haytham is not worth the stress."

Jennifer almost smiled as she slipped past (y/n), to meet Jim outside in the hall.

(y/n) smiled weakly. "I'll try."

But Jim gave his old friend one last look over his shoulder, a mixture of concern and admiration, as he followed Jenny down the hallway, she nodded to him with a soft smile, and closed the door softly behind them.

The room was quiet now. The kind of quiet that followed after storms, not peaceful, exactly, but cleared.

(y/n) sighed deeply, as she turned back to face Haytham.

He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but something had shifted in his posture. He was trying to hide his pain from her. Yet she could see right through her husband, and she saw what looked like a man who had been fighting for so long that he had forgotten how to stop.

She didn't scold him like he had expected. Instead, she turned to fetch the remaining shaving items, her movements slow and deliberate. The pregnancy had made her clumsier than usual, and thrown her balance off. Every step felt like an effort.

But Haytham's voice stopped her as she walked to reach for the basin of water. "You're walking too fast," he said, his tone sharp. "You'll strain yourself."

She paused, turning to look at him. A side small smile tugged at her lips at his worry, before brushing off his worry with her hand. "I'm pregnant, darling, not dying."

"You exhaust me sometimes woman," he said, but there was a hint of relief in his eyes as she moved back toward him. "Sit down before you fall."

She rolled her eyes, but did as he asked once she slowly made her way back to him, before lowering herself slowly onto the small stool beside the bed. The same stool that she spent many long days, and sleepless nights sat by his side waiting, and praying for her husbands health to return. It was low to the ground, and her bump made it difficult to sit comfortably, but she managed, her hand resting on her stomach as she tried to find a position that didn't squish the baby, more so her bladder though.

Haytham reached out, his large hand catching her arm to steady her. "Careful," he murmured, his touch gentle despite his gruffness.

She didn't need his help, but she didn't comment on it, his pride was delicate these days. She also secretly enjoyed him dotting on her.

(y/n) dipped the brush in the basin of warm water that she had Jennifer set out before her argument with Haytham.

She worked the water against the soap, and began to build a lather.

"Come closer," she requested softly.

He didn't move immediately.

She watched him push himself lean closer to her ever so slowly, and carefully, even this simple movement he had calculate to minimize the strain on his torso. He kept his left hand pressed against his side, not quite hiding the pain but not broadcasting it either.

His eyes shut for the briefest second as he got closer, which told her more than anything else could have. The Haytham Kenway she had married, the Haytham who had swept through her life like a force of nature, all confidence and charisma, and that infuriating, magnetic certainty—would have insisted on doing this in a more dignified location, and not on their bed, and he would have dismissed her concern with a flick of his hand, and a sarcastic remark designed to make her roll her eyes instead of worry.

But that man had been stabbed, fatally. That man had lain in a fever for weeks, drifting in and out of consciousness while she held his hand and prayed. That man had woken up to find himself diminished—dependent, bedridden, his body weakened and almost defeated—and it had cost him something that she wasn't sure he knew how to get back.

But she knew better to doubt her husband. So she distracted herself with the task at hand.

She dipped the brush into the water, working up a lather with the soap. Her hands moved with the practiced ease of a wife who had done this many times before—though never with a husband who was so heavily wounded, so fragile beneath her. It broke her heart to see him so weakened.

After lathering the brush, she began to apply the soap to his stubble. His eyes were closed, and she let her fingers move gently over the sharp lines of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones. He always enjoyed her touch, it relaxed him. After lathering the brush, she began to apply the soap to his stubble. His eyes were closed, and she let her fingers move gently over the sharp lines of his jaw, the angle of his cheekbones. He always enjoyed her touch, it relaxed him.

She studied the small scars on his face with her eyes, taking in his handsome features. She knew this face. She had memorized it over the years. She had even memorized it in laughter and in anger, in desire and in sorrow, and she had memorized it in those terrible weeks when it had been slack and pale and frighteningly still.

Haytham opened his eyes.

"(y/n)."

"Hmm?"

"Something is wrong."

She kept her hand steady.

"Nothing is wrong."

"Don't."

She paused, trying to not make a fuss. "Don't what?"

"Don't lie to me." His grey eyes were dark with intent, focused on her with the kind of precision that made her feel as though he could see right through her, straight to the thing she was trying to hide.

She could feel him studying her intensely, reading her in the way only he, her husband, could. It had always been like this between them. He knew her too well, understood her too deeply. She couldn't hide anything from him, no matter how hard she tried—vice versa. They could read each other like a book.

But he noticed it—her hands trembling slightly, her movements more hesitant than usual. He had always been observant, even before his injury. But now, in his weakened state, his perception seemed sharper, more acute.

"You're not yourself," he said, his voice quiet, but firm. "What's wrong? And I know you better than you think my dear wife. And I know this is more than hormones. So don't try and lie."

She almost laughed. Almost. He knew her well.

"You're in no position to diagnose my emotional state, Haytham. You can barely lift your self off the bed, and you are already plotting another murder."

"Me being in this bed has given me the opportunity to observe my wife, and it is precisely why I've had nothing to do but watch you, for the last month." He tilted his head slightly, and something in his expression shifted, the Templar in him receding, and the husband in him emerging. "I see you my dear wife. I see you when you think I'm sleeping. I see you pacing the hallway at three in the morning with your hand on your stomach. I see you arguing with the midwife in broken French because you're too proud to ask Jim, Jennifer, or even your own husband to translate for you. I see you carrying everything on your shoulders because you believe that if you stop for even a moment, everything will fall apart."

She swallowed hard and resumed her work. The razor moved in careful, practiced strokes—downward, with the stubble, the way he preferred. She was trying to busy herself by concentrating on the angle of the blade, on the warm slickness of the lather, on anything besides the truth sitting in her throat like a stone, or the man in front on her.

"(y/n), please tell me."

She wiped the blade on the cloth.

Another stroke. Then another. The room was quiet except for the soft scrape of steel against his stubble.

"I can not help you if i do not know what is wrong," his voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper. "Tell me what is wrong. And when you answer me, do not say 'nothing,' because I have spent the better part of my life being lied to by men far better at it than you, and I am done with it. I do not wish to be lied to by my own wife."

Haytham knew how to get his wife to open up. They both knew it.

She finished applying the final strokes of the razor. She was doing her best to not give in, she didn't wish to burden him with her own issues.

She proceeded to wipe the remaining lather from his face with the warm cloth, gently.

But as she moved to set the cloth aside, his hand caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. His grip was weaker than it used to be—she could feel the difference, the loss of strength in his fingers—but it was still firm. Still deliberate. Still her Haytham.

"My dear, I will ask you once more," he said, his voice commanding. "Tell me what's wrong, right now, no more of these games."

She tried to pull away, but his grip held.

"(y/n)." His thumb moved over the pulse point on the inside of her wrist to check her pulse, before bringing her hand to his lips, and gently placing a kiss on it. "We promised. No lies between us. Especially not now. Especially with a child on the way."

She could now feel the tears building, the pressure behind her eyes that she'd been fighting for weeks. She didn't want to cry—she hated crying, hated showing her weakness, hated the way it made her feel exposed.

But with Haytham watching her, his eyes searching her face, and she knew she couldn't hide it anymore.

"I..." her voice broke, she sounded lost, the words catching in her throat. "I'm scared, Haytham."

He released her wrist, his hand moving to cup her face. His thumb brushed away a tear that had escaped down her cheek.

"Scared of what?" he asked, his voice gentle now.

Feeling the weight of everything she had been carrying—the fear, the exhaustion, the bone-deep weariness of carrying not just a child but a household, a marriage, all for a future that she couldn't see. She had been holding it all together for so long. She had been the steady one. The calm one. The one who didn't break. But with Haytham's large hand warm cupping her face gently, and his grey eyes were full of something that looked unbearably like understanding, and he was seeing she was so tired, he could relate, but he needed a answer.

The first tears fell before she could stop them. They slid down her cheek and ran down his fingers, onto the back of his hand, and she watched him register it, and she watched the concern in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be sorry. Just tell me what scares you." he whispered as gently as he could. Being gentle was never his strong suit, but he was trying for her.

Instead of giving him a answer, she finally broke down for the first time in what felt like forever. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud. It was the quiet kind of breaking. It was the kind that happens when a structure has been bearing too much weight for too long, when the last brick is placed and the whole thing simply gives way.

She sank forward to her knees from the stool, and he shifted his thighs apart to accommodate her. She pressed her face against his muscular thigh, with her hands gripping the fabric of his breeches.

Her whole body began shaking with the force of what she had been holding back for so long.

He ran his long fingers through her hair softly, trying to comfort her.

Carefully, he pressed his lips to her hair, and he said nothing because he knew that there was nothing to say yet. Not until she had emptied herself.

She cried for a long time.

When the sobs finally subsided into shuddering breaths and the shuddering breaths into something approaching calm, only then did she speak. Her voice was muffled against the fabric of his breeches, and her words came in muffled fragments, but he understood.

"I'm scared Haytham." she admitted.

"I know-" Haytham couldn't finish before she cut him off.

"I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared that nothing...nothing will change, and someone else will come for you, and I'll be—I'll be left to raise a child who's father is—" She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

She picked up her head off its resting place on his thigh, to look at him with tearful eyes. "I can't do that. I can't Haytham."

"Nothing is going to happen to me, I promise you that my dear."

"You don't know that." Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked, and she knew she looked a mess, but she didn't care.

"There's no way you can know that. You can't promise me that, because even with all your power, you don't control what happens out there. You don't control the assassins, the other orders, or any of it. And I..." Her voice cracked. "I'm scared for our baby, Haytham. I'm scared that our child is coming into a world where danger is all they'll know. Where they'll never have a normal childhood, where they'll always be looking over their shoulder, where-" She drew a shaky breath. "Where their father might not be there. Our child needs their father, like you needed yours."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and raw and nothing but the truth that he so desperately desired, he was tired of the world lying to him, at least he knew his wife was still truthful to him, no matter how much the truth hurt.

She studied his face, expecting anger, expecting denial, expecting the cold mask that he was so good at wearing.

But it didn't come.

Instead, she saw something in him crack. Only for just a fraction of a second, but she saw it because she had spent years learning the geography of his face the way one learns a landscape.

His eyes watered slightly as he took a moment to look in the other direction. His thumb stopped it's movements against her cheek, almost imperceptibly, and for one moment, one brief, unguarded moment, she saw the full weight of what she had said land on him like a knife to the heart.

He hid it quickly. She knew he would. But she had seen it, and she would hold that fragment of vulnerability close, the same way she held everything else that mattered. There weren't many moments where she saw her husband's vulnerability, but she was glad he could share it with her.

Haytham took her face firmly in his large, calloused hands. His thumbs wiped the tears from her cheeks, and he tilted her head up so that she was looking directly into his eyes.

"Listen to me," his voice sounding sincere. "And listen carefully, because I will say this only once, and I need you to believe it."

She waited.

"You are not going to lose me. I am not going anywhere. I will not put you through that ordeal again. I will not allow this situation to happen again." His voice was low, and protective, and there was something beneath it that she rarely heard, something that sounded almost like desperation.

"I made promises to you when we married, and I have broken some of those promises, and I will answer for that. But this one I will keep, I promise you this. You, and our child will always be safe. I will make certain of it. I do not plan on forfeiting the chance of watching my child grow up. I will not make the same mistakes as my father. "

"What if-"

"No darling." His grip on her face tightened, his eyes narrowing. "No 'what if's.' I know what this world is. I know what I am. But I am telling you this now, (y/n), that I will burn the world down before I let anything touch my wife or my child. Do you understand me?"

She stared at him. At the man who had walked through hell, and in the shadows, and come out the other side with his convictions intact even after he almost died. At this man who could dismantle assassin networks, manipulate politicians, and kill without hesitation, but who held her face as though it were made of glass.

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that they could have a future, that their child could grow up in a safe environment, that they could build a life together beyond the shadows and the violence. But she had seen too much, lived through too much, to believe in easy promises.

"I want to believe you," she said, her voice quiet. "But I know the danger will always follow you. It'll always be there, waiting."

He nodded slowly, his expression solemn. "I know. But I have every intention of doing everything in my power to change that. To give our child a future that's safe, that's bright. I can't promise that there won't be challenges, that there won't be threats. But I can promise that I will fight to protect you, both of you, no matter what. You and this child, are the reason I seek to make this world a better place."

She studied his face, his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or deception. But she found none—only certainty, only resolve.

"Whatever danger that awaits, I assure you, I will meet it. And I will end it. At the end of the day my dearest, I will come home to you and our child every single time." He pressed his forehead against hers gently, as he held her face in his hands. "That is my oath. Not as a Templar. Not as a Grandmaster. But as your husband. As your child's father. I swear it to you."

She closed her eyes, giving herself time to allow his words to sink in.

"Come to bed," he murmured, trying to distract her from her own thoughts.

"I'm not tired." she lied, and they both knew it. But he simply smiled at her, as gently as Haytham could.

"Your eyes say other wise my dear."

She was. She did her best to push through the burnout, but her body had finally caught up with her emotionally and physically. She even had slight trembles throughout her whole body.

"Come to bed." he instructed firmly, and this time she didn't argue.

Haytham helped her undress. Or rather, he tried to help her undress. It was a clumsy, tender process that involved him bracing one hand on the bedframe for support while the other worked at the laces of her bodice, his jaw tight with effort, while he kept pressure off his wound.

She told him to stop, told him she could manage, and he ignored her with the kind of obstinate determination that she found both infuriating and deeply, impossibly endearing.

"And to think I had you at my mercy not so long ago," she stated, as she looked over should and watched him wince as he leaned too far to the left.

"You couldn't even open your eyes, and now you're the one trying to take care of me."

"(y/n) I am perfectly capable of—"

"Of tearing your stitches and giving everyone in this house a collective heart attack. Sit down now, Haytham, this isn't up for debate."

He sat down on the mattress begrudgingly, he knew better than to test his wife's patience. But he couldn't help but admire her as she changed into her nightgown slowly, and she could feel his gaze like a touch, gentle, worried, and possessive in the best possible way.

They climbed into bed together. The mattress was narrow, too narrow for two people, and certainly too narrow for a pregnant woman and a man recovering from injury, but they had learned to navigate each other's bodies in this small space.

He laid on his back, carefully, and she settled against his right side, her head on his shoulder, her bump pressed against his side. He enjoyed her touch, and the comforting feeling of having his wife safe next to him. It was one of the few things that brought Haytham peace and comfort.

With the arm he had wrapped around her, he drew patterns on her skin—idle, absent-minded strokes along her arm, her shoulder, the curve of her stomach.

"Our child has had quite the experience, wouldn't you say?" he mused after a while.

(y/n) smirked. "You could say that."

"Being created during a time of crisis and war, carried from the colonies, across the Atlantic, into other nations—enduring our endeavours, travels, and not to mention a mother who argues with midwives in broken French."

"My French is improving."

"Marginally."

She pinched his arm, lightly. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, and placed a kiss on her soft knuckles.

"This child will come into the world having survived more than most grown men. I think that bodes well."

"Or it means our child will come out fighting from the first breath."

"Also bodes well."

She giggled at his pride, with a smile on her face. It was small and tired, but it was genuine, and it felt good.

She rested her head on his shoulder, watching his toned chest rise and fall with every breath. His hand rested on her bump, feeling the baby's movements.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" she questioned suddenly breaking the silence, her voice soft.

"I don't know," he said, his tone thoughtful. "It does not matter. As long as they're healthy."

She smiled against his skin. "A girl would be nice. Someone to spoil."

"And a boy would be nice," he said. "Someone to teach."

She laughed softly, the sound tired but genuine. "Only time will tell I suppose."

They were quiet for a while. His fingers continued their patterns on her skin, slow, meditative strokes that made her eyelids heavy. She was almost asleep when she felt him stiffen, as if he just remembered something.

It was subtle. The slightest tightening of his arm, the faintest shift in his breathing.

(y/n) knew him, she knew him the way that only a wife could know her husband, and she could read that something was on his mind.

She lifted her head, her eyes filled with worry, but also a hint of skepticism. "Haytham, what's wrong?"

He was staring at the ceiling. She could swear he almost looked nervous, like something was weighing heavily on his mind.

"Nothing."

"Haytham."

Haytham hesitated, his hand pausing on her belly. "There's something I need to tell you," he said, his voice reluctant.

She propped herself up on her elbow, her eyes searching his face. "What is it?"

He was tensely quiet for another moment. Before he decided to speak hesitantly. "There's something I haven't told you."

Her heart rate quickened. She loathed the sound of that. "What kind of something Haytham?"

"The kind of something that I should have told you before we left the colonies." He paused. "I bought a property. In Virginia." He took a breath, his jaw tightening. "Before we left the colonies," he said slowly.

She stared at him, her expression blank, and unenthusiastic. "Virginia?"

Haytham nodded, not meeting her eyes. "I thought... I thought it might be a good place to raise a family. Away from the cities, away from the Order's politics. A place where we could be... normal."

She sat up fully, her back against the headboard. "You bought a property? Without telling your wife? Do I even ask when this purchase happened?"

"Before we sailed. I made arrangements through a solicitor in west Virginia. It's an estate—a proper estate to raise a child, on a large plot of land, near other families. I intended for us to live there, after everything is settled."

(y/n) stared at him, a unreadable expression planted on her face. "Did you plan on telling me sooner? Or was I to be left in the dark once again?"

"I didn't tell you because I wasn't certain you'd want to live there."

"You weren't certain? Haytham, we are married. Married people tell each other these things."

"I'm aware." his voice defensive. "I bought a property for my wife, and our child. There's a distinction." I wasn't sure if I was making the right decision."

She stared at him, a mix of emotions swirling through her chest. Annoyance at his secrecy, amusement at his nervousness, and something else, something like hope, for a better future for their growing family.

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then, despite everything, despite the fear and the exhaustion and the uncertainty that still sat like a stone in her chest, she laughed to herself.

"You—" She rolled her eyes, and took a deep inhale, before exhaling slowly. "You are impossible. You are absolutely impossible."

"Virginia," she repeated, her voice flat, despite her amusement over his nervousness, she was going to milk her anger a little longer.

"You want to move to Virginia, you thought I'd enjoy summers of humidity, and long winters? You must know me well Haytham."

"It's not that bad," he reasoned, though his voice wavered slightly. "It's... it's a large estate, with room for children. It's settled on large parcel of land. I thought it would be well suited to raise our child there, and possibly more. Give them a childhood away from everything."

She couldn't help it—she smiled, especially hearing her husband speaking of children as if he already had envisioned it a thousand times over. Her smile broke his nervous tension, and Haytham's expression shifted from worry to a face of uncertainty.

"Are you upset, or...?" he asked, truly unsure if it was a trap or not.

"You bought a farm in Virginia and didn't tell your pregnant wife. You really are terrible at this. But I suppose our child deserves a proper home." she joked lightheartedly, a soft smile planted on her face.

Her husband watched her with an expression that was trying very hard to be casual and failing magnificently. "So you're not angry?"

"I'm not angry." She shook her head. "But you are right, I don't want to live in Virginia, Haytham."

His face fell. Just slightly. Just enough.

"I know," he said solemnly. "And I understand if-"

"But." She held up a finger to halt his speech. "I'm am pregnant with your child, and I don't appear to have much choice in the matter at this stage, do I?"

He stared at her skeptically. "Are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if we survive this, and if you keep your promise about keeping us safe, and if I don't change my mind between now and whenever we get there, then I suppose Virginia is as good a place as any to raise a child at this point, as long as you are with us."

She shifted, moving closer to him, her head resting on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around her, holding her close.

"But, I want my own garden."

"A proper one. With vegetables and herbs and maybe some flowers. And I want our child's bedroom close to ours. Not across the house, not down the hall, I want them close. So I can hear them at night. I want to tend to them, and not some nursemaid."

"Whatever you wish, you shall have my love," he said, and there was something in his voice, something warm and certain and quietly fierce, that made her believe him. Not just the garden, not just the child's bedroom. All of it. The safety. The future. The promise.

"You, nor our child, shall want for nothing, and you two will never be harmed. Not while I draw breath. Not while I have blood in my veins and strength enough to stand between them and whatever comes."

She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip.

"I promise you, you'll be safe."

She closed her eyes, allowing herself imagine it—a house, a garden, children that looked like her and her husband, playing in the sunshine. A life beyond the shadows. It seemed impossible, too good to be true. But with Haytham's steady arms around her, his eyes filled with admiration, she let herself believe.

"Thank you," she murmured, as she yawned.

"May I ask what for?"

"For being here. For not dying on me, on our child, and waking up. For being you, even when you're impossible, arrogant, stubborn, oh and when you make important decisions without your wife."

He pressed smirked, before bringing his lips to her forehead. "I love you, my dear."

"I love you as well. Now stop with the sentimental nonsense, and let me gain some rest. Your child has been using my bladder as a cushion, and I'm going to need to get up at lest three times in the night."

He smirked at her as she resettled herself against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder again, her hand now resting on top of much larger one that was resting on her bump, where the baby was finally, mercifully, still.

His fingers resumed their patterns on her skin. Slow. Gentle. Steady.He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand continuing to stroke her belly.

"Sleep," he whispered. "I'll be here, allow your husband to take care of you."

She let herself drift, the tension leaving her body, the fear and anxiety fading into the background. For the first time in months, she felt something like peace.

Outside, the french countryside was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, Jennifer was asleep. Jim was probably reading by candlelight, the way he always did when he couldn't rest, which was quite often these days.

And hidden away from the world, a man held his wife, and a child rested within their mother's womb, waiting to be born into a world that was far from perfect—but perhaps, just perhaps, a world that could be brighter and a father who would be around to see them draw their first breath.

(y/n)—in this moment in time, was exhausted, terrified, almost nine months gone with a child she wasn't sure she was ready for, and married to a man she wasn't sure she could keep safe—felt, for the first time in a very long time, something that might have been peace.

It was fleeting.

She knew that.

But it was here. Right now. In this moment.

And that was enough for now.

~

{a//n: This took forever!!! I hate editing so i saved myself the grief and just said screw it, and posted it anyways. I know if i took the time to edit, I'd probably end up deleting this. So maybe at a future time i'll come back and make some edits.}

[iressasmailbox]

What do you think of doing stories of spooning pregnant sex with the Targaryen royals x reader ( akotsk) . I don’t know how you will feel about that but I loved your last series where the reader was naked . If not just something with them and a pregnant reader in any situation.

Pregnant Sex with Akotsk Targ Men

honestly i love anything regarding pregnancy, i think it’s so cute and also smexy. THANK YOU FOR WAITING!! patience is so much appreciated. my summer classes just started and im having a rough time, but being able to write makes me feel way better. enough yap, i hope you enjoy

hcs of aerion, baelor, daeron, maekar, valarr

mdni 18+

Aerion - You were four months gone. Your belly had finally popped, small but it was definitely there, a firm little swell beneath your nightgown. And you were absolutely going feral.

It felt like weeks since Aerion had touched you, but in reality it was only a few days. Not because he was cruel, not this time. You just assumed he'd gotten what he wanted. An heir. A dragon in the womb. Why would he keep fucking you now that the deed was done?

So you suffered in silence. Tossing and turning. Pressing your thighs together. Biting your lip while he slept beside you, oblivious.

Tonight, you couldn't take it anymore.

You were on your side, facing away from him, your back pressed to his chest. He was asleep, or so you thought. His arm was draped over your waist, his palm resting on the curve of your belly.

You rolled your hips back. Just a little. Just enough to feel him. A little wouldn’t hurt, right?

He was hard.

You froze. Your face burned.

"Thought you were asleep," you whispered.

"I was." His voice was rough, groggy. "Until you started grinding on me like a cat in heat."

Your whole body went hot. "I wasn't-"

"You were." His hand slid down from your belly to your hip, gripping it. "You've been doing this for weeks. Tossing and turning. Making those little sounds." His lips brushed your ear. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

You swallowed. "I thought you didn't want-"

"I always want." He pushed your nightgown up to your waist and pushed your smallclothes down. His cock, already hard, slid between your thighs from behind. "I've been waiting for you to ask. Didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

"I didn't know how."

He bit your shoulder. Not hard. Just enough to make you gasp.

"You're carrying my child," he said. "You don't have to ask. You just have to spread your legs."

He pushed inside you. Slow. Careful. Different from before, no more brutal, frantic fucking. He moved like he was afraid of hurting you, of hurting the baby.

"Faster," you begged.

"No."

"Please-"

"You're pregnant. I'm not going to fuck you like a whore."

You whined. He laughed. But this was no laughing matter.

"Desperate little thing," he murmured. "All those hormones making you needy."

He sped up. Just a little. His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

"You're so wet," he said. "So fucking wet. Is this all for me?"

"All for you."

He fucked you like that, slow and deep, his chest pressed to your back, his hand on your belly. When you came, you bit your lip to keep from screaming. He came a moment later, spilling inside you, his groan muffled against your neck.

"Next time," he said, still catching his breath, "speak up."

Baelor - The feast was your idea. Baelor had been putting it off for weeks, afraid of overwhelming you, afraid of the noise, the crowds, the endless parade of lords and ladies wanting to congratulate him on the heir you were carrying. It made him so nervous with you being surrounded by so many people, while you were pregnant with his child. But you were feeling good now. The morning sickness had faded for now. Your belly was round and firm, and you had that glow people talked about. So you told him it was fine. You wanted to celebrate.

Now you were standing in the great hall, your hand resting on your stomach, surrounded by well wishers, along with many, many guards. Baelor watched you from across the room. He had been watching you all night.

You laughed at something a lady said. You accepted a cup of water from a servant. You turned, your gaze finding his across the crowd, and you smiled.

His chest ached. Anything you did had him struck.

You were beautiful. You always were but it’s different like this, you’re radiant, glowing, carrying his child. Every time you touched your belly, his cock twitched. Every time you laughed, he wanted to drag you out of the hall.

He crossed the room. Took your hand. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

"Is everything alright, my love?" you asked.

"Fine." His voice was rough. "I need you."

Your eyes widened. "Now?"

"Now."

You didn't argue. You let him lead you out of the hall, down the corridor, to your chambers. The door had barely closed before he was on you.

"Baelor-"

"I've been watching you all night." He pushed your gown off your shoulders, baring your breasts. "Touching your belly. Smiling at everyone." His mouth found your neck. "Do you know what that does to me?"

"Tell me."

"Makes me want to fuck you."

You gasped as he lifted you onto the bed, laying you on your side, your belly propped on a pillow. He shed his tunic, his breeches, and climbed in behind you, his chest pressing to your back.

"You're so beautiful," he said, pushing your gown up to your waist. "Carrying my child. Glowing."

His cock pressed against your entrance. You pushed back, trying to take him inside, but he held your hip still.

"A-ah-"

"Shh." His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit. "Let me take care of you."

He pushed inside you slowly. Inch by inch. You both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so good. So warm."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand never left your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His other hand splayed across your belly, feeling the curve of it beneath his palm.

"I'm so proud of you," he murmured against your ear. "So proud."

You turned your head, just enough to kiss him. He kissed you back reverently.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

He sped up. His hips slapped against yours, the bed creaking beneath you. You came undone around him, crying out, and he followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan.

"We should have feasts more often, if it gets to end like this" you said.

He kissed your shoulder and held you tighter. "Any night will end like this, just ask me."

Daeron - Daeron hadn't touched a drop of wine since the day you told him you were pregnant. EVERYONE cannot believe it, genuinely. Not because anyone asked him to. Not because he made some grand declaration. He just stopped. One day, after you first shared the news, he was excited, reaching for his cup, and he looked at you, at the way you smiled at him like he wasn't a complete disaster and he put the cup down.

He never picked it back up.

But he needed something. An outlet. Without the wine, he was restless. Fidgety. He followed you around the castle like a lost puppy, showing up in your solar, your chambers, the gardens. He held your hand at meals. He pressed his face into your hair when you were reading. He was everywhere.

You didn't mind. You'd rather have him drunk off you anyway.

Tonight, you were in bed. Your belly was round at five months, and you were lying on your side, facing away from him, because it was the only way to get comfortable. Daeron was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm draped over your waist. His hand rested on your belly, palm flat, fingers spread.

He was painfully hard.

You could feel him, his cock pressing against your backside, thick and insistent. He wasn't trying to hide it. He wasn't grinding on you either. Just... existing. Letting you feel what you did to him.

"Daeron," you said.

"Mm?"

"You're hard."

"I know."

"Are you going to do something about it?"

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb traced circles on your belly.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want me to."

You turned your head, just enough to see his face. His violet eyes were dark, earnest, a little desperate.

"I always want you to. And the maesters said I should be fine.”

He exhaled shakily and relieved, pushing your nightgown up to your waist.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he admitted, his hand sliding down your hip. "Watching you. The way you move now. The way you touch your belly."

You reached back, gripping his thigh, pulling him closer. "Then stop thinking and do it."

He pushed inside you slowly. Careful. His forehead dropped to the back of your neck, and he groaned.

"You feel so good," he breathed. "So fucking good."

He moved slow at first. Deep. His hand found your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and you arched your back, pressing into him.

"Faster," you demanded.

"You're pregnant-"

"I'm not made of glass, Daeron. Fuck me. Please.”

He laughed breathlessly and sped up. His hips slapped against yours, the bed creaking beneath you. His hand never left your clit.

You came first, clenching around him, your face buried in the pillow. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his body shaking against yours.

He kissed your shoulder. "I'm going to be a good father."

"You already are."

"I'm going to be sober. For them. For you."

Your heart fluttered and you reached back and threaded your fingers through his hair. "I know."

Maekar - You were close. So close. The maesters said any day now, and Maekar was losing his mind.

He had always been stern, prickly, quick to snap. But this was different. This was constant. He yelled at the servants for not scrubbing the floors hard enough. He yelled at the maesters for not washing their hands thoroughly enough. He hovered in your chambers, pacing, his hand never leaving his sword hilt.

"For fuck's sake," he snarled at a passing servant who looked at you wrong. "Get the fuck out of her sight."

The servant fled.

You bit back a smile.

"Stop laughing," he said.

"I'm not laughing."

"You're thinking about laughing."

You reached out and took his hand. He was tense, his fingers rigid, his knuckles white.

"You need to relax," you said.

"I'll relax when the baby is here and you're not in danger."

"That's weeks away."

"Fucking-" He stopped. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know."

You tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the bed. He followed, because he always followed, even when he was being difficult.

"Lie down," you said.

"I'm not tired."

"I didn't ask if you were tired. Lie down."

He glared at you. You glared back. He did as you asked.

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, your round belly pressing against his stomach. His hands came up automatically, settling on your waist.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Calming you down."

"This isn't calming."

Total lie, and his cock was already hard. You could feel it pressing against your thigh through his breeches. His breath hitched when you rolled your hips.

"Maekar."

"What."

"Kiss me."

He did. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling you down, and he kissed you hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to pour all his fear and frustration and want into the shape of his mouth against yours.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"We need to change positions," he said.

"Why?"

"Because you're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm not-"

"I'm not taking that risk."

He sat up slowly, his hands on your waist, guiding you. He kissed you again carefully, so carefully, turned you both until you were lying on your side, facing away from him. Your belly rested on a pillow. His chest pressed to your back.

"Better," he murmured.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're pregnant."

He pushed your nightgown up to your waist. His cock, still hard, pressed against your entrance.

"Tell me if it hurts," he said.

"It won't."

"Tell me anyway."

He pushed inside you slowly. Inch by inch. You both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel so good."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand slid around your waist, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. His other hand splayed across your belly, feeling the curve of it beneath his palm.

"I love you," he said. "I'm going to be a wreck until this baby comes out."

"I know."

"I'm going to yell at everyone."

"I know."

"I'm going to yell at the baby."

"You're not going to yell at the baby."

He laughed, finally. His hips stuttered, and he buried his face in your neck.

"Just stay here," he said. "Don't move. Don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He fucked you like that, slow and deep, his body curled around yours until you came undone around him, clenching, crying out. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his face buried in your hair.

"The maesters need to be cleaner," he mumbled. Still lodged inside you.

"I know."

"I'm going to write a decree. Mandatory hand-washing. Before and after every birth."

"That's a good idea."

He kissed your shoulder. "I'm terrified."

"Imagine how I feel."

"But I'm also happy."

You turned your head, just enough to see his face. His purple eyes were soft, vulnerable, nothing like the stern prince everyone else saw. It WILL be okay.

Valarr - You were seven months pregnant, and you were miserable.

Your back ached. Your feet were swollen. You couldn't sleep, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't even roll over without feeling like a beached whale. The baby kicked your ribs constantly, and you were pretty sure your hips were going to split in half.

Valarr did everything he could. He massaged your lower back every night, his thumbs working the knots out of your muscles. He brought you water, tea, whatever you craved. He helped you in and out of the bath, washing your hair, scrubbing your back, even though the maids could have done it. He wanted to do it. He insisted.

He also made you eat better. More greens, more protein, less of the sugary nonsense you kept trying to sneak past him. "For the baby," he said. "And for you." You rolled your eyes but ate the vegetables.

Tonight, you were lying on your side, facing away from him, your belly propped on a pillow. You felt huge. Grotesque. Your hips were wider, your thighs thicker, and there were stretch marks creeping across your belly that made you want to cry.

Valarr's hand landed on your hip.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm tired."

"Something else."

You didn't answer. His hand slid from your hip to your belly, palm flat, fingers spread.

"You've been avoiding my touch," he said.

"I have not."

"You have. Every time I try to hold you, you shift away." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Talk to me."

You swallowed. Your throat was tight.

"I feel disgusting," you whispered.

His hand stilled. "What?"

"Look at me. I'm huge. I have stretch marks. I can't even see my feet. How could you possibly-" You stopped. Your voice broke.

Valarr sat up. Gently, carefully, he turned you onto your back. He knelt beside you, his mismatched eyes soft, his jaw set.

"Can I show you something?" he asked.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

He pushed your nightgown up to your ribs. Your belly was round and taut, marked with faint silver lines. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the curve of it.

"I love this," he said.

"You have to say that."

"I don't have to say anything." He kissed your belly again. Then your hip. Then the soft swell of your thigh. "I love the way your body has changed. I love knowing that you're carrying our child."

He kissed a stretch mark. Then another. His lips traced the silver lines, soft and reverent.

"You're not disgusting," he said. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You were crying now. Quiet tears sliding down your cheeks. He kissed them away.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"Yes."

He laid you back on your side, settled behind you, and pushed your nightgown up to your waist. Pulling your smallclothes down, and his hand slid between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so but you craved this, and he groaned against your neck.

"You're so responsive," he murmured. "So ready."

"I've been needing you," you admitted. "I just didn't know how to ask."

"You don't have to ask. You just have to let me in."

He pushed inside you slowly. Carefully. You both groaned.

"Oh," you breathed. "Oh, that's-"

"Good?"

"So good."

He moved slow. Deep. His hand found your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and you arched your back, pressing into him.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said. "Carrying my child. Letting me love you."

You came undone around him, crying out, your body clenching. He followed a moment later, spilling inside you with a groan, his face buried in your hair.

He didn't pull out. Just stayed there, holding you, his hand on your belly.

"I love you, you’re doing so well.” he said.

"I love you too."

He kissed your shoulder. "You're not allowed to feel disgusting anymore."

And he is absolutely right.

[maidragoste]

Guilty

Valarr Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Warnings: incest, infidelity (we feel for Kiera), angst

Hiii, I'm excited to share this fic. I really hope you like it!

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I wish you all a good read!

Sometimes you thought that you and Valarr were born in the wrong era.

If you and your brother had been born earlier, if you had been the children of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne Targaryen, then you wouldn't have to feel ashamed and guilty about the love between you.

But you aren't.

Your parents had tried to prevent this when you and Valarr were little and discovered you kissed each other whenever you played pretend: he was a knight rescuing you from the monster, or you played King Jaehaerys and Queen Alyssane. You'd never forget how ashamed you felt when your father spoke to you in his chambers. He wasn't harsh, nor did he seem angry; instead, he explained that you shouldn't do those kinds of things, that brothers and sisters didn't love each other that way. You cried and apologized. You felt so guilty that you didn't protest when they stopped allowing you and Valarr to be alone together. There was always a guard, a septa, someone between you.

Innocently, your parents believed they had nothing more to worry about when the years passed, and there was no further physical contact between you and Valarr that seemed out of the ordinary. But kisses weren't necessary for the feelings between you to continue growing. You couldn't stop your heart from racing whenever you and Valarr danced together, nor could you stop your heart from feeling warm when your brother helped you plant in your garden. And Valarr couldn't help but want to make you smile all the time, nor could he stop thinking about you at night before falling asleep.

But the night that changed everything was the night before Valarr's wedding. Your brother came drunk to your chambers and confessed his love. He told you that although he couldn't marry you, he didn't want to give Kiera something that should belong to you. You should have thrown him out, told him he wasn't thinking straight, pushed him away when he kissed you. But you didn't. You kissed him back.

That night, you and your brother forgot about guilt and duty. Everything faded away as you kissed and explored each other's bodies; all that mattered was giving each other pleasure and showing each other how much you loved one another. Valarr kept whispering "I love you" as he entered you, his fingers intertwined with yours.

The next day, you had to watch him get married. You smiled and had to fight back tears when Valarr looked you straight in the eyes as he recited his vows. Your father must have suspected something, or some servant must have seen your brother leaving your chambers that morning, because just the next day, your father announced that you were getting married.

Like a good daughter, you didn't complain, not even when they wouldn't allow you a long betrothal. In less than a month, you were a married woman. But that didn't stop you and Valarr from sinning again. It was supposed to be a one-time thing for that night, but once you and your brother tasted the forbidden fruit, you couldn't stop.

The bliss you felt every time Valarr kissed you, every time you were in his arms, every time he was inside you, was immense. Just as immense as the guilt you felt once Valarr left you alone with your thoughts.

There are days when you can't look Kiera in the eye. The guilt you feel is so overwhelming it makes you nauseous, and you can barely eat. You can't even look at Valarr; you feel dirty and sick. Those were the days you spent most of your time in the sept, praying until your knees ached. Hoping the gods would forgive you, have mercy on you, and free you from your feelings.

No matter how much you prayed, how much you begged the gods, you couldn't stay away from your brother for long. You couldn't refuse his kisses, you couldn't resist his touch. You loved Valarr more than anything in the world. But if you could, you would change it. You longed to love him like a normal sister. You longed to live without feeling guilty and disgusted all the time; you longed not to have disappointed your father.

You would never forget your father's face when he saw that your son had the same eyes as Valarr and himself. Your father's eyes, which used to look at you with so much love, were at that moment filled with cold fury and disappointment. You hate that you became a burden to him. How he had to rush to create a narrative where his heterochromia must have skipped a generation with you, to try to silence any rumors of bastardy about his grandson.

Sometimes you wonder if Kiera knows the truth. If she hates you, not just for being your brother's lover, but for giving him a child while her own children are stillborn. At none of the funerals were you able to look at her without feeling nauseous. In the days that followed, you couldn't bear to be in the same room, especially when you saw how she gazed longingly as Valarr played with your son.

People thought Valarr was just a loving uncle, trying to fill the void of his losses with your son. No one suspected the real reason they spent so much time together, why Valarr played and sang to him, why he bought him so many toys, why he walked down the halls with him in his arms. Just as no one suspected the real reason your brother looked so upset, his jaw and his fists clenched, when he heard your son call your husband "Papa" for the first time. People thought Valarr was just envious, wishing he had children of his own, when in reality, he was furious that his son was calling another man "Papa." You felt guilty because behind the annoyance, you saw the pain in his eyes.

That's why you didn't think twice; you interrupted dinner, announcing you were pregnant again. You felt your heart warm when you saw Valarr smile again, and for a brief moment, you felt good as he hugged you. Until you saw your father's serious expression, and your heart skipped a beat.

Will you ever stop feeling guilty all the time?

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[cippicat]

The Kenways

Kenway means "brave, loyal fighter"

[bverryie]

ormund's wrath. daeron the daring ༝ betrothed!reader

based on this request.

The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of the parchment being swiftly wrapped by Lord Ormund. The Hightower wore a disturbing expression, his gaze fixed on a single point.

You also noticed Daeron, your betrothed through an arranged marriage between your houses due to the war, standing rigidly beside you. His arms were more tense than necessary, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, and his expression hard as he averted his gaze from Ormund.

“Go,” he whispered.

You turned your head toward him, confused.

“Why?” you asked, a light smile escaping your lips.

“Go and tell your maid to draw you a bath,” Daeron insisted.

“I’d rather stay with-” Your voice was cut off as Lord Ormund abruptly threw his chair back, sending it flying with a loud crash.

Daeron instinctively stepped back, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind him between a table in the hall and his back. The sound of Lord Ormund's metal back splintering against the wood and his shouts filling the previously silent room sent shivers down his spine.

But what unsettled you most was Daeron's reaction, backing away in terror, barely able to take in the scene before them. It was as if he knew what to do, or perhaps he possessed an uncanny ability to read the signs, anticipating what was coming next. Now you understood his insistence that you leave the room, and you felt sorry for him. He didn't want you to witness such a scene.

You were both young, and perhaps that's why you empathized so deeply. Putting yourself in Daeron's shoes and thinking that he might have been experiencing similar situations his whole life made your heart ache. Your hand reached for your fiancé's, intertwining your fingers and giving him a firm squeeze to let him know he wasn't alone. All you could see of him was his profile and how he kept his eyes tightly closed as his hand tightened around yours.

When the wave of anger and shouting subsided, Daeron hurried to lead you away while Lord Ormund returned to his dinner as if nothing had happened. You remained silent, your gaze shifting from Daeron's back to your clasped hands. The prince slowed down when you reached your chambers during your stay in Tumbletown.

“Daeron…” you tried to speak, but as soon as he opened the door to your chambers for you, he spun around on his heels and quickened his pace, walking away down the long corridor.

Your brief time together in Oldtown had helped you get to know him better. He needed time and space. Daeron was a reserved boy, not shy as people often thought, confusing reserve with shyness. He knew his place, that he should respect his elders, and how to make himself heard when he had something to say.

One thought in particular crossed your mind. If Lord Ormund had these fits of rage, what could guarantee that Daeron wouldn't be consumed by such fury? After all, Lord Ormund had been the one to raise the prince, adding to the supposed madness that preceded the Targaryen line.

So you decided not to follow him or insist, letting the unpleasantness of the moment fade away for both of you. Besides, if you wanted to find him, you knew where to look.

You took that bath Daeron had mentioned before Lord Ormund erupted in his fit of rage. Fresh herbs and mint are the bath salts you always chose ever since Daeron told you they were his favorites.

Relaxing in the bath, you thought again about Lord Ormund's outburst, but not exactly about the Hightower, more about Daeron's reaction. It wasn't the first time it had happened, you'd already deduced that, but you couldn't help wondering if any of those blows had landed on your betrothed.

You called your maid, who brought a robe to dry you. You slipped the fabric over your shoulders, tying the belt around your waist. You also asked her to prepare a dress, nothing extravagant, just something for everyday wear.

Once dressed and with your hair styled in a simple half-updo, you left your chambers in Tumbletown, walking down the long corridors to the fortress's prayer hall. In the center stood a massive, round altar with candles lining its rim, and engraved in the center was the seven-pointed star representing the Faith of the Seven. There, Lord Ormund kept the prince's dragon chained up, while the prince sat on one of the steps a few feet away, watching her eat.

Tessarion raised her head, startled by the new presence. Seeing that it was you, she lowered her guard and tore another piece of meat from the charred goat she was devouring. Daeron looked up at you and offered you a hand to help you sit beside him. You accepted his offer, sitting on the stone steps and adjusting your skirt.

A small sigh escaped your lips. Not quite sure how to start the conversation, you leaned your head down and rested it against Daeron's shoulder. He tensed for a few seconds, surprised by the gesture, but then you felt his weight shift slightly against yours.

"Has he ever exploded like this at you?" you asked, barely raising your voice.

Daeron took a moment to answer.

"No."

You frowned slightly. You might have jumped to the wrong conclusion, but fragments of Daeron's reaction still came back to you.

"Today wasn't one of the worst."

You turned your head to look at him. He was still silently observing Tessarion, with the same composure with which anyone might comment on the weather.

“Wasn’t that one… one of the worst?”

A tired, almost imperceptible smile barely curved the corner of his lips.

“He didn’t break anything important.”

You felt a lump in your throat. He wasn’t joking. He meant it.

“Daeron…”

“He’ll get over it.” He shrugged slightly. “He always does.”

You looked at him for a few more seconds, searching his face for any trace of anger, resentment… anything.

You found nothing. Only resignation.

“Since when?”

This time he was silent.

“…Since I can remember.”

The answer fell between you with devastating simplicity.

You looked down at his hands. You remembered perfectly how they had clenched tightly when Lord Ormund had raised his voice. How he had stepped back even before the chair hit the floor.

It hadn't been fear in that moment. It had been a pure reflex of experience. You slowly reached out and intertwined your fingers again. He said nothing, only squeezed them gently, as if he needed to make sure you were still there.

“I thought…” you swallowed. “I thought maybe someday you could end up like him.”

Daeron let out an almost inaudible breath.

“I thought that too when I was a kid.”

Those words hurt more than all the screams that afternoon.

“But not anymore.”

“Why?”, you asked.

Daeron looked away from Tessarion and stared at you.

“Because every time I have a reason to scream…” he looked down at your clasped hands. “…I remember what it feels like to be on the other side. And I never want you to be the one on the other side.”

m.list

[sintaera]

𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 | 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.

You are Maekar Targaryen's good girl, aren't you? You'll do anything for him, wouldn't you?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit sexual content, p in v, oral (female and male receiving), afab, fingering, intense sexual content, rough sex, possessive sex, minors dni.

I just wanted to thank each and every one of you for your support, I am calling this a night, but here's something until tomorrow or in this week.

The fire in the hearth of Maekar's private solar crackled low, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls of the Red Keep. The hour was late, the castle quiet save for the distant murmur of guards on the battlements.

You had come at his summons, a terse note delivered by a trusted squire, expecting counsel on some matter of court or perhaps another veiled warning about the ambitions swirling around his brothers.

Instead, you found Prince Maekar Targaryen alone, his broad shoulders outlined by the glow of embers, violet eyes fixed on you with that unyielding intensity that always made your pulse quicken.

He did not speak at first. He simply rose from his chair, the heavy cloak of his station discarded, leaving him in a loose black tunic that clung to the powerful frame honed by years at war.

The air between you thickened, charged like the moments before a storm breaks over the Narrow Sea.

Maekar's hand lifted, callused fingers brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness, tilting your chin up until your gaze locked with his.

“On your knees,” he murmured, voice low and rough as gravel under boots. His command carried the weight of royal blood and battlefield authority, leaving no room for hesitation.

You obeyed, sinking down onto the thick furs before the hearth, eyes never leaving his. He watched you, unblinking, as if daring you to look away.

His fingers threaded into your hair, gripping firm, not painful, but possessive, pulling just enough to guide you forward until your lips brushed the hard line of his thigh through his breeches. A shiver traced down your spine.

“Good girl,” he breathed, the words slipping out like a dark vow. He tugged you closer, back arching instinctively as he held you there, tracing the line of your throat with his free hand.

Every touch ignited sparks along your skin, from the sensitive hollow beneath your ear down to the swell of your breasts straining against your gown.

He pulled the laces loose with practiced efficiency, baring you to the firelight. Your nipples tightened under his gaze, and he rewarded the sight with a slow, approving hum.

Maekar's grip tightened in your hair as he freed himself, thick and heavy, the heat of him brushing your cheek.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered, and you did, lashes fluttering but never closing as he guided you forward. The taste of him filled your mouth, salt and smoke and raw Targaryen fire. He dictated the pace, hips thrusting shallow at first, then deeper, your hands braced on his powerful thighs. Whimpers escaped you around him, muffled and needy, but he only pulled your hair to arch your back further, exposing the elegant curve of your body to his hungry stare.

He drew you off with a wet pop, hauling you up by the hair until your mouths crashed together in a bruising kiss. Tongues tangled, his dominance pouring into you like dragonflame.

In one fluid motion, he spun you toward the heavy oak table, bending you over it so your breasts pressed against the cool wood. Your wrists were pinned above your head by one of his large hands, the other shoving your skirts up around your waist. Cool air kissed your slick folds, and you gasped, pushing back against him instinctively.

“Spread for me,” he growled against your ear, knee nudging your thighs wider. You felt the blunt head of his cock tease your entrance, sliding through your wetness in deliberate strokes that made your core clench with empty need. “Tonight you're mine. No fighting it.”

He thrust in deep on the next breath, stretching you open in one powerful stroke. A cry tore from your throat, his name, half-plea, half-worship. Maekar set a relentless rhythm, hips snapping forward with the force of a man who conquered on the field and claimed in the bedchamber.

Each thrust drove you harder against the table, your body jolting, back arched high as he pinned you there. His free hand roamed, palming your breast, pinching the nipple until pleasure bordered pain, then sliding down to circle your swollen pearl with devastating precision.

“Scream my name louder,” he commanded between gritted teeth, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Let the damn walls hear what a good girl you are for your prince.”

You obeyed, moaning it out—Maekar—as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin echoing with the crackle of the fire. He leaned over you, chest to your back, teeth grazing the nape of your neck, breath hot against your sweat-dampened skin.

The tension coiled tighter, your walls fluttering around his thick length. He felt it, growling approval as he released your wrists to grip your hips with both hands, angling you just so. Every thrust hit that perfect spot inside, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice dropping to that velvet darkness that unraveled you completely. “Now.”

Pleasure crashed over you like wildfire, your body seizing, a broken cry of his name spilling from your lips as you clenched around him.

Maekar followed with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding you with heat, hips grinding through the aftershocks as if he could fuse you together.

For long moments, only ragged breathing filled the solar. He stayed inside you, softening slowly, one hand stroking down your spine in rare tenderness. Finally, he withdrew and turned you in his arms, lifting you onto the table to face him.

Violet eyes searched yours, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, the closest Maekar Targaryen came to softness.

“You take me so well,” he murmured, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen lips. “My perfect, obedient girl.”

The night was far from over. He had only begun to dictate the rhythm between you.

The fire had burned lower, but the heat between you had only intensified. Maekar lifted you from the table as if you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist.

Your body was still trembling from the first peak, slick with his spend and your own arousal, yet he carried you across the solar with that same unhurried command. He pressed your back against the cool stone wall beside the tapestry of ancient dragons, his chest pinning you there, body locked to yours, unrelenting.

“You don't touch soft,” he rasped against your ear, echoing the storm building inside him. His hands roamed with deliberate possession, not gentle caresses but claiming strokes that mapped every curve as if he already knew what was his.

One palm slid up your thigh, hitching it higher around his hip, while the other braced beside your head. His violet eyes held yours, deciding, demanding, no questions, but only the burning touch of a prince who took what he wanted.

Your breath hitched as he ground against you, his cock, already hardening again, sliding through your folds, teasing your sensitive entrance.

“Maekar...” His name left your lips like a warning and a plea all at once. He smirked, dark and knowing, nipping at the pulse point on your neck before soothing it with his tongue.

“This isn't some courtly love,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint he was barely keeping. “It's meaner. Hungrier.”

Neither of you wanted it cleaner. His hips rolled forward, sinking back into your heat in one slow, devastating thrust.

A broken moan tore from you as he filled you completely, stretching you anew, your walls fluttering around his thickness. He stayed there, buried deep, letting you feel every inch while his breath ghosted hot over your skin.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. He captured your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall.

“Beg,” he commanded, pulling back almost fully before driving in again, deeper, harder. “Like you've done this a hundred times in your dreams.”

“Please... Maekar, more—”

The words spilled out, needy and raw. He rewarded you with a punishing rhythm, each thrust locking your bodies tighter together. Your back arched off the stone, breasts pressed flush to his chest, nipples dragging against him with every movement.

Sweat beaded on your skin; his free hand gripped your ass, angling you so he hit that spot inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

Breath on your neck, lips devouring the column of your throat, kissing, biting, marking. You felt the low growl vibrate through his chest as your body clenched around him, drawing him impossibly deeper. The slap of skin on skin filled the chamber, mingled with your gasps and his guttural praises.

“Good girl,” he growled, the words fueling the fire. “Take every inch. Let me feel how much you need this.”

His pace quickened, hips snapping with controlled power, grinding against your clit on every inward stroke. The tension coiled again, tighter this time, your thighs trembling around him as you neared the edge.

He released your wrists to slide his hand between you, thumb circling your pearl with expert pressure. “Come on my cock again,” he ordered, voice strained, eyes locked on your face as if memorizing every flicker of pleasure. “Say my name when you break.”

You shattered with a cry, your body convulsing around him, waves of ecstasy pulling him under with you. He thrust through it, burying himself to the hilt with a deep, possessive groan, spilling hot and thick inside you once more. Your bodies remained locked together against the wall, pulsing, breathing as one in the afterglow.

Maekar rested his forehead against yours, one hand gently cradling the back of your head now, though the dominance still simmered in his gaze.

“You're mine tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “And I intend to keep you locked here until the dawn.”

[theflowersflame]

The Heir's Second Love

Baelor Targaryen X F!Reader

Summary: The moment Baelor sets his sight on you, he cannot look away.

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: SMUT, afab reader, age gap (reader around early 20s), baelor is down bad and he makes you his wife, this is kinda romancey before the filth, fingering, oral (f!receiving) he's a munch, piv, lil bit of manhandling, praise, breeding kink, creampie, swearing, pentames, marriage, not plot heavy, if I've missed anything lmk??

Author's Note: MINORS DNI!! hello besties, heheh I hope you enjoy! ugh I could watch him play with his rings all day. lmk what you think, any comments, reblogs and feedback are really appreciated - thank you <3

Hesitant in remarrying after his Wife’s passing, Baelor underestimated just how fast he would fall for you. Utterly and irrevocably. 

The Heir to the Iron Throne was under a tremendous weight of pressure to marry again, weighing him down for many moons until he met you, a new lady at Court in King’s Landing.

At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on. 

They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House. 

What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself. 

Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time. 

His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.

Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight. 

Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.

And then he spotted you. 

Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.

Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.

Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!” 

Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement. 

Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off. 

Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke. 

“Your Grace.”

Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty. 

Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought. 

“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”

Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.

“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”

You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”

He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air. 

The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.

Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding. 

Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.

“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. 

Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.” 

He mulled over whether you were already wed. 

Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it. 

Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him. 

It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since. 

He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring. 

After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again. 

The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.

The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing. 

“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him. 

“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response. 

The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.

“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.

He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.

All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move. 

Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.

“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.” 

His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.” 

“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman. 

You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down. 

“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music. 

Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall. 

Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised. 

His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring. 

Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.

But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him. 

He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him. 

“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.  

Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”

“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music. 

“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”

Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in. 

When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.

He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.

Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go. 

Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you. 

Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth. 

He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot. 

Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber. 

After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both. 

Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen. 

Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.

“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.

Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so. 

“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.

Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.

Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars. 

A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.

Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.

“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you. 

Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained. 

A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses. 

The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above. 

“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”

His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow. 

Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances. 

After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.

Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars. 

“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above. 

“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat. 

Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”

Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.

“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”

“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds. 

“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.

Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness. 

Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion. 

Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”

“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.” 

The realm was full of delight and celebration. 

At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council. 

“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”

“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”

“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”

“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”

Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.” 

After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.

You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival. 

And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride. 

There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed. 

“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.

Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband. 

This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.

“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words. 

Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.

The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”

“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”

“But I do think it wise-”

“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”

Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.

And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers. 

Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too. 

The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you. 

His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.

“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you. 

The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours. 

It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him. 

His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.

You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”

“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed. 

His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

“Lay down, Husband.” 

Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back. 

You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him. 

“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length. 

You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.

You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.

But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.

His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him. 

Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this. 

“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness. 

Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core. 

“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”

“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind. 

Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around. 

You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.

“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied. 

“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”

Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes. 

“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move. 

Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly. 

“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?

“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before. 

“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”

Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast. 

A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking. 

The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.

“What are you doing, Husband?”

A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.

Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.

“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder. 

He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you. 

“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”

His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion. 

Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more. 

“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness. 

Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.

His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause. 

His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you. 

“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.

And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint. 

Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.  

“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”

And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.

Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high. 

“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria. 

Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard. 

“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.” 

He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.

“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.” 

Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily. 

You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress. 

The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.” 

Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.

Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible. 

“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”

“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.

“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.” 

Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths. 

Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.

“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.

“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.  

Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.

“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours. 

“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”

Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance. 

“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”

Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.

He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat. 

Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.

Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.

The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length. 

You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”

A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.

“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace. 

“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.” 

Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh. 

“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”

You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core. 

Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.

“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”

“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”

Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.

His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it. 

The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.

“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”

“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”

Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss. 

“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”

Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.

You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”   

Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.

The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure. 

After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty. 

Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.

“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood. 

“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.  

Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.

“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many sons in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”

You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”

Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.

tags; @you-need-namjesus @ildico-the-golden