#asoiaf fluff

[thesongoficeandfir3]

akotsk x wife reader who acts like Posy Li (Bridgerton)

Characters: Duncan the tall, Baelor Targaryen, Lyonel baratheon, and Maekar Targaryen

For those who haven’t seen the show; Posy Li is described as warm, kind-hearted, bubbly, talkative, optimistic emotionally open and affectionate character, she is naïve but sincere 🩵

Duncan

Dunk is certain you are going to get yourself hurt one day at the flea bottom marketplace.

You wave at everyone in there, compliment a baker far too enthusiastically, stop to admire ribbons you absolutely do not need, and strike up a cheerful conversation with a stranger as if they’re an old friend, the possibility of them being dangerous never crossing your mind. Dunk loves the way you are, but it frightens him too. You are so bright, so openly kind, traits he believes are far too advanced for this cruel backwards world. He fears that with your sweet, trusting nature, someone will see it as weakness and try to take advantage of you.

Still, he does not wish to change you. He would never dull your spark. Instead, he chooses to protect it, to stand between you and anything sharp enough to wound you.

He trails behind you, mortified but intensely focused, his hand hovering near your waist, ready to pull you back against his broad chest if even the slightest danger arises. You skip along, blissfully unaware of how tense the man behind you is. Duncan knows Maekar would have his head before the morrow if he knew where his daughter and the knight sworn to protect her was. At the moment, Dunk hardly cares he would rather face the wrath of the dragon than see the she-dragon sad if he said no.

You don’t notice the danger at all. You’re still smiling, chatting about how you should get something for everyone, even Aerion.

“Princess, we should be getting back—”

“Just five more minutes,” you say brightly. “I want to look.”

“At what?” he asks, exhausted.

“Everything.”

You suddenly dart toward a stall of hand-crafted trinkets, picking up a doll with a frown. “Don’t you think this looks Aerion?” You giggle. “I should get it for him, he’d hate it, which makes it better.”

Dunk huffs despite himself. “I don’t think provoking your brother is wise.”

The owner of the stall leans a little too close, smiling in a way Dunk doesn’t like.

“You’ve got fine taste, my lady,” the man says smoothly. “Perhaps I could show you more we have in the back.”

Before you can respond, Dunk steps in, large and immovable, placing himself fully between you and the stranger.

“That won’t be necessary,” Dunk says sternly.

The man falters under his size alone. “I meant no harm.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Dunk mocks.

You peek around Dunk’s arm. “Oh! He was just being friendly.”

Dunk glances down at you, softening instantly. “Aye but we’re finished here.”

He guides you away with a firm hand at your lower back. You don’t protest, just loop your fingers through his.

“That shop owner was not being friendly was he?” you finally observe after a few moments after.

Dunk looks down at you, it always pained him when you were aware of how cruel some people could be. “Aye” he replied

“Well I am very lucky to have had you here with me.” You beam at him. You then go off to talk about whether horses have favorite apples, immediately discarding the situation like you simply just threw out trash.

Dunk thought you were wrong, he was the lucky one here, he has no problem protecting you for he made it his personal oath if the world insists on being cruel, he decided then he will simply have to be cruel back so you never have to be.

Baelor

The exhaustion shows in the slump of his shoulders.

In the way he has been staring at the same line of parchment for far too long.

In how he only half hears what Maekar is saying yet nods as though he understands every word.

The large doors open without a knock nor announcement.

Both princes glance up, but the first thing anyone sees is you peeking your head inside as though testing the weather before committing to it.

Baelor’s expression softens immediately, a small smile curves at his mouth, it is also a silent permission for you to come in.

You enter triumphantly, arms full of folded fabrics and trailing ribbons. They threaten to spill before you reach the table and deposit them in a dramatic heap.

Bright colors cascade across the dark wood, swallowing ledgers and maps whole.

Maekar exhales slowly through his nose but says nothing.

You smooth your hands over your skirts as if you have just completed grueling labor.

“Right,” you begin, clasping your hands together with great importance, “do you think Lord Celtigar would prefer warm or earthy tones for his chambers?”

You say it with the gravity of war strategy.

“I want the room to feel calm and welcoming,” you continue, . “I do like the earthy tones, but blues and greens might feel… seasick or mayhaps i can do bright colours….but now that may seem childish.” You speak as though you blurt out whatever new thought forms in you brain without thinking it through.

Maekar finally looks up.

“You interrupted a discussion of royal finances,” he says flatly, “for curtains.”

You glance at him, entirely unshaken. “This is an alliance matter. Colours affect morale, if he sleeps poorly, he will think poorly.”

Baelor does not hide his proud smile.

He leans back slightly, studying the fabrics as though you have presented battle plans.

“Anything will likely please him,” he says gently. “He was raised among stone and steel. Colour might surprise him in a good way.”

He considers for a moment longer.

“Earthy tones, perhaps. He often speaks fondly of hunting as a boy.”

Your entire face lights at once, ideas igniting behind your eyes.

“Yes—yes, that is perfect and if that’s the case we shall have a hunt in his honor!”

You spin toward the door, already halfway gone before.

“Beloved.”

You turn instantly. “Yes?”

Baelor gestures lightly toward the table.

You gasp softly, having entirely forgotten the heap you left behind. You hurry back, gathering the fabrics in a flurry.

“You should eat,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at him. “You forget when you worry”

Maekar arches a brow.

Baelor only inclines his head solemnly. “I will my love, join me in the garden later and we can also discuss your ideas”

You smile feeling satisfied and silence returns.

Maekar watches his brother for a moment.

Baelor sits back down, but something in him has steadied. His shoulders do not sag quite so heavily now. His hand moves with clearer purpose as he resumes his work.

There is still a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

Maekar exhales once.

“Curtains,” he mutters.

Baelor’s eyes remain on the parchment.

“Curtains,” he says softly.

And continues writing.

Lyonel

Lyonel is halfway through shouting at one of his men to bring more barrels of wine for the evening feast when you appear.

“This is not enough, you half-wit,” he snaps, not yet looking at you. “Do you plan to have my guests licking the bottoms of empty casks? Move.”

The servants scatter.

He notices you then, though he doesn’t turn right away. Instead, one arm opens in silent invitation. You step into it without hesitation. His hand finds your hip, firm and possessive, drawing you against his side while he finishes glaring down the trembling steward.

“And if I see watered wine,” Lyonel adds coldly, “you’ll be drowned in it.”

Only when the man flees does Lyonel finally turn to you. The sharpness in his face softens instantly.

“What is it?” he asks, voice dropping into something far warmer. “Do you need new silks? More jewelry? More flowers for your garden?” His hands settle fully at your hips now, thumbs brushing over the fabric. He is already prepared to grant whatever you wish.

You place both palms against his chest and shake your head. “No. I want to play a game.”

He narrows his eyes at you purr leaving his lips. “Oh?”

“What scent am I wearing?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I’ve been experimenting and I think this is my favorite one.”

A slow grin pulls at his mouth. While other lords might dismiss such things from their lady wives, Lyonel never dismissed anything that mattered to you, no matter how “silly” or womanly it was.

He leans down, nosing into your hair like a great hunting hound. “Rosemary.”

You beam. “No.”

He shifts to your neck, fingers hooking gently into the neckline of your gown to bare your shoulder. His lips hover there before placing a slow kiss. “Honey.”

“No.”

He gasps in mock outrage. “Deception.”

You laugh. “False, you are simply bad at this.”

“I am excellent at this,” he protests, dragging you flush against him until your chest presses to his. “You are just a deceiving little minx.” His fingers sneak to your sides, tickling until you squirm.

“Do you give up, my lord?” you grin up at him.

“No,” he declares at once. “If I can not guess by smell I am sure I can by tasting you.” He lifts you suddenly, hands firm under your thighs, hauling you against him like you weigh nothing. You squeal, gripping his shoulders as your feet leave the ground.

“You have a party soon” you laugh but make no attempts to escape

He only shrugs they can do without their host for a few hours.

Maekar

Maekar hasn’t even turned the corner but he already knows you’re infront of his study when he hears a bright, unrestrained, entirely too enthusiastic voice for the early hour down the corridor.

You are standing far too close to one of his guards, peering up at the man’s helm with open fascination.

“Does it pinch your ears?” you ask, head tilted like a curious pup. “Because it looks like it would, my mama always said I have a rather large head… do you think it would pinch mine because of that?”

The guard looks as though he would prefer a battlefield.

Maekar steps into view.

“You are distracting my men.”

The guard immediately straightens, spine snapping rigid. He looks uncertain whether being caught indulging you by his prince is worse than answering your questions.

You turn, bright and unbothered. “I was merely checking on him.”

“He does not require checking,” Maekar replies flatly.

You glance back at the guard, then at Maekar. “You could at least ask if it pinches.”

“It does not pinch,” Maekar says, already moving past you toward his study. “And if it did, he would endure it.”

He pushes open the door

And stops

The heavy dark curtains have been drawn back, tied with absurdly cheerful yellow ribbons. Sunlight spills across the stone floors, chasing away the shadows he prefers. On the windowsill sits a small cluster of wildflowers in a simple vase,bright blues and yellows and whites standing in defiance of the room’s gray austerity.

A strip of soft blue fabric has been draped carefully over the back of his chair, clearly meant as a blanket.

His jaw tightens.

“What is this.”

You step in behind him. “I thought it was very gray in here,” you say cheerful . “Whenever you come inside, you always look… tense, I thought perhaps I might make it feel more homey.”

“This is not a sitting room,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “It is a study, the most important matters of the realm are handled here.”

He walks farther inside, gaze sweeping over the flowers,the fabric, the faint sweetness in the air that certainly was not there before.

“You cannot simply alter my privacy because you feel inclined to.”

You shrink at that.

Your fingers twist together and your shoulders fold inward. “I am sorry… I- I did not move anything important,” you say softly. “just moved books to dust lightly I swear it.”

It is subtle but he sees the change.

The way your voice lowers, the way you look at him as though you have disappointed him.

He had been prepared to lecture you about boundaries, order, and propriety but the sadness in your face unsettles him more than the flowers.

He steps to the window and lifts one of the blooms. The stem is slightly bent making it slightly uneven.

“You picked these yourself,” he says.

“Yes.”

“They will wilt.”

“I know.” Your voice is quiet now. “But they are pretty while they live.”

He studies the flower a moment longer, then sets it back down with measured care.

“Then you will see to replacing them,” he says at last. “If they are to remain.”

Your head lifts instantly, warmth returning to your expression like sunrise.

“Of course.”

He has to look away as if your smile was the very sun itself.

“I have work to attend to,” he adds. “I will see you at supper.”

You dip your head, smile lingering, and slip from the room closing the door gently behind you.

Maekar stands still for several long moments.

He glances toward the closed oak door, listening until your footsteps have fully faded down the corridor.

He takes the vase from the sill and carries it to his desk, setting it carefully within his line of sight, adjusting it so it no longer appears lopsided.

Then he sits back down and returns to his work as though nothing at all has changed.

[kitkatkitzune]

POSTURE PAIN

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!reader

Summary: Jace is suffering from back pain, you offer to help.

Warnings: 18+, Suggestive, Tbh this is kinda smut, Jace is a little subby, Kind of mentions of time period sexism??, Potential Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (who is surprised? the answer is no one)

Notes: Hello! I’m so sorry I didn’t post this sooner like I wanted to BUT I am working on many different fics right now for many different ASOIAF characters!! I’ve even begun to draft for my October event so stay tuned!!

This is my first time writing something so suggestive/smutty so please be kind to me!

&& the header is for comedic purpose because… look at him lol

Word Count: 1.3k

MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST

———————

You were curled up on the chaise by the fire with a book in your hands. This was your nightly routine. After shedding your heavy gowns, hair pins, and other jewels you would sit and read while in your thin night shift. You would typically do this until Jacaerys joined you in your shared chambers even though he had told you many times that you need not stay up for him.

You had just finished your chapter when he entered the chambers looking exhausted.

“Long day?” you ask as you close your book, standing up.

He nods, rubbing his neck, “I called for the maids to bring water for a bath.”

You make your way towards him before chuckling, “You need it. You smell like Vermax...”

Smiling, he tilts his head at you, “Yes, I was patrolling today.”

There was a knock on the door and maids filtered into the room with buckets of hot water, quickly making their way to the connected bathing room. They were gone just as quickly as they arrived. Jace never liked or wanted the maids washing him. He was perfectly capable of cleaning himself. Not to mention the fact that you had offered to help him many times after you had been wed, just as he would help you.

You sat beside the tub, taking turns telling each other about your day. You told him of your readings and research in the library, he told you of his conversation with Daemon. Jace did not remain in the bath for long, he never did unless you were bathing together, he didn’t find it relaxing and when the water cooled even the slightest bit he began to complain.

As he got dressed for sleep, you made yourself comfortable on your side of the bed. Jace groaned as he walked across the room, one hand clutching his lower back.

“You sound like an old man,” you say teasingly.

He rolls his eyes, groaning more as he sits on the bed with his back to you, “I feel like one. My back aches and my neck is so stiff…”

You sit up, scooting across the bed until you can rest your hands on his shoulders and your knees are touching his lower back. You tilt your head to look at him, a small frown on your face, “Well my love…”

“Well what?” he turns his head towards you.

“I believe it is from your posture.”

“My…posture?”

“Yes, you stand hunched over and sometimes you walk with your head jutted out.”

He looks offended, “I do no such thing.”

“My love,” you run a hand down his back til you reach the center, “you’re even slouching right now,” you push against his back, forcing him up straight causing his back to curve.

Then you return your hands to his shoulders and pull back slightly, putting him in a more proper sitting position. He looks at you again, only this time he appears shocked, horrified, and also relieved.

“How’d…”

“One of the very first things us ladies learn with our septas is how to stand proper. I don’t believe they teach such things to princes and lords. No, the first thing they teach you is how to swing a blade. Standing straight for me is subconscious but for you… it’s something you need to focus on.”

“You mean to tell me that I have been walking around hunched over my entire life and no one has said a thing?” he asks, exasperated.

“Not many people would dare question a prince… although I will say that Luke seems to stand properly, as well as Joff but he’s still little so that could change! Daemon is… well, sometimes I believe he stands with his shoulders too far back and his chest puffed out.”

Jace sighs, rubbing his temples, “My little brothers stand better than I do? What kind of example am I leading…”

You hum and scoot away from him, back to your side of the bed, “It can also come from stress, you carry a great weight on your shoulders Jace. No jest intended. Your back will likely ache for a while even as you adjust to the new posture… but I know something that will help for now, lay down on the bed.”

He gives you a startled look, his face flushing, “My love I don’t think that would help…”

You gasp, “You’re perverted! No! I meant… lay on your stomach, not on your back!”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

He complies, and moves to the center of the bed, resting his head in the crook of his arm. You click your tongue, “Put your arms at your sides.”

Jace does and only then do you move. Slowly, you move to straddle his lower back just above his tailbone. You start up by his shoulders, your hands working at tight muscles near the neck.

He immediately lets out a groan and hides his head in the pillows. You smile to yourself, biting your lip to suppress a giggle.

You hum a song while massaging his back, you can feel the tension leaving his body as you work your magic.

It seems as though he is going to fall asleep, completely relaxed as your hands are getting lower on his back. But that would be too easy. His hips began to rock into the bed, subtly at first and then more obvious, before he lets out a quiet moan.

“Love,” he croaks out, “I’m… sorry,” he hides his face entirely, “wait, please…”

You shush him before whispering, “It is natural Jace,” your hands fall to the bed on either side of the man beneath you as you lean forward til you're laying entirely on top of him, breasts pressed against his back.

“Do you wish for me to continue?” your lips brush his ear and he shivers letting out a noise that sounds like a whimper.

“Hm?” you hum, playfully biting his ear making him shudder, “I can not hear you with your face hidden in the pillows.”

Jace turns his head to look back at you. His eyes are dazed and his cheeks red, “Please…”

You smile, pecking his cheek before leaning back and continuing your work. You can’t help but feel pride every time he moans or groans or whimpers when his hips jerk into the bed. You were just about to stop and offer a proper solution to his current predicament when you felt him tense up harder than before.

“Fuck,” he mumbles your name, “‘m sorry…”

You slip off of his back and onto the cool furs on your side of the bed. He attempts to shimmy down the bed but you shake your head and pull him into your arms. Unable to hide his face between your legs, he hides in your breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, “You’ve made a mess of your trousers,” you tease.

He nips at your skin through your shift and you tug at his hair in response. Jace looks up at you and pouts.

“How does your back feel?” you ask, him being in pain being the main thing on your mind.

“Better, much better.”

“Good, we’ll work more on your posture tomorrow okay? I can begin to remind you if you’d like?”

“Please do,” he mutters, still embarrassed by the situation.

You laugh and pull him back to your chest. Just as you’re about to drift off Jace comes to a sudden, horrifying realization. His voice is muffled due to his face being buried in your breasts, “When I asked you to allow me to court you, to be my wife… I was walking like that? Standing like that?”

You giggle, “Yes Jace, I’m afraid you were.”

“And you still agreed?!”

“You have a pretty face.”

Since he caught a stray during this I must add…

[faelinda]

Kinship

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms: Prince Daeron Targaryen x sister!reader

Rating: Teen

WC: 3.0k

I Live For Your Touch

Tags: pregnancy, childbirth, soft dad Daeron, grandpa Maekar, family feels, just a bunch of family fluff

A/n: I have just been in family feels lately. I want everyone to be happy. Give Maekar is .02 seconds of happiness. Let me know if you wish to be added to any taglist, and my asks are always open for fun ideas/fangirling in general.

Summary: After you give birth to your first daughter at Summerhall, your family begins to heal and strengthen.

Your daughter decided to enter the world just as the warmth of spring was creeping in. However, one would hardly know in the Stormlands, as the gray clouds swirled above in the sky. Your father ensured you had Maester Orwyn by your side, the same who had helped your mother birth her seven children. He had a skilled hand and was known for leaving the mothers healthy. The midwives attended to you while he focused on your progression during your labour. It was painful, but bearable, and you gave birth to a healthy girl with eyes as blue as her father’s. A smile broke across your face as you reached her, drawing her swaddled frame into your arms.

Daeron waited outside the birthing room with Maekar and your brothers, Aegon and Aemon. Aemon had been allowed to take leave from the Citadel to be at the family home in Summerhall as you prepared for birth. Aerion was still exiled in Lys. Rhae balanced on the shoulders of Ser Duncan while Daella sat by Daeron’s side, holding his hand in her petite ones. Maester Orwyn emerged from the room with a smile on his face.

“The princess has a healthy daughter. Both mother and child are doing well. You may visit with them,” he announced.

You cherished the last few silent moments as you cradled your daughter, tracing your finger down the slope of her nose. Her father’s nose, and you did not think it possible to love a human quite so much. Daeron entered the room first.

“Come and meet your daughter, my love,” you beamed at him.

His hair was neat, brushed, and shining, Daella’s work no doubt. He was doing better with his drinking, exchanging missives daily with Aemon, who tried to find answers as to what plagued his eldest brother. Aemon was a kind and very bright boy who seemed to thrive at the Citadel.

“She is so small,” Daeron whispered as he took her carefully into his arms. His hands no longer shook as they once did.

“She did not feel small coming out of me,” you laughed.

“I would suppose not,” Daeron chuckled. “What shall we name her?”

“I was thinking of Naerys, after our great-grandmother, if you approve.”

“My darling, you did all the hard work bringing her into this world. Of course, I approve of the name. ‘Tis a lovely one for a lovely little girl,” Daeron smiled.

“She has your nose,” you yawned, the exhaustion creeping in. 

“So she does. Shall I delay the others?” Daeron asked.

“No, no, send them in. 'Tis a joyous moment, let us all enjoy it,” you insisted, shaking it off.

The rest of your immediate family entered, and Daeron placed Naerys in Maekar’s arms.

“She is lovely, isn’t she?” Maekar cooed softly.

“How are you feeling, sister?” Aemon asked, taking your hand as Egg moved to your other side. You leaned forward to kiss both their cheeks. You can hardly believe how much Aemon had grown. He was almost three and ten now, soon to be a man grown. You missed his head full of golden curls as the Citadel kept his hair closely cropped to his head.

“Oh, it is good to have you here with me. I am tired, but that is expected.”

“What did you name her?” Rhae asked, peering down at the babe from her perch on Dunk’s shoulders.

“Naerys,” you announced.

“Ah, a very fine name indeed,” Maekar hummed, handing the babe to Daella to hold.

“She is as bald as I am,” Egg chuckled.

You closed your eyes, still holding your little brothers’ hands as your family fussed over the babe.

“Come now, let us leave your sister to rest,” Maekar announced. He kissed your forehead before departing. “Well done, my dear girl.”

Daeron remained at your side, holding Naerys tenderly as you drifted off to sleep. You were unsure of how long you slept. Daeron’s soft voice was the first thing you heard as you woke up.

“Oh my sweet girl. Only a few minutes old and already you have stolen my heart,” he whispered to the small babe in his embrace. “Becoming a father is indescribable and terrifies me, but I promise always to do my very best when it comes to you.”

You remained still, breathing softly, and kept your eyes closed.

“I hope you are not plagued by my same affliction, but if you are, I promise to always be there for you. Aemon is helping me understand, and I will do the same for you, sweet girl. You will never feel alone in his world,” he cooed, rocking her tenderly in his arms.

Happy tears welled in your eyes as his words warmed your heart. You scooted up, curling into Daeron’s side as your head rested on his shoulder. The stale stench of wine no longer clung to his skin.

“You will be an amazing father, my love,” you whispered, nuzzling his clean shaven cheek.

“Heard all that, did you?” he smiled, his cheeks flushing red.

“Every word,” you murmured.

Naerys’s birth breathed new life into Summerhall as all seemed delighted by her birth, especially your father, who took to smiling from time to time when in her presence. Even the gray skies broke into vibrant hues of blue and purple, letting the sun stream through. Too much death and disappointment had plagued the family, so all seemed to relish in the joy of new life. One evening, you sat by the fire with Naerys as Rhae entertained her with a puppet show while Daeron read a missive from Aemon.

“Father, have you heard of dragon dreamers?” Daeron asked.

“What?” Maekar asked, turning to face him.

“Surely you’ve heard of Daenys the Dreamer,” Daeron prompted.

“The one who saved our line from the Doom. I am somewhat familiar,” Maekar replied. He was no scholar like Aerys, but he was not completely uninformed either.

“Is that what Aemon believes to be your affliction?” you asked.

“He says it all lines up with his research. Some of our histories were lost in King Baelor’s burnings, but he found recordings kept safe in the Citadel. Apparently, the Conqueror had visions as well,” he said.

“It seems Aemon is proving a great help in this matter,” you smiled. There had been such a shift in your brother-husband in the past year. He no longer drank himself into a stupor and seemed to be embracing these dreams that long plagued him.

“He has proved to be my saviour if I’m being truthful,” Daeron smiled.

“It makes me glad to see you in better spirits, husband,” you said, noting your father’s heavy silence.

You handed Naerys off to her maids, then accompanied your sisters to their rooms to help them prepare for bed. You knew they would sneak into the nursery later and entertain Naerys when she should be sleeping, but you didn’t have the heart to scold them for it. You readied for bed yourself, changing into the light purple nightdress and braiding your silver hair. You grew a bit worried when Daeron did not join you, so you slipped on your cream robe, holding a candle in your hand as you wandered the corridors of Summerhall, searching for him.

You paused when you heard the voices of Daeron and your father, standing on the balcony that overlooked the back courtyard. Silently, you crept closer to hear better.

“I cannot fault you. I hardly understood what was happening until recently. I thought it a curse,” Daeron said.

“I should have made a better effort, especially as your father.”

“You did your best.

“Hmm,” Maekar hummed. “I lost my way after your mother’s death.

“Oh, we all did,” Daeron whispered. “Daella cried for weeks.” Their poor sister had grown so frail in her grief that Maekar had to forcibly feed her to get her to recover her.

“I see what a good father you are to Naerys, and I am proud of you for it.”

You covered your mouth to muffle your squeak of joy.

“Th…thank you, Father.”

“So I must do better by you, dear boy. You are my firstborn after all. I know knighthood did not agree with you, so you will start to shadow me in the duties you will take over for when Summerhall becomes yours.”

“I would like that very much, Father, thank you.”

“No need to thank me, I should have done this long ago. And you can come out, I know you’re there. Always spying,” Maekar announced, turning around to face where you stood behind a wall.

“I simply didn’t want to interrupt,” you explained, your cheeks hot as you emerged from your hiding spot.

You placed your chamberstick on the table and joined them on the balcony. Daeron drew you close to his side, settling his hand on your lower back.

“If you could get your wife under control, I would be considerably impressed,” Maekar said dryly, though there was a playful sparkle in his violet eyes.

Daeron laughed, shaking his head. “If you could not do it…there is no hope for me, Father.”

“With that, I bid you both good night. Make sure the girls do not linger too long in the nursery this evening,” Maekar said, kissing your cheek before retiring.

“Come, husband, I wish to sleep with you by my side,” you whispered, rolling onto your toes before kissing him.

“I think my dreams shall be filled with you and our daughter tonight,” he whispered, no longer dreading the visions that crept into his head.

When Naerys reached her first nameday, you were round with child again. The tides had changed at Summerhall once more with Aerion’s return to Lys as hastilude was being held in your daughter’s honor. He began to court your cousin, Daenora, and seemed to be a changed man. You figured he deserved a second chance as Daeron did. Ser Duncan arrived for the celebration with Egg in tow.

“Ser Duncan, I wish to give you my favour on the morrow,” Rhae beamed up at him, grasping her skirts to give him an oddly endearing curtsey. Egg rolled his eyes, making a gagging noise.

“I would be most honored, princess,” he smiled down at her. He looked like a giant next to her small frame.

Daella seemed very taken with Ser Lyonel Baratheon, swooning when he put her upon his horse, letting her trot around on the sleek steed. You bounced Naerys in your lap, making her giggle.

“Now, where has your father gotten off to? Shall we find him?” She babbled a soft response as you placed her on your hip. Daeron and your father had been spending a lot of time together lately, which made you proud. You frowned when you did not find them in your father’s solar. 

“Hmm,” you huffed, making your rounds through Summerhall and becoming anxious when you could not find them.

You ventured outside into the sprawling courtyard, hearing the clash of swords coming from the training yard. Not so unusual, especially as the guests arrived, the tourney would begin on the morrow. You blinked a few times, not trusting your eyes, until you realized it was Daeron and Maekar in their armor. You found that odd, as Daeron truly had no taste for fighting. Suddenly, you felt irritated as you stormed over to them with Naerys on your hip.

“What is the meaning of this?” you called out, and both men paused, removing their helmets.

Daeron looked chagrined, his cheeks pink.

“It was meant to be a surprise,” he explained.

You raised an eyebrow as Naerys reached out for her grandfather.

“Hello, poppet,” he smiled, taking her into his arms.

“I mean to compete tomorrow, as our daughter’s champion, and Father was merely helping me not look like a complete arse,” Daeron explained, and you softened.

“That is…rather lovely,” you whispered.

“I should have known your mother would catch us with all her constant spying,” Maekar teased, kissing Naerys’s cheek.

Daeron cupped your cheek, giving you a sweet kiss. “It truly wasn’t my intention to worry you.”

“I know, I suppose I let my temper get the better of me,” you whispered.

“I do not mind,” he assured you. “I am rather fond of my fiery wife.”

“I am sorry I spoiled things,” you admitted in embarrassment. “I should probably go rest and cool off.”

“Daeron, finish with Ser Willem, I’ll escort her back inside.’

Daeron nodded, kissing Naerys before you took your father’s arm and Naerys back on your hip.

“Do not fret, I’ve already had the lists prearranged. Daeron will look gallant and not get too injured,” Maekar assured you.

“Father!” you gasped in surprise.

“A man wishes to appear in good form for his wife and daughter, and I will help him,” he responded.

Daella went dashing by, Lyonel’s golden and black cloak billowing behind her as she ran. You had never seen your father’s head whip around so fast before. You were certain it was innocent, but it was rather scandalous for her to be wearing a man’s cloak from another house.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled.

“Go, I can find my way back in,” you laughed. You placed Naerys with her maids, planning to lie down for a spell. You found peaceful rest for about an hour before a cramp ripped through your belly and woke in a puddle surrounding you. You cried out for your ladies, who went sprinting through the castle to fetch Maester Orwyn, Daeron, Daella, and your father.

“Is it too early?” you asked Maester Orwyn as he was the first to arrive and washed his hands in the basin before examining you.

“The babe may be a bit smaller, but this is not so unusual,” he explained.

The midwives entered, one propping another pillow behind you while two others prepared the birthing chair for when the time arrived. Daeron rushed into the room, taking your hand while your father arrived a few minutes after with Daella in tow, who had the red face of a young lady properly scolded and was no longer wearing Lyonel’s cloak.

“The princess is progressing well. I expect there will be a new babe before evenfall. You may stay until it is time for her to deliver,” Maester Orwyn explained.

Daella grinned, moving to your other side, sitting on the bed with you. She helped to tend to you, and she possessed such a sweet disposition that it calmed you greatly. Eventually, the midwives ushered your brother-husband and father from the room as the time came.

“Ser Lyonel says he will ask for my favour tomorrow,” Daella confided with a sweet giggle.

“You will give our father a fit,” you chuckled, sweat dripping down your cheeks as she and one of the midwives helped you to the birthing chair.

“He is too old for me, but he makes me smile,” she blushed.

“So long as it stays an innocent crush, sister,” you cautioned her, and she nodded, heading your words.

Maester Orwyn instructed you through the labour until your second daughter was safely in his arms.

“Another healthy girl, princess. Small but mighty. Listen to those lungs,” he chuckled as your little babe screamed her head off, most perturbed by entering the world. She would not settle against your breasts, only once Daeron took her into his arms. She curled her small frame against his chest, his large hand nearly engulfing the back of her tiny head.

“Oh, I see you are to be her favorite,” you laughed as Daella helped you take a few sips of a sweet white wine that held a few drops of milk from the poppy.

“Might we name her Daenys?” Daeron asked.

You smiled, nodding your head. “A beautiful name, my love.”

The Maester agreed that if you agreed to take it slow and easy, you could attend the melee tomorrow.

“I will ensure it,” Maekar said seriously.

Wine flowed through Summerhall that evening in celebration of Naerys’s nameday and Daenys’s birth. You were confined to a comfortable chaise under your father’s watchful eye, and your husband doted on you all evening, feeding you from his very hand. In the early hours of the night, you crept into the nursery to check on your daughters, who were sleeping soundly, without a care in the world.

When morning arrived, you sat with your family on the raised balcony to watch the tourney. Naerys sat in her grandfather’s lap, content with so much attention being bestowed upon her. Favours were given: Rhae’s to Ser Duncan, Daella’s to Ser Lyonel, and you waited for Daeron to appear so you could bestow his daughter’s favour upon him. He emerged on his horse, and a startled cry fell from your mouth. Not one of distress, but one of utter amazement.

“We had to save one surprise for you, my dear,” Maekar grinned, bouncing Naerys on his knee. Her bright blue eyes were wide with wonderment at the noise surrounding her.

Daeron wore new armour, gleaming and styled after Maekar’s, a crimson three-headed dragon embossed on his new shield. Yet he still wore the green father in his helm. The one you had gifted him many moons ago. Aerion helped you to stand so you could slide the favour over Daeron’s lance. Every inch a gallant knight. He removed his helmet to smile up at you. You had braided his hair this morning, and it showed off the perfect slope of his nose and defined cheekbones.

“Our daughters bless you with their favour, my love,” you smiled down at him. You settled back into your chair with Aerion’s assistance as the horn sounded. You wondered how much coin your father had shelled out as Daeron emerged the victor and proclaimed his small daughter the queen of love and beauty. She did not care as she was fast asleep in Maekar’s arms, drooling on his black tunic slashed with red. Your heart thrummed in your chest, and you knew you’d be with a third child soon.

[bbygirlandbeasts]

Ancestral tongue

Daemon x fem!wife!reader

Summary: You ask your husband for help learning his ancestral language <3

Genre: fluff, suggestive (MDNI)

Warnings: Suggestive, cursing, that’s it

Notes: Hiiiii, just a little short something while i finish up some of my longer works <3 Reqs are open!!! xo, bby

“Darling?”

You call for your husband, as you turn a page in your book. Daemon turns to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“What is it? I thought you didn’t need me to teach you?” 

He gestures to the book's title written in letters that remain strange to you. 

Tales of Old Valyria. 

You roll your eyes, playfully, smacking his arm with the very same book. He winces in mock pain, but can’t keep his hands off you for too long, as he returns to a tighter hold around your shoulders.

“I am perfectly capable of learning on my own, thank you. No, I was simply curious about something”, you continue, as your husband attempts to squeeze in beside you on the small chaise lounge. He plops down, resting his head in the crook of your neck to look at the words written on the pages. 

“Ask away.” 

Your eyes remain perfectly focused on the text. 

“How do you say fuck, in High Valyrian?” 

There is no need for you to look over at your husband, to know he is smirking and has fixated his gaze on you. 

“The curse, or the action?” 

“Both.” 

“I think you only need to know the latter, love.” 

Finally, you turn your head towards him, meeting his eyes. He is so close, you can feel his breath against your face. 

“Is it so wrong for me to wish to curse out my incompetent husband in his ancestral tongue?” 

“I’d rather you ask me to fuck you, in my ancestral tongue”, he whispers, before swiftly closing your book, and throwing it over his shoulder. 

You smile. 

“And I'd rather have that ancestral tongue down my throat.”

[rayveneyed]

— pity me, i need you | iii.

maekar i targaryen x reader wc: 3k summary: the sun splits over king’s landing. you find yourself reminiscing. tags: pre-relationship, discussions of marriage, not actually unrequited love, brief mentions of religion, liberties taken with braavosi culture, will-they-wont-they shenanigans chapter 4 masterlist read on ao3

You wouldn’t say that the letter had lit a fire under you; the truth of the matter was that you had very little to worry about where your future was concerned. The Iron Bank kept your family’s coffers stuffed to the brim, and your father — for all his posturing — wouldn’t dare cut you off from it. In any case, it wasn’t the first letter that he’d sent, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. Perhaps it was the indifference with which Maekar had treated the ordeal that had disconcerted you. It was foolish, you knew, though your acknowledgement of it did nothing to stop your sulking.

Lady Dyanna Dane wasn’t yet four years passed, and the Prince had half a dozen children to care for in her stead; and whilst you’d already been quite shameless in your indulgence of his presence, and found no small amount of self-satisfaction in his choice of company, you were nothing if not gluttonous. Stubbornness, temper, and predisposition to mope aside, your hunger was truly the worst of you.

But you would bite. It was not often that a Braavosi lady would find herself in King’s Landing; even less often that she were unmarried. You would dip your toes into the Red Keep’s prospect pool — as was your right, you might add! Unwed, pretty, well-learned, wealthy. Any man would be happy to have you; though, in truth, you were unsure that any of the young lords could entertain you enough to make you happy to settle in the Seven Kingdoms. Well, perhaps you would be surprised.

Mind made up, you sought out the only lady you could consider a friend.

Lady Syrah Purcell was short and thin, with pale skin that took a flush at the slightest provocation. With her warm blonde hair and light blue eyes, it didn’t matter if she sullied herself with your presence; she was beautiful enough — charming enough, too — that all her sins were forgiven the second she asked. A true Westerosi beauty. Your exact opposite.

The envy you felt in her presence was not due to your own ugliness. That would be difficult, considering you were not ugly. In fact, you were hailed as a great beauty in Braavos; and in Westeros, you’d learned quite early that beauty was beauty no matter where one went, no matter the preferences of the people.

(Though, to be fair, any admiration of your appearance by the people of the court often carried with it an edge of alienation, one that you found difficult to appreciate. You seemed nothing more than a foreign fruit, an exotic jewel to pluck and admire before discarding.)

Thus, it was not a competition of beauty that soured your interactions with Lady Purcell. Your envy lay in matters of the mind and heart: the ease with which Syrah carried herself. She was gentle, yet firm; humorous, yet appropriate; she was a friend to all, where you were a friend to… well, one, you supposed. Two, on good days.

Braavosi humour did not translate well into Common Tongue, and you often found yourself misspeaking, interjecting, and commenting where you shouldn’t have. It was endlessly tiring, and had spoiled your social standing far more times than you could count. You tended to come away from social events with a storm cloud hanging above your head, a frustration pooling in your fingers.

Syrah was half-Dornish by way of her mother — inheriting all those Rhoynar features of the stony Dornishmen — and, oftentimes, felt the weight of the King’s affection for Dorne. Many noble houses were displeased by the special privileges he had afforded the people of his lady wife, and whispered of it when the Dornish members of court were absent.

Often, Syrah told you, I have to sit quietly, lest they remember my heritage. It was then that you realised you shared a struggle — a distrust bestowed upon you by the north-westerners — and begrudged yourself to befriend her.

“I must say,” you said that day, taking refuge from the sun beneath a weeping willow. “I have been told that there are good men in the Red Keep — men worth taking to wed. What say you?”

Syrah tilted her head. Her fan that day was a pale green, the colour of briny seafoam, and it jostled the curled strands of her hair gently with each whip of her hand. “Are you asking for my recommendations?”

A friend to all, a friend to none. It was a nugget of knowledge your father loved to bequeath to you, and often. Your sisters enjoyed parroting it to annoy him, but you were glad for it: for you knew that anything that left your mouth would return to the courtladies, on account of Syrah’s terrible proclivity for gossip. It was, perhaps, her only defect. She at least had the decency to be ashamed when you brought it up.

She was the only lady you could turn to for such a matter, though — and really, what bad would it do if your peers knew you meant to wed? It was what they were all here for, wasn’t it? Those who were married were shackled to the Red Keep, waiting for the day that their husbands had increased their standing enough to retire soundly; but the girls not yet married, said to be sent in goodwill, all meant to find a well-bred, well-connected husband. It was common knowledge, but somehow the admission tasted of defeat.

“I suppose,” you said. Around the weeping willow, a long, curving balustrade separated you from the craggy sides of a short cliff. Past it, lines of wild greenery offered protection and privacy; and far beyond, down the twisting path of Shadowblack Lane, King’s Landing exploded in a mess of colour and rambling streets.

When you had first arrived in King’s Landing, you hadn’t thought it anything to gawp at. Braavos was much prettier, with its green-hued, serpentine canals, and the trickling of water a constant, gentle lullaby. The buildings were tall and bridged, built from pale white stone, and their architects took great pride in ornamentation and painstaking detail. Your ancestral home was one such edifice, proud and sprawling, nestled in the wealthy north-east where the splendour of Braavos gathered.

But you’d been a guest of King Daeron for nearly nine moons, and in that time, King’s Landing had endeared itself to you. You hadn’t noticed it, really; at first you despised the red stone, and its lack of order, and the food, and the clothing, and the incense-heavy perfume that the ladies wore. But it had taken seed in you, in some way.

“I am curious,” you admitted. “Perhaps it is shameless for me to admit, but the line of suitors I have waiting in Braavos is long and tireless. Many of them I’ve known from young, and have no interest in wedding.”

“Don’t you want to return home?” said Syrah curiously. “If I had the chance, I would leave for Dorne in a heartbeat.”

“Who can be sure?” You sighed. The sun cast its warmth upon your cheek, dappled through the willow trees long, lithe branches. It was the perfect day to promenade; the sun was butter yellow in a clear, blue sky, cicadas buzzing upon the trees. Most of the other ladies found the outside heat unbearable, and feared burning their delicate skin, and so the gardens were mostly empty. “I love my home dearly, but one does grow weary. In any case, when I am married, I can always return as I please.”

“‘Tis a long journey.”

“‘Tis one I can manage.”

Syrah hummed thoughtfully, but a frown marred her pretty face. She lowered herself to the dry grass at the foot of the willow tree, and you followed suit, wiggling your toes in your satin slippers. Short, broken pieces of grass gathered by her side as she began to tug and rip them, her mind’s turmoil as obvious as the sun in the sky.

You tilted your head towards her. “Does something displease you?”

“No, no — it is only…” She avoided your eyes, peering down at her hands, bunched together in her lap. “Well, I think it is perhaps… rude, to say it aloud…”

You rolled your eyes. You had been spoiled by Maekar’s frankness, you think — the disregard he had for insulting whomever he spoke to. You’d forgotten just how timid the Westerosis could be, when pressed. “Well, you’ve as good as said it — do not stop yourself on my account. I shan’t be offended.”

“Well — well, it is my belief that… perhaps… er, the bachelors you seek have been—” She squinted into the distance, thinking— “under the impression, as it were, that you were… er, involved, let us say, with a certain member of the ruling family…”

Your face fell. “Surely not.”

“What do you mean, ‘surely not’? You’ve only been colluding with the Prince for — what has it been? Seven moons? Eight?”

“Colluding isn’t the word I’d use,” you said, sniffing. “And quite frankly, I grow tired of having to defend myself! The Prince and I read together, at most. It wears on me, having to explain it.” It was almost a lie. You daren’t mention the naps he’d taken upon your lap or the cakes he’d have you feed him, or his insistence on brushing through his hair on particularly tiresome days. Your ears burned. “A—anyways, I had thought that such gossip would stay amongst the ladies. The men busy themselves with — well, I don’t know. They act as if they’re above it all.”

“It is they who are most eager to hear the day’s findings. And if the courtladies believe you to be… entangled, it is the brothers and fathers and uncles who hear it, at the end of the day.”

“Curses,” you muttered. “Well, no matter. I remain veritably untangled — don’t give me that look, I don’t lie!... Who might you pick, Syrah, if it were you?”

She sighed, and slumped back against the tree. For a moment she did not speak. You took over her grass-picking, mindlessly pulling as you waited for her answer. Truly, you didn’t think she would; you imagined she would more likely tell you to give up, that associating with Maekar so repeatedly had effectively ruined your prospects and sullied your appeal. But another heavy sigh later, she relented.

“Well… there is Lord Leo Tyrell, from the Reach. The Tyrells are a proud family, an old family, but Lord Leo seems far more preoccupied with his knighthood than marriage. He’s getting on in age, too…”

You hummed. Age was the least of your concern. You think you remembered this Lord Tyrell at a feast or two; gray-bearded and serious-looking, though not in a way that appealed to you. His hair was closer to black than it was to white, and his visage was entirely severe; not a single hint of good humour or gentleness.

Your attention turned to the hallways beyond the entranceway to the gardens. A set of young maids ran by, arms laden with pitchers of lemon-water and plates of plumped fruits. You wondered where the pitchers were going; if they’d end up around a ladies table, or at the King’s side, or… Well, Maekar preferred wine, not lemon-water. You wondered what he was doing. You hadn’t seen him in almost a fortnight; though to be fair, there were rumblings of a tourney, and you were sure it was the Prince’s duty to help organise…

“There’s the Lord Corbray, I suppose,” came your companion’s voice, nearly lost to the capricious whims of your thoughts. “He’s far more suitable in age, and the ladies do say he is handsome, though he’s a third son, and House Corbray’s coffers are notably poor… but, oh! There is the Lord Yronwood, too. Though…” Her voice trailed off.

You blinked. “Though..?”

Her cheeks had reddened something terrible.

“Ah,” you said. You almost felt guilty. In truth, you hadn’t asked much of Syrah’s past, nor her prospects, nor her desires, or — well, any of those things one would assume two friends should talk about. She had been your confidant, but you hadn’t been hers.

“We grew up together,” she said by way of explanation. “When I was a girl, I was sent to Dorne to live with my mother’s family, while my brother stayed in the Stormlands. The Yronwoods and the Purcells are historic allies, but we… I do not know. Little will come of it, I think…”

“Why not?”

Syrah shrugged. She began plucking grass again, and didn’t speak for a while. When she did, it was not about Lord Yronwood, or her Dornish childhood.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

On that night, when the sun had set and a frost had overcome the castle, a page rapped upon your door. The young boy was a mousy thing, near trembling, and stumbled over his words when he said: “P–Prince Maekar requests your presence, m’l — my lady.”

You walked the same halls you always did, taking the shortest path from your solar in the east to the Prince’s in the west. The halls were quiet, save for the odd page running messages or maids going to and fro. The castle was winding down; dinner had finished hours ago, and those who hadn’t stayed to drink themselves silly had retired to their apartments. Still, you kept to the darkest sides of the hallways, scurried quickly past lanterns, and kept your head bowed low.

The guard at his door nodded his acknowledgement and granted you entry. There was no point in announcing you; the only other visitors Maekar would host were his family, and you were sure he hadn’t requested them at the same time as you.

“A long day, my Prince?” You said as you entered. The fire was ablaze, casting his apartments in its warm golden glow. They were lovely living quarters; grand, as befit a member of the royal family, but tasteful. Maekar’s quarters struck a balance between pride and simplicity, certainly lacking the patterns and pomp that you found in your own, but well decorated and well cared for. His most-loved spot — where you would usually find him — was a loveseat of leather and cotton, placed almost close enough to the fire to singe the upholstery. He was markedly missing from it.

“Fucking tourneys,” came a muffled reply, deeper into the apartments. “Fucking lords and their fucking whims and—”

You ignored his rants, and took a seat. There was an open book on the table; Wonders Made By Man. You’d read it as a girl. Valyrian roads and your beloved Titan of Braavos, the northern Wall… It was a children’s book, really. You wondered which of his brood had been at it. Settling it upon your lap, you thumbed through the familiar pages.

“Pray to the gods that your first tourney will be more than a fucking shit show,” muttered Maekar as he exited his private quarters.

“My blasphemous gods?” You mused.

He ignored you, and made a straight path to his seat, collapsing at your side. His hair was ruffled, his features weary, and you frowned over at him. He looked near ragged. “If certain lords had their way, we’d be — sauntering upon elephants and taming fucking lions.”

“Children like that sort of thing,” you said. “Wonders Made By Man, eh?”

He grunted. “Aegon.”

Humming, you set the book aside once more. “I thought you liked tourneys. They call you the Anvil, don’t they?”

From the corner of your eye, you watched as a flicker of pride gently tempered the anger on his face. “By way of war, not tourneys, girl.”

Slowly, with every word spoken, he sank deeper into the chair; deeper, and deeper still, until he lay almost slumped flat on his back, staring into the fire.

“Would you like some wine?” You said quietly. You reached to brush away a wayward strand of hair, and he butt his head closer, nudging his pockmarked cheek against your fingers. “It would do you good.”

“Fuck wine,” he muttered. But when you rose from your place to fetch it, he said nothing. From the table opposite the loveseat, you poured a chalice of sweet summer wine — perhaps sweeter than he preferred, but you didn’t want to drunken him, only soften his edges.

As you returned, you supped from it briefly, licking along the drops that clung to your lips, and offered it to him. You expected a chastisement — a grumble of shamelessness or disgust, but nothing came. His eyes remained long on your face before he took it; and when he touched his mouth to the rim, it was where yours had once pressed.

“The sun was strong today,” you said. “It reminded me of home.”

A grunt was your answer.

“Though there was a notable lack of elephants and lions. Perhaps they should be part of the tourney.”

A huff —perhaps a laugh. His eyes left the fire and fixed you in place. “For your pleasure?”

“Precisely.”

The fire was a roaring thing. It had been stoked well; you were sure he’d ordered it before he sent his servants away. The wood snapped and crackled as it burned, a gentle rhythm that seeped into your bones. You found yourself melting along with him, a cat soaking up a sunspot.

“Though in Braavos, we never light our braziers until the autumn,” you said, blinking. Like a spool of loosened thread, the words spilled out; such foolish, nostalgic ramblings were not common, but perhaps you had been softened, too, in the sun. “The heat lasts through the night, from spring to summer. One could sleep without a single blanket and be perfectly content, and we would dress in only the lightest of silks and… oh, I do not remember the common word for it. Trokareá.”

For a long time, you felt the weight of his gaze upon your cheek. It was as warm as any fur, as intoxicating as any spirit; that ill-acting, covetous part of you blossomed under it, a sickly weed that curled and squeezed around your heart.

Eventually, he exhaled — faced the fire, and your cheek was cold once more. The weed wilted. Your breath returned.

“If not your elephants,” he said, “you’ll have your silks.”

No more was said, until the Prince ordered you to retire.

There was only silence, and warmth, and the sweetness of wine upon your tongue.

[lulaaaaaaw]

my masterlist / my ao3

ramsay bolton x fem!reader

word count: 544

this came to me in a dream…

synopsis: you’re sick, caught with a bad fever. ramsay decides to take care of you<3

WARNINGS‼️: fluff but make it noncon, reader is miserable, kissing

race/appearance neutral reader!

song:

you feel absolutely horrible. your head hurts, your whole body aches, you can’t breathe through your nose.

the maester has been in and out of your room all day. making you drink different potions, wiping your forehead with a wet cloth, making sure you’re fed.

you like the maester, he tells you interesting stories and makes surprisingly great jokes. you’re happy to be talking to other people, usually it’s only ramsay. or roose and walda at breakfast and dinner. but other than that, it’s only ramsay. you despise him, so you’re relieved that he hasn’t visited you all day.

but that changes in the evening. it’s already dark outside when the door opens and ramsay steps in.

”my lord..” the maester says. ”i heard that my little girl is sick”, ramsay says, walking up to your bed. ”yes, my lord. she has a fever”, the maester says. ”could it kill her?” ramsay asks. ”no, my lord. i assure you that we’re taking good care of her”, he answers. ”good”, ramsay says, sitting beside you.

”poor thing, you’re so pale”, ramsay says, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead. ”go away..” you mumble. ”what?” ramsay chuckles. ”i’m here to take care of you”, he says.

”leave us”, he orders the maester. ”yes, my lord..” he answers and steps out the door, closing it behind him. ”my poor little girl”, ramsay coos at you, stroking your cheek. he leans in and gives you a kiss on the cheek.

”i don’t need you here”, you say, looking at ramsay with detest. he just chuckles. ”my love, you definitely need someone to take care of you. and who’s better than me?” he says, stroking your cheek.

he leans in again, placing non-stop kisses on your cheeks. you sigh and roll over, hoping that he’d stop. but instead he climbs on the bed with you, taking you into his arms. ”someone’s a bit grumpy”, ramsay chuckles. he starts kissing you again.

you weakly try squirming off his grip, but ramsay isn’t letting you move.

”don’t resist, my love”, he says.

he takes a wet cloth and presses it on your forehead. ”you’re burning up”, he says.

the door opens. a servant girl, holding a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. ”m-m’lord, i have some food for her”, she says.

”bring it”, ramsay says. the girl sets the bowl on the bedside table. she stays still.

”what are you still standing there for? leave us before you start getting on my nerves”, ramsay says coldly.

”yes, sorry, m’lord”, the girl says, stepping out of the room.

ramsay takes a spoonful of soup, putting it in front of your mouth.

”say ahh”, he says.

”i’m not hungry”, you say.

ramsay smirks. ”you have to eat, i insist”, he says.

you hesitantly open your mouth, letting ramsay feed you.

”good girl”, ramsay says.

he keeps feeding you until the bowl is empty. ”you did so good”, ramsay says, petting your hair.

he climbs on the bed with you again, taking you into his arms.

he starts petting you. you sniff.

”poor baby”, ramsay coos.

he spends the whole night with you. helping you pee, changing the cloths, wiping the sweat off you.

eventually you fall asleep in his arms.

[simpingthroughcenturies]

The Sun, the Star and the Anvil

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7

Chapter 3: Shadows of the Citadel

Pairing: Maekar Targargyen x Dayne wife!Reader

Synopsis: A fragile peace of cradled sons and stolen, skin-warmed nights, is shattered by a crimson dawn and sudden, treasonous fights. Heavy-hearted, to the bloody front, the Anvil Prince must ride—leaving a fearing wife to face alone the rising tide.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, Oral Sex, Unprotected Vaginal Sex, Mild Roughness, Outbreak of War, Family Separation, Child Distress, the Traits of the Reader are not described

Word Count: 4.5k

The air in the upper gardens of the Red Keep had grown heavy with the scent of late-summer roses, but to those who knew how to read the winds, it smelled of ash.

By the turn of the hundred-and-ninety-fourth year since Aegon’s Conquest, the grand masonry of the Capital felt less like a sanctuary and more like a pressure cooker.

Below the high walls of the Hill of Rhaenys, the city hummed with a restless, discordant energy. It was not the simple, familiar chaos of smallfolk bartering in the markets or sailors brawling on the docks; it was a low, vibrating friction that seemed to scrape against the nerves of everyone who walked the high stone galleries.

In the sun-drenched courtyard of the sea-facing pavilion, however, the grand games of the realm felt wonderfully, if temporarily, distant.

Beside her sat Jena, a rare and cherished anchor in the treacherous currents of the Red Keep. Their friendship had been forged not from the calculated alliances of the court, but from the shared, weary solidarity of young motherhood within a house divided—and, of course, being wed to two brothers.

Today, Jena was occupied with her own young son, a robust and cheerful boy who possessed none of Daeron’s crippling hesitations. Valarr was currently balanced on his mother’s lap, his small fingers stickily gripping a half-eaten fig. At the same time, Jena softly bounced him, her quiet, grounding presence a comforting shield against the heavy political noise vibrating just beyond the garden walls.

”Softly, Daeron,“ she murmured, her fingers gently guiding her firstborn’s tiny, trembling hands.

”The bird will not bite if your hand remains steady.“

Little Prince Daeron, two years of age, blinked up at her with large, timorous violet eyes. He possessed none of his father’s sharp, blocky jaw or fierce posture. Instead, he was a delicate, soft-featured child, his sandy brown hair falling in fine, wispy curls around a pale forehead that spent far too much time pinched in worry.

At the sudden, sharp flap-flap of a mourning dove rising from the stone fountain, the toddler shrieked, burying his face directly into the rich silk of her skirts, his tiny fists bunching the fabric as he trembled.

”He is too soft for a prince of the blood.“

The gravelly voice cut through the quiet rustle of the garden leaves. Maekar stood at the edge of the terrace, his massive frame silhouetted against the blinding glare of the Blackwater Bay.

He had just come from the armory, his heavy leather jerkin smelling faintly of oil and cold iron, his jaw covered with a day’s growth of silver stubble.

”He is a child, Maekar,“ she replied softly, smoothing a hand over Daeron’s fine curls until the boy’s frantic breathing began to slow.

”He simply prefers the quiet. There is no crime in a gentle heart.“

Maekar stepped into the shade of the pavilion, his heavy boots thudding against the flagstones. He acknowledged Jena with a curt nod before looking down at his firstborn son, his turbulent violet eyes narrowing slightly.

There was no cruelty in his gaze—never cruelty—but there was a deep, unyielding anxiety. A fourth son knew the price of being overlooked; a fourth son’s firstborn had to be steel if he was to survive the court’s indifference.

”A gentle heart is a luxury the Red Keep does not afford for long,“ Maekar said, though the harshness of his words was softened by the deliberate, careful way he sat beside her on the stone bench.

He reached out, his massive, calloused hand hovering over Daeron’s small shoulder for a fraction of a second before gently squeezing it.

At his father’s touch, the boy did not flinch, but he did not lean in, either. He merely stared at Maekar’s scarred knuckles with a quiet, solemn fascination.

”The smallfolk are talking in the lower bailey,“ Maekar muttered in a quiet tone, turning his gaze toward the city below. His brow furrowed, the deep lines between his eyes casting dark shadows.

”The streets are full of men wearing red leather or carrying tokens of the Great Bastard. Daemon Blackfyre held a tourney near the Blackwater last fortnight. They say he unhorsed half the Kingsguard with that cursed sword of his. My father ignores it. Baelor calls it 'harmless bravado.' But a man does not gather knights to his side merely to show off the color of his hair.“

Jena only listened to the words said about her husband, silent—as was expected of the wife of an heir—and pretending to be busied with her son, his cheeks covered in fig juice.

”Let the bastards play their games, Maekar,“ she said, shifting closer to him until her shoulder pressed against his iron-hard bicep. She took his hand, forcing his rigid fingers—perhaps of the presence of his brother’s Lady Wife?—to uncurl, tracing the rough lines of his palm with her thumb.

”Within these walls, you are my heart. Let the Realm hammer itself to pieces outside our door. Here, we hold the line.“

Maekar looked down at their joined hands, the fierce, defensive knot in his shoulders finally loosening. He let out a long, slow breath, leaning his forehead against her shoulder for a brief, stolen moment of vulnerability.

”I do not know what I would do without your quiet, my love. The Castle is a madhouse, and my family is the source of the plague.“

Before she could answer, a piercing, high-pitched wail shattered the midday peace. It did not come from the gardens, but from the high arched window of their inner chambers. It was a sharp, demanding screech that sounded less like a human infant and more like a hatchling dragon defending its nest.

Daeron immediately whimpered, covering his ears with his tiny hands and pressing himself further into her lap.

”The younger Prince wakes,“ Jena said warmly as she lifted her gaze from the boy in her lap.

Aerion had been born at the turn of the year, and from the moment his wet, silver-white head had emerged into the world, he had been the antithesis of his older brother.

Where Daeron was a quiet puddle of water, Aerion was a spark of wildfire. He did not cry when he was hungry; he screamed as if he were being flayed. He did not sleep through the night; he spent the dark hours squirming, his tiny fists striking out at the air, his bright, unblinking violet eyes staring into the shadows with a strange, unnerving intensity.

Leaving Daeron in the care of her trusted Dornish maid, she rose and led Maekar back into the cooler, shadow-drenched interior of their apartments.

The nursery was bathed in the red-gold light of the fading afternoon. In the heavy oak cradle, the newborn Prince was thrashing against his swaddling blankets. His skin was flushed a bright, angry crimson, his tiny mouth open in a furious roar.

Maekar approached the cradle with the same hesitant, hyper-careful steps he used whenever he was around the infants. He reached down, attempting to soothe the boy by placing a large hand over his chest. Still, the moment Aerion felt the restriction, he twisted violently, his tiny fingernails scratching against Maekar’s thumb until a thin line of red appeared on the Prince’s skin.

”The boy has a devil in him,“ Maekar said, staring down at the scratch with a mixture of shock and a strange, twisted sort of pride.

”He is barely six moons old, and he already fights the hand that feeds him.“

”He is lively,“ she corrected him, stepping forward and deftly lifting the screaming infant into her arms.

She unfastened the tight swaddling, allowing the boy’s limbs to move freely. The moment his legs were loose, Aerion began to kick against her ribs, his tiny hands snatching at the gold chain around her neck with a fierce, iron-like grip.

”He does not like to be contained, Maekar. He has too much of the Dragon’s blood in him, perhaps.“

She rocked the child, humming a low, droning lullaby from the Red Mountains of Dorne, but Aerion’s cries did not fully soften.

He merely stared up at her, his wet, violet eyes burning with a defiance that felt entirely too old for his tiny face. It took nearly an hour of patient pacing, of yielding to his chaotic movements rather than fighting them, before the boy finally exhausted himself, his silver head dropping heavily against her breast as he fell into a twitching, restless sleep.

Maekar watched the display from the shadows of the bedpost, his arms crossed over his chest. The sight of his wife—calm, unyielding, and utterly grounded amidst the chaos of their two drastically different sons—was the only thing that kept the rising panic of the Realm from choking him alive.

”You spend your strength on them,“ Maekar said softly, stepping up behind her as she gently laid Aerion back into the cradle. His large hands slid over her shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles of her neck.

”And you leave none for yourself.“

”I have enough for them,“ she whispered, turning around within his arms, her hands coming up to rest against his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath her palms.

”And I have more than enough for you.“

Maekar’s gaze darkened, the turbulence in his midnight-violet eyes fracturing into a sudden, heavy heat.

He did not need to be told twice.

Without a word, he looped a massive arm beneath her thighs and another behind her back, lifting her effortlessly against his chest.

She gasped softly, anchoring herself by wrapping her arms around his thick neck as he carried her the few short paces away from the cradle, deeper into the shadow-drenched privacy of their bedchamber.

He lowered her onto the edge of the large oak table, clearing a stack of loose parchments with a careless sweep of his hand. They fluttered to the floor unnoticed. Settling his heavy frame between her parted knees, Maekar caught the hem of her plum silk gown, sliding his rough palms up the sensitive skin of her thighs until he gathered the fabric at her waist.

His breathing was already turning ragged. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth nipping hungrily at the tender column before his mouth moved up to claim her lips. It was a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of lingering heat and desperate possession, his tongue sliding past her teeth to dominate her mouth with an unhurried, agonizingly thorough rhythm.

She arched into him, her fingers tangling frantically in his silver hair, her thighs clamping tightly around his hips to pull his solid weight closer. The friction of his heavy breeches rubbing against her bare, aching core made a soft, broken whimpering sound escape her throat.

Hearing it, Maekar let out a low, guttural grunt. He broke the kiss just long enough to reach down and unlace himself, his thick fingers trembling with an urgency he rarely showed outside their walls. He did not wait to guide himself; his hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging firmly into her flesh as he lifted her slightly and drove upward, burying his rigid length inside her in one deep, unyielding thrust.

Her eyes snapped open, a sharp cry of pure pleasure caught in her throat as she accommodated the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him. She stretched around him, her internal muscles clamping in a tight, desperate rhythm that made Maekar freeze, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his scarred cheeks.

A low, animalistic groan vibrated deep in his chest as he held himself still, waiting for the initial, suffocating wave of heat to pass.

”You are so tight,“ he hoarsely growled against her skin, his hands tightening on her hips until his knuckles turned white.

”Every damn day this Castle bleeds me dry, and every night you bring me back to life.“

”Then move, Maekar,“ she breathed, her bare legs hooking over his lower back to pull him deeper.

”Do not make me wait.“

He did not. He began to move with a deliberate rhythm, his thrusts bottoming out against her core before drawing nearly all the way out, teasing the sensitive entrance before driving back in.

The hard edge of the oak table bit slightly into her back, but she scarcely felt it, entirely consumed by the white-hot friction coiling violently in her lower belly.

The space filled with the frantic cadence of their breathing and the wet, rhythmic sound of their bodies meeting. Maekar’s movements grew faster, the domestic control he usually maintained fracturing as her core pulsed tightly around him with every deep stroke.

He leaned forward, flattening her breasts against the solid muscle of his chest, his mouth sweeping down to capture her nipple through the thin linen of her shift, sucking fiercely until she was writhing beneath him.

The tension within her built to a fever pitch, a blinding, desperate need that made her hips rise instinctively to meet his downward strokes.

”Maekar– please,“ she gasped, her fingers clawing at the tensed, sweat-slicked muscles of his shoulders.

The ragged desperation in her voice pushed them both over the edge. Maekar let out a low, primal roar against her neck, his thrusts turning chaotic and deep.

An explosion of pleasure shattered through her, her internal walls contracting relentlessly around him in a succession of tight, pulsing spasms that made her head fall back, his name tearing from her lips that his own silenced quickly—for the sake of the resting babe.

The intense, rhythmic squeezing broke Maekar’s remaining restraint completely. He drove into her one final, devastating time, holding himself deep within her core as his body shuddered violently, spending his warmth deep inside her as the quiet dark of the room closed in around them.

As the months bled into the winter of one hundred-and-ninety-five, the domestic walls of their apartment became an absolute necessity.

The political atmosphere in the Red Keep had turned toxic. King Daeron’s court was split down the center by a silent, invisible blade.

On one side stood the King’s loyalists—those who favored the peaceful, scholarly rule of Daeron and the golden promise of Prince Baelor.

On the other side, a dangerous, dark undercurrent was rising. Whispers of Daemon Blackfyre’s legitimacy, of his possession of the ancestral Targaryen sword, and of his unmatched martial prowess were spoken in every tavern and dark corridor.

The lords of the Realm were secretly picking sides, calculating which Dragon would offer them more gold, more lands, and more blood.

Maekar was caught in the middle of the vice. He spent his days in grueling council meetings where Baelor’s elegant diplomatic maneuvers consistently overshadowed his practical, military-minded advice.

It was only in the deepest hours of the night, when the heavy oak doors were barred and the children were asleep in their separate chambers, that the frantic, terrifying noise of the Realm could be entirely locked out.

The hearth fire had burned down to a deep, visceral crimson glow when Maekar finally came to the bed. He did not wear his armor or his fine doublets; he was clad only in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt that lay open at his collar, exposing the heavy, hair-dusted muscle of his chest.

She was already waiting for him beneath the heavy down quilt, her hair loose and spilling like a silk river across the white pillows.

Maekar did not speak. He climbed into the massive bed, his movements heavy and deliberate, and immediately pulled her into his space.

There was no desperate, frantic violence in his touch tonight—not like his usual raw, possessive hunger. This was a domestic, deep-rooted intimacy born of mutual survival. It was a comfortable, knowing rhythm that felt like an anchor in a storm.

”The King refused to reinforce the garrisons along the Mander,“ Maekar muttered against her hair, his large hand sliding down her spine, his warm palm tracing every vertebra through the thin linen of her nightgown.

”He believes Daemon is simply... hosting tournaments. He believes blood will prevent blood.“

”Do not think of the King tonight,“ she whispered, her hands sliding beneath his shirt, her fingers splaying against the smooth, hot skin of his lower back. She pulled him down, her thighs parting naturally under the weight of his leg as he shifted over her.

”Let the King have his peace. Give me yours.“

Maekar let out a low, shuddering sigh, the tension in his face finally melting away under the gentle, repetitive stroking of her fingers.

He leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a deep, slow, and utterly familiar collision. It tasted of the sweet blackberry wine they had shared at supper and the deep, clean warmth of skin. His tongue parted her lips with an easy, unhurried dominance, exploring the cavern of her mouth as if he were memorizing a territory he had conquered a thousand times over, yet still found completely breathtaking.

His hands moved with a practiced, reverent slowness. He reached down and caught the hem of her nightgown, his calloused fingers brushing against her bare calves, her knees, and the soft skin of her inner thighs as he slid the fabric upward.

Maekar shifted, his large frame settling between her legs, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket that pressed her deep into the down mattress. He cupped her cheek with his hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, his dark violet eyes staring down into hers with an absolute, unwavering devotion.

”You are the only place where I do not have to be a Prince,“ he hoarsely whispered, his voice vibrating against her lips.

”The only place where I am allowed to just... be.“

”Then be mine,“ she breathed against his mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, Maekar slid down the length of her body, his large, calloused hands smoothing over her hips, pinning her thighs wide apart as he knelt between them on the heavy down mattress.

She let out a soft, startled gasp, her fingers clutching at the tangled sheets as the cool air of the room hit her bare skin. But the cold was instantly replaced by the searing warmth of his breath.

Maekar leaned down, his silver hair brushing against her inner thighs as his mouth found her slick, aching core. The first touch of his tongue was a broad, deliberate stroke that made her hips arch violently off the bed. He grunted softly, his large hands anchoring her hips against the mattress, refusing to let her retreat from the intense, concentrated heat of his mouth.

He worked with the same meticulous, unembellished efficiency he brought to the training grounds, yet here it was softened by a deep, worshipful reverence. His tongue swirled and parted her sensitive folds, lapping hungrily at the sweet, honeyed wetness that had gathered there from the slow heat of his earlier kisses.

Every stroke was heavy and deeply possessive, a silent declaration that whatever the court took from his pride by day, this beautiful, hidden sanctuary belonged entirely to him by night.

”Maekar,“ she choked out, her voice a fractured whisper into the dark. Her eyes fluttered shut as a white-hot tension began to coil violently in her lower belly.

She reached down, her fingers tangling frantically in his silver locks, alternatively pushing him closer and pulling back as the sheer, overwhelming friction threatened to undo her.

He ignored her weak resistance, his rhythm growing more urgent. His thumbs found her tight center, spreading her open completely to his unblinking gaze as his tongue flicked sharply against the most sensitive peak of her core.

The sensation was agonizingly sweet, a primal, rhythmic friction that made her writhe beneath his heavy hands, her breath catching in her throat in a steady, frantic cadence.

”Look at me,“ he murmured hoarsely, parting from her skin for a mere fraction of a second, his lips slick and glistening under the amber light of the dying embers.

When her eyes snapped open, she found him watching her with an intensity that had nothing to do with the anger of the court and everything to do with a fierce, protective devotion.

He went back down, his mouth swallowing her sighs as his pacing turned faster, harder, his tongue driving against her with a relentless, unyielding force.

The world outside their curtained sanctuary was sliding into an abyss of treason and war, but within this small square of velvet, there was only the sound of his wet, frantic intake of breath and the desperate, possessive growls he could no longer contain against her skin.

The coiling tension inside her snapped with a sudden, brilliant violence. A wave of pure, rhythmic pleasure rippled through her entire body, her internal muscles pulsing relentlessly as a long, breathless cry of his name tore from her lungs.

Maekar did not pull away; he drank in her climax, his tongue tracing her trembling flesh through every pulsing contraction, anchoring her to the quiet comfort of the bed until her frantic breathing finally began to slow.

Afterward, the room was silent save for the ragged sound of their recovering breath. Maekar slid back up her body, heavy and sweat-slicked, and collapsed over her. He tucked his head securely into the crook of her neck, his massive arms wrapping possessively around her waist to pull her close against his chest, the hard, defensive armor of Prince Maekar completely melted away into the soft, domestic dark.

The peace lasted until the third moon of ninety-six.

Then, the world broke.

It happened on a morning that began with an unnatural, eerie stillness. The sun rose over the Blackwater not in its usual golden hue, but in a dull, bruised crimson that seemed to stain the stone walls of the Red Keep with the color of fresh blood.

She was sitting in the sunny alcove of the solar, attempting to coax Daeron into eating a bowl of sweetened porridge.

The toddler was pale, his eyes ringed with dark shadows after another night of fractured dreams.

In the corner of the room, Aerion was sitting across a thick Dornish rug, his tiny hands snatching at the toy wooden dragon Maekar had carved for him, his face twisted in a look of fierce, territorial anger as he chewed on the wooden wings.

The heavy oak doors of their apartment did not just open; they were thrown back with a violent, slamming force that made Daeron scream and drop his silver spoon into the dirt.

Maekar stepped into the room.

His face was a mask of absolute, unyielding stone. The deep pox scars on his jaw looked like craters in a barren landscape.

”Maekar?“ she rose from her seat, her heart dropping into her stomach like a lead weight.

”What has happened?“

Maekar did not look at the children. He kept his eyes fixed entirely on her, his turbulent violet gaze burning with a sudden, devastating dread.

”The Great Bastard has raised his banner,“ Maekar said, his voice no longer a gravelly whisper, but a harsh, ringing command that echoed off the high stone ceiling.

”Daemon Blackfyre has fled the city. The lords of the Reach, the Brackens, the Yronwoods... half the Realm has broken their vows. They call him the King Who Bore the Sword. They are marching on the Crownlands.“

The words felt like physical blows. The First Blackfyre Rebellion had begun. The silent poison that had been brewing in the corridors for years had finally erupted into open, bloody civil war.

”The King has ordered the mobilization,“ Maekar continued, his boots thudding loudly against the stone as he crossed the room toward her. He did not stop until he was standing a mere inch away, his massive presence looming over her like a dark tower.

”Baelor is gathering the host of the Stormlands and the Dorne borders. I have been given command of the Vanguard. We march before the sun hits the midday mark.“

”The Vanguard,“ she whispered, her hands rising instinctively to press against his broad chest.

”Maekar... that is the front line. That is where the blood runs deepest.“

”It has to be,“ Maekar replied, his jaw tightening until the bone looked ready to snap. He reached up, his heavy gauntlets removed, leaving his bare, scarred hands to cup her face with a sudden, desperate force.

”The Realm is tearing itself apart, my love. My brothers will speak of honor and strategy, but I know what this is. It is an execution. And I will not let them execute my family.“

He turned his head slightly, his eyes finally dropping to his two young sons.

Daeron was weeping quietly behind her skirts, terrified by the grim atmosphere.

Aerion, however, had stopped chewing on his toy. The two-year-old toddler was standing upright on the rug, his bright, volatile violet eyes staring up at his father with a strange, fearless fascination. He was not crying; his tiny fists were clenched, his mouth set in a hard, mimicry line of Maekar’s own frown.

How much Aerion resembled his father.

Maekar looked at Aerion, then back to Daeron, and finally back to her. A single, heavy tear slipped from her eye, tracking a damp path over her cheek before he wiped it away with a soft gesture.

”Keep them safe,“ Maekar commanded hoarsely, his fingers digging into her hair as he pulled her head forward, pressing his forehead against hers.

”Do not let the court near them. Do not trust the Grand Maester. Do not trust anyone who smiles too brightly. If the city falls... take them to Starfall. Run to the mountains.“

”I will keep them safe,“ she swore, her voice breaking as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers catching the padded shoulder patches.

”But you must return to me. Do you hear me, Maekar? You must return to our sons and me.“

”I will return,“ he promised, the words a grim, solemn vow—though he was not sure himself how empty that promise might be.

He leaned down, catching her lips in a final and desperate kiss to imprint the warmth of his love against his skin. It was a kiss that held only the terrifying, frantic knowledge that this might be the last time their skin would ever meet.

She was only able to watch her husband leave, leaving her and the two small children behind in their home that no longer felt safe—not without Maekar protecting them.

She was only able to stand near the mounting block, close to tears, the wind from the Blackwater whipping her hair across her teary face.

In her arms, she had held both her drastically different sons, their weights balancing the terrible, hollow emptiness expanding in her chest. Daeron had buried his face into the silk of her neck, terrified by the screaming officers and the stamping beasts, while little Aerion had stared wide-eyed at the shifting sea of horses, his tiny fists bunching her dress.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The domestic sanctuary they had built over a year of stolen nights had vanished in the span of a single heartbeat, replaced by the grim, icy reality of a Realm at war.

© simpingthroughcenturies

[castieltrash1]

Can I request Jon Snow x Lady!Reader. Arranged marriage that becomes real love?

this is so sweet ty for the req :')

jon snow x afab!reader; arranged marriage, slow burn, vague mentions of sex, mutual pining-ish i think

when you’re finally brought to the godswood, gaze averted and flecks of snow glinting between strands of hair, jon finds himself relieved. he’d known his duties from a young age so when the time to wed arrived -- a wife already chosen on his behalf -- he didn’t fight it. he tried not to imagine your appearance, but it proved difficult, and many late nights at winterfell were spent concocting an image of you in his head. not nearly as beautiful or rich as robb’s future wife, surely, but you’d be worthy of a stark bastard at least… right?

it’s odd. you’re different, but somehow more beautiful. jon can’t really explain it and he doesn’t try, not wanting to offend you. the first night is painfully awkward regardless, and he’s relieved when you both agree to take it slow for now. everything happens eventually, of course, but your patience pays off. jon considers himself lucky -- he could’ve been stuck with anyone for the rest of his life, but he had you; you, with your kind words and pretty face, practically handed to him on a silver platter. he kept waiting for you to act monstrous, assuming your beauty had to be compounded by something, anything, but it’s not. your marriage isn’t perfect, but jon enjoys figuring things out with you by his side. he likes being a united front with someone. he likes the warmth you leave on the other half of the bed, sheets smelling like the oil from your baths. he enjoys keeping you happy, noticeably fulfilled when he’s seen as a good husband and dutiful partner.

the more you go through together, the deeper jon’s feelings grow. he knows it’s happening, despite his initial attempts to ignore it. you have a lifetime together ahead of you - there’s no need for him to rush things. but the affection gnaws at him, and he can’t deny himself any longer. he loves you. by the old gods and the new, he really, truly, loves you. he hadn’t expected it, thinking any romantic dedication to you would take years to build -- if it ever even came to fruition -- but now it’s here and he almost isn’t sure what to do.

it’s been on the tip of his tongue all day. he’d nearly said it in bed the night before, limbs tangled in sheets as he stared down at you, but the words were caught in his throat. now, every time he speaks to you, the declaration begs for release, desperate for you to know the depth of his feelings. three more opportunities arise before midday, but he lasts until after dinner, when he finds you overlooking the courtyard below and feels his heart skip a beat. you turn to face him and, somehow, his gentle expression tells you everything.

“i love you.”

+ after he says it for the first time, it takes him a while to work up the courage again, even if you happily return the sentiment. it felt like a reward and he doesn’t want to spoil it. the words aren’t careless to him and he wants them to mean something, not be taken for granted. soon enough, you’ll hear it five times a day, gruffly murmured in every free moment alone. and, despite its newfound frequency, it only seems to be more genuine each time.

game of thrones weekend (reqs open!)