The apocalypse has come and gone, and against all odds, Pharloom remains standing. The time has come for Hornet to return to Hallownest, accompanied by friends and allies: Shakra hopes to explore the mythical land beyond the wastes, and properly lay to rest a member of her own tribe; Lace fears unraveling without the aid of a Weaver, while contending with the immensity of a future free of her mother's threads; and the Green Prince lives only only to spite the Citadel, passively seeking a more honorable end than might be found in the rubble of his homeland.
Meanwhile, Hornet returns from Pharloom with magic and knowledge that might aid in the slow recovery of Hallownest and Deepnest--and perhaps offer the chance to call home the sibling she once thought lost to her forever.
Chapter 3: Less Like a Promise, More Like a Vow
[<<Prev] [Chapter 3] [Next>>]
Hornet is greeted by familiar sights and familiar faces. She's been gone a while, but her involuntary sojourn to Pharloom wasn't nearly the length of time that Ghost has been missing. Things have changed in their absence, but there are still people waiting for them to come home.
(Afterwards, Lace asks Hornet what that was all about and she's just like, don't worry about it.)
I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter--very little happens in it, but it covers a lot of ground, establishing the timeline and at least two of the major plot threads moving forward. It was also fun to age up Cornifer and Iselda. Anyways, thank you for reading! Your enthusiasm keeps me going on this project!
Other Hollow Knight Art: [They Are Taking Art Lessons] [Hornet Enacting Big Sister Rights] [Lace Gets Adopted] [Ghost Exhibiting Cat Behavior ™] [Addendum to Adoption] [A Lack of Due Diligence] [Addendum to Due Diligence] [Memento Mayhem] [Pale King vs Shade Lord]
Transcript:
Page 2
Title Card: Dirtmouth: The Beacon Town
Lace: ...What a dump.
SFX: [Music, implied to be humming]
Cornifer: Hm? Ah hello there! Come to explore these beautiful cav--
Cornifer: Oh!
Page 3
Mato: ?
Mato: What's this commotion?
Iselda: Good news for once. Miss Hornet has apparently returned to us... with a new cartographer in tow.
Mato: You seem awfully cheerful about another business rival.
Iselda: Oh hush. You aren't nearly the money grub your old master was.
Page 4
Mato: Still begrudging an old fly his retirement? He wasn't blessed with the lifespan of Great Bugs like myself.
Iselda: Believe me, I am aware-- More with every passing season now that Corny's memory is going.
Iselda: It's why I can hardly be upset by this new "map enthusiast." This is the most energetic I've seen him in ages.
Cornifer: ! !
Cornifer: Iselda dear! Come look at Miss Shakra's maps!
Cornifer: They're made of dried shellwood pulp, and her pins are beautiful!
Iselda: It seems I'm being summoned.
Page 5
Cornifer: By the way, Miss Hornet... have you seen the little wanderer lately?
Iselda: Corny...
Cornifer: They usually stop by the shop every few turns, but we haven't seen them in at least a cycle.
Cornifer: Iselda and I are starting to worry something has happened to them.
Hornet: Yes, actually. I encountered them recently.
Mato: !
Cornifer: Oh! So they're alright?
Hornet: I can offer no certainty... except that they live... though seemingly bound to circumstances difficult but not dire.
Hornet: ... I make no promise, but know this: If it is at all within my power... I will bring them home.
the time has come for your prickly prince to prepare for fatherhood! what awaits you as the days tick down to the arrival of your first child?
genre/warnings:
suggestive, fluff, pregnancy, protective!aerion who will burn the masses if they ever do you wrong, quarrels here and there, lots of kissing too bc he is ravenous, attempt at poisoning, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent, lannister!reader
notes:
another part of the dragon and the lioness series. fluff, protective aerion and uhhh a sprinkle of drama? yeah that's the plot <3
“Every part of you… is mine to taste, wife...”
Once, the very idea of being the Bright Prince’s wife was unfathomable to you. But now...
You had grown to savor the way Aerion kissed you with shameless greed, and most of all, the rare moments when his sharp features softened for you alone while he held you against him. Even his temperament, dramatics, and the irritated arch of his violet eyes whenever something displeased him had somehow become… lovable in your eyes.
Gods, when had that happened?
When had Aerion Brightflame ceased to be your insufferable husband and become the man whose embrace you sought without thinking?
“Mmh…” You blamed the babe growing within you. Surely that had to be the reason, you thought, as you kissed him back with equal fervor, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt while his arms lowered you to your marital bed.
“Heh,” Aerion chuckled under his breath, watching your screwed-shut eyes as you chased his lips, incredibly wanton to him.
Strange, wasn’t it? The way life could twist bitter enemies into lovers before either of them even realized it themselves.
Your breath hitched as his hands slid beneath your knees, spreading your legs apart. He broke the kiss then, drinking in the sight of you— and you became self-conscious, only then realizing that he had made a quick work of your dress and you had been left in nothing but your lace undergarments.
“Y-You can’t...” You pressed your lips together, instinctively touching the swell of your belly. “That won’t… be good for the babe.”
Aerion’s lips curved with visible amusement.
“Oh?” he drawled, violet eyes glinting as they swept slowly over you. “Then why, pray tell, are you dressed like this, sweet wife?”
He was right, this was your own doing. Why would you have chosen such a racy, provokating thing to wear tonight?
Perhaps because—even if you wouldn’t admit it—a part of you had already suspected the evening would end with his hands on you and that dangerously pleased look in his eyes.
“A lesser man might say you want to tempt him,” Aerion mused, tracing a slow finger along your cheek, his smile still unbearably wicked.
“So you are not tempted?” you questioned boldly, meeting his gaze, despite the furious heat blooming across your face.
“No.” He shook his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brushed yours, his voice smug and smooth as velvet. “I am, after all, a man blessed with extraordinary restraint.”
He said that, yet the way his sharp violet eyes focusing on your lips and the way his fingers drifted between your legs said otherwise.
Really, what man could resist the sight of his wife beneath him— soft, flushed, thoroughly marked as his with a babe in her belly while pretending innocence with those wide, coy eyes?
Your husband decided you were playing with fire, so you would get burned. Aerion suddenly slipped two fingers inside your underwear, before pushing one into your folds that made you wide-eyed and suck in a sharp breath—
“You just boasted about restraint!”
“And I possess it. I’m just choosing not to neglect my good wife,” he countered, his cruel grin returning as he inserted another finger, making you gasp in process.
Perfect. You were unraveling by the second, and he had barely even begun.
“There are, after all, many ways to pleasure an expecting wife like you... without compromising the babe.”
Such was your marital life now— with your prince bringing you pleasure nights after nights with the same greedy devotion he seemed to reserve only for you.
And somehow, this was merely the beginning of your happily ever after.
Ever since the word got out that you were with child, Aerion had become more protective of you.
Suddenly, servants were reprimanded for allowing sharp objects near your chambers, guards trailed several paces behind you whenever you wandered the gardens alone and healthy meals appeared at exact hours, prepared according to whichever elderly midwife had most recently filled Aerion’s head with warnings.
And once again, you noticed it most that afternoon when you merely tried to descend the stairs.
Your husband had been halfway through a conversation with his steward when he abruptly stopped speaking altogether, violet eyes narrowing upon you as you placed a hand against the railing.
“…What are you doing?”
You turned to him, blinking innocently. “Walking.”
Not that he would admit it or realize it himself though.
The steward wisely lowered his head, pretending sudden fascination with the floor tiles as Aerion strode towards you with an irritated frown.
“You nearly slipped yesterday,” he hissed, sliding an arm around your waist as he carefully guided you down the stairs.
You rolled your eyes, remembering how you stepped on a parchment the night before. “It was a harmless accident— and for the last time, no, I wasn’t slipping!”
Truthfully, beneath your outward annoyance, deep inside, you were sort of delighted. Because truly, who would have imagined that the arrogant dragon prince would express concern in ways that were somehow endearing?
Or more like, inconveniently endearing.
“Huzzah,” you declared with the flattest tone the moment your feet reached the bottom step, folding your arms dramatically as you turned to him. “I have survived the dreadful staircase, lord husband. Thanks to you.”
Aerion leveled you with a scathing look.
. . .
Soon, it was evident before the rest of Summerhall too.
You lifted your chin, eyes flashing with righteous indignation. “You dismissed a maid yesterday because she served me tea that was slightly too hot. Aerion, this has become ridiculous!”
The Bright Prince, however, remained unmoved, believing his actions were perfectly sensible. “She had one job yet failed to perform it properly. It could have scalded you.”
“You also confiscated my riding boots!”
“You are not riding, wife—”
Behind the half-open door of the solar across the hall, two spectators to your marital quarrel were your husband’s brothers. Daeron raised an eyebrow while young Aegon looked moments away from bursting into hysterical laughter.
“You are enjoying this far too much, Egg,” Daeron muttered dryly.
“Can you blame me?” he whispered back. “This is Aerion we are talking about. Aerion!” He gestured dramatically towards the door with both hands. “The same brother who once claimed affection was ‘a weakness designed by the gods to humiliate men’!”
Well, neither Daeron nor Egg had ever imagined they would witness their notorious middle brother reduced to hovering over his wife. This was indeed a sight.
“I have ridden since childhood!”
“And now you are carrying my child, woman—”
Daeron gave up at last, a chuckle escaping him too. “I never thought I would live long enough to see Aerion become a mother hen.”
“A dragon hen,” Egg corrected conspiratorially, as he strained his ears, thoroughly enjoying your marital dispute.
Another moon passed by, and the maester advised you to get more rest from now on as later moons will prove far more taxing on your body.
However, a royal summons arrived from King’s Landing not long after. The King himself intended to host a grand celebration tourney in honor of the birth of your first child—and both you and your husband were commanded to remain at court for the remainder of your confinement.
You were leaving Summerhall behind, but that was the least of your concerns.
Aerion would be entering the lists.
You had known he would before he even said it aloud. Aerion Brightflame would sooner stop breathing than ignore an opportunity to prove himself before the realm. Under ordinary circumstances, you would proudly bestow your favor upon him and watch him ride with your head held high, but—
Your labor pains could begin while he was in the field. He would be absent from the birthing chambers. Worse, he could get injured—
The thought should not have affected you as much as it did. Men rode in tourneys, princes fought for glory, and discomfort in childbed is how women served the realm.
And there was also another matter that occupied your mind—
“The shape sits high,” the midwife in King’s Landing had declared while measuring your belly, now heavier and more pronounced than ever in your seventh moon. “And my lady craves salted meats more than sweets. It should be a boy.”
Everyone seemed most pleased by the possibility. Aerion himself made it clear he favored a son. You, however, found yourself uncertain what to feel.
. . .
“Where is my lady wife?”
Contrary to what most might have assumed, Aerion was not particularly pleased to be back in King’s Landing.
The long journey from Summerhall had exhausted you so thoroughly that you had scarcely risen from bed for several days. Sure, the grand tourney stirred his excitement— his grandsire honoring the birth of his firstborn with such spectacle was a distinction not even his cousin Valarr had received.
But King’s Landing was still where rumors of another Blackfyre uprising drifted through like smoke, and with your confinement only weeks away, Aerion found himself increasingly ill at ease. These days, peace only came when you were somewhere within his sight.
“The Lady Lannister is bathing in the royal spring, my prince.”
The spring behind Aegon’s High Hill had long since become property of the royal family, secluded from common visitors and hidden behind walls of stone and tangled greenery. It was meant to be a place of relaxation— but still not somewhere his heavily pregnant wife should be wandering unattended.
His irritation simmered all the way through the winding path. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees overhead as Aerion pushed past hanging branches with impatient steps. He had half a mind to rebuke you the moment he arrived—
But every thought dissolved into dust the instant he saw you.
You stood waist-deep within the pristine spring waters, your body half-submerged in the cool waters. A white shift covered your breasts, but the generous swell of your stomach was exposed under the sunlight. Layers of skirts floated around you like scattered clouds, preserving your modesty while doing very little to dull the breathtaking sight before him.
The sight of you beneath the open sky, drenched in sunlight and water was ethereal. He was rooted near the edge of the spring, spellbound.
At nights, he had worshipped that divine body of yours with greedy hands and wandering lips, had learned every sigh you tried to hide, had savored the softness of your thighs, and the sleepy way you clung to him.
But, in the light of day, the temptation of you felt almost cruel.
His gaze lowered shamelessly over the curve of your figure, lingering upon your barely concealed breasts first, before trailing lower. Pride unfurled hotly in his chest at the sight of your rounded belly, heavy and almost ripe. You carried his blood there.
Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose, though it did little to calm the sudden heat crawling beneath his skin.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes lifted towards to him, and the moment your face softened at the sight of him, whatever remained of his irritation died completely.
“Well?” you asked with a coy smile, tilting your head slightly. “Are you merely going to stare, husband… or are you going to join me?”
Like some bewitched mortal lured by a river nymph from old Valyrian tales, the Bright Prince descended the stone steps without hesitation. His boots scraped against damp stone as he shrugged off his doublet with careless impatience, dark eyes never once leaving you.
By the time he stepped into the spring, he was clad only in his dress shirt and breeches, the cool water curling around him as he crossed towards you and drew you effortlessly into his embrace from behind.
“Standing there as though the Maiden herself rose from the spring,” Aerion murmured against your ear, lips brushing the damp skin beneath it. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Did you intend to torment me in broad daylight?”
“I needed time to think,” you countered softly, though your breath caught when his wandering hands settled upon your chest beneath the wet fabric.
“To think? About what?”
You bit your lower lip as the waters lapped gently around the two of you. The way your face now marred with a frown made him click his tongue.
“Speak, wife. I dislike that look upon your face.”
“You are going to join the tourney,” you admitted at last, turning to face him. “While I may very well be laboring alone.”
“I shall return victorious,” he vowed, his violet irises blazing with conviction. “I shall place every honor I win before you and our child, just as it should be.”
Yet he could feel how you were unsatisfied with his answer. Aerion sighed quietly before lowering his mouth to your shoulder, brushing a kiss against your damp skin.
“You fret too much. The midwives will attend you day and night. You have nothing to fear— I will make certain of it.”
You pursed your lips, feeling foolish for being sullen knowing his presence would be demanded in the field regardless, but you just couldn’t help it.
Aerion fell silent for a moment, his hold around you tightening almost instinctively beneath the water.
“Look at me,” he commanded suddenly, and you did reluctantly, your lips still puckered in dissatisfaction.
Gods, how sweet could you be?
“Stop filling your little head with nonsense. I will return to you unscathed. Your task is to rest, eat whatever strange cravings seize you, and carry my child safely.”
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, tilting your chin up so you couldn’t stray from his gaze.
“Aerion—”
“I’m not finished.” His tone sharpened, though the hand cradling your face remained gentle. “I have ridden in tourneys since I was barely tall enough to hold a lance. I have been thrown from horses, split open, battered, and yet I remain standing before you now. And you think some hedge knight or a lordling’s second son could best me?”
A ghost of arrogance curved his lips. “I think not.”
His violet eyes swept over your face then. Gods, you looked painfully sweet like this— so soft with vulnerability.
“You carry blood of the dragon,” he murmured, his palm spreading over the curve of your belly beneath the water. “Do not insult either of us by imagining I would fail to return to you. And if your labor does begin while I am away...”
The thought seemed to sour his expression. “Then you will endure it exactly as I know you will. Know this, I will return to your side the moment I am able.”
You frowned faintly. “That is hardly comforting.”
Aerion snorted, his lips curling into a smirk. “You married the wrong man if you expected sweet comforts from me, wife.”
You let out a soft scoff despite yourself, some of your spirits finally lifting seeing his infuriating confidence.
“There,” he murmured smugly, poking your cheek when you broke into a little smile. “Are you done sulking now?”
“Perhaps not for long,” you countered lightly, throwing him a look. “If my husband fails to comfort me properly, perhaps I ought to find another man willing to do so.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once, violet eyes narrowing as his grip around your waist tightened beneath the water.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would.”
A dark look crossed his face, then—
He devoured your lips, one powerful arm locked securely around your waist while his other hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head. The cool spring water rippled sharply around you as he deepened the kiss with blatant possessiveness, as though determined to remind you exactly who you belonged to.
When he broke the kiss, you breathlessly clutched his body for support. Breathing heavily against your lips, his voice dropped to a fiercely low growl—
“I wouldn’t let another man touch you while I still draw breath... oh sweet wife of mine.”
“My lady, I trust you are well?”
House Targaryen hosted a grand luncheon several days later within the halls of the Red Keep, gathering notable lords and ladies from across the realm.
You had been navigating the crowd with practiced grace when a warm, familiar voice cut through the ambient noise. Turning, you found yourself facing your cousin-by-law, the Prince Valarr Targaryen.
“Your Grace,” you greeted with a bright smile and slight curtsy. “Yes, I have been well.”
The Young Prince had arrived from Dragonstone with his wife. From where you were, you could see the princess consort mingling with other guests with radiant smile and perfect decorum.
She truly is beautiful, you often thought to yourself. Delicate features, graceful bearings, eyes that seemed almost luminous beneath the candlelight— it was easy to understand why bards wrote songs about her beauty.
Valarr’s gaze dipped towards the unmistakable swell of your stomach, far too prominent now to be concealed beneath your dress.
“Good to see you, really. How far along are you now?”
A wistful smile came to your lips. “Near enough that everyone has begun hovering over me as though I might break apart at any moment.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him. “Still, you are in your most delicate state now. I imagine my cousin can’t stay still as well.”
“Well, one can hardly blame the prince!”
You were still smiling when another voice suddenly joined the conversation. You turned to find Lord Manderly, stout and red-faced from the midday wine, waddled over with an easy grin, goblet in hand.
“With a wife as lovely as you, oh lady—” he slurred, “I imagine Prince Aerion guards you like a dragon atop treasure!”
“You flatter me, my lord,” you answered politely.
Lord Manderly waved a dismissive hand, laughing boisterously. “Not at all, not at all! Though I confess, recalling how the Prince Aerion making quite the spectacle of himself—” he turned to Valarr, “with you, my prince, years ago...”
Ah, that story you once heard in a passing too. The tourney in King’s Landing, in which Valarr and Aerion fought each other in a contest of arms, supposedly, over pride.
Valarr’s expression shifted almost immediately. “My lord—”
But Lord Manderly, either oblivious or too deep in wine to notice, continued on cheerfully enough—
“For a long time, everyone was talking about how the Bright Prince was quite captivated by Her Grace’s beauty! Enough to demand her favor and fight her husband!”
You blinked, realization settled over you with sudden, uncomfortable clarity.
“My lord, if I may.” Valarr cleared his throat, a restrained but cross look on his face. “Words are wind. A tourney floor is full of grand gestures and exaggerated flattery. I assure you, everyone would do well not to concern themselves with such baseless rumors.”
Lord Manderly’s red face drained of color all of a sudden as the weight of his social blunder finally registered.
“Oh Seven— forgive me, my lady!” he said quickly, turning towards you with genuine embarrassment. “A foolish old man’s rambling, is all! My deepest, most sincere apologies— I meant absolutely no disrespect to you, nor to Prince Aerion!”
“Think nothing of it, Lord Manderly,” you replied smoothly, your voice a perfectly crafted mask of composure. “The wine is indeed potent today.”
Relieved to be dismissed, Manderly excused himself with hasty bows, and Valarr quickly steered the conversation back to safer waters before he also excused himself from you.
You appeared to be smiling, but deep inside, you were perturbed.
Your eyes involuntarily scanned the crowded solarium, searching through the sea of silks and velvet until they landed on your husband standing amongst a cluster of knights and courtiers.
And right in that moment, you caught how his gaze followed not you, but the princess consort at the far corner of the hall.
Something inside your chest curled unpleasantly, but you decided not to dwell in it. Whatever might have existed between them once, they meant nothing now, you assured yourself.
So, to distract your wandering thoughts, you reached for the tea the server had offered to you, thinking to calm your nerves—
Until the citrus scent suddenly turned rancid in your senses, so putrid it made your stomach lurch violently that you spit it out and let go of the porcelain cup.
. . .
When a loud crash rang through the solarium, Aerion’s attention snapped instantly toward the disturbance.
And much to his surprise— in the middle of it stood you.
Standing amidst shattered porcelain, you had one hand covered your mouth while the other clutched at your abdomen, your face drained of all color as though you might collapse where you stood.
He immediately dashed towards where you were, nearly sending one poor lord stumbling aside in his haste. The crowd parted instinctively for him as he crossed the hall at frightening speed.
By the time he reached you, his hands were already on you.
“What happened?” he demanded immediately, gripping your arms as his eyes swept frantically over your form.
You swallowed hard against another wave of nausea. “T-The tea…”
“What?”
You shook your head weakly, leaning into him. “It tastes so foul—”
His gaze snapped toward the shattered mess beside your feet. Without hesitation, Aerion crouched and snatched up what remained of the broken cup from the floor. The pungent scent hit almost immediately, and his expression darkened in realization.
Moon tea. He recognized it instantly—it had once been his most reliable safeguard during his years frequenting whorehouse before he wed you. He had forced it into those unkempt women after he was finished with them.
However, even a single sip could have made you miscarry. Someone has intended exactly that.
Aerion surged back to his feet at once, turning towards you so quickly with wild eyes.
“Did you drink any of it?” he demanded harshly. “Did you?”
You shook your head immediately. “No—”
Relief struck him so violently it almost looked painful.
Aerion closed his eyes briefly before gripping the back of your head, pulling you to his embrace. You breathed in his scent, your nausea receded somewhat.
Around the two of you, the solarium had begun to descend into chaos. Voices overlapped in alarm while guards moved swiftly through the hall. Servants looked petrified, several nobles already retreating from the tables entirely as whispers of poison spread like wildfire.
Moon tea. At a royal luncheon. You. When Aerion lifted his head again, the relief in his expression had vanished entirely, and in its place was pure fury.
“Seal the hall,” Aerion ordered sharply, but at first, no one moved quickly enough for his liking. “I said seal the fucking hall!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall.
Kingsguard immediately surged into motion. Doors slammed shut. Panic rippled through the gathered guests as guards began seizing servants and blocking every exit from the hall.
“No one leaves this place,” Aerion continued, drawing you protectively against his side while his vengeful gaze remained fixed upon the crowd.
“I want every servant, cook, and miserable soul here questioned. One step forward— and I will have your head severed and hung to rot in Flea Bottom for all to see.”
You could feel the hammering of his heart in your ears. His expression still murderous, it was only when he looked back down at you did some fragment of restraint finally return to his face.
“You are certain you swallowed none of it?” he asked again, quieter and softer this time.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy. “I am certain.”
Aerion searched your face carefully, as though trying to convince himself you truly stood unharmed before him.
And in that moment, you found yourself clinging to him instinctively—your steadfast protector amidst the chaos.
The entire castle remained in uproar long after you had been escorted back to your chambers. The server who had handed you that accursed tea was apprehended with ease, and Aerion had gone personally to beat the fear of the gods into him in the dungeons.
Yet another Blackfyre loyalist hidden amongst the castle’s walls like a serpent. No one told you exactly what became of him, but when your prince returned not long after, there had been blood across the cuffs of his tunic that certainly had not belonged to him.
By then, relief and exhaustion had finally overtaken you, dragging you into a light and restless sleep. You awoke sometime later in his arms, to the soft crackling of the fire.
His deep violet eyes were fixed on you, dark shadows under them as if he hadn’t been resting at all.
“You’re not sleeping...?”
“Was about to.”
Though he tried to conceal it, exhaustion lingered plainly across his face. It was rare to see Aerion so bare and vulnerable like this.
The memory came rushing back all at once then. The putrid stench, the panic in the hall, the horrifying realization that someone had wanted you and your child dead before they had even drawn breath—
A tremor ran through you before you could suppress it and your husband engulfed you in his embrace, holding you tightly.
“Cease this at once, wife,” he whispered in your ear, sounding almost irritated despite his obvious and clumsy attempt at comfort. “So long as I draw breath, no one will harm you.”
Your eyes burned. “What did you do to him?”
“What? You expected mercy from me tonight?”
“No.” You shook your head against his chest, your voice small and bitter. “Make him suffer first, and only then do you give him a painful death.”
That actually managed to pull a dark smile from him. “No,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against you. “I will make him rot first. Death is a mercy he has to earn.”
A faint smile tugged at your lips when you pulled away from his hold, though worry still lingered beneath your ribs.
“There.” Aerion brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his violet eyes warmer than you had ever seen before. “Better already.”
How both of you reached this point astonished even you. The mad boy who had terrorized your childhood, your enemy who had become your destined husband— Aerion Brightflame was your greatest bane of existence too.
Yet here you were, trusting him more than anyone else alive in Westeros. You knew his cruelty, but you also knew his loyalty—and you knew, just as surely as he would make anyone who ever came close to harm you rue the day they ever did, he would guard you like a dragon atop treasure.
And because of that, the doubt in your voice was softer than it might have once been when you finally asked:
“…What if the babe is a girl?”
Aerion’s brows furrowed immediately, as though the question itself puzzled him.
“A princess,” you explained, fingers drifting protectively over your stomach. “You value a son and heir above all else. But who could have known the will of the gods?”
Aerion stared at you for a long, unreadable moment, as though carefully weighing your words before at last letting out a scoff.
“Mark my words now, wife, for I will not repeat them. I require that this child, boy or girl, survives.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. However, his expression hardened slightly afterwards.
“And the same goes for you. If you don’t, I will never, ever forgive you.”
In that moment, you thought you would willingly give everything of yourself to place this child safely into his arms. You would give him a son too, gods willing.
You reached for your husband then, pulling him down into the purest and sweetest of a kiss.
“Be welcome, noble knights and lords of the realm!”
Commoners and nobles alike buzzed with excitement for the grand tourney, their cheers echoing throughout the stands. High up on the royal dais, King Daeron stood, his voice amplified by the roaring acoustics of the arena as he opened the games with salutations.
“...and this glorious day has been made all the more blessed by joyful news,” the good king proclaimed proudly. “My beloved granddaughter has begun her labors! May the Seven grant fortune to every combatant this day!”
Down on the field, however, the King’s words brought no celebration to the man affected most.
Aerion sat atop his warhorse, motionless. Beneath his dark armor, his chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths. While other knights waved jovially at the crowd, his gaze was locked entirely on the opposing end of the lists.
Your pains had started since last night. Through the early hours of midnight, you had endured them in silence, determined to hold yourself together a little longer, yet occasionally curling into him for comfort. By dawn, however, you were in tears, and every hour after that became a new torment for you.
But when it came time to see him off this morning, you had refused to look weak. Sweat clung to your face, and your eyes were glistening, but a fierce light burned right through them. Gripping his armor, you had hissed a command through gritted teeth:
“Win that fucking tourney, and only then are you allowed come back to me, husband.”
“Son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall—”
A violent, dark impatience overtook him.
“Grandson to King Daeron the Good—”
If he had to tear through every knight in the Seven Kingdoms to get back to your side, he would do it. And he would do it quickly.
“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen—”
Lowering his visor with a sharp, echoing snap, Aerion gripped his lance. He would come back as a victor, exalted and feared, and you would give him his child.
Your child too. He knew already they would be sweet, just like you.
“—will choose his first opponent!”
. . .
The air inside your birthing chambers was thick by midday, smelling heavily of copper, sweat, and the sharp scent of crushed lavender oil the maids used to soothe the air.
But there was no soothing the agony ripping through you.
Another of your heartbreaking wails filled the air when another violent contraction hit, seizing your spine and twisting your abdomen with a malice that stole the breath straight from your lungs.
“Push, my lady! You must push!” the midwife urged, her hands busy prodding you beneath the heavy linens. “The child is close, but you cannot lose your strength now!”
Your body felt broken, torn apart from the inside out. Your eyes were rimmed with tears of pain and pure exhaustion, blurring the stone walls of your chambers into a hazy nightmare.
Your prince was out there tearing through the realm’s finest knights just to earn the right to return to your side. He was conquering the field for you. For this child.
And you would not fail him on your own battlefield.
“Again!” the midwife commanded when that familiar, iron grip curling and seizing your womb once more. “Now, my lady!”
But the next wave was the most terrible pain you had ever experienced, and your voice cracked into raw scream as you pushed with every last shred of strength left within your body.
You could feel the crushing pressure, the burning fire, the blinding and unforgiving sensation of your very body being split apart—
The midwife cried, her voice rising in triumph over the distant rumble of the arena:
“I see the head! One more, my lady! Give me everything you have!”
. . .
“The Prince Aerion wins!”
He had done it. The second he threw the other knight off his horse and he yielded, he had ridden his warhorse, torn his helmet off, and marched towards your chambers like a specter of death.
In his frantic rush to end his final foe, he had made one careless mistake though— leaving his guard down just enough for a lance to slice a deep gash down his forearm, and now crimson blood dripped steadily onto the pristine floors with every step towards your chambers.
He had been told that you had tethered between life and death—shivering before falling unconscious the moment the child was born.
“My prince! You cannot go in there!” a maid cried, stepping in front of the heavy oak doors, her hands raised in horror. “You are covered in filth! The lady must be kept clean, the babe—”
“Get a maester to dress my wound,” he spat viciously, making the poor girl recoil. “Now.”
The maester came soon, scrambling to pour a wine over the wound to cleanse it, hastily wrapping a fresh linen binding over the gash. It was a rushed job, done in mere seconds. The white linen instantly bloomed with a fresh patch of red. His attendant quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face and helped him out of his armor as fast he could.
Aerion shoved them away after they were done, turning back to the heavy doors, but the midwives still stood there, hesitant between duty and fear.
His arm burned, exhaustion and blood loss leaving him half-delirious, and they knew better than to deny him his right. Aerion stormed into the chambers, drawing gasps from the wet nurses and your maids. Instinctively, every gaze in the room flickered toward the small bundle wrapped in linen within the cradle beside the hearth.
They expected him to demand his heir. They expected him to look for the son he had so desperately coveted—
But to their surprise, he didn’t even spare a glance at the cradle. Instead, he crossed the room in a few long strides and went straight to where you lay still.
“Wife,” he breathed hoarsely, reaching for you at once. “I am here.”
You were deathly pale. Your eyes fluttered open weakly, as if you were pulling yourself back from a long, deep sleep.
Then, you looked up and smiled at him— so beautiful and tender it nearly broke him.
He gathered you into his arms, engulfing you in a fierce, crushing hug— pressing a hard kiss to the crown of your head. You let out a watery laugh, clutching at him too.
“It is a son,” you told him with pride. “He looks just like you.”
Aerion let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle at that. In truth, the idea of a daughter didn’t seem terrible to him at all right now.
In fact, now that the thought had crossed his mind, he found himself wanting a pretty little girl too... one who had your eyes and your smile.
. . .
History would fondly remember the romance between the bitterest enemies who found the truest of love, for the realm had borne witness to that auspicious day—
The dragon prince has won his triumph, and so has his princess.
tagging @marianntorres2611 @starkleila @huntmewithdogs @pinkfunland @dauntlesshereticleviathan @laylavynna @dabishou @ireneisbored @menacing-pfeffernusse @xxvelvetxxx @icebearcucumber as per request! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <3
when FIRELORD ZUKO takes a liking to AVATAR AANG'S mysterious new BRIDE.
TORN BETWEEN TWO ROADS ! — aang x reader x zuko
PLOT. republic city is finally at peace, and katara allows herself to hope that maybe now, after everything, she and aang can finally become something real. but when aang returns after eight months, he isn’t alone. he comes back with you at his side, introducing you as his wife. suspicious yet helpless, his friends do their best to welcome you, even as nothing about this sudden marriage makes sense. but while everyone else keeps their distance, one person doesn’t. and perhaps Zuko gets a little too comfortable with the avatar’s new wife.
CHARACTERS. AANG and ZUKO.
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, dark themes, sexual assault, mentions of rape (not aang or zuko dw), established relationship, yearner aang, infidelity, depression, mentions of suicide, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not canon compliant to legend of korra, wip.
masterlist
art creds :: chamiii07, ilameys on x
CHAPTER ONE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang but follows the characters, not canon compliant to legend of korra, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWO
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps. reader is 21, established relationship, mean sokka (no hate for him please, i am just a bitch hahah), little arguing (lowkey fight), fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THREE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, some 'arguing' with zuko, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOUR
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, smut, angst, hurt with comfort, small argument (i don't think it even counts), penetration sex, no protection (do they even have protection?), my own version of plan b used, pregnancy talks, slightly insecure reader (regarding katara), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, kinda proofread.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, implied sexual assault, fight with zuko, zuko is kind of a prick ngl, protective aang, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SIX
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, blood, stab wound, cauterization, lots of fire, a little tension, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, slight panic attack, a very bad injury (not detailed), takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, alcohol consumption, underage drinking (?) [idk their legal age for drinking, but in this fic it's 21], takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER NINE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, kidnapping, restraints, sexual assault, character death mentioned, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER TEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, bad father, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, zuko spirals a little, multiple minor character deaths, ozai appearence, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER THRITEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WARNINGS. 18+, mdni, angst, takes place 10 years after atla, age gaps, reader is 21, established relationship, fem reader, atla spoilers, no spoilers for legend of aang, not proofread.
Warnings: Arranged Marriage; Pregnancy; Baelor and Reader Have a Load of Kids; Implied / Non-Explicit Sexual Conduct; Children (Lots of Them); Anti-Dornish and Anti-Lyseni Sentiments Mentioned; Use of "You" but No "Y/N"; Reader's Appearance is Not Described, but Reader has Valyrian Heritage; Italics are High Valyrian
Word Count: ~4200 words
Plot: If the court is going to accuse you of using magic to seduce your husband, you are going to ensure that you are considered one of the greatest sorceresses of all time.
Master List
You knew that you were a foreigner in the Red Keep, but you assumed that the lords of Westeros would realize that you were not simple. Even if you were unable to speak their language—which you were not—there was no explanation other than pure disdain for the glares that they fixed you with as you sat beside your new husband.
Some were certainly still aggravated that out of all of the ladies drawn to King's Landing to meet Prince Baelor, the heir to the Iron Throne, you were selected as his bride over their daughters and sisters. You were quietly—as quietly as an explosion, that is—accused of seducing the prince or using some kind of magic to alter his mind to select you as his bride.
If anything, however, you appeared to be the only woman who was not automatically enthralled by him. You refused to speak in the common tongue during your meeting and asked him pointed questions that would cause most Westerosi women to faint.
And after all of that and about fifty other women meeting with him, you were selected as his bride.
"To the happy couple!"
King Daeron concluded his wedding speech by lofting his chalice into the air. Each and every person in the room did the same, wishing the two of you a fruitful marriage. Most seemed to be half-hearted, but that only amused you. You took a slow sip of your wine, which did not taste nearly as rich as the wine back in Lys, before carefully setting it down.
"My new maid tells me of the custom of a bedding ceremony," you stated in High Valyrian to your husband, eyeing the men leering at you among the collected revelers.
"It is a custom here, yes." Baelor turned to you, studying your expression. "You do not have something similar in Lys?"
"Not in my family, no." You turned to meet Baelor's gaze, lifting your chin slightly. "For a culture that appears rigid in its morals, I am surprised that other men and women are allowed to view the couple in their nakedness. Even before the other spouse sees them in such a state of undress." You glanced at the leering men once more. "I must admit that I feel as though they wish to parade me through the castle in all my glory before they relinquish me to your chambers."
Baelor turned to the crowd of guests and noted the stares that particular men cast in your direction. Twisting a ring around his finger, Baelor returned his gaze to you.
"I am sure that Maekar can create some distraction to allow us to slip away before such matters could occur."
Your eyes trailed over to Baelor's youngest brother, who appeared grumpy as he sat at the end of the table beside his mother. His stature reminded you of a petulant child, but it was perhaps that energy that would be helpful for this mission. You picked up your chalice and smiled as you took a sip of the horrible wine once more.
"If he does, I will be sure to reward you for your efforts."
Several barrels of wine later, Maekar was dancing in the middle of the hall with his mother and the rest of the Dorne contingency. It was a chaotic dance that appeared to encourage the bolder and drunker guests to join them. Even some of the Stormlanders seemed to forget their hatred of Dorne as they tried to match the energy.
You took Baelor's hand as he led you out a side door of the room. Glancing behind you, you could not help but giggle as you caught a few last glimpses of the chaos. You and Baelor made your way to your quarters unmolested by the rowdy wedding guests and the kingsguard standing at the entrance to your chambers would not allow any spectators to interrupt your night.
"Normally, there is no maid waiting due to the custom," Baelor explained to you as you looked around your new quarters. "But if you wish for me to call for one, I will."
"Surely, you can undo simple knots?" you asked rhetorically, casting a smile at your husband over your shoulder.
"I believe I can manage."
Baelor carefully undid the clasps, buttons, and knots that held your wedding dress in place against your body. The fabric pooled at your feet as Baelor undid the corset. You stepped away, shedding the components that laid under your dress, until you were standing with only the shadows to cover you.
“Do you need a servant to undress you or do you trust your wife to do it properly?” you asked him, drinking in the sight of him in the firelight.
He chuckled and folded his hands behind his back. “I trust you.”
You stepped forward and began to undo the buttons of his doublet. The heavier fabric hit the floor as you worked on removing the layers your husband wore. As you reached for his belt, Baelor’s lips found your own, drawing your attention momentarily. But as Baelor focused on the kiss, you focused on removing his clothes.
“I believe I owe you a reward for your plot this evening,” you breathed out against his lips as you both stood in equal states of undress.
“You are my reward,” he replied, drawing you in for another kiss. He gently cupped your cheeks with his hands. “And you are all I require.”
“You are a man of words.” You pressed a kiss to his palm. “But I am a woman of action.”
Baelor appeared confused before you lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. There was a protest on his lips surely about how you did not need to do such things for him. And yet when his hand tightened in your hair and a strangled gasp that surely no one else had ever heard slip from his lips, you were more than content to give your husband his earned reward.
*~*~*
Nine and a half moons after your wedding to Baelor, your firstborn son and heir to Dragonstone, Valarr, was born. His hair was the silver-gold associated with House Targaryen, save for the lone dark curl above his temple. Surely, those who complained about Baelor’s Dornish features would be able to shut their mouths now. And Valarr’s mismatched eyes were indisputably drawn from his father.
The realm rejoiced and everyone assumed that one or two more children would follow before your family would be complete.
Matarys, your second born, followed just under two years after Valarr and was your spitting image. Down to the attitude.
Then, your third born, a daughter you named Rhaelys, was born just one year later. She had her father’s eyes as well, but lacked the streak of dark hair that Valarr possessed.
After Rhaelys was born and reached but a few moons old, the Blackfyre Rebellion broke out. Baelor was sent into battle and you, cautious and concerned about the safety of your children in Westeros, wrote to your family.
You would spend the war in Lys. Some claimed that you were a coward and abandoned your husband at the first sign of struggle. Others pointed out that the young princes and princess would be safer in Lys. You did not care how the lords construed your decision—your children remained your priority.
But now, after the Battle of Redgrass Hill, the rebellion had been crushed and it was time to return.
“Kepa!” Valarr shouted when he spotted Baelor standing on the dock, waiting for your return. Matarys tried to look over the railing of the ship, but you were quick to grab both of them before they could get any ideas.
“You must remain here until the ship is docked,” you instructed your sons, who nodded along.
You brushed their hair with your hands as you turned back to your approaching husband. There was a wariness to his stance that was not there before he left for battle. The deaths of thousands of men clearly weighed on his shoulders and his mind. But he offered you that same familiar smile that always made your heart beat just a bit harder.
“It is safe now, my lady.”
“Go see your kepa,” you urged your sons, who did not need anymore encouragement to rush down the gangway and into their father’s arms.
Baelor bent down and took Valarr in one arm and Matarys in the other before hoisting them into the air and against his chest. You slowly walked down the gangway yourself with Rhaelys resting on your hip. Baelor pressed kisses to the top of Valarr and Matarys’s heads before turning to you.
“Are you in one piece?” you asked softly, glancing over his figure for any sign of injury.
“I am now.”
You rolled your eyes at him before leaning forward to plant a kiss on his lips. Baelor could not help but chuckle when your sons made noises of disgust.
“Am I not allowed to kiss your mother?” he asked, adjusting his holds on his sons.
“Not here!” Valarr complained, causing you to smile.
“Then perhaps we should head inside,” Baelor suggested with that look in his eyes that you were more than familiar with.
As the two of you walked towards the castle together, your arms full of your children, your hand snuck around and gave a hearty squeeze of your husband’s backside. And by the time that he turned to you, your hand was securely back at your side.
The day droned on and you feigned exhaustion, requesting to take your dinner in your room. There would be plenty of festivities over the next few days and you wished to enjoy a quiet night with your husband before the chaos returned. The children were tucked away safely in the nursery and Baelor requested that no one disturb the two of you.
Your fingers intertwined with Baelor’s as his hips rocked into yours. “Gods, I missed you,” he rasped, nipping at the soft skin of your neck. “Every day. Every night.” You let out a little gasp as he punctuated his point with his hips.
“No ladies laid in your tent while I was away?” you asked, though you knew the answer.
“I would be a fool to even be tempted by another woman.”
You hummed in agreement as your hand reached to cup his cheek and draw him in for a heated kiss. A little press against his chest as he rolled over for you, allowing you to straddle him. Resting your hands on his strong chest, you stared down at your husband.
“And if I had a request from you to make up for the time we were forced apart?”
One of Baelor’s hands rested on your hip while the other reached out to cup your cheek. “I would not deny you. And certainly not when I desire the same.”
In nine moons time, the realm was rejoicing the birth of two princes—Caemon and Verrys. They appeared so identical that you tied a red silk ribbon to Caemon’s foot and a black silk ribbon to Verrys’s foot.
And with five healthy children, the realm assumed that your family with Baelor was complete. It would not be the first or last time that the realm was wrong about a Targaryen. Especially, when you knew that Baelor secretly desired to have more children.
He would never force you to bear anymore children, but he would also not take much convincing to have more with you.
*~*~*
As the newly instated Hand of the King, Baelor was more often away from you than at your side for a number of years. The realm was recovering from the rebellion and cracks needed to be filled and tears needed to be mended before House Targaryen could truly breathe a sigh of relief.
And, in truth, you did not have much free time yourself. Five children kept you busy on your own, especially as you insisted upon being involved in their education. No child of yours would be solely raised by maids and septas. And you would not allow for your children to not learn your mother tongue.
Your fifth pregnancy came as a surprise—the likely result of a brief diplomatic journey to Dorne—but you and Baelor were quickly overwhelmed with joy.
The court, taking the passing of four years since the birth of the twins as the end of your childbearing, appeared dumbfounded. And then dumbstruck quickly turned to contempt.
“Can they not control themselves?”
“She must be the one to initiate. Prince Baelor has always shown restraint in everything else.”
“It is the way of the Lyseni, is it not?”
“She’s bordering on obscene.”
It was amusing to you that rumors at the beginning of your marriage alluded that you would be unable to get pregnant as a result of the blood magic that you apparently practiced. And now, they were accusing you of bearing too many children for your husband. You doubted, however, that they would ever make up their minds about the subject.
And you did not care. And neither did Baelor.
He had become a lighter sleeper ever since the days of the Blackfyre Rebellion. There was no telling when an attack could occur. And it stayed with him ever since. Sometimes it was annoying, but other times it came in handy.
Like when your water broke in the middle of the night.
Baelor did not recall what he was dreaming about but he was slowly lulled away from it as he came to realize that his sleepwear was becoming soaking wet. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to assess the situation in the dark. But when he found the stain of your water, he moved to get out of bed.
The sound of the heavy door closing caused you to open your eyes. Letting out a breath through your nose, you felt the wet sheets below your body. And when a familiar pain stabbed at your back, you let out a sigh. Resting your hand over your bump, you spread out your fingers.
“Impeccable timing, sweetling.”
When Baelor returned with a midwife, you had already situated yourself for delivery. With your fifth pregnancy and sixth child, you were more than familiar with the process.
Prince Aelyx was born in the wee hours of the morning. By the time that the sun rose, he was already lulled to sleep against your breast.
“Another boy,” you mused, running your finger through your son’s hair.
“Daughters are a rare gift among Targaryens,” Baelor replied, lying beside you in your bed. “When did you wish for the other children to meet him?”
“Whenever they rise and break their fasts.” You adjusted your hold on your son as you turned to your husband. “Allow dear Aelyx a moment to enjoy being an only child. As far as he is aware, at least.”
Baelor smiled and nodded before leaning over to press another kiss to your forehead. Lying beside you, he quietly watched your son sleep as you brushed your son’s back with your hand.
*~*~*
Surely, after Aelyx was born, Baelor’s family would be complete. The realm was sure of it this time. Six healthy children with the features of Old Valyria and the same impeccable manners as their father. And sons strengthened Baelor and King Daeron’s claim all the more among grumblings that the surviving Blackfyres were growing in Tyrosh.
But nearly four years after Aelyx was born, you were spotted walking around the Keep with a swollen belly. And so, the rumors of your supposed blood magic and ability to seduce your otherwise unmovable husband to impregnate you once more circulated.
And King Daeron was bearing the brunt of it. Lords would come complaining about the perception of such matters. Baelor was not a pig farmer who required ten children to run his farm. He was a future king. Two would have been sensible. Five at most. But now seven? And others suggested that it mocked the lack of virility in other lords.
One lord commented that surely you—as a non-believer of the Seven—were certainly trying to mock the religion that you refused to abide by. King Daeron shut down such implications immediately, and never heard them again.
But, secretly, the proliferation of Targaryens was a concern.
When Daeron was born, he was but one of two heirs left to the throne. It was precarious and was only made more so by his father’s indiscretions. He had never dreamed of seeing so many children bearing the surname of Targaryen.
And yet, now it was proving just as precarious, but in another manner. He called for a meeting with his eldest, as well as his youngest, who was in King’s Landing for a period of time.
He needed to address the issue now, before it got out of hand.
*~*~*
Baelor walked down the hall to the King’s quarters when he heard footsteps behind him. Turning around, Baelor was surprised to see Maekar striding towards him.
“What did you do?”
Maekar scoffed. “Why do you assume it is something I have done?”
"About twenty such past instances just like this."
"Those were a long time ago," Maekar grumbled before brushing past Baelor.
The two brothers made their way to the King's quarters together. When they arrived in his study, Daeron gestured to the seats across from him. He wore a weary look, which instantly concerned both Baelor and Maekar, though neither showed it.
"Are the Blackfyres on the rise again?" Maekar asked, causing Daeron to shake his head.
"No, this has nothing to do with the Seven Kingdoms and everything to do with the two of you." Baelor raised an eyebrow and shared a glance with Maekar before they both turned back to Daeron.
"Father?"
"I know that when the two of you were young, the number of Targaryen heirs was low. And it was a concern, given the number of bastards your grandsire left running about. But now, I believe that we have more than exceeded a number of heirs that House Targaryen needs. And yet, both of your wives are with child again."
"You are concerned with our children?" Baelor asked quietly.
"More the number than anything else. You, Baelor, are about to welcome your seventh. And you, Maekar, are about to welcome your sixth. And while your mother and I are overjoyed at the proliferation of grandchildren, I believe that it is raising concerns with the populace. Too many dragons are just as dangerous as too few."
"Who is concerned about the number of children?" Maekar questioned, folding his arms over his chest.
"Certain lords, mostly. Those who find your families to mock their own."
"It is our problem that these lords cannot get their wives with child?"
"I believe what Maekar is trying to say," Baelor interjected, shooting his younger brother a look, "is that our children and our decisions with our wives are private affairs."
"It would be if you were pig farmers. But you are princes of the realm."
"Might it, however, be possible that such sentiments expressed by the lords are based more on the regions that our wives originate from, rather than an actual concern about such matters?" Baelor asked diplomatically, folding his hands in front of him. "I know that my wife has personally been accused of witchcraft and being a former resident of a pleasure house because of her Lyseni heritage."
"I am certain that it informs the concerns, but I am not at liberty to deny such concerns, as I have similar ones." King Daeron glanced between Baelor and Maekar. "With so many sons, many, if not most, who will have no chance at ever ascending to the Iron Throne or Small Council, I ask if you would consider sending a son or two to train as maesters or septons."
"You cannot be certain, Father," Maekar demanded, though King Daeron remained solemn.
"And yet, I am."
"We would need to consult with our wives before such matters would be considered properly," Baelor stated, though there was a concern to his tone that was not there before. "And I do not seek to speak for my wife, but I doubt that she would allow any of her children to be sent away to serve gods she does not believe in."
"And you believe she would never compromise?"
"I believe that her definition of compromise would involve taking our children back to Lys," Baelor stated, not even jesting.
King Daeron sighed. "Decisions do not need to be made today. But I cannot stress the seriousness of this enough, I and the realm require that these children that your wives carry be the last. Seven, in particular, is a rather auspicious number."
"Yes, of course."
After they were dismissed, Baelor returned to your shared quarters. You surveyed a napping Aelyx and offered Baelor a soft smile as he stepped inside. Valarr and Matarys were out training and your daughter Rhaelys was spending a quiet afternoon reviewing her languages. And the twins, Caemon and Verrys, were off with their own lessons. Baelor walked over to your side and pressed a loving kiss to your lips.
"What was the trouble?" you asked softly, mindful of your volume.
"Well, it seems that some lords have been complaining to my father that we have decided to have too many children." Baelor's hands dropped to cup your bump. "He requests that this be the last grandchild we give him."
"Does he?"
"Yes. He has already mentioned the possibility of some of the younger boys, including Maekar's, being sent away to become maesters or septons." Your mouth flew open with an immediate response that Baelor could already guess, which is why he added, "I told him that septons were out of the question."
"Unless he wishes me to sail to Lys with all of our children."
"Yes, I informed him of such a risk."
You nodded and glanced at your youngest son, who was sleeping contentedly. You rested your hands on your lower back as you turned back to Baelor.
"I have some news to share with you as well."
"What is it?"
"Well, I am in the part of my pregnancy where the babe likes to move about," you began, causing Baelor to nod. "And I believe that it appears likely that I am once more carrying twins."
Baelor froze as his eyes dropped to your bump once more. His thumbs brushed against the swell before he turned to meet your gaze once more. A wide smile broke out on his lips as he leaned forward. You accepted his loving kiss with a grin. He pulled back slowly and rested his forehead against your own.
"I believe you always find a way to get what you wish."
"It took you this long to discover that?" you teased, pressing another kiss to his lips.
*~*~*
Baelor did not often get an afternoon off from duties, so when he was granted a brief respite, he knew exactly who to spend it with. Entering the chaos of his family chambers, he grinned at the sight.
Valarr and Matarys were locked in chess match, though their youngest sister, Maeryn, seemed intent to try and bring the chess pieces into her mouth if Valarr did not catch her hand in time. Rhaelys was painting by the window as Aelyx sat at her feet, reading a small book that your family sent from Lys. Caemon and Verrys, inseparable, were running about the solar, chasing each other with wooden swords and carvings of dragons. And you sat on the daybed with your second youngest, Elaenar, sleeping in your lap as you sewed.
Caemon was the first to notice him and dropped his sword. "Kepa!"
Baelor chuckled as Caemon and Verrys ran full speed towards him, throwing their arms around him. "You are never here at this time," Verrys noted as Baelor stood up once more.
"Indeed, but it seems that matters could be paused until tomorrow."
"Does that mean that you'll spend the afternoon with us?" Rhaelys asked from over by the window.
"If you'll have me."
You smiled and set aside your embroidery. Picking up a still sleepy Elaenar, you made your way over to your husband. He took your daughter from you before pressing a loving kiss to your lips, earning groans of disgust from your children.
"Of course, they will have you," you spoke loud enough for your children to hear. And leaning in closer to his ear, you whispered in addition, "And I will have you tonight in our bed, if they do not tire you too much."
"Now, that is an offer I cannot refuse," Baelor replied with a smile before turning to his children.
You broke away and quietly asked your maid to have the maester prepare a batch of the moon tea for your breakfast tomorrow. And with Baelor spending the afternoon with your children, you enjoyed a long bath and nap. You would need to rest, after all. Something told you that you would be doing most of the work tonight, which you did not mind in the slightest.
─ summary: The peace you and Baelor have built together begins to shatter when your father begins to speak of your remarriage. Thankfully, Baelor has a son available.
─ pairing: Baelor Targaryen x reader, Valarr Targaryen x reader
─ word count: 9k
─ content: 18+ MDNI | cheating | arranged marriage | explicit smut | affairs | angst | fluff | manipulation | age gap | jealousy | a man going through it| p in v| oral female recieving| possesion and jealousy
─ a/n: Sorry for the long wait. I wanted to get this right and it took longer than I thought. Lowkey made me a little emotional. ANYWAY!!! The long awaited part 2 to A Fair Husband. I could easily be convinced into a part 3. Thank you all for your comments, likes, reblogs, and requests. 🖤
The sunlight pressed against Baelor's eyelids, a warm, heavy weight, dragging him slowly up from the edge of sleep. The bark of the oak tree was rough against his back, grounding him in the present, while the rustle of leaves above sounded like the ocean in a shell. But it was your voice that truly anchored him. It was soft and melodic, rising and falling with the words you read.
Baelor felt the gentle pressure of your fingers interlaced with his as your thumb stroked the back of his hand. He was seated comfortably against the trunk, legs stretched out on his cloak, with you nestled securely between them. Your back was flush against his chest, your head leaning near his shoulder, the scent of lilies and sun-warmed skin filling his lungs.
"You are sleeping," you murmured. You stopped reading, tightening your hand around his.
Baelor opened his eyes, blinking, focusing on the waves of your hair spilling over his arm, and squeezed your hand in return, pulling you closer against him.
"I am not," he rasped. "Just resting my eyes."
"You can sleep if you need to, my love," you said softly, tilting your head back to look up at him. "I know you are tired."
He looked down at you, tracing the line of your jaw with his gaze. Tiredness was a constant companion these days, a dull ache at the base of his skull from the weight of responsibility but here, with you, the weight seemed to lift.
"And miss a moment with you?" He shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Never."
You hummed and turned your face forward again, settling back into his embrace. You picked up the book where you had left off and resumed reading.
Baelor let the words wash over him, though he did not track the plot. It was one of your romances, no doubt, a tale of star-crossed lovers and chivalrous deeds. He didn't need to know the story, all he cared about was the sound of you.
He tightened his arm around your waist and felt the rise and fall of your breath. Loving you was terrifyingly easy, natural, simple. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there, breathing you in. In this quiet, sun-drenched corner of Kingswood, he thought of how he knew he would love you forever.
The chapters turned, the shadows lengthening slowly across the blanket until the light took on the golden hue of late afternoon. Finally, you closed the book with a soft thud, resting it on your lap.
"I will miss you when you are in the Stormlands," you said quietly, staring out at the patches of blue sky visible through the leaves.
Baelor sighed, the reality of the coming weeks encroaching on this sanctuary. He rested his chin on your shoulder. "I wish I could bring you."
"I know," you replied. "But perhaps... one day." You turned your head slightly. "You will have to take me somewhere. Maybe Dorne? I would like to be in the sun."
He chuckled. "I would like to see you in Dornish dress," his eyes dropped to your bodice. "Or perhaps out of it."
You laughed, swatting his shoulder playfully. "Your thoughts are always filthy, Baelor."
"I am only honest," he countered, catching your hand and bringing it to his lips for a lingering kiss. "But truly — I will take you wherever you wish to go. Just say the word."
Your expression softened, the playfulness fading into something deeper. You shifted, turning fully within the circle of his arms and climbing into his lap properly, straddling his legs. You placed your hands on his chest.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
You leaned in and kissed him again as he held you against him, one hand on the small of your back, the other cradling the back of your head. The world narrowed down to the heat of your body, the softness of your lips, and the dappled sunlight playing over your skin. You stayed like that for a long time, content to simply exist in each other's space, two people stealing a lifetime from the afternoon.
"We must return my love."
You sighed but nodded and climbed off him, smoothing down your skirts and retrieving your book.
"I will see you tonight?"
"Yes."
Baelor helped you onto your horse and watched you go until he was sure you were safely on the path back to the castle. Only then did he lie back on the cloak, folding his hands behind his head. He stared up at the canopy, listening to the birds settling in, letting the peace of the woods seep into his bones one last time.
When he finally rose and mounted his horse, the mood of tranquility clung to him. The ride back to the Red Keep was solitary, but he was in remarkably good humor, his spirits buoyed by the afternoon's intimacy and the promise he had made.
He arrived at the small council chamber a little earlier than usual, but the room was not empty. Lord Tyrell and Lord Rowan, your father, were already in deep conversation near the hearth.
Baelor greeted them both with a polite inclination of his head as he headed to pour himself wine. "My lords."
"You are early, Your Grace," Lord Rowan noted, turning from the fire with a polite bow.
Baelor leaned back against the table. "The ride was short today. I hope I am not interrupting."
"Not at all," Lord Tyrell said, though his brow remained furrowed. He ran a hand through his hair, looking weary. "We were merely discussing the... particulars of the marriage market. It seems to be consuming us all of late."
Baelor kept his face impassive. "Oh?"
Lord Tyrell sighed, stepping closer to the table. "It is a constant burden. I have two daughters and the stress of it is considerable. Every suitor is a viper, every contract a trap to strip my lands. I barely sleep for worry over where to place them."
"Indeed," Lord Rowan replied, his voice dry and pragmatic. "It is a father's duty to secure the future, however tiresome the negotiation."
Baelor glanced at your father. The older man looked tired, his brow furrowed as he shuffled through a stack of parchment. He was a shrewd man, intelligent and calculating, but he had a blind spot where you were concerned.
Your father continued, not looking up from his papers. "My own daughter has been in mourning long enough. It is time for her to marry again."
The wine in Baelor's mouth suddenly tasted bitter.
"Remarriage?" Baelor managed to repeat, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. "Is she... amenable to the idea?"
Your father finally looked up, blinking behind his spectacles. "She is a woman. They are rarely amenable to sense until it is presented to them as a necessity. She has been a widow for nearly two years. She needs a husband to manage her affairs and her boy needs a father figure, not a doting mother."
Baelor set the cup down on the sideboard with a clatter that was slightly too loud.
Husband. Father figure.
He saw it in a horrifying flash: you, his sweet girl, walking down the aisle on the arm of some stranger, your belly swelling with another man's child, your laugh, your touch, your warmth, given to a lord who would take you to the ends of the earth, far away from King's Landing. Far away from him.
Panic, cold and primal, clawed at his insides. He felt the blood draining from his face, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could not breathe.
"My Prince?" Lord Tyrell's voice cut through the haze. "Are you quite well?"
Baelor blinked, forcing himself to focus. He realized he had been gripping the edge of the sideboard so hard his knuckles were white. He released his hold, flexing his fingers, and smoothed his tunic.
"Yes," he said, his voice steady, betraying none of the chaos roaring behind his eyes. "Just a sudden chill."
He tried to listen as the conversation turned but the words meant nothing to him. He nodded when appropriate, made vague noises of agreement, but his mind was entirely elsewhere. He didn't remember the rest of the meeting or when the other council members arrived, or even what they discussed.
It wasn't until the meeting adjourned and he was walking through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep that he felt he could breathe again. He needed to see you, touch you, and know that you were real, that you were still his.
He slipped into the passage in his chambers that would lead him to yours. The stone corridor was cold and damp, but he barely felt it. He moved quickly, his footsteps echoing softly, driven by a desperate need.
As he entered your chambers, he heard your voice. You were in the nursery. The connecting doors between your bedchamber and your son's room were open.
"No, my love," you were saying, your tone exasperated but full of affection. "The sun is sleeping, the birds are sleeping, and you must sleep too."
A babble of high-pitched, defiant noises answered you.
Baelor smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing completely for the first time since your father had spoken.
The nursery was warm, lit by a low fire in the hearth. You were standing by the crib, your back to him, wearing a soft, loose gown of thin cotton that clung to your frame. Your hair was unbound, falling in waves down your back.
The little boy, not yet two years old, was standing in his crib, gripping the railing with chubby fists, bouncing up and down with the boundless energy of the overtired. When he saw Baelor, his eyes went wide, and he let out a squeal of pure delight.
"Bae!" the boy shouted, reaching his arms out.
Baelor crossed the room in a few long strides. He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissing your cheek softly, inhaling your scent, grounding himself. "My love."
You leaned back into him, sighing. "You've woken him up fully. He was almost asleep."
"He wasn't," Baelor laughed, reaching into the crib to scoop the boy up, lifting him easily and tossing him gently into the air. The boy giggled, a sound that could melt the hardest heart. "He was just waiting for me."
"Careful," you warned, though you were smiling as you turned to look at them. "If you play with him now, he will be up all night."
"No matter," Baelor said, bouncing the toddler on his hip. He looked into his face, seeing the joy reflected there. "Have you had sweets today?"
The boy squealed again. "Cake! Cake!"
Baelor chuckled, shaking his head. "It appears you have had quite enough," he told him, carrying him out of the nursery and into the main bedchamber.
He laid the boy in the center of the large bed, where he immediately began to roll around, burrowing into the soft linens. You climbed into the bed, pulling your overly energetic son under the covers with you.
Baelor watched you for a moment. The domestic scene was so perfect, so right, it hurt. He quickly shed his own clothes, folding them over the back of a chair with practiced ease.
"Come here," you said to Baelor, patting the empty space beside you.
Your son patted a spot as well, imitating you. "Come here," he echoed.
"I am coming."
Baelor wore only his small clothes as he joined you in bed. Your son immediately scrambled over, flopping onto Baelor's chest with a happy sigh.
The evening passed in a blur of simple, profound happiness. You lay tangled together, Baelor told stories of dragons and knights, his voice low and soothing. You laughed as he did different voices to entertain the toddler, your head resting on his shoulder as you traced idle patterns on his chest. The boy eventually tired himself out, his movements slowing and eyelids drooping until he finally fell asleep, nestled securely between the two people who loved him most.
The room grew quiet, save for the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic breathing of the child. You reached out, stroking your son's back, your brow furrowed slightly.
"I worry," you whispered, breaking the silence. "That I am not doing a very good job with him... by myself."
Baelor frowned slightly. "Why would you think that?"
"He is so wild," you said softly. "He has no father to help guide him. I fear I am too soft, or just not enough. I do not know."
"Valarr was just like this at his age," Baelor said firmly. "He was a terror. He would climb the curtains if you turned your back for a second." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are a wonderful mother. He is lucky to have you. Do not doubt that."
You looked at him, your eyes searching his face, and the tension in your brow smoothed out. You leaned forward and kissed him in a slow, tender press of lips that conveyed more gratitude than words ever could.
"Thank you," you whispered against his mouth.
You pulled back and resumed playing with the baby's hair, twisting the dark curls around your finger. Baelor watched you, the earlier panic from the council meeting beginning to rise in his throat again. He had to know. He had to ask, even if the answer terrified him.
"My love," he started, keeping his voice low. "I spoke with your father today."
You stilled. "Oh?"
"He mentioned... he thinks it is time for you to remarry."
You kept your eyes on your son. "He has said as much for weeks."
Baelor's chest tightened. "Do you want to remarry?"
"If my father wants it, what choice do I have?" you asked, your voice edged with sadness.
"But if you could choose," he pressed. "Who would you want?"
You were silent for a long time, staring at the sleeping boy. Baelor held his breath, waiting. He prayed you would say no one. He prayed you would say that you would rather be alone than with a man who was not him.
Finally, you spoke. "There is someone. Ser Lannister, the Grey Lion's second son," you said, your voice taking on a distant, reminiscent tone. "I grew up with him. He was always very sweet to me when we were children." You looked up at Baelor, a small, sad smile on your lips. "When I was young, I always wanted to marry him... I suppose if I could choose, it would still be him."
All Baelor heard was not you.
Not him, the man who held you now, the man who loved you more than himself. You wanted a second son from the other side of the realm.
Fury, cold and absolute, boiled beneath his skin. You saw the flicker of it in his eyes.
"Oh, my poor dragon," you whispered, reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers were cool against his heated skin. "Do not pout."
You teased him, your voice light and loving, trying to soothe the beast you sensed awakening within him. "You know I love you more than anyone."
That only made it worse. "You have quite a way of showing it."
"You know you are not a viable option as a husband," you responded. "You are already someone else's husband."
Baelor caught your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face to kiss your palm. His eyes bore into yours.
"In every way that matters to me, I am your husband, and you are my wife."
He shifted closer, ignoring the sleeping boy between you. "I will not let some lord take you to the ends of the earth. I will not let you go to Lannisport or Casterly Rock, you belong here with me."
You looked at him, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
"I know. If it were up to me, I would stay with you forever, but it is not up to me. I just want to enjoy whatever time we have left."
Time we have left.
The phrase echoed in the quiet room, a death knell to the peace he had found in the woods. Baelor lay back against the pillows, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He listened to the breathing of two people he loved dearly in this world, but he felt no sleep coming. His mind was racing, plotting, seething. The woods and the sun were gone. There was only the cold stone of the Red Keep and the looming threat of a future without you.
The morning light had barely begun to shine on the stone of the Red Keep when Baelor rose. Sleep had evaded him for the past nights, but finally he had come to a solution. The decision had been made in the dark of the night, a cold, hard resolve settling over him like a suit of armor. He would not be a passive observer to your life any longer.
He walked the familiar path to your father's offices, his boots echoing softly in the corridor. He stopped before the heavy oak door, smoothing the front of his doublet, and knocked.
"Enter," came the muffled voice from within.
Baelor pushed the door open. Your father was already at his desk, surrounded by ledgers and stacks of parchment, a cup of wine sitting untouched near his elbow. He looked up, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise as he registered the visitor.
"Prince Baelor," Rowan said, standing quickly. "To what do I owe the honor? Please, sit."
Baelor remained standing for a moment, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on the older man. "My lord," he said, offering a curt nod. "Thank you. I have a matter to discuss."
Your father sat back down, gesturing to the opposite chair. "Of course. You are always welcome here."
"I wish to continue the conversation we touched upon several days ago, regarding your daughter's future."
Your father's expression shifted from professional curiosity to a guarded wariness. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Yes. Her remarriage."
Baelor took a breath, feeling the weight of his next words. He stepped closer to the desk, resting his hands on the back of the chair he had yet to sit in. "Our houses have been friends for generations, I believe it is time we made that friendship permanent."
He paused, watching the other man closely. "I submit my son, Valarr, as a suitor for your daughter."
The silence that followed was heavy. A deep frown creased your father's forehead. Finally, he looked back at Baelor, his lips thinning.
"You are certain, my prince? She is one-and-twenty, three years his senior."
Baelor waved a hand dismissively. "Three years is nothing. Indeed, she will bring wisdom and maturity to the union."
"She has a son."
"So there is no question of her fertility," Baelor countered smoothly. "That is a worry many young brides cannot assuage before the wedding night."
Your father opened his mouth, then closed it, a strange look crossing his face. Baelor felt a prickle of annoyance. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "Is there a reason, my lord, that you are hesitating to accept a prince? Valarr is the best match any lady in the Seven Kingdoms could hope to make."
Your father sighed, the sound long and suffering. He reached for a piece of parchment lying on the corner of his desk, weighted down by a heavy silver inkwell. "Yesterday afternoon, I spoke with Lord Tyrell. He offered his second son. The terms are... favorable. The young man is known to be virtuous, skilled at arms, and of a cheerful disposition."
Baelor stared at the parchment, sick to his stomach. "You accepted?"
"I verbally agreed," your father admitted, looking slightly apologetic but firm. "I wrote the response last night. It is here, ready to be given. I planned to hand it to Lord Tyrell's this morning. She will be well taken care of. Her son will want for nothing."
"I urge you to reconsider," Baelor said. "Surely Lord Tyrell will understand."
Your father looked at the letter, then at Baelor. "I will... consider it, my Prince."
Baelor held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of deceit. "Consider it carefully," he said softly. "A day is all I ask."
The following afternoon, the heavy oak door to Baelor's solar creaked open. He was reviewing a report from the City Watch, his quill scratching across the parchment, but he looked up instantly at the sound to see it was you.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. You had never come to him here, not in the light of day, not to his official place of work. The sight of you, clad in a gown of deep blue velvet, your hair loose and cascading over your shoulders, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. He dropped the quill, ink splattering unnoticed on the desk.
"My love," A slow smile spread across his face as he stood. "You have grown bold."
He rounded the desk, his eyes drinking you in, but as he drew closer, he saw the tension in your posture. Your hands were clasped tightly together at your waist, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes swimming with unshed tears and barely suppressed anger.
"My father tells me I am to marry Valarr," you said, your voice trembling slightly.
Baelor stopped in front of you. He nodded slowly, not looking away. "I have proposed it. Yes."
You let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "You went to him behind my back?"
"He was going to send you to Highgarden," Baelor said, his voice gentle but firm. "I could not lose you."
You rolled your eyes. "I am not a horse to be traded to suit your pride."
"No," he agreed. "You are not."
"I am angry," you continued.
He stepped closer, invading your space, needing to touch you. "I know. I know."
"You are supposed to listen to me, Baelor. You are supposed to put me first."
"I know," he whispered. He reached out, taking your cold hands in his warm ones. "Forgive me. Please."
You tried to pull away, but he held on gently. "I am sorry," he said again, lifting one of your hands to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. "I was selfish."
He pulled you against him, wrapping his arms around your stiff frame. You resisted for a moment, your body rigid with indignation, but slowly, as he rubbed your back in long, soothing strokes, you began to melt. You rested your forehead against his chest, exhaling a long, shaky breath.
He kissed the top of your head. "I love you," he murmured against your skin. "To the point of losing sense."
You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. "You love me that much?"
"I would do anything to keep you with me. Anything."
You let out a soft huff, though the anger had drained out of you, replaced by a weary affection. "I'm still angry with you."
He chuckled, the vibration rumbling through your body where you pressed against him. "That is your right. Be angry, yell at me, but stay here."
He leaned down and captured your lips. It was a soft kiss. He poured his apology into it, his devotion, his promise to make it right.
Then, a sharp knock rattled the door.
Baelor pulled away, resting his forehead against yours for a fleeting second before stepping back. "My Prince," a guard's voice called through the wood. "The council has convened."
Baelor cursed under his breath, looking at you with a rueful smile. "Duty calls."
You straightened your dress, your fingers brushing your swollen lips. "Go," you whispered. "I must return before I am missed."
He watched you go, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The die was cast, Valarr would meet you and Baelor would ensure the rest followed.
The formal introduction between Valarr and you took place later that week in the gardens of the Red Keep. It was a carefully orchestrated affair, chaperoned by Baelor and your father, who stood a polite distance away, watching the interaction.
Baelor watched his son with a critical eye. Valarr, usually so composed, looked like a frightened boy. He stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting nervously to the beautiful woman before him. There was no fire in his demeanor.
You, for your part, seemed nervous as well. You sat on a stone bench, offering Valarr a polite, tight smile, gesturing to the empty spot next to you.
"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady," Valarr stammered. "I... I have heard much about you."
"And I you, my prince," you replied softly.
Valarr blushed a deep crimson. He clearly had no idea what to do with his hands. He gestured vaguely to a flower bush, mumbled something incoherent about the blooms, and then fell silent. He was smitten, that much was obvious. He stared at you with wide, worshipful eyes, completely out of his depth. He would be a fine husband, but he would not replace Baelor in your heart.
Baelor left for the Stormlands feeling that all was right in his world.
A month had passed since Baelor had left King's Landing, but he felt none of the weariness in his bones as he rode through the gates of the Red Keep. He had missed the comfort of his own bed, the familiarity of the court, and most desperately, he had missed you.
You had been there to welcome him, standing beside Valarr. The sight of you stole the air from his lungs. You wore a gown of deep, crushed red velvet that clung to your waist and flared gently over your hips. He had wanted nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and carry you to his chambers.
But duty had intervened, as it always did. There were reports to hear, men to dismiss, and a father to greet. By the time he had washed the road from his skin and changed for the feast, the sun had long since set, and the Great Hall was roaring with the heat of a hundred fires and the clamor of a thousand voices.
He had expected things to be as he left them with him the center of your world. But as he watched, he saw a reality that made him sick.
You and Valarr were inseparable.
You sat together, leaning in to converse over the noise of the feast. It wasn't the polite, detached distance of a betrothed couple fulfilling a duty, this was intimate and easy. Valarr laughed at something you said, throwing his head back, and you laughed with him, your hand reaching out to rest briefly on his face.
Baelor watched, his eyes narrowing. Valarr looked at you the way Baelor looked at you — completely, utterly confidently in love. It wasn't the adoring, puppy-dog look of a boy with a crush; it was the look of a man who knew he was desired. Valarr, who had always worked so hard to be the perfect prince, to follow every rule of etiquette and decorum, had seemingly abandoned all propriety.
Right there in the middle of the feast, Valarr leaned in and whispered something in your ear. You turned your face toward him, a smile playing on your lips, and Valarr didn't pull away. Instead, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering against your skin, and then, bold as brass, he kissed you right there for the entire court to see.
Baelor was secure in what he had with you; he knew your love was deep and real, but he was possessive, and he did not like this at all.
Jena, seated next to him, did not miss his fixation.
She followed his gaze, then turned back to him, a thin, cruel smile curving her lips.
"You were a fool, Baelor," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the minstrels' lute.
Baelor turned to glare at her, the anger flaring hot and instant.
She leaned in closer, the scent of her heavy perfume cloying in the small space between them. "You gave your mistress to our son," she whispered, her eyes dancing with malicious delight. "And now there is no space for you."
Baelor's stomach churned. The image of Valarr's hands on you, Valarr's mouth on yours, flashed through his mind, superimposed over his own memories. "You speak of things you do not understand."
"I understand a man who has lost control," Jena countered. She took a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving his. "How many nights do you think Valarr spent in her bed while you were gone?"
The question hung in the air, poisonous and potent. The thought of Valarr having what was his, touching the woman he loved — it was intolerable.
He looked at Jena, his face betraying no emotion. "If you were not so petty and bitter, perhaps I would be in your bed."
The words were cruel, a strike meant to wound, and he saw them land. Jena's mask slipped for a fraction of a second, a flash of hurt and longing crossing her features before she slammed her composure back down. But he didn't care about her pain in that moment. He only cared about extinguishing the fire burning in his gut.
He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. The conversation at the high table faltered, but he ignored the eyes on him as he headed toward you with single-minded focus. As he approached, Valarr looked up, the easy smile staying on his face in the presence of his father. You turned, and when you saw Baelor, your face brightened.
"Am I allowed a moment with my daughter in law?" he asked, extending his hand to you.
"Of course, my prince," you said, accepting his offer, placing your hand in his.
The musicians struck up a slower, melancholic tune. Baelor pulled you close, closer than was strictly proper for a public dance. He missed you so much, the feel of your body against his, the scent of your skin, the way a mere look from you could fill his heart to bursting. He held you tight, one hand splayed against your lower back, pressing you into him.
"You forget yourself," you murmured, looking up at him with a playful, teasing glint in your eyes. "People will talk."
"That is their prerogative," he said, his voice low. "I missed you."
The playfulness softened into something tender. "I missed you too," you whispered. "The keep was empty without you."
"We need never be parted again," he declared. "I will not leave you for so long. I cannot."
You smiled softly, your hand gently stroking his arm. "I would like that."
Emboldened by your response, he leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear. "Tonight," he whispered, "I am going to spread your legs and bury my face in that sweet cunt until you beg me to fuck you."
You pulled back slightly, your face flushing a furious shade of red that rivaled your dress. Your eyes were wide, dilated with arousal. "Baelor..."
He laughed, a dark, satisfied sound. He still had you.
But before he could savor the victory, a shadow fell over you. The music shifted, a new measure beginning, and a hand tapped Baelor firmly on the shoulder.
Baelor stopped, annoyed. He turned his head slowly, his hand still possessively gripping your waist. He looked into his son's mismatched eyes. Valarr stood there, tall and unyielding.
"Valarr, can you not bear to be apart from your betrothed for one moment?"
"I cannot father," Valarr replied immediately. There was no hesitation. He looked at Baelor, then his gaze shifted to you, softening instantly. "Sorry, but I must have her."
He didn't wait for permission or for Baelor to release you. He simply took your hand and guided you away, his focus entirely on your face, as if Baelor had ceased to exist. You looked back at Baelor over your shoulder, a flash of apology in your eyes, but then you turned away, following Valarr into the swirl of the dancers, leaving Baelor standing alone his hand grasping at empty air.
He turned and marched back to the high table, his blood boiling. When he sat down, he found Jena watching him. She took a delicate sip of her wine, her eyes sparkling with undisguised delight at his frustration.
The heavy oak doors to your chambers clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the Red Keep. You stood before the vanity mirror, the room lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and a few flickering candles. You reached behind your neck, fingers working the clasp of a heavy jeweled necklace, a gift from Baelor. The cool metal slipped away, and you set it down with a clatter, exhaling a long breath. Before you could reach for the matching earrings, the air shifted, charged by a presence you knew better than your own.
Baelor didn't announce himself. He came behind you, wrapping his arms around you. You turned, melting into his arms, a smile breaking across your face. Your body pressed flush against the hard lines of his chest.
"I missed you," you breathed against his neck, but the words were swallowed by his mouth.
Baelor kissed you with the desperate hunger of a starved man. His lips crushed yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to claim your taste. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against your chest. Before you could steady yourself, his hands grasped your thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, the silk of your gown bunching around your hips as he carried you across the chamber. He didn't stop until he reached the bed, dropping you onto the furs with a gentleness that belied the urgency of his stride.
You scrambled backward, leaning back on your elbows to watch him. Baelor stood at the foot of the bed, his gaze raking over you with a possessive heat that made your skin prickle. He reached for the laces of his doublet, tugging them loose with rough jerks of his wrists. The heavy velvet fell to the floor, followed quickly by his linen undershirt.
Your breath hitched. He was magnificent. Years of training and warfare had sculpted his body into a map of lean muscle and scars. His skin was tanned, a dusting of dark hair trailing from his chest down his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches. Your mouth watered at the sight of him.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. His voice was a low rasp, leaving no room for hesitation.
You obeyed instantly, unlacing your dress quickly. You lay bare before him, the cool air raising gooseflesh on your skin. Baelor's eyes darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the flush of your chest, the curve of your hips, and the glistening slickness already gathering between your thighs. You spread your legs slowly, an invitation, a surrender.
"Beautiful," he murmured. He stepped forward, grabbing your ankles and yanking you to the very edge of the mattress.
He dropped to his knees on the stone floor, not bothering to remove his breeches yet. He wasted no time, burying his face between your thighs, his hot breath ghosting over your wet cunt before his tongue made contact.
You gasped, your back arching off the bed. The flick of his tongue against your clit was precise, devastating. He knew exactly how to touch you, exactly where to apply the pressure to shatter your composure. You buried your fingers in his short, dark hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
He ate you like a man starving, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moans filled the room, high and desperate, spurring him on. He groaned against your flesh, the vibration traveling straight to your core. Then, without warning, he thrust two thick fingers inside your tight channel.
"Oh gods!" you cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.
He curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur, while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. You tugged hard on his hair, earning another muffled groan from him that sent shockwaves through your nervous system. The pressure built rapidly, a tight coil in your belly ready to snap.
"That's it," he murmured against you, his voice muffled by your flesh.
The praise, combined with the curl of his fingers, pushed you over the edge. Your cunt clenched around his digits, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you came with a sharp cry. Your thighs trembled, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you rode out the intensity of the climax.
Baelor didn't let up immediately, lapping up your juices as you pulsed around him, prolonging your pleasure until you were sensitive and whimpering. He stood, his hands moving to the laces of his breeches, freeing the heavy length of his cock as he stepped out of them.
You had seen him naked hundreds of times, but the sight of him — thick, hard, and flushed with blood — never failed to make your mouth water. He stroked himself once, twice, the skin sliding over the rigid shaft, pre-cum beading at the tip.
He climbed onto the bed, caging you in with his arms. His weight settled over you, his knees pushing your thighs wider. He lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
You gasped, your head falling back. You had forgotten how big he was, the way he filled you completely, the slight burn that gave way to a deep, aching fullness. He seated himself fully, his hips flush against yours, and paused, letting you adjust.
He began to move, his strokes steady and deep. He pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, the friction delicious. But it wasn't enough. You needed more. You needed him to lose control.
"Fuck me harder," you pleaded, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Faster."
Baelor stilled for a fraction of a second, his mismatched eyes burning into yours. A dark, dangerous smirk curled his lips. "You want it hard?"
He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving you feeling empty and desperate. Before you could protest, he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your hands and knees.
You scrambled to arch your back, presenting yourself to him. You felt the mattress dip as he moved behind you. He didn't give you time to prepare. He slammed into you in one hard, brutal thrust.
A scream tore from your throat as he began to slam into you. The bed frame creaked under the onslaught. He poured all his frustrations, his jealousy, his pent-up desire into every thrust. His hips snapped against your ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud and obscene in the quiet room.
"Gods, yes, Baelor!" you cried out, your fingers clutching at the furs beneath you. "Just like that!"
He leaned forward, covering your back with his chest. One hand tangled in your thick hair, pulling your head back until your ear was level with his lips. The sting on your scalp only heightened the pleasure.
"You're mine yes?" he asked.
"Yes! Yours!"
His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck before nipping at your earlobe. "Every inch of you."
His hot breath panted against your ear, ragged and heavy. The sound of him losing control, of him using your body so thoroughly, was intoxicating. He reached around with his free hand, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed tight, fast circles over the swollen bud, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, his voice strained. "I know you want to come. Give it to me."
The stimulation was too much. The drag of his thick cock inside you, the friction on your clit, the possessive grip in your hair — it shattered you. You came again, your cunt convulsing around him, your vision whiting out. You screamed his name, your body collapsing beneath him as the pleasure overwhelmed your senses.
Baelor didn't stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release as you lay senseless and trembling beneath him. His thrusts became erratic, losing their rhythm. He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and stilled.
He groaned deep in his chest, a sound of pure relief and possession. You felt the hot pulse of his seed spilling inside you, coating your insides, marking you as his. He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving against your back, both of you lost in the aftermath of the storm.
Baelor rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping himself buried inside you as long as he could.
He pressed a kiss to your damp forehead. "I love you," he whispered, the anger gone, replaced by a profound sense of peace.
You curled into his chest. "I love you too," you said softly.
You lay there for a long time, the silence comfortable. The jealousy that had plagued him all night receded, replaced by the reality of you in his arms. Valarr could have the dances and whispers. Baelor had your soul.
But the comfort was fleeting.
A week passed, and Baelor felt his sanity fraying like an old rope. The wedding was now only days away, and you were nowhere to be found — at least, not for him.
You spent every waking moment with Valarr. You were inseparable. The only time Baelor saw his son without you was during the small council meetings, where Valarr sat silently, learning the governance of the realm, his leg bouncing impatiently until the session ended so he could return to you.
The court was abuzz with excitement. Everywhere Baelor went, he heard the same refrain.
"Such a lovely match." "The Prince and his lady." "It is good for the realm."
It made Baelor want to scream.
Worst of all was the time Valarr spent with your son. The little boy had taken to the Prince with an ease that twisted a knife in Baelor's gut.
You were sharing a midday meal. Your father was there with you. Baelor sat at the head of the table, picking at his food, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding across from him.
Valarr held the boy on his lap, feeding him small pieces of meat and cheese. The child was giggling, grabbing at Valarr's tunic with sticky hands. Valarr didn't mind. He laughed, wiping the boy's face with a napkin, his expression one of pure adoration.
"And what shall we get you for your nameday, little man?" Valarr asked, bouncing the boy on his knee. "A wooden sword? A pony?"
"Pony!" the boy shrieked.
"Pony," Valarr agreed with a smile.
You sat next to them, watching with a soft smile. "Valarr, do not spoil him. He has too much already."
"He cannot have too much," Valarr argued, looking at you. "He is my son now, or he will be soon."
The words hit Baelor like a blow to the chest. My son.
The little boy grew distracted, his gaze wandering around the room. He saw Baelor sitting at the high table, dark and brooding. The boy's face lit up, and he pointed a chubby finger.
"Papa!" he yelled clearly.
The table fell silent.
Valarr didn't flinch. He caught the boy's hand and kissed his little fist gently, turning him back around. "No," he corrected, his voice soft but firm, his eyes flicking briefly to Baelor. "He is my papa. Do we look so alike?"
The boy frowned, confused, looking between the two men. They did look alike; the same dark hair, same eyes. It was a cruel joke of genetics.
Baelor gripped the edge of the table until the wood groaned. He felt your eyes on him. This was more than he could endure.
Worse still was the coldness of your bed. Since his return, you had not let him touch you. "Not tonight, my love," you would whisper, turning your face to the pillow. "The day has been long."
He believed you, at first. You looked pale, the dark circles under your eyes pronounced. But as the week wore on and he watched you laugh and walk with Valarr all day, the excuses began to ring hollow. You had energy for Valarr. You had smiles for Valarr. You had patience for Valarr. For Baelor, you only had headaches.
The frustration built, he was the one who had orchestrated this entire mess to keep you close, and yet he was the only one being pushed away.
The breaking point came a week after his return. The candles in your chamber had burned low, the room smelling of wax and the lingering scent of lilies. Baelor had cornered you near the bed, his patience frayed to nothing. He kissed you gently initially, backing you onto the mattress, your smaller frame pinned beneath his weight, the heat of his body pressing against you.
"I need you," he growled against your neck, his hand fumbling with the laces of your bodice. "I've watched him play husband all week. I need to feel you."
You squirmed beneath him, your hands pushing against his shoulders. "Baelor, wait."
"I have waited," he snapped, his fingers tugging the fabric down to expose the curve of your shoulder. He dipped his head to taste your skin.
"No." You shoved him hard, surprising him with the force of it. "I have a headache. A terrible one."
Baelor froze, his chest heaving. He pulled back, looming over you, his eyes blazing in the dim light. "A headache?" he spat. "How much longer will these headaches of yours continue?"
You sat up, clutching your bodice closed. "If you are going to be cruel, then leave."
The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating. Baelor stared at you, seeing the hurt and the defiance warring in your bright eyes. The anger drained out of him as quickly as it had surged, leaving him hollow and weary.
"I did not mean it," he said, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair from your cheek. "I do not want to fight. I just... I miss your warmth. I feel as if I am losing you."
Your eyes softened, the anger melting. You sighed, leaning into his touch. "You are not losing me."
"I know," he murmured.
You pulled him down, meeting his lips. This time, there was no desperation, only a slow, aching familiarity. Your tongues relearned the shape of each other, sliding together in a deep, sensual rhythm that made Baelor's head spin. He groaned low in his throat, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to him as if he could merge your very breath.
When you finally parted, you were both breathless.
"Perhaps I will feel better tomorrow," you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Go back to your own rooms tonight. Let me rest."
Baelor wanted to argue, wanted to stay and wrap himself around you, but he saw the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He nodded, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. "Tomorrow."
You walked him to the door and kissed him once more on the cheek, a gentle dismissal.
"Goodnight, my Prince."
He stood in the hallway for a long time after the door clicked shut, staring at the wood grain. Perhaps tomorrow. The words hung in the air, a promise and a tease. He adjusted his tunic and turned toward his own empty chambers, the jealousy sated but never truly gone.
Tomorrow did not bring relief. The day before the wedding arrived with a grey, oppressive sky. The Small Council meeting dragged on, the droning voices of the lords blending into a dull hum in Baelor's ears. When the meeting finally adjourned, the men began to file out, bowing their heads and gathering their parchments.
"Father," Valarr said. He remained seated, his hands clasped tightly on the table in front of him. "Might I have a word? Privately."
Baelor paused, waving the others out. Valarr had been brooding all afternoon, his jaw set tight, eyes dark with an internal fury that Baelor had sensed but chose to ignore until now.
"Of course," Baelor said, leaning back against the council table, crossing his arms. "What is the matter?"
Valarr stood up slowly. He took a breath, his chest expanding beneath his doublet, before he stepped closer towards his father. The shadows stretched long across the floor, swallowing his feet. He looked at Baelor, and for a moment, the mask of the courtly prince slipped, revealing something raw and frantic underneath.
"Have I been a good son to you, Father?" Valarr asked. His voice was steady, but his hands were clenched at his sides. "Have I made you proud?"
Baelor sat, leaning back comfortably into his seat. "Of course. You need never doubt that."
"Do you love me?"
There was no hesitation in Baelor's response. He did not need to think.
"Yes. More than my own life."
Valarr nodded, a sharp, jerky movement. He looked down at the table, then back up revealing eyes that were wet, shining with unshed tears.
"Then you will stop calling on my wife to warm your bed.”
The air left the room. Baelor stared at his son, his mind scrambling to find purchase, to find a denial that would not sound like a lie. But he saw the knowledge in Valarr's face. Knowledge along with pain and revulsion.
"I do not know what you have been told," Baelor began, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, "but you do not understand the—"
"I know everything," Valarr snapped, the volume rising, bouncing off the stone walls. He stepped forward, his hands slamming onto the table. "I told her I loved her this morning. I poured my heart out and she confessed everything."
Baelor closed his eyes for a brief second.
"She said she did not want our marriage to start on a lie," Valarr continued, his voice cracking. "She did not want me to give my love to someone who did not deserve it… she said she loved you. That you came to her bed just yesterday, and she turned you away out of guilt."
The image of your closed door, your refusal, your exhaustion flashed through Baelor's mind.
"I know you did not think we would feel for each other when you arranged this marriage," Valarr said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "You thought we would be strangers, but I love her and I will not allow this to continue."
Baelor stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. He walked around the table, needing to move, needing to put distance between himself and the accusation in his son's eyes.
"I do not blame you for loving her," Valarr said, his tone shifting, becoming almost pitying. "How could you not? But your love is no longer needed."
Baelor stopped. He turned, his brow furrowing. "No longer needed?"
"You are still just a boy. You think—"
"And you are someone else's husband!" Valarr shouted, cutting him off. "What can you give her but shame and disgrace? Secrets in the dark? Bastards?"
Baelor flinched. "I will not argue with you. Not like this."
He turned toward the door, intending to leave, to escape the room that had suddenly become a cage.
"I will not share my wife with you! My father!" Valarr's voice cracked like a whip, stopping Baelor in his tracks. "I will not spend my life wondering if my sons are my brothers!"
Baelor turned slowly. The cruelty of the image, the visceral horror of it, settled in his gut. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the fight draining out of him. He looked at Valarr, seeing the boy he had taught to hold a sword, the child he had bounced on his knee, the young man he had betrayed in the worst way possible.
"I am sorry," Baelor whispered. "For that. I am sorry."
Valarr's chest heaved. He stared at his father, his anger momentarily banked by the apology.
"What would you have me do?"
"You will never speak to her again," Valarr said. The words were low, certain, absolute.
"I cannot do that."
"Is your lust for her more than your love for me?"
The question was simple, stripping away all the justifications, leaving only a choice Baelor refused to make.
"Does she know what you are asking of me?"
"Yes," Valarr said. "It was her solution."
Baelor shook his head. "You lie."
He knew you, the softness of your heart, the way you clung to him. You would not demand that he never look upon you again.
"It does not matter," Valarr said, his jaw set. "I am to be her husband."
"You do not trust her," Baelor said, seizing the thread, pulling at it. "You think she will come to me again."
"It is you whom I do not trust!" Valarr's control snapped. "She told me of her own free will! She wept in my arms! You, my father, were content to have me live my life as a fool, playing the happy husband while you—"
"It was not my intention to hurt you."
"The intent does not matter! The hurt is all the same." He took a deep breath, composing himself with visible effort. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet. "You are to never speak to her again. If you do, I will take her from this place. We will go to the ends of the earth, and we will not return until you are dead."
Baelor looked at his son. He saw the steel in him, the Targaryen fire. Valarr meant it. He would take you away, and Baelor would never see either of you again.
Either way, it was a life without you. But this way... this way, he could see you across the hall. He could know you were safe, he could know you were happy — happiness that had nothing to do with him.
"Alright." The word was barely a whisper. It felt like tearing his own heart out.
Valarr blinked, as if he hadn't expected the victory to come so easily. He nodded once, a sharp, decisive motion. He turned on his heel and walked toward the door.
He stopped at the threshold, his hand on the iron ring. He did not look back.
"I will be a good husband," Valarr said. "She will be happy."
Then he pulled the door open and was gone, his footsteps fading rapidly down the corridor.
Baelor stood in the center of the room. The shadows lengthened, reaching out like dark fingers across the table. He listened to the faint, distant sounds of the castle coming to life for the evening, feeling a heartbreak so profound he knew it would never truly pass. He was alone.
Tag list: @lightdragonrayne @annetheperfect @w0nderfulb1iss @ibhearts
𝓼 they say the dragons died out ages ago. but how could that be true, seeing as you ride one every other week or so?
─── ༯ warnings targcest (reader is baelor’s daughter), p in v—smut minors do not interact, bratty dom aerion, breeding kink, cheating (sorry valarr), knife play, blood, biting, reader & aerion are schizophrenics who think they’re dragons, they’re both evil & crazy, pussy eating, aerion gets tamed in high valyrian, they’re having a brat off, idk man i just made shit up this is pure filth and aerion brain rot.
✉️ porn with a slight cheeky plot me thinks. let’s all collectively ignore the logistics. anyways, hello bloody mouth aerion nation!
REBLOGS&FEEDBACK APPRECIATED ── ༯ word count 3k
SOME GIRLS ARE BORN with pretty eyes or nimble fingers, but you came into this world with both and a third thing, which is the stubborn certainty that you’re fire made flesh.
Not that anyone in King’s Landing would believe it—least of all your utterly loyal and even softer lady in waiting, slipping into your chamber ever so discreetly.
In her hands is a small vial wrapped in plain cloth and half concealed by the fall of her skirts.
“Your—ah, your tea, as you asked, princess.” Amara hands it over without looking at you because she’s polite enough to pretend she isn’t dying to ask, but you see the question flicker over her face anyway, and so you brace yourself for it.
“Go on, Amara, out with it. you’ve been itching to ask.”
“Forgive me for prying, princess, but… must the Maester prepare it every month? His Grace would be so happy, I believe, if you were to give him a child. The realm would rejoice—”
You cut her off with a smile and take a slow sip of the disgustingly bitter brew. “I am not fit for motherhood, my sweet summer child. There are enough monsters in House Targaryen as it is. Best not give the gods more ideas, don’t you think?”
Amara blushes at your sardonic friendly tone. You know what she’s thinking—she probably assumes you mean your cousin with a known monstrous reputation (and to be quite fair, you do), but you offer her a wicked grin in return because it never once occurs to her that you might mean yourself.
Of all the masks you wear, being the realm’s darling is by far the most tedious of them all.
But what’s a Targaryen princess such as yourself meant to do when she’s Baelor’s one and only precious daughter and Valarr’s terribly adored gleaming little wife? These are roles the gods (or fate, or perhaps your father’s hunger for peace) chose for you that you play so well you almost convince yourself you are who they say you are.
Amara — the closest thing you possess to a conscience (gods bless her foolishly tender heart) — is now halfway through recounting some spectacularly unflattering gossip about some Lord’s cock (allegedly as underwhelming as his sense of honor) and all you can do is smile like a sweet dove and nod as if your mind isn’t a thousand leagues away.
“—swore it on his honor, can you imagine?” Amara giggles giddily. “But truly, princess, what of you? Has His Grace been keeping you sated?”
Oh, dearest, sweetest lamb. If only she knew a tenth of the filth that fills your nights. She looks at you with such open admiration that you do not have the heart to tell her that this talk of cocks…? and bedding and ordinary desire bores you senseless.
Though you do enjoy her company. She’s the only person left in this godsforsaken pit who makes you feel almost human, but that’s hardly a high bar. You care for her as much as you’re capable of caring, but loving you is a bit like cradling a starving wolf and praying that they do not lose a hand. Or rather a dragon, if one insists on being poetic. (And you always insist.) Still, you’d cut out your own heart before hurting her. You are quite as certain as your hair is silver that if Amara glimpsed even a sliver of what you have done, she would cross herself and flee to the ends of Westeros as she sobs for the Mother’s mercy.
Which is precisely why you lie to her. (And more so because that is what good princesses do.)
So you go on to tell her pretty stories about Valarr’s gentle hands and careful kisses, and you let her believe the bullshit that you truly are the perfect princess they call you to be — blessed by the Seven and favored by every godly old wife who’s ever prayed for a daughter with silver hair and untroubled eyes.
“Dragons are never sated,” you say teasingly, and she thinks you are only being poetic and demure and endlessly loyal to your sweet, stifling, perfectly polite princely husband. “Valarr is… ever the gentlest, of course. He is a man who would never risk a wrinkle in my gown, let alone a bruise.”
Well, this much is true.
Valarr is golden and kind and dutiful to a fault. He fucks you as though you’re made of glass, and he worries amd frets and dotes and prays for you before he ever thinks to pray for himself, amongst other things—all of which is to say: he is everything a proper lady could wish for.
The thought alone is nearly enough to make you yawn.
“You are so blessed, princess,” she sighs, and you watch the naivete dance in her eyes. “To be cherished so dearly—surely the Seven watch over you. I hesrd he sent you a dozen flowers just last night?”
What you wish to say is: Is that not the true horror of it all? To be cherished and adored in a cage of silk when all you crave is to be bloodied and devoured.
What you actually end up saying, though, is:
“Wasn’t it lovely?” You giggle prettily, and sip your wine as if you’re not thinking about blood on your teeth and the sound a certain someone makes when you drag your nails down his back. “He is ever so thoughtful. It’s as if I am in a dream.”
Amara sighs and looks as if what you’re saying is the height of romance, and you wonder with viscous curiosity what she would look like if you told her what you truly dream of. Would she scream or simply crumple? Would she faint, or better yet, would this conversation finally grow interesting?
The idea of it makes you smile.
The truth is, princess, you… oh, you are not so much the darling the realm believes you to be—and you rather like it that way. Gods, it truly is indescribably tedious, really. The only time you’re even halfway sated is with blood on your tongue with your hands wrapped around a throat and your lips shaped into a cruel smile as you watch a man beg for your mercy. What would Amara say if she knew there is a man who sees you exactly as you are and wants you more because of it? And that that man is not your perfect princely husband?
You think about him, and something dark and delighted coils in your chest.
“I must leave you for now, sweetling,” you press a kiss to her brow as you stand. “I promised the gods a prayer before supper.”
“The gods smile down on you, your grace.” she says dreamily and none the wiser.
Oh, you highly doubt the gods are smiling at all—considering the mere reality that the only prayers you’ve offered in years are whispered into the mouth of a monster with silver hair, and your good sense long since abandoned.
Poor Valarr. If only he knew. He will spend his whole life trying to love you, and as fate will have it, it will never be fucking enough. But not because he fails—oh no, it’s not his fault at all. It is just that love is a fickle thing for a dragon, much less a monster such as yourself.
But what your darling doting brother doesn’t know just makes your nights all the more sweeter.
After all, who else could ever sate you, if not another dragon with blood on his mouth and a hunger just as ugly as your own?
Aerion Targaryen is never in the habit of bothering with courtesies.
His idea of a greeting more so leans towards the clatter of a locked door and the snarl of your name as his hand mercilessly finds your throat.
Tonight in particular, you are pressed to the bedpost with your gown bunched at your hips, and Aerion’s mouth is buried between your thighs as he devours your pussy like a madman. Somewhere beside you, the moonlight glints off a discarded knife—the same one he traced along your thigh minutes earlier, which was just sharp enough to sting but also just dull enough to leave nothing you couldn’t explain away. (Which is utterly disappointing, really, but there are only so many times you can explain away strange marks to your poor husband before he starts asking questions he doesn’t really want answered.)
You’ve already been at it for gods know how long, but your monstrous cousin is nothing if not a sadist who takes his sweet twisted time.
Aerion is far too entertained feasting between your thighs, licking into you with a tongue so wickedly precise it feels as if he’s trying to find the last traces of dragonfire hidden in your cunt. It feels entirely too incredible—except you’re also keenly aware that you’re running out of time before someone comes knocking, and you’re not sure you have another plausible lie left in you today.
“Patience, cousin,” he hisses against your pussy when you whine at him to hurry. "Didn't your septa ever teach you that virtue?”
“My septa died. Much like I’m about to of weariness if you don’t make fucking haste and learn to behave,” you snap, though you grind your hips up into his warm mouth and hiss as he bites your inner thigh. “Fuck— Aerion. I’ll have your head on a spike before morning if you fucking mark me again.”
Aerion flicks his tongue over a faint bruise he left the last time, all while making a show of humming. “You talk so prettily when you’re angry. Do it again.”
“I shall do worse than talking.” You yank at his hair so hard his eyes flash, but he only grins wider and does nothing to stop you. “Don’t. Mark. Me. Valarr’s not half as stupid as he acts.”
Aerion lazily smirks, though his face twists momentarily with something which seems to resemble jealousy quite a bit. “Come to think of it… Perhaps I should hold you down and carve my name into you right here, so there’s no mistaking who you truly belong to. Then we’ll have your brother come running to find you with my cock still inside you. You think he’d put up a fight, little dragon?”
“I do not belong to anyone, least of all you. And stop smiling, you fool. I’ll cut your cock off and hang it above the—”
“Tsk. You’d mourn it, you impudent little brat,” Aerion cuts you off when he leans and bites at your throat quite harshly.
“Shut up.” you hiss, though your actions do not match your words as you arch into his touch and moan. “You find too much pleasure in your own voice.”
Aerion’s mouth curls into a twisted smirk, then he licks your slick off his thumb and pushes it between your lips. You suck his thumb and bite down just enough to make him curse, then you moan around his fingers and his eyes glint with hunger.
“Fuck. Look at you, such a little filthy whore.”
Your hand flies up and you slap him, and Aerion’s head snaps to the side as a wicked laugh breaks out of him. Anyone else would be dead for even daring to do so, but you’re the only creature in the realm who gets away with this, and you relish in it.
“You’re the only whore in this room, cousin,” you sneer. “Would you just fuck me already?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Aerion laughs as he drags his fingers ever so slowly over your slick, aching cunt. “Say please. Princesses should know their manners.”
You roll your eyes. “Just get on with it, Aerion. Or I ought to get my husband to do it for me.”
Aerion’s face twists with anger. “Careful. You know what happens to little brats who bare their fangs at dragons.”
Well, it’s a good thing you’re a dragon yourself then, isn't it? And though it is true that you’ve never seen a true dragon with your own eyes, you are well versed enough to know that dragons only ever listen when commanded in their own tongue.
“Dohaerās, Aerion.” the High Valyrian slides off your tongue as sharp as any blade he has ever used, and the effect is instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes flare in the candlelight as he tilts his head, and for a moment he looks very much like the wicked little dragon he’s been accused of being.
Obedience is not exactly known to be in Aerion Targaryen’s nature, but you’ve always been the only one who could ever tame him.
Aerion’s hand hungrily drops to rip your skirts even higher, and the next thing you know you’re properly sprawled across silk sheets which you’re supposed to keep pristine for your dear husband. Your head presses into the pillow so your crown of silver hair tumbles loose, and Aerion roughly spreads you out once more, baring your cunt to the candlelight as he frees his cock and fists it.
“See? All you had to do was ask nicely, little dragon.”
Aerion lines his cock up with no preamble or any hint of gentleness whatsoever. He’s bigger than any man has the right to be, and the stretch is always just on the edge of pure utter agony, but it is always your favorite part, anyway. He slides in all at once and steals your breath in a single brutal thrust, and as always, he does not even bother to wait for you to adjust before he starts snapping his hips into you relentlessly—and the filthy beast holds your gaze the entire time, and takes pleasure in your pain.
“Fuck—fuck,” you choke repeatedly as your cunt swallows him whole, and you are so full you can barely breathe.
“Quit your whining,” he ruthlessly buries himself to the hilt in your glistening cunt. “You can take it. You always do.” He groans and thrusts harder, voice washing over with delight as he watches your already fucked-out face twist in pleasure. “Though… let’s see if you can still curse me and speak of my foolish cousin when you’re full of my cock like this.”
You try—oh, you really fucking try. But all that comes out is a noise that would get you sent to a sept for the rest of your life if anyone ever heard it.
“What a shame. You can’t even—ah—look at you, taking every inch like a whore. can’t even get a single word out, can you?” Aerion’s laughs as he thrusts in so deep your head tips back. The headboard bangs out a rhythm against the wall in time with the obscene slap of skin on skin, and it only gets louder every time he slams into you. “Fuck, you are clinging to me like some maiden at her first bedding. You feel that? Always such a perfect little cunt for me, princess,”
“Harder, Aerion. Gods, fuck me harder!” you moan deliriously, raking your nails down his back hard enough to mark him as you utter a few words in High Valyrian as though you’re commanding a dragon.
He groans and obeys. The stretch is so utterly dizzying and filthy, and your words continue to sloppily choke out of your throat as he fucks into you. Every single thrust rocks you up the bed with your ankles caught around his waist.
At some point, your nails find the knife by the pillow and you slash a line down his shoulder just because you can. Aerion hisses, then he grins while he watches his blood paint your fingers. You suck at the mark and drink his blood in when he leans over you, and he groans into the kiss when you crash your lips into his with your bloodied mouth.
“Vicious little bitch,” he pants through bloodied lips, and his balls slap harshly against your ass as he thrusts his hips harder into you.
Then he shoves two fingers into your mouth, and he groans when you bite down on them. Your eyes roll back as you suck and moan around his knuckles, so utterly drunk on the way he fucks you that you can barely remember how to speak.
“Dokimavorse,” the command falls off his tongue in eager High Valyrian, dragging you back from the edge just so you’ll look him in the eye. “Say my name, princess. Say it.”
You gasp as he pulls his fingers out. “Aerion,” you moan.
He rewards you by pulling all the way out slowly, just to slam back in so hard you are quite sure you could swear you feel it somewhere in your soul.
“Again,” he snarls, “Louder. I want them to hear you in the sept.”
“Aerion. Aerion. Aerion,” you scream this time, and you don’t care who hears, not even when you know Valarr is somewhere in this keep, being the terribly oblivious fool he is.
With a growl, you put your whole weight into twisting out from under him and flipping him onto his back with a force that makes him laugh. The feel of his cock dragging along your walls as you lower yourself onto him makes you both hiss, and the stretch is even more obscene from this angle.
“Gonna ride the dragon, are you?”
“Only a dragon can handle a dragon, isn’t that right?”
“Of course it is,” Aerion’s head falls back as he grins, and the sharp line of his throat gleams in the candlelight. “Go on, then. Show me.”
You let out a blood-curdling moan as you feel him pressing up into your deepest parts, and he latches his mouth onto your breast and bites at it. The two of you moan in unison as you begin to bounce on his cock, and his palms are utterly unrestrained as they clamp bruisingly tight to your hips as you set your pace riding him.
“Tell me what I am. Tell me who you’re fucking. Say you want the dragon.” he demands.
“You’re my dragon,” you gasp into his mouth as you ride him harder, feeling him throb inside you. “Only mine. no one else’s.” You throw your head back and moan. “I want it, I want you, I want to break you open and eat your fucking heart.”
“Good girl—ride your dragon.” He grins as though you’ve bewitched him, so stupid and awestruck and so madly and desperately in love with every inch of your wicked soul, even if he’d rather cut out his own tongue than say so.
Aerion is damn near weeping with pleasure as he pants your name like a prayer, bucking up into you all while you bounce on his cock and wetness squelches obscenely with every slap of your bodies. “Fuck,” He slaps your ass and then he does it again and again, the pain oh so sharp and sweet. “You take me so well. Ride me, wicked girl, ride me till you can’t speak.”
“Gods, you’re so fucking big—”
“Yeah? Too much, is it?” He fists your hair and yanks your mouth down to his, and he bites your lip until it bleeds. Then he groans and slaps at your ass again. “Fuck, you are mine. My dragon.”
Aerion’s eyes are wild as he watches you with his mouth dropped open, and your cunt squeezes around him as you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge. He must feel it too, because he grabs your hips and takes over entirely. He jackhammers up into you, and your moans grow higher and more desperate. “Gods, I want to fill you up. Make you round and see your pretty belly swell and let that idiot wonder why his heir looks nothing like him.”
The thought of it makes you clench around him harder, though the bitter taste of the moon tea still clings to the back of your throat.
You collapse on his chest as your thighs begin to tremble. “I will gut you. Don’t you dare cum in me again—”
“Or what? You’ll slay your dragon?” Aerion grins all too cruelly and cuts you off with a brutal snap upwards. “Try and stop me—”
Whatever else he says is lost upon you as heat coils tighter in your belly.
“Fuckfuckfuck. GODS. Aerion. Aerion, I’m—”
A scream tears out of you as your orgasm hits you like fire, and your cunt clenches so tight you see white as you squeeze the life out of him. Aerion follows right after and groans your name over and over as he spills inside you anyway, filling your sensitive cunt up with his seed deep inside until it’s leaking out along his cock ans onto Valarr’s pristine sheets.
After, you both lie there in the ruined mess of your stupid sheets and bruised bodies and smeared blood, both of you entirely too stubborn to speak first.
“Wipe up your mess,” you finally mutter, glaring at the crimson stain you just seemed to notice alongside his leaking seed on the white silk. “If Valarr sees that, he’ll—”
“He’ll do nothing,” Aerion cuts you off with a sneer as he pushes the ruined sheets under your hips. “Speak of him once more and I swear by all the gods, I’ll sneak into your chambers and fuck you while your dear husband sleeps beside us.”
You shove at his shoulder, and he grabs your hand and kisses your bruised knuckles reverently.
Seven hells. You truly think you might kill him someday, and you know he hopes you try it.
That Steve crack fic had me howling!!! I need her to meet robin who will just laugh in Steve’s face about the whole misunderstanding.
Steve acts like he doesn’t care but robin rubs it in his face more because she knows y/n is totally his type
“You’re really just mad at the fact you’ve totally blown your chances with her because she thinks you’re a perv”
“No I’m not!— wait— Rob..— do you think I’ve totally blown it??”
HA ohh Robin. thanks for reading!
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who he does not have a big fat crush on [1.4k words]
part 1 <- part 2 -> part 3 | series masterlist
CW: Steve's still [jokingly] being accused of grooming children, Robin's having the time of her life, this doesn’t follow any particular plot line or timeline, crack/comedy
Robin will not stop laughing.
Steve doesn’t know why he told her, can’t imagine what he thought he would get out of doing such a thing. Compassion, perhaps? Maybe some sympathy. Even indifference would have been better than this.
It’s not like he can get away from her right now, either; the two of them stuck behind the counter at Family Video because Robin is too busy clutching at her stomach and wheezing as tears of mirth run down her face, abandoning customers to be served by a mildly aggrieved Steve.
“Would you stop, please?” Steve sighs, collecting the returns from behind the counter that require rewinding. Steve sort of wishes he could shove himself inside the rewinder too.
Robin merely dissolves into more laughter. “I- oh god, I’m going to pee my pants!”
Steve grimaces apologetically at an older gentleman who steps into the store only to hear Robin’s cackling and immediately retreat.
“I can’t believe I got rid of my board! We- we need the board, Steve!”
“We do not need the board. There’s no need for a board; stop it,” Steve argues.
“The town flasher,” she cackles.
“Does Vicky know you’re awful? Just terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Robin is not ashamed of herself, wiping careful fingers under her eyes to gather any mascara that may have run during her laughing fit. “Please, I’m not going to sit here and be lectured by a pervert, Steve.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” She chuckles, following him towards the back of the store like an irksome fly as he fires up the rewinder. “Why does this bother you so much anyways?”
“Why does- why does this bother me? Rob, I was accused of being a pervert. She thought I was, like, molesting kids and shit.” Steve announces, watching in horror as a couple quickly abandons the movies they were debating between and leaves the store. Steve lets out a weary sigh.
“Okay, but she doesn’t anymore, right?” Robin carries on, smile as wicked and knowing as ever as she leans against the doorway marked employees only. “Once she found out about the monsters and shit?”
“Would you keep your voice down?” Steve hisses.
“Jeez, you’re really worked up about this,” Robin appears to sober up for a few moments as she considers him. “Is she cute or something?”
“Is she- what? What does that have anything to do with it?”
“She is, isn’t she?”
Steve shrugs helplessly. “I- well, yeah sure, I mean I guess, but-”
“Oh my God, you’re crushing on her!”
“I am not, I- Robin, we’ve only met, like, three times and she’s been nothing but rude and called me a pervert. I do not have a crush on her.”
Steve definitely has a crush on you. He does, indeed, find you to be quite rude, but he also finds you to be quite pretty. Probably prettier, even, when you aren’t scowling at him, though he can’t pretend he hasn’t enjoyed the view all the same.
Robin doesn’t buy it. “You so do.”
“Would you go do your job, please?” Steve snaps. “Someone’s gotta be available for the customers.”
“You’re in a rotten mood.”
“Yeah, I wonder why,” He drawls with a visceral eyeroll as he gestures at Robin’s form.
Robin rolls her eyes right back at him, though she does turn to head back in the direction of the store front. “No, no. You’re just mad because you’ve completely blown your shot with the new girl in town ‘cause she thinks you’re a pervert.”
“I am not- wait. You think I’ve blown my shot?” He asks, standing half-in half-out of the employees only area. “Robin! Do you really think I’ve completely blown my shot!?”
Steve’s hopes for an answer are dashed when the front door chimes, announcing the arrival of a new customer.
“Robin!” Steve hears Dustin greet excitedly.
“Oh hey, Dustin!” Robin chirps in turn, causing Steve to roll his eyes as he slams a VHS into the rewinder none too gently. “And you brought your cousin!”
Steve nearly trips over himself as he races to the front of the store, rounding a shelf of videos only to find Robin leaning against the counter with a cruel smile on her face and Dustin – who came in alone – looking between the two of them dubiously.
“You’re not funny.” Steve admonishes Robin, pointing an accusatory finger at her.
“It was pretty funny.”
“You’re awful.”
“I’m hilarious.”
“And I’m confused,” Dustin interjects, cautiously stepping up and placing his return on the counter as he scrutinizes the two of them. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on-”
“Steve’s mad because he’s got a big fat crush on your cousin-”
“-I do not have a big fat-”
“-and she thinks he’s a pervert.”
Dustin deflates. “Seriously, Steve? My cousin?”
“No. No! Not seriously,” Steve denies. “I do not have a big fat crush on your cousin. Why would you believe Robin? She’s a liar.”
“It’s not my pants on fire right now, Stevie boy,” Robin taunts. He’s going to throttle her.
“You’re insane, you know that?”
Dustin lets out a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh. “You’re hopeless.”
“So you agree,” Robin jumps in far too enthusiastically, “you think he’s completely blown his chances?”
“Robin.”
“He didn’t have chances to blow in the first place,” Dustin mumbles, words paired with a mischievous smirk. Steve’s going to throttle the both of them.
“I don’t know why I’m friends with either of you.”
“Oh, it’s because we’re the only people in town who don’t think you’re a pervert,” Robin sing-songs.
“Alright, are you getting another movie or are you fucking off?” Steve quickly snaps, gesturing for Dustin to hurry up.
“Actually, Y/N said she’s not going to let me back in the car if I don’t have Ferris Bueller's Day Off on my person.”
Both Robin and Steve freeze; Robin in anticipation, Steve in fear.
“Your cousin’s here?” Robin all but whispers, continuing when Dustin nods his head yes. “Like, here, here? As in she drove you, here? As in she’s waiting for you outside, here?”
“Robin…” Steve warns cautiously.
A silent standoff, and then-
“Robin!”
The two of them are racing towards the exit, Steve’s grabby hands no match for Robin’s elbows who ends up beating him to the door and taking off into the parking lot.
“Robin!”
“Someone’s gotta be available for the customers, dingus!” She calls out as she races towards your car.
“Unbelievable,” Steve huffs as he slinks back over to the counter with his tail between his legs. Dustin watches him with amusement and mischief alike, waving Ferris Bueller’s Day Off at him.
“I want this comped on account of you having the hots for my cousin.”
Steve scoffs. “I do not have the hots for your-” but Dustin’s shooting him a look that roughly translates to "don't bullshit me" and Steve folds like one of the cheap lawn chairs Kevin has in the staff breakroom. “Yeah okay, fine, whatever.”
“You’re the best,” Dustin grins, taking off his backpack to put the movie in it. “I’ll make sure to spread the word; soften Y/N up for you.”
“You’re really not funny.”
“I’m hilarious,” Dustin disagrees as Robin breathlessly re-enters the store.
“Dustin, your cousin says to stop talking to the child molester and get your ass back in the car.”
A woman quickly ushers her two young children out of the store.
“Son of a- sorry folks. Thanks for coming by!” Steve tries to call out after them, glaring at Robin as she perches herself behind the counter with an air of faux innocence. “You’re going to get us fired, or arrested.”
“No,” Robin counters. “You’re going to get fired or arrested. I’ll be lauded for putting a pervert behind bars and making Hawkins a safer place. By the way-” she doesn’t give Steve a chance to retort, snapping at Dustin before he’s able to leave, “-movie night tomorrow at Steve’s. I already invited Y/N.”
“You what!?”
Dustin beams. “Sweet! Thanks Robin. See you tomorrow!”
“Robin,” Steve groans, a wicked headache beginning to brew behind his eyes. “What have you done?”
“I brought your chances back up by at least 0.05%,” she tells him, beyond pleased with herself. “Don’t blow it, Stevie boy.”
summary: punished for his greed, sylus has three months for a princess to kiss him or else his curse becomes permanent OR you are indebted to a talking crow and repeatedly deny his one request of a single kiss
wc: 10.1k
warnings: oral (f rec), fingering, piv, unprotected sex, pronebone, creampie, xav is a pos plot device sorry guys, the servants really like gossip
an: :)
It was a beautiful summer day, the sky crystal clear, a warm breeze carrying the scent of the wildflowers that dotted the landscape. You were free of lessons today, meaning you were free to enjoy the perfect day, your prized golden ball, a gift from your father, the plaything of choice. Up and down, up and down, it fell into your waiting palm, until it went up and then didn't return. You looked up curiously, eyes scanning the branches of the large oak tree that stretched into the bright blue sky, your gaze finally landing on the glint of your ball far above your reach. You huffed, annoyed that it had gotten stuck at all, but also distressed that your favorite toy might never come back down.
Tears welled up in your eyes, unbidden, as you continued to stare at your beloved toy lodged in the branches. Would your father be disappointed in you for losing it? The tears fell faster and faster until you were sobbing upon the ground. It was such a little thing to be so upset over, you knew that, but it meant so much to you.
“What ails you, princess?” Came a voice from high above you, but from whom you could not see. “You cry so miserably, even a stone would be moved to show pity.” A shadowy form descended until the black bird landed directly in front of you, its unnervingly intelligent eyes seemingly looking into your very soul.
You were taken aback. It was talking. The bird was speaking to you. And not just mimicking someone else’s voice, but truly speaking. All thoughts of your ball were wiped from your mind as you stared in awe at the feathered anomaly. It waited patiently for your response, calm as the breeze that flowed through the trunks.
“My ball,” you eventually stuttered out. You pointed where it was still lodged, the crow following the line of your arm to spy the golden bauble. “It’s stuck, and I can’t get it down.”
“No need to cry for that. I will help you, but what will you give me in return if I bring your plaything back down?” He asked, his shrewd eyes fixed on your own.
“Anything you desire,” you responded. “My clothes, my pearls and jewels, and even the crown on my head if that is what you wish.”
The crow tilted its head. “Anything? You should be more careful when making promises, especially to the unnatural. What if I asked for your heart? Or perhaps an eye. Would you give it to me?” Derision dripped from his every word.
You faltered. What nerve this feathered beast had. “I’ll give you what you wish so long as it is within reason, and I maintain the right to deny that which I am either unwilling or unable to fulfill. Does that satisfy you?”
The bird turned your words over in its mind, thinking carefully about your wording before answering that yes, that would do just fine. So up, up, up the bird flew, nudging your precious gift from where it had lodged itself so that it came falling back to earth with a solid thud. You reached out, your hand wrapping firmly around it. The bird landed in front of you once more, his request already decided.
“Thank you, Mr. Crow. What is it that you would like in return for helping me?”
“A kiss,” he answered confidently, not a shadow of a doubt that that was what he wanted.
You had expected gold or other such shiny things, something a crow might find enjoyment in, but reality was so far from your expectations that you were again stunned into silence.
“A kiss, your highness, that is all I ask for,” he pleaded, almost desperate. Why a crow was so insistent on a kiss was beyond you, but you would not grant it. It spoke like a person, so how could you be sure it was a crow at all and not some evil of the forest that only took the form of a crow? What if a kiss would bind you to it for all eternity?
“I cannot do that, Mr. Crow,” you declined.
“Cannot or will not? Your terms were that you could refuse my requests if you were unwilling or unable, so which is it?”
“Will not. My father is considering a betrothal with another kingdom. Whether you are a crow or something else, my kisses are reserved for the one whom I will marry.”
The crow looked disappointed, which you didn't even know was possible for a bird. “I would like to be your companion then. To eat and drink the same food, to sleep in the same quarters, to be at your side, always.”
You acquiesced, but the second the crow looked away from you, you fled back to the castle, trying to put as much distance between you and that unnatural bird as you could. He took to the air, following your retreating figure, squawking at you to wait, to come back, that he meant you no harm, you promised. But you did not listen, did not care to hear one more word the mysterious bird had to say. It shouldn't have had any words to say in the first place.
You didn't stop running until the castle doors were shut firmly behind you. You thought the crow wouldn't have dared leave its home in the forest, but it was waiting for you, adamant that you would hold up your end of the deal.
That night at dinner, you heard an insistent tapping at the window. Your father, the king, heard it as well, shooting a curious glance your way as if to ask if you heard it too. The dining room was not on the ground floor; no one should have been able to reach those high windows. You rose slowly, walking to the covered window to pull back the curtain. There, perched on the windowsill, was the crow from the forest. It stared at you directly through the thick pane of glass, its beady eyes narrowed. Yet, it never stopped the incessant tapping on the window with its beak. You yanked the curtains closed, returning to your seat and ignoring the infernal tapping upon the window.
“What is it?” your father asked, looking between you and the window.
“A crow,” you answered simply, drinking from your goblet to hopefully avoid saying more.
“Why is there a crow on the windowsill? It’s awfully late for a crow to be this active.”
You sighed heavily, telling your father of all that had transpired earlier in the day. How you had lost your ball, how the crow had retrieved it, how you had promised it a reward, and then how you hadn't fulfilled his wish. He looked angry, but not at the crow; no, he was angry with you. “That which you promised must be fulfilled. You are a princess. You cannot make such empty promises. Go, allow him in, and keep your word. He will eat and drink as you do, sleep as you do, and be at your side always.”
Though you greatly disliked it, you did as he said, approaching the window and once again parting the curtains to reveal the disgruntled bird. You scowled at it. Why couldn't it just stay in the woods? Or, better yet, have helped you just to be kind, and not ask for such ridiculous compensation.
You unlatched the window, allowing the bird to fly into the dining room where it perched on the chair across from yours, staring at you expectantly. You walked back to your seat after securing the window, not taking your eyes off the bird.
You didn't speak to the bird, ignoring it as best you could, whereas your father made polite conversation with it, as if there was nothing odd about conversing with a crow over dinner. Your father had called over a servant, requesting that both a meal and a drink be brought out for the bird. “What shall we call you?” your father asked politely.
“Your daughter called me Mr. Crow. That will do fine.”
“Don't you have a name of your own?”
He did, but it stuck in his throat when he tried to utter it. “No. I’m just a crow.” For now.
Your father nodded, not quite satisfied, feeling bad that a sentient creature such as the crow had not so much as a name to call its own. “Mr. Crow it is then.”
When dinner ended, he followed you to your bedroom, and almost followed you into the bathroom as well until you shut the door in his face. You dismissed the maids, insisting that you wanted to be alone. Obviously, the crow was here to stay, so you wanted all the alone time you could get. You scrubbed until your skin was angry and raw, wishing you could scrub the crow itself from both your memory and life. No ball, however sentimental, was worth such a headache.
You exited the bathroom, finding the crow stubbornly waiting for you just outside. You groaned, ignoring it, and it followed you all the way back to your room, making itself comfy on one of your pillows. Your distaste for the creature only deepened. “You're not sleeping in my bed,” you stated.
“Our agreement-”
“You requested the same quarters, not the same bed. It was you who said to word things carefully, no?”
He laughed, beyond amused. You were right, he did say both of those things. “Very well. Where would you have me sleep then, your highness?”
“Don't know, don't care. Get out of my bed.” You glared as you watched him settle himself on your writing desk. You crawled into bed, blowing the candle out to sleep, and hopefully, when you woke up, this would all have been a dream.
“Princess?” called the bird. “You've not given me a place to sleep.”
“Sleep on the floor for all I care,” you grumbled, pulling the covers up higher to cover your ears.
“How do you expect to care for your people one day if you cannot even care for a bird?” The bird goaded, amusement morphing into offense at your continual poor treatment of him.
“You're just a bird!” you spat at him.
“I’m your guest,” he corrected indignantly, pride running hot through his veins.
You shot up in bed, snatching the other pillow that he had been on and tossing it to the floor. “There! Is that what you wanted?” He hopped onto the plush cushion, making himself comfy.
“It is,” he said finally, content with his downy accommodations, even if not so pleased that he was still on the floor and not your bed. Just to add to your obvious irritation, he added, "Goodnight, princess.” He took immense satisfaction in your muffled groan from beneath the blankets you had buried yourself under.
The next morning, you woke from the light streaming in through the open window. You stretched, body still lethargic with sleep. You forced yourself into a sitting position, spotting the now-empty pillow on the floor, the only trace that the bird had been there at all. You dressed for the day, making your way to the dining room to join your father for breakfast.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greeted you warmly. “Sleep well?”
You hummed in affirmation, pouring yourself a cup of coffee from the carafe.
“And where is Mr. Crow?” he asked, not missing the absence of the newest resident of the castle.
You shrugged. “Don’t know. He was gone when I woke up. The window was open last night for fresh air.”
“You didn't throw him out of the window, did you?” he asked, eyeing you suspiciously.
“No! Of course not!” You wanted him gone, but you didn't want to actively terrorize the bird.
Your father still looked slightly suspicious of you, but let it go without further argument. He finished his food, excusing himself from the table to go to his office. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you to take your time with breakfast and that your lessons had been postponed in favor of getting to know your new friend, absent though he was.
You sipped your coffee, taking in the early morning light. It was calm, relaxing, until that same wretched tapping as last interrupted the serenity. You sighed, placing your mug back on the table and rising from your seat. As you drew near, you could see that it had something in its beak, but you weren't quite sure what until you opened the window.
They were flowers. The bird had woken up early to pick flowers. He angled his head up, as if offering them to you. “For me?” you asked quizzically.
It nodded its feathered head, hopping closer. You took the modest bouquet, curious why he would do such a thing. You had done nothing to deserve such a gesture. “Thank you. They’re very pretty,” you said with a small smile, touched by the effort this must have taken for the small animal.
“Pretty enough to deserve a kiss?” He asked.
You shook your head. “I already told you I won't kiss you.”
Sylus was beginning to think he should have negotiated that kiss before helping you at all. “I’ll earn that kiss eventually, princess.”
You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him and returning to finish your now lukewarm coffee, the crow in pursuit. He nibbled at the spread, but didn't seem keen to eat much. He was a bird, and the phrase ‘eat like a bird’ had to come from somewhere, you guessed. In truth, he was planning and plotting how to get you to kiss him. He only had so much time before this was permanent, and his human consciousness was overridden and forgotten.
Days came and went in the same fashion. The bird continued sleeping on what you had designated as his pillow on the floor, ate every meal with you, and joined you for walks around the garden. He was your ever-present shadow, just as he had requested. Your annoyance with him decreased with each passing day, beginning to grow fond of his company, especially once you got used to his dry humor. On this particular day, he was perched on your chair in the garden’s gazebo, reading over your shoulder. When you had asked if he was even capable of reading, he had merely scoffed at you.
The two of you were reading in silence, and with him still securely perched on your chair, you knew it wasn't him hopping around beneath the table, so what was that brushing against your shoes?
You glanced beneath the table, jerking away with a scream that startled Sylus into the air. He landed on the ground, eyes zeroing in on the offender who had scared his princess so badly. It was just a small garden snake, something he could easily handle. He looked at you to see that you weren't just surprised by the snake, you were genuinely scared. That settled that, then. The snake had to go.
It was quick, but unable to evade Sylus forever, now squirming in his beak. He flew off with it, returning without it shortly, landing on the table. “Are you alright, your highness?”
“Yes, quite. Thank you, Mr. Crow,” you said gratefully, smiling at your feathered friend.
“I think my heroics ought to be rewarded. How about a kiss?”
You giggled. He was very persistent about receiving a kiss but would not tell you why, no matter how much you asked. You kissed the pads of two of your fingers, then brought them down on the bird’s beak. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, not impressed with your display.
He was even less impressed when Prince Xavier, the crown prince of one of the neighboring kingdoms, Philos, was invited by your father in the hopes of the two of you becoming amiable to a betrothal to unite your two nations. He was seething. It was supposed to be him! He was the one who was in talks with your father, not this boy who hadn't even ascended the throne yet. He would not sit idly by while his would-be bride was wooed by another, condemning him to life as a crow permanently.
Though Xavier was every bit the gentleman he was expected to be, Sylus also knew that Philos was suffering economically. Onychinus, on the other hand, was thriving. How unfortunate that the king had gone missing recently, leaving your father to explore other options for his daughter. It wouldn't last. Sylus would make sure of it.
Already, the young royal was on Sylus’ nerves, sitting in his spot across from you. He made his displeasure known, staring the prince down from his position on your chair, abstaining from the meal altogether in favor of glaring at the nuisance in his seat.
“Is he your pet?” Xavier asked, gesturing to the bird.
You glanced over at Sylus, shaking your head with a smile. “Mr. Crow? No, he's a friend more than a pet.” Sylus puffed his chest out proudly. “He’s usually more talkative than this, though,” you added, somewhat concerned with his new silence.
Xavier seemed confused for a moment before something clicked in his head. “Right, I’ve heard that corvids are wonderful at copying human speech. I hope to hear from Mr. Crow before I have to return to Philos.”
You pinched your lips together, deciding not to tell him that the bird could truly talk and didn't just copy phrases he heard. It almost felt special that he wouldn't talk to Xavier when usually he talked your ear off, his sarcastic remarks never failing to pull a giggle from you.
But his odd behavior didn't stop with his uncharacteristic silence. Cookies and tea were brought out, and before Xavier could take one from his plate, Sylus took it upon himself to snatch one.
“Hey!” you reprimanded, gently pushing him away from the plates, cookie still held in his beak. “What is wrong with you today?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but you didn't miss the pointed glare he directed at Xavier.
“He’s quite alright. I don't expect birds to have table manners. Would you like another?” he asked, nudging his plate towards Sylus, which was promptly ignored.
The intention was to anger the other royal, cause a tantrum, but all he had succeeded in doing was endearing you even more when Xavier had actually been kind to him.
Nothing was working. Not dropping a grasshopper on him in the gardens, not pulling the buttons of his coat, not even pecking at his hand when he tried to hold yours. He remained ever so patient. You, however, were losing yours. Xavier might believe that Mr. Crow was just a normal bird, but you knew better.
That night, when the castle was turning in for the night, you were confronting an audacious bird. “What was all that about today? I need him to like me!”
“Why? You're a princess; you have plenty of other options. You don't need anything from Prince Xander,” he dismissed. Based on his tone, if he were human, you would be convinced he would be inspecting his nails, bored, and acting as if the conversation was nothing of import.
“Xavier,” you corrected. “And I do need something from him. A marriage proposal would unite our kingdoms and-”
“And what?” Sylus interrupted. “Drag you into ruin with him? Philos is a failing kingdom, and he would only take Linkon down with it. He intends to use you to gain access to Linkon’s resources.”
The bird's cruel words cut you deeply. “You're just a bird. How could you possibly know any of that?”
He scoffed derisively. “Because he believes me to be just a bird, and, despite what you say, you know that’s not true. He doesn't watch his words around me the way he does with you.”
You were biting your bottom lip, brows furrowed in that oh-so-cute way he loved. He hated that it was born of insecurity, though. “Did he talk to you?” you asked timidly, trusting that he wouldn't lie to you, but still knowing that his answer would likely hurt.
“He did. When you excused yourself from the gardens. Said that ‘my owner’ is a foolish girl looking for love in the wrong places. That she was just a means to an end, and when he married you, the first thing he would do is get rid of me. Which I don't appreciate, by the way.” He saw your downcast face, hating that there was nothing he could do to make it better. “I’m sorry, your highness.”
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. I believe you, but can you prove it? Something tangible that I can show my father?”
“Consider it done.”
“Come back here, you odious beast!” the young prince’s voice followed him as he took flight from his room, returning to yours, the damning letter clutched in his beak. You were waiting for him by the windowsill, accepting the letter he proudly presented to you. Your eyes scanned its contents, your face expressing your anger more and more.
You were tempted to rip the letter into pieces, but you needed the evidence to show your father, preferably in one piece.
“Will that suffice?” Sylus inquired. “He walked in before I could finish reading it.”
“It’s exactly what I asked for. You couldn't have done any better.”
“I believe my hard work is worthy of a kiss, wouldn't you agree?” You were, in fact, inclined to agree with him this time. Were it not for him, you may have actually ended up betrothed to a man who thought you “foolish and airheaded” and described your dear friend Mr. Crow as “a ghastly thing that ought to be fed to the dogs.”
You nodded at the bird who was waiting for you to refuse him as you always did, but the refusal did not come. You nodded slowly, ever so grateful to the bird that you were willing to accept the one request he so often made. You pushed your hair behind your ear, leaning in to kiss the feathers atop the bird’s head, the bird himself eagerly waiting to be rid of this cursed form.
A knock at the door. It was a maid informing you that your father was requesting you in his office immediately. You smiled at the bird apologetically, his disappointment palpable. His time was dwindling. Already, he could feel the crow’s instincts overriding his conscious thoughts.
“Explain to me why Prince Xavier just stormed out of the castle! What happened?” Your father was livid, more so than he’d ever been with you. “You’re not a child anymore! You have your future to think about. He’s the crown prince of-”
“Of a kingdom on the brink of financial ruin. Here.” You thrust the stolen letter forth, watching your father’s anger at you redirect to the arrogant prince.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you, my dear child. After reading this, good riddance to him. But how did you get this letter?”
“Mr. Crow retrieved it. I left the two of them alone, and Prince Xavier talked to him, told him everything. Mr. Crow wouldn't speak in his presence, so the prince thought he was a normal bird. I asked for proof, and he brought me the letter the prince was penning back home.”
Your father nodded, not thrilled with the methods, but opting to turn a blind eye since it kept his precious daughter out of the hands of a man who only sought to use you. He lamented the disappearance of King Sylus. Regal, successful, and in need of a queen. In terms of a political match, he was perfect. For a love match, your father still thought that you would have made a lovely pair, your personalities balancing each other. Their letters of correspondence detailed likes, dislikes, the state of the kingdoms, policies, everything that was of any importance to a marriage as high-profile as yours would be. But then they’d stopped, and eventually the news reached him that the king was nowhere to be found, having gone off on a hunt and never returning.
There hadn’t been time to build such a relationship with Philos, a fact that greatly disheartened the king. You were of the age where royalty needed to wed, but you were still his daughter, and as any father would, he only wanted the best for you. Instead, he had nearly paired you with a worm.
“When you return to your room, can you inform Mr. Crow that I would like to see him? I want to thank him personally.” You nodded, closing the door softly behind you when you left.
When you returned, Mr. Crow was sifting through your jewelry box, sorting by both types of jewelry and gemstone color. “Well, aren't you nosy?” You teased.
“It’s a terrible mess in here. Have you ever organized it?” he said, his smooth voice echoing from where his entire head was still within the ornate box.
“I have, thank you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
You walked over to your vanity, prying the bird away from your priceless ornaments, a bracelet still dangling from his beak, which you relieved him of with your hand.
“My father wants to see you in his office,” you told him as you began to return your jewelry to its rightful place.
“I wasn't done with that,” Sylus told you, miffed that you were undoing all his hard work.
“You are now. Go, before my father comes looking for you.”
He heaved a great sigh, but set out through the open window. The summer breeze was lovely, but you really did need to start closing them if Xavier was a lesson to anyone.
-𓅨-
It was gone. You dumped out the entire box, sifted through every piece of jewelry you owned, and still couldn't find it. You had lost your mother’s necklace. You were panicking, hyperventilating. Since her death, you had kept that necklace safely tucked away, so how could it have disappeared? Fat tears rolled down your face, a deep ache settling in your chest.
“What’s wrong, princess? Are you hurt?” Mr. Crow’s deep velvety voice called from the windowsill.
“My necklace, my mother’s necklace, I can't find it, and I’ve looked everywhere. Did you see it when you were digging through it?”
“What does it look like?”
You described the necklace in as great detail as you could with your frazzled mind, and, unfortunately, Sylus knew exactly the one you were talking about. It was currently sitting in the tree he had initially taken up residence in, the one you had found him in that fateful day, squirreled away with a trove of other shiny pilfered items.
You would hate him. You would most definitely hate him after this, but he could not, in good conscience, allow you to believe that you were at fault for the loss of something so important to you. He took off from the windowsill, heading straight for the tree, tossing out all of his little treasures in his hunt for the one he should have never taken.
The second he found it, he was high-tailing it back to your room, hoping against hope that you would forgive him. And for a moment, when he landed, he thought you might. You were overjoyed when he placed it in your outstretched hand, until it dawned on you. He knew exactly where to go, and it wasn't anywhere in the palace.
You looked at the bird that you had trusted so much, betrayed. “Did you steal this from me?” you asked, your voice now a hoarse whisper, disbelief coloring your words.
He hung his head in shame. “I did,” he confessed solemnly.
“Why?” You were still crying, and it was his fault. “Why would you take this?”
“Because I can’t help it. I-” he choked on the words. He wanted to tell you that this wasn't him, that he didn't want to hurt you, and that he was losing his real self to the crow instincts, but the terms of the curse wouldn't allow it. “I’m just a crow,” he settled on morosely. He was coming to terms with the fact that soon he wouldn't exist at all, his human soul condemned to rot away, leaving only a crow in its place. It had already begun.
“Get out,” you commanded coldly.
“Princess-” he started, landing on the bed beside you.
In your anger and hurt, you lashed out at him, pushing him away from you. The movement was so sudden and unexpected that he wasn't able to prevent himself from falling to the floor.
You gasped, pushing yourself into a sitting position to lean over the edge of the bed. “Are you ok? I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to—” The tears came stronger now. You had hurt the only real friend you had.
He flapped back up to the bed, staring directly into your eyes. “If you're sorry for hurting me, then kiss it better.”
“What?” you sniffled.
“Kiss it better, and I’ll forgive you.”
Wallowing in your own guilt, you didn't think twice about fulfilling his request, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. When you opened your eyes, Mr. Crow was gone. In his place, face to face with you, was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on. A man who was very, very naked.
You jerked away, a scream bubbling in your throat that the man was quick to muffle with his hand over your mouth, pinning you down beneath him so you couldn't run off. “Relax, Princess,” he said. You’d know that silky voice anywhere. You pushed his hand away, needing to confirm what you already knew was true.
“Mr. Crow?” you asked in disbelief.
“Sylus,” he corrected.
“Sy-” you started, and then your eyes widened in realization. “The missing king.”
“In the flesh, your highness,” he grinned. “Been a bird for so long I thought I’d never be human again.”
“You- how-” you stuttered, unable to properly express yourself.
He chuckled at you, the sound so much more attractive now that it was coming from a man and not a bird. “It was a curse. I took something I shouldn't have.”
“Sounds familiar,” you said pointedly.
“Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, I took a gemstone without realizing it belonged to a witch. As you can imagine, she didn't take kindly to it. And as you've come to know over these few weeks, greed is my vice. Told her finder’s keepers, so she said if I act like a crow, then I might as well be one. And then I was one. She gave me three months before it became permanent, only broken by the kiss of a princess.”
“That’s why you wanted a kiss so bad,” you said, staring at the man in awe. “But why didn't you just say that?”
“Another condition of the curse is that I couldn't talk about it. Couldn't reveal any identifying information, but now I’m free, thanks to you, princess.”
“You are. You're also…” your eyes trailed down his toned figure, quickly going back to his face when you saw more of him than you meant to, your face flushing hot.
“Naked? Doesn't seem like you're complaining, though. I don't mind if you look.” He said, thoroughly amused at your obvious embarrassment.
You turned your head away from him, avoiding eye contact. He exhaled through his nose, leaning in to nose at your exposed throat. “C’mon, don't be shy, princess. Won’t you let me thank you?”
Your tongue wouldn't cooperate to answer him.
He hummed questioningly, nipping at your earlobe. “Some time later, then.” He rolled off you into a sitting position, but you stayed put where you were, your eyes fixed on his every movement. “It's dangerous to look at a man like that, princess, especially lying down,” he stated.
You sat upright immediately, looking at him apprehensively. “I’ll get you some clothes,” you told him.
He nodded, watching you exit the room to summon a maid. You returned shortly, still avoiding eye contact with him. He frowned at this. He knew this was a lot to take in, but it’s not like he was a total stranger. You wouldn't even sit on the bed with him, choosing to stand near the door and wait for the maid to return with the clothes you had requested.
The maid returned with a gentle knock, and you opened it just enough for her to squeeze the clothes in, which you took gratefully, tossing them over to Sylus as quickly as you could, not caring if he caught them or not. You were turned to face the wall, determined to not see any more of him than you already had. He was still a king deserving of respect. That, and you had never seen a bare man before. This was highly improper.
“You’ve already seen everything. Might as well enjoy the show,” he teased.
You squeaked out a no, making him laugh. Even listening to the shuffling of clothes was enough to bring a blush to your cheeks. “You can turn around now,” he informed you when he finished. You did, almost laughing at how ridiculous the outfit looked on him. You weren't sure where the maid had gotten the clothes, but they were entirely too small for the large man, the pants' legs barely brushing the top of his ankles.
You covered your mouth to hide the growing smile, but it wasn't nearly enough to mask your mirth. He didn't hold it against you. He knew he looked silly, and it was nice to see your smile back on your face in place of the fear and uncertainty his return to human form had caused.
“Princess, can you arrange a meeting with your father for me?”
“Of course. You could just follow me to his office. I’m sure he’d put aside whatever work he’s doing. You’ve been missing for so long.”
Sylus looked down at his ill-fitting outfit with a grimace. He’d be seen by everyone like this. He almost wished he were still a bird, but it couldn't be helped. “Lead the way,” he said.
The walk to your father’s office was awkward, at best. You had spent weeks talking to the imposing man who now walked beside you, but you didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; you were just trying to reconcile that the bird who’d been sleeping in your room was actually a full-grown man, a king, and wondering if it was immoral that you found him wildly attractive even though he had been a bird up until twenty minutes ago.
When you arrived at the large wooden door, you knocked, waiting for permission to enter. You gestured for Sylus to wait outside for a moment, slipping into your father’s office to try to explain at least a little bit and not blindside him with the king’s sudden appearance.
You regaled him with everything that had transpired, his jaw dropping open more and more as you spoke. When you finished, he just stared at you, unsure where to even start. “Is this a joke?” he asked.
You shook your head, opening the door and waving Sylus inside. Your father looked between you and the other king, his brain still trying to catch up to your story. He addressed Sylus first. “Your Majesty, I have been told the most fantastical story I’ve ever heard. You were Mr. Crow?”
“I was, Your Majesty. Cursed by a witch. I can tell the full story if your lovely daughter here hasn't done so already.”
“She glossed over that, but it’s not important right now. So you were a bird, and my daughter kissed you, and that reversed the curse?”
You both nodded. Your father was at a loss for words. He’d never had to deal with anything remotely near the situation he now found himself in. But the more he thought about it, the more something bothered him. “You,” he growled, pointing an accusatory finger at Sylus. “You've been sleeping in my daughter’s room all this time.”
His demeanor completely flipped when he turned to you. “Darling, would you give us a moment alone?” he asked with faux cheer.
You shot Sylus a look, silently wishing him luck, before getting out of that room as quickly as you could. The second the door shut behind you, your father unleashed hell on the silver-haired king, not giving a damn about his status. You rocked on your feet outside, waiting for the lecture to end. You doubted anyone had ever spoken to Sylus like that.
Moving forward from that day, Sylus was immediately given his own room while preparations were made for him to return to Onychinus. He was also given explicit instructions to stay out of your room. You wouldn't admit it to him, but you missed Mr. Cr- Sylus.
It came to a head, and you couldn't take it anymore. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were striding down the halls to the guest wing. You found him in the drawing room, seated on one of the overstuffed chairs, a book in hand and head propped on one hand.
He saw you enter in his peripheral vision and set the book down on a side table to give you his full attention. “Princess, to what do I owe the honor of a visit?”
“I just…” You trailed off. It was embarrassing how much you missed his company, and you knew he would be smug if those words ever reached his ears.
“If you don't know what it is that you want, then I can't do anything to help you.” Was your pride worth it if he was smug anyway?
“Just thought that we haven't talked in a while.”
“In other words, you missed me,” he said, those crimson eyes seemingly peering into your very soul. Your new shyness around him was as endearing as it was irritating. He had gone from a potential suitor, to a crow, to your friend (still as a crow), to nearly a total stranger again. Did you still view him as a bird? Because he could change that.
“Come here, princess,” he commanded. There was no bite or authority to his words; you could refuse if you wanted, but you didn't. You walked forward, head held high, a facade of confidence you did not possess, not around this man who sent heat shooting to your core with a mere glance.
You stopped a few feet away, but you were still too far for Sylus’ liking. “Closer,” he urged. Again, you stopped short of where he wanted you. He sighed, leaning forward in the chair to pull you forwards by your hips, your body slotting between his knees, his face level with your abdomen and looking up at you. “When I say I want you close, this is what I mean.” His husky voice washed over you, as tempting as the siren is to the sailor.
You braced your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms. No amount of pushing would separate him from you, though. “This is improper,” you objected, but your voice was thin and brittle, your resolve weak, and he knew it.
“Is it?”
You couldn't tear your eyes away from him even as he rose from his seated position to his full height, not allowing you to put so much as a millimeter between your bodies. He bent low enough to brush his nose against yours. “You still owe me a kiss for chasing off that prince,” he whispered, breath fanning your face.
Your cheeks flamed, but you would be lying to yourself if you pretended you wanted him to stop. You brought your hand up to his face, cupping his jawline and guiding his face forward until his soft lips were on yours. He hummed lowly, reciprocating with movements of his own. He licked the seam of your lips, asking permission, wanting, needing, more.
You parted your lips, and he snaked his tongue into your mouth, caressing your own. You hummed into his mouth, and he tightened his hold on you as if you weren't already pressed flush against his chest. Without parting from your pretty lips, he lifted you into his arms, your legs on either side of his waist. He didn't care if any of the servants were in the halls; he had already reached an agreement with your father. The betrothal hadn't been announced, but it had been decided. You were his, whether you knew it or not. He’d almost lost you to that pompous prince, and he wasn't keen to let you nearly slip through his fingers again.
Upon entering his room, he kicked the door shut behind him, quickly making his way to the bed to lay you down gently. Your lips were kiss-swollen, your eyes wide and waiting.
Normally, Sylus prided himself on his immense patience, but your sweet form beneath him was pushing him to his limits. He surged forward, peppering every inch of exposed skin with kisses, hiking up your gown to bunch around your hips. The warmth of his hands was so much more intense with the fabric out of the way. His lips were glued to your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin until he found the spot that made you mewl. With renewed effort, he focused on that spot, leaving a dark bruise that would surely let everyone know you were his.
He toyed with the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers under it and then letting it snap back against your skin. He dragged his hand even lower, feeling the way you’d soaked a wet patch through the thin fabric. He finally gave your spit-covered neck a break, admiring the bruises already blooming. Pride is part of the reason he got cursed in the first place, and he still hadn't learned his lesson, that same vice swelling in his chest as he watched the way you panted for breath, already more worked up than anyone had probably ever made you, knowing he was the one to bring you to this point.
Fuck, you were just so goddamn pretty, even more so when you were under him like this. He prodded at your leaking hole through your cute little panties, cooing at you with faux sympathy. “You’re so wet, sweetie. Why don’t you let me clean you up, hm?”
With slow, deliberate movements, he slid your panties off in time with the maneuvering of his body, lower and lower until he was face to face with your bare pussy.
“Sylus, what are you- ahh!” you moaned loudly, question interrupted when he licked a broad stripe up your dripping cunt, groaning at the taste. So good, you tasted so fucking good. He dived back in, lapping and slurping as much of you as he could, his hums of approval shooting vibrations through your overly sensitive cunt. You clenched your thighs around his head, the sensation of his tongue thrusting into you pulling moans and gasps from your lips.
All Sylus could think about was how to coax more of your sweet sounds out, alternating between pushing his tongue inside and suckling on the sensitive bud at the apex. You wound your hand through his hair, pulling for some sort of stability. The sting of having his hair pulled only spurred him on. With renewed vigor, he pushed a finger into your gummy walls, then a second, curling them as he moved them in and out. It was so much that you were practically screaming his name. You’d never even been kissed before today, much less experienced such ecstasy. Your back was arching against the sheets, your hips canting upward, seeking more of his tongue, his fingers, everything he was willing to give you.
Sylus’ eyes peering up at you with all the conviction of a devotee praying at an altar was the final push you needed for your pleasure to reach a crescendo. Your legs clamped around Sylus’ head as your body writhed under his continued onslaught, his deft tongue lapping up everything your body would give him until you were pulling his hair for even a modicum of relief from the overstimulation.
He reluctantly pulled away, his breath coming in huffs and his face smeared with the evidence of your arousal. His attention was utterly captivated by the sight of your blissed-out expression, your eyes watery with unshed tears, and he almost came untouched at the mere fact that he was the one responsible for your current state, and he took immense pride in that.
He reached towards you to cup your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Would you like to continue, princess, or shall we stop here?” he asked.
You could only stare dumbly, still trying to pull your head back down to earth from the high he had brought you to. You wanted it. You wanted him, and you don't think you'd ever have enough of him after this. As his words processed, you nodded, the only response your cottony mind could manage.
“Words, your highness. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you whatever it is you desire. You need only ask for it.”
Warmth flooded your face, and the sincerity of his voice only endeared you further to the king. You hesitated, somewhat shy at verbalizing such a coarse desire. Swallowing thickly, you answered him properly this time. “You. I want you.”
Sylus groaned at your admission, his cock throbbing in its confines. “You already have me,” he whispered reverently, almost in disbelief that his affections were returned. A betrothal would make you his legally, but he wanted everything: your mind, body, and heart surrendered to him the same way he had already surrendered his to you.
He wasted no time unfastening his pants and freeing his aching length, the tip raw and leaking. You eyed it warily as he leaned over you and braced his cock at your entrance. With a final glance at you to be certain that you were sure, he began to push in with as much tenderness as he could muster, his self-control fraying with every quiver of your cunt and every whine that escaped your lips.
Your breath hitched at the intrusion, the blunt head of his cock pushing further and further into you until his hips were pressed flush against yours. The new sensation of being so thoroughly filled was enough to have your head spinning before he’d even started moving.
“Is this alright?” Sylus asked, his voice strained with the effort of keeping still.
A breathy “uh-huh” was the best you could muster. Sylus would have chuckled at how you were already fucked out, but truthfully, he wasn't far behind you. His hands drifted from their place on your hips to your thighs to pull your legs snugly around his waist. With his body weight keeping you securely pinned beneath him, he pulled out until only the head of his cock remained and thrusted back in languidly, savoring the way your body accepted his, your tight walls clenching around him tightly.
It took every ounce of his self-control to not let go of all his inhibitions and lavish you with all the carnal attention you could handle, until the only thing you could do was moan his name. Having you like this was a privilege he had begun to think would never be his, but here you were, staring up at him as he worked your body, his thick cock splitting you open and his tongue laving over the soft skin of your throat, the proximity allowing him to hear every gasp and whimper and moan in perfect clarity.
In his impatience, Sylus had neglected to properly undress, a fact he thoroughly lamented now that your fingernails were raking down his clothed back. How he would love for his body to bear the undeniable proof of how good he made you feel. Next time, he supposed. For now, though, he was content to watch you fall apart more and more with every deep thrust into your weeping pussy.
You were so close, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him. His own peak was rapidly approaching; you just felt too good around him, but he was determined to make you cum before he reached his own end. With a deft thumb, he began to rub sensual circles over your sensitive nub, the added sensation making you squeal and tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper.
You came undone once again with a shrill cry of his name as the ecstasy coursed through your veins. Sylus’ hips continued to snap into yours as he chased his own high, his pace beginning to falter as the need to release built inside him. Grunts rumbled in his chest and spilled from his lips with every thrust into your pulsing heat. He was so close, and the thought of filling you up, marking you as his, spurred him on, but this tryst was already more of a risk than either of you should have taken. He was already tempting fate enough as is.
He reluctantly pulled out of you, using his hand to stroke himself to completion, his cum painting your folds a creamy white as he groaned out your name. Not “your highness,” not “princess,” but your name. A title so much more intimate than that of your status. Something only those closest to you had the privilege of using. He panted above you, his pale skin flushed and pupils blown out, solely focused on you. If he got this worked up when you were practically still fully clothed, he wondered if he’d last at all the first time he sees you completely bare. For now, though, he pressed chaste kisses across your jawline, compliments spilling freely between each one. “Beautiful” kiss “stunning” kiss “perfect” kiss “mine.” He finally pressed his lips to yours softly after his claim, both of you completely melting into the single kiss that somehow felt almost more intimate than even your prior activities.
You were completely worn out, and exhaustion was quickly taking over. Sylus, always astutely in tune with your body’s needs, smiled fondly at your sleepy form. He rose from the bed, telling you he’d be right back before entering the ensuite bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He made sure you were clean and comfortable in one of his extra shirts, the material dwarfing you in a way that sent protective pangs through Sylus’ heart.
He crawled into bed next to you, pulling you flush against his now-bare chest. He pressed a chaste kiss into your hairline, whispering a quiet goodnight.
While the two of you were wrapped up in each other and sleeping soundly, a red-faced, flustered maid hurried away as quietly as she could to tell the others the juiciest piece of gossip since a butler had been found to be having relations with not just a maid but also a stableboy.
There had already been talk about the two of you. It had started the second you’d requested a set of men’s clothes and refused to open the door any more than necessary, concealing the rest of your room from prying eyes (you were no fool, and the servants weren’t quite as discreet as they believed themselves to be). Shortly after that peculiar request, King Sylus, who had been missing for the better part of two months, reappeared in the palace from seemingly nowhere and with little explanation. And it did not escape the notice of those who worked closely with you that Mr. Crow was suddenly gone, but surely the two events were unrelated; it would be preposterous to link the two, even if the bird and the king shared certain similarities.
As your interactions with the silver-haired man increased, so too did the servants’ speculation of the exact nature of your relationship. After all, their princess was as pretty as a peach, and the foreign king was certainly easy on the eyes. They all knew it was bound to happen; it was just a matter of when. There was even a betting pool on when the inevitable finally happened, and this pleasantly smug little maid who was fortunate enough to be wandering down the halls at just the right time would be the one to announce the winner.
She chuckled to herself. Margaret would be furious that she lost by only three days. She rushed into the servants' hall, where many of her fellows were gathered around eating, conversing, and generally merry-making. Her giddy demeanor and swift entry drew the attention of those closest to the door. “We have a winner!” she cheered. This, naturally, drew everyone’s attention to her, all of them asking their questions at once. How did she know? Was she sure it was them? Who bet it would only take two weeks?
She explained quickly. The head housekeeper had sent her to do her final check on the visiting king to ensure he was comfortable and did not require anything before the servants retired for the night. Instead, she was met with a chorus of moans and grunts and the sound of skin on skin that only got louder the more she neared the door of his room. And certainly it was you in there with him. There was no one else in the palace that “princess” or “your highness” could refer to.
Squeals and giggles alike filled the room from the younger servants, while those who had lost the betting pool groaned while reluctantly handing over their hard-earned funds to the victor. From that point on, you began to notice that many of the palace staff would sport flushed cheeks and the occasional suppressed grin when they saw you. And not only that, but every time you were with Sylus, it was as if whispers followed you, but when you’d turn to the source, all you would see was an empty doorway with the edge of a skirt swishing just out of view.
Sylus had only chuckled, pulling you into his lap and whispering conspiratorially in your ear. “I think they know, kitten.” You had whined into his shoulder to hide your face, embarrassment washing over you. This, of course, had only made him laugh harder, mirth coloring his tone when he spoke again. “If you can’t handle even this little bit of gossip, how are you going to handle it when we’re married and talk of heirs begins, hm? Then they’ll really know.”
You had smacked him on the chest, huffing about how improper this line of conversation was. “Certainly no more improper than what we’ve already done,” he teased.
That, too, provided even more fodder for the servants’ late-night talks, but nothing had them going near as much as your wedding night.
“Did you see how pretty her dress was?” gushed one.
“Yes! And the way he looked at her!” replied another.
“I want a man to look at me like that,” grumbled one of the cooks.
“Yeah, yeah, who cares, doesn’t anyone appreciate the flower arrangements? Grew those myself, you know,” boasted a gardener, who was now being glared at by the cook.
One of the guards nudged the comrade sitting next to him. “Think those two are having fun right now?” he asked, grinning ear to ear, his implications obvious. He had no idea how right he was.
-𓅨-
“Sy- oh!” you cried out, his cock pistoning in and out of your sopping pussy at a furious pace. The second the two of you were behind closed doors, and finally away from the celebration, he had wasted no time in stripping you of your ornate gown, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger for you that he would never fully satisfy. From the moment he had seen you, his gorgeous bride, walking down the aisle, his composure had formed the first hairline cracks, which only deepened and spread with every small interaction: exchanging the rings that would bind you to each other forever, the kiss that sealed the union, his hand on your lower back as he guided you through the throngs of people congratulating you on your marriage, all of it was lighting a fire in him he couldn’t put out. Not in public. The cherry atop it all was Prince Xavier’s irritated face in the crowd.
Sylus took great satisfaction that it was he who had you face down in the pillows, bringing you to the gates of heaven over and over, and that that audacious little prince would never touch you thanks to the efforts of yours truly.
The sight of your bare back and your hands fisting the sheets was for his eyes only. The way your ass jiggled with every thrust and the way you writhed beneath him, completely pinned with his legs on either side of yours and his weight pressing into you, for only him to experience. And the way you moaned and cried out his name was for his ears only.
Your name spilled freely from his lips, your proper title forgotten and permanently replaced with “my wife” in Sylus’ frenzied mind. He leaned his body over yours, close enough for his heaving breaths to brush against your face. He trailed a hand across your delicate skin until his palm was pressed flush against your abdomen. “Do you -ngh!- feel me, my love? Feel how deep your husband’s cock is?”
You nodded feverishly. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Sylus, it’s- ah!- so much!”
“Oh my poor wife,” he cooed, faux condescension dripping from his words. “Can’t take it? Is it too much for you? Should I stop?” Before you could even register his words, he had fully stilled above you.
“No! Don’t stop, please!” you begged, the sudden loss of pleasure somehow more overwhelming than the reception of it.
Sylus groaned, and his cock twitched inside of your tight heat. “What’s wrong, sweetie? I thought it was too much?”
“Not enough. Need more. Please, Sylus, husband, I need you.”
Sylus growled, heat rushing straight to where you were joined. He could bear it no longer. He had waited far too long as it is. His hips rutted into you with a ferocity that spoke of his insatiable greed. His panting breath and grunts mingled with your own moans and cries of pleasure.
Just a bit more, and he’d again feel the nirvana of your cunt pulsing around him. With the same hand that had been pressing into you, he snaked his fingers lower, deft digits rubbing tight circles on your clit. You howled at the added stimulation, hurtling towards the edge that Sylus was so eager to bring you to. “Cum for me, my wife,” he rasped. “Let go.”
With a shrill cry of his name, you were finally pushed to the pinnacle, Sylus following shortly after, his own orgasm triggered by yours. This time, he gave no thought to pulling out of you. His hot cum filled you as his orgasm washed over him. His grunts were low and rough in your ears, so delightfully sinful, and his free arm locked around your waist, holding your body to his tightly as he continued to release into you. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat and shoulders, whatever skin he could comfortably reach, as you both came down from your highs.
He pulled out of your spent body with a hiss, eliciting a final whimper from you before he collapsed beside you on the bed. You rolled onto your side to glance over at him just to find him already staring at you, those ruby eyes filled with such adoration. He mirrored your actions, opting to lie on his side to face you directly. He didn’t think he could ever tire of the sight. You, looking so lovely, so completely content. His lovely wife. His Mrs. Crow. His happily ever after.
