note- it's 2am as I write this with my fixation being back. PLEASE READ THE TAGS & SCROLL IF UNCOMFORTABLE
Aerion Targaryen is to suffer a political marriage that was made to humble him aka a forced marriage trope with Aerion
Tags: female reader, forced marriage trope, dubcon/noncon, Aerion is a warning, YANDERE, abuse, power dynamics, brief smut, lovesick!Aerion, messy timeline and inconsistent canon
Whoever catches the prince's sight would be pitied even by the devil himself. Aerion lives up to the name that was given to him. For he is so arrogant, he believes he is a dragon in a man’s body. His love, if one can even call it that, is all consuming as the fire that engulfs all.
You didn’t have the dragon’s blood, the silver hair, or the violet eyes. At least you’re not ugly. You came from a respectable house, still Aerion thought this whole match was beneath him. He was furious, livid even. Who was he to be commanded to wed some dull girl against his wishes? Aerion surely thought his father was jesting, but he has always known his father isn’t one to humor. His father’s glare was enough to silence his complaints, yet the castle was well aware of the contempt he had for you days on end, even though you have yet to utter a word to the prince.
As soon as you stepped into the red keep, you yourself could sense the prince’s displeasement. Before you were wed, the two of you were supposed forced to spend some time with one another. His mind seemed elsewhere while he showed you around. It felt as if every word, step, and breath you took irritated him further. The closest he seemed interested in you was when he spoke of the history of his house, and while you were curious, you feared inquiring may irritate him further.
The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty.
The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.
The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them.
You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable.
Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.
Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense.
Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy.
Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.
Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.
It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you.
There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.
Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.
You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.
Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.
When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.
Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.
You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.
Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father.
Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does.
Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight, laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time.
Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.
Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.
Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them.
Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened.
Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing.
And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave.
There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness.
There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man.
Then come the days when you feel unwell. Unable to stand the food that was once your comfort. Even the very scent of King’s landing upsets your stomach. Your body most particularly your breasts feel sore and your mood has proven to be very irritable. The maesters confirm what you have begun to suspect. You are with child.
Pairing: Valarr "The Young Prince" Targaryen x wife!reader
Summary: After a political betrothal and a beautiful, prosperous wedding, you and your new husband were granted a few weeks of alone time, a sort of honeymoon, at Summerhall. Turns out you like him more than you thought you would.
Inspo: Summerboy — Lady Gaga
This work contains: 2.2k words, nsfw, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, kissing/making out, fingering kinda?, inexperienced!Valarr and inexperienced!reader, missionary position, talk about heirs/children, both of them are definitely in love with each other, softdom!Valarr (he's so dear to me), reader is from an unspecified noble house and has no specific physical features (except for female anatomy), not proof read, english isn't my first language
Speaking...: it's wednesday and I haven't even watched episode 5 yet bc I've been so busy... blasphemy. Also I think I forgot how to write good smut💔
»I vow to love and care for you until we grow old.« was the first thing your new husband had said to you once you were left alone in your new, private chambers.
Marriage to you was all about gold, power and alliances, yet you were pretty excited to find out your betrothed was a Targaryen. The heir of the heir. You've only ever heard good things about Valarr — about how dutiful he is and how he's much like his father. Everyone always speaks of a kind young man when describing him... someone who apparently hasn't fallen victim to the curse of every new Targaryen being born more mad than the last.
But, again, it was all about gold, power and alliences. You were only granted to see him once before the wedding and after that you were shipped off to King's Landing permanently.
It was as they said — Valarr was very responsible of his duties and tried his best to be a good husband to you. To be honest, it didn't seem like neither of you really understood what it meant to be wife and husband, you're only somewhat twenty years old. The prince wouldn't touch you on your wedding night, saying it was important for you to feel comfortable first since he wouldn't take what wasn't his to begin with. He's very hard to hate indeed, so you thought it'd be easy to fall in love with him over time.
The real spark either of you felt was during you honeymoon at Summerhall. Summerhall was such a heavenly place, like it was blessed by the seven above themselves. The castle, used by the Targaryens as a mere summer house, is located near the foothills of the Red Mountains, tucked away in the Dornish Marches of the Southeast. Day seemed to last forever in this place and the warmth of the sun never faded. It was the perfect location for a honeymoon with all it's beautiful gardens and the lake right in front of it.
Valarr was pretty enthusiastic when the both of you arrived and immediately pulled you with him to show you his favorite places around the castle. Many days were spent sleeping in and waking at whatever hour your body felt like, letting yourself get pampered by gettinf the first taste of a true royal life — Not having to do anything at all. It was always "You have maids for that".. it appeared as if you wouldn't even had to walk if you had asked to be carried around.
Valarr's favorite thing to do with you was to take you on a walk at dawn, when the wind would pick up and the air would get crispy. Summer was the best season, in his opinion, especially now that he got to spend it with you. He wasn't mad your marriage was a marriage of convenience. Not at all even. You looked exceptionally beautiful in the low orange glow of the setting sun and you spoke just as softly as silk — He would take your hand into his, smoothing over the back of your hand with his thumb, while just listening to you ramble on about anything you had on your mind. And when you would squeeze his hand back, Valarr's breath would hitch and he'd feel his cheeks get flushed like a kid in love for the first time.
»Are you feeling unwell?« you asked immediately after you noticed the redness on his face wasn't caused by how the sunlight hit his skin. »No! I mean.. no, I'm feeling just fine. Don't worry about me.« The sound of your laughter that followed after won't ever leave his mind.
When Valarr would invite you to sit outside with him, somewhere private within the gardens where you wouldn't be bothered by any guards (Who were actually supposed to stay as close to you as they could for emergency situations), you felt like you finally understood what teenage love was all about.
Granted, he is your husband already so it may sound strange, but seeing his boyish smile and hearing him laugh so freely and genuinely while you miserably try to teach him how to make a flower crown just did things to your feelings.
When looking at Valarr, watching his mismatched eyes lock onto yours, being so close you could count the little freckled that littered his nose, he looked like a faint, small melody being played on a wooden harp with strings fine like angelhair and pretty things carved into it. It was strange, but maybe that's just how it felt like when you liked someone a lot.
You'd sometimes dissociate when looking at him: »Hah, is something wrong again? Tell me how not to mess this up, please.« Valarr asked you with a grin, meaning the half-done flower crown, made out of baby blue forget-me-nots, in his hands. »No.. it looks great.«
»Then I'm glad. I want it to be yours when I'm done.«
Evenings were just as tranquil. This time around, your husband found you leaning over the opened window of your shared chambers, just watching the world outside the castle. The sun had already gone down, yet the sky wasn't quite dark just yet. It had been a more cloudy day today, which only made the wind stronger as night came closer. You were already in your white, flowy nightgown that he had gifted you before.
The heavy footsteps behind you already alerted you of Valarr's presence, yet you still jumped out of your skin when he suddenly wrapped his arms around your middle from behind — The rather broad plane of his chest pressed against your back, his breathing syncing up with yours. »What is it that you're watching, love?« He let his chin rest on your shoulder, making his voice ring two times louder through your ear.
With a small tilt you had leaned your head against his, just shrugging his question off. You found yourself liking the new nickname he gave you — And Valarr said it in a way which suggested he actually meant it. »Nothing in particular.«
The silence between the two of you was comfortable and didn't feel nearly as awkward as it did just a few weeks ago. Your breathing slowly synced up with his, chest rising when his did and heart beating as fast as his did as well. It didn't take long before Valarr turned his head towards you and start littering kisses along your jaw and behind your ear. All you did was lean into his touch with a knowing grin, letting him push your hair out of the way to continue to kiss down your neck.
When attraction came natrually, it meant the pressing duty of needing an heir as soon as possible also wasn't as suffocating as you had thought. You didn't have to force yourself to turn around to face your husband, to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a fierce kiss (as you had already imagined yourself doing basically all day) or to let him press his knee in between your thighs. No, you wanted this and nothing more currently.
Valarr's hands gripped and groped at the soft flesh of your breasts and ass all the while kissing you like he wouldn't get the chance to do it again — It was clear he still was just as inexperienced as you were, apparently having kept his honor as a prince who hasn't bedded a whore yet unlike some before him. His lips melted against yours in a rush and the heat of the moment, not allowing even himself to take his time. His hands followed the curve of your spine up to the back of your head where he held you in place while finally breaking the kiss off in the need for some air.
You had to chuckle: »What has gotten you in this rush?« and Valarr couldn't really tell what it was either. Perhaps it was the fact he now has such a beautiful wife to do all kinds of things with or maybe it was because.. a woman in general was in front of him, but that's beside the point.
»You just.. I.. you—« The princeling was cut off again by you just shaking your head and pressing your lips onto his again.
And by the gods, he felt like an animal the way he whipped you around — towards the bed — and how he started to hastly undress you and himself. It didn't even matter that the marriage was already consummated anyway. This felt new and exciting and Valarr couldn't help the raw need and lust he felt you — Well, neither could you.
Your head had found a comfortable place upon the soft pillows on your shared bed, hair looking disheveled and lips all pink and swollen just like his, while he was still busy kissing your whole, naked, body. You were a piece of art and he couldn't stop admiring you — Valarr's hands had already mapped out the entirety of your body and he needed to do it again and again to burn the feeling into his memory. »I never tell you enough how beautiful you are..« he murmured into your ear, while his right hand clumsily tried to find your soft spot between your opened legs to give into your whining. At some point you just took his hand and coordinated the pad of his thumb to press against your clit and wordlessly animated him to drag slow circles om it. His eyes tipped down to look at what he's doing, making you giggle at how starstruck he seemed.
Valarr truly had no idea what he was doing — All he knew was that what he was doing was making you feel good and how badly he needed to be inside of your sweet, warm velvet walls right now.
His tongue teasingly swept over one of your sensitive nipples all the while he still dragged his middle and ring finger through your wet folds and back up to your clit again, as if only to make you go even crazier in need. You kept mewling and withering underneath him, pleading and begging for him to finally do something.
You only needed to repeat yourself once, mewling out a pathetic »Please, my prince« before he gently eased the tip of his hard, pre-cum leaking cock into your pussy. The feeling of your wet walls clamping down on his length was almost enough to make Valarr whine himself — The two of you were chest to chest, his weight pressing you down further into the mattress the more he moved his hips against yours, and he rested his forehead against yours in an instant in what felt like an attempt to fuse together. Goosebumps were visible on your skin the faster and sloppier he drilled his cock into your wet cunt and the sounds it made was just obscene.
»Fuck, you.. you're amazing.« Valarr wasn't one to swear, but things just started to bubble out if his mouth especially when you wrapped your legs around his waist to allow his movements reach that one sweet, spongey spot deep inside of you. Your husbands lips immediately sought out yours the louder you started to moan, just to swallow the sound and keep it all to himself. In this moment you were quite thankful no other members of his family were currently with you at Summerhall.
But the more you felt yourself close to your release, the less still you were able to keep yourself — Your head whipped from side to side, your mind undeniably clouded with pleasure just as much as Valarr's was. The snap of his hips suddenly became erratic, finally undoing the knot you felt lower belly. Just a few thrusts later you could practically feel thick ropes of cum coat your inner walls white. Valarr whined your name right into your ear when he came, with his eyebrows furrowed like he was about to cry from the pleasure.
The sweat made your babyhair stick to your forehead and your face felt uncomfortably flushed, even after a couple of minutes had passed. Your pussy was still pulsating around Valarr's length for which he had no strength to pull out just yet. He had just collapsed on top of you without another word and let you wrap your arms around his bare shoulders and rake your fingers through his hair. He wanted nothing but this right now — To be in your embrace and to savour the small, sweet little kisses you pressed onto his forehead.
The prince slowly lifted his head from the crook of your neck just to look at your pretty face: »I do think I love you, you know?« he said in a low voice, though his tone suggested he was being genuine. You smiled at him, eyes looking straight into his.
— summary: if he sits like that, he really shouldn't expect you not to jump on him right there.
— word count: 1k
— content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), he's so big, smitten!dunk, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, riding, some porn with some plot, body worship, he talks to you through it!!! praise kink, sub!dunk. i looked at that scene and wrote this in the span of literally ten minutes, stay with me on this😭
You know he's not doing it on purpose; quite the opposite, Dunk is naive and innocent, which is precisely why you love him so much and would go to the ends of the universe for him.
He doesn't sit like that to entice you because you both know you can have him whenever you want, but still, you love it when he sits like that, with his legs spread wide, his big hands propped up on his thick thighs, the tanned skin on his forearms glowing faintly under the flickering light of the campfire in front of him, his sleeves rolled up, his bulging muscles flexing beneath his skin every time his long fingers bring his wine glass to his mouth.
He's talking to you enthusiastically about... shields? Spears? You have no idea because you're busy drooling over him as you sit pretty on the other side of the little fire.
Sitting like that, Duncan looks so big, so broad. He's such a man!
When you see him sitting like that, it's hard not to get excited and jump on him.
And poor Dunk doesn't really know why you're suddenly so passionate, climbing onto his lap as if you were conquering a mountain, kissing his neck and whispering sweet words of praise onto his skin, fragrant with his masculine scent. But who could possibly be so foolish as to refuse your attention?
“L–love?” He clears his throat as he calls for you, his long fingers caressing your lower back as he simply lets himself be pampered by you, chirping like a happy little bird, “may I ask the reason for this sudden outburst of affection?”
He is such a gentleman and just so good.
“You're so handsome and big, Dunk,” you tell him in awe, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
And he blushes, of course, tilting his head away from yours so he can look you in the eyes, searching for some sign in your expression that might suggest you are just teasing him, but why would you tease him about that?
Your lips are plump from all the kisses you've showered on his skin, taking your time on every freckle and mole and scar you find on his upper body.
“Does that— does that arouse you?” Dunk asks, his voice dropping sheepishly as he speaks.
You smile coquettishly, your fingers caressing his warm, flushed cheek. “It arouses me to see you like this and to know you’re mine.”
All yours.
He considers all the men who would love to be in his shoes, with a glass of fine wine in one hand and the other appreciatively caressing the finest ass in all of Westeros, as you, the most stunning woman in the world, bounce on his lap like a savage beast, drawing out hoarse moans from deep within his throat with every twirl of your merciless hips.
The fat tip of his cock drags heavily inside you, forcing its way open through your tight, gummy walls. He's so deep you can feel it in your fucking throat.
“That's it,” is never shy to keep whispering praises at your neck, kissing affectionately the point where your shoulder meets your collarbone, running his tongue over a drop of sweat rolling down your skin and moistening it some more with his saliva. He really loves when you take control and simply having to sit back and enjoy the view. “You do it so well, my love. Fuck— still so bloody tight— uhh— just like that”
Barely does his deep voice stand out above the lewd sounds of your sexes joining, flesh slamming against flesh, so wet, so filthy.
“So fuckin’ big,” you whine out, yet you take every inch of him all the way down like the good girl you are, sitting nice and pretty on his lap, your bum pressing down on his heavy balls. Your hands squeeze his broad shoulders, seeking to catch his gaze amidst the shadows of the night. “Dunk—
“Hmm?” he hums in response to your little cry immediately, croakily. Then he kisses your neck, your forehead, your nose, and your lips, “I’ve got you, love. I always got you. So good for me.”
And from there, he'll take care of the rest. He'll drop the cup of his dear wine to get a good grip on your plump buttocks, squeezing your hips, rocking you up and down on his cock, up and down, like a weightless little doll.
Your man is so strong, yet so gentle with you.
Dunk can't stop kissing you! He kisses your tear-streaked face clean to taste the exquisite blend of your teardrops and sweat. He loves the taste of you.
He is devoted to satisfying and pampering you, so naturally your pleasure comes before his own. He ensures that you finish at least twice before he does, a set of intrusive fingers stimulating your sensitive clit, pressing between your soaked folds, sucking on your perky nipples.
“You're so small, so gorgeous... all mine, y–yeah?”
His cock is stretching you out so much that if you look down, you can see the outline of it poking out from the inside of your belly every time he thrusts all the way in.
Dunk glances at it too, and that's all it takes to push him to climax.
He cums so much that he quickly fills you up. Your abused cunt is oozing with cum, greedily milking him absolutely dry and sucking in as much of his seed as she can.
His thick thighs tense and then relax under your body as he keeps spurting loads of his warm seed deep inside your womb. His hands are lovingly running over your flesh, holding you as you collapse exhausted and happy onto him, snuggling up close to his pecs that you love so much.
summary — your sister is betrothed to a prince you are hopelessly in love with. you are being forced to marry the worst targaryen of the lot. choice is no longer a simple pleasure, but a stolen freedom. (11.2k)
featured — prince baelor "breakspear" targaryen / fem!stark!reader
content — no spoilers for akotsk, this is the second part of a series linked below, kate sharma/anthony bridgerton dynamic but your sister is evil, reader is a stark bastard called "lady snow", implied age gap, aerion is still an ass, technically infidelity?, smut MDNI (18+), baelor is a consent king, implied virgin!reader, p in v, in a semi-public place, fingering, big dick break my back baelor, 2k words just of smut what have i become
a/n — only 10 years in the making, but it's finally here (: thank you all for your patience, i hope you enjoy <3
(cross-posted on ao3) (part one)
The deep grain of the wood table feels cold to the touch. The candles flicker and dance across your vision, playing in the stale air that does nothing but steal the very breath from out your lungs. A rack of braised lamb sits on a gold platter in front of you, honeyed glaze dripping off the red meat, tempting you to try a bite, but your stomach is so tightly twisted in knots you do not think you can.
You keep your eyes planted on the twisted wood beneath your hands. It grounds you in a way that nothing else is capable of doing at the moment. You trace the swirling texture as it moves forward in a straight line, then as it suddenly takes the plunge and falls and disappears beneath the velvet tablecloth stretched across the table.
You suddenly hear a chorus of laughter that draws your eyes up from the deep maroon to where your sister has her seat at the end of the table. Her entire face is filled with glee, mouth stretched wide and her eyes shaped into little squints. Any other observer would not catch the tremble in her hands, nor the way that her grin does not meet her eyes, nor the way her gaze never goes past where Aerion sits beside you in a stubborn attempt at forgetting your existence altogether.
You bring your hands away from the table and begin to thread and twist your fingers together in the hope that some kind of movement might distract your frenzied mind.
Across from you, your father picks at the lamb in front of him. His mouth is set in a hard line. You are not sure what bothers him, but you imagine it is probably in some way related to you.
Your eyes drift away from him and back to your sister. She lifts her hand and puts it on her betrothed’s shoulder. You cannot bring yourself to sneak a glance at Baelor’s reaction to the show of affection for you fear that you might see something there you could not shake.
Lyanna has not said a word to you. It has been two days since she saw you kiss her betrothed. Every instance you have tried to corner her in the hall or approach her in her chambers or seek her out after meals, she has always evaded you with curt words and carefully controlled mannerisms. She does not show her anger to you, nor does she allow herself to feel any other emotion she has so clearly hidden from you. She cannot even bring herself to look at you.
It hurts more than you could care to admit. Despite the fact Lyanna has never been or ever will be your full sister, she has always been there. In this tumultuous life, she has always been your one and only constant. The one person who did not look at you with outright scorn. Now, you find yourself wishing that she could at least look at you. You would bear her anger easily if it meant ridding yourself of this cold indifference.
You cannot blame her. You cannot fully say that if you were in her position, you would not have immediately gone to father and had her removed from the castle. You tell yourself that perhaps Lyanna did harbor some kind of fondness toward you, but another part of you thinks that she is just biding her time to ruin you the way only a sister could. Irrevocably.
The fear prickles at the back of your neck and keeps your body from completely relaxing. You feel like a hare in the midst of a den of dragons, each person out for the kill. You shift in your seat uncomfortably and notice in your peripheral your nervy behavior has brought unwelcome attention.
“If I did not know better,” Aerion’s voice is hardly more than a mumble as he speaks this to you from where he sits at your side, “I would think you were not happy about our betrothal dinner.”
You turn your head in his direction ever so slightly, if only just to keep your eyes planted on him at all times. Your throat bobs dryly as you force yourself to swallow. It feels like sandpaper. You twist your lips into a smile to hide your unease.
“You are very astute,” you say to him. “Though, it is less the dinner I’m worried about as it is the betrothal itself.” Screw it, if Aerion wanted you dead, he’d just have to get in line at this point.
He lets out a dry chuckle. He stabs a piece of near-raw lamb with his knife and you watch as red liquid comes pouring out of the meat’s pores, falling onto the gold plate in maroon rivulets. His jaw flexes beneath his skin.
He does not look at you. His mouth barely moves as he speaks again. “If we are to be wed,” he mumbles, “I think there are some things we should make clear.”
You pinch the fabric of your dress together between your nails, willing yourself to rid them of their incessant shake.
“You are to be my wife,” Aerion bites out, “and therefore you will not show me anything but respect. You will lay down and take me in every sense of the word like the good half-breed whore you are.”
The words do not shake you. You had expected it, or at least some version of it. Your eyes go back to your sister. She’s smiling at Baelor like she really means it. It is not fake compassion, it is genuine affection. Even if she does not care for him romantically, she can at least tolerate him. She will not have to “lay down and take” Baelor. Not in the way you will Aerion, at least.
Your eyes slide back to your betrothed. He’s taking a long drink from his goblet, his eyes shut in bliss at the liberation the liquid affords him. You watch as one droplet of the ruby libation slips from his mouth and down his neck and as it clashes against his pale skin and wonder what it would be like to see his entire neck covered in the same color.
Your eyes widen and you force them away from him the moment the treacherous thoughts enter your consciousness.
The sound of a knife clattering against a goblet sends the table into a hushed silence at the same time. Your eyes get drawn to the middle of the table wherein Prince Maekar stands from his seat with a flourish.
You notice King Daeron’s eyes go from his son to across the faces gathered before they land on you. Something flickers in his expression. The taut wrinkles around his periwinkles eyes soften before they flit to the next person.
You swallow thickly.
“I just want to say how wonderful it is that we are seeing the joining of the Stark and Targaryen in not one, but two unions,” Maekar says with a grin. It is an uncomfortable expression on his face. You get the impression it is not one he makes often. “I believe that the joining of my brother and Lady Stark, along with the union between my son and Lady Snow to be the start of a very long, fruitful legacy.”
Maekar taps his knife against his goblet once more before he sits down. Your father pats his shoulder in a friendly manner and they begin to speak in hushed, jovial tones.
You cannot imagine what you and Aerion look like compared to the happy couple at the end of the table. Are they just as miserable, down beneath their bright expressions? You cannot control your fleeting will to see your sister’s face in that moment and allow your eyes to dart over there.
What you land on instead makes your breath catch.
One periwinkle, one brown eye stare at you from at the end of the table. His expression is soft, compassionate. His beard moves as his lips twitch upwards incrementally at the edges. You force your eyes away just as you notice Lyanna’s hand falling upon his forearm.
You suddenly feel horribly, violently ill.
It comes over you so quickly that your feet move before you can stop them. Your chair pushes out from behind you with a loud screech that sends eyes from every corner of the room landing on your figure.
“Is something the matter?” your father’s voice holds a warning in it that a part of you would ordinarily heed. In your current mind, however, all you can manage is turning your head away.
“If I could be e-excused, My Grace?” you look to King Daeron as you say this. His light eyes squint at your figure. “I suddenly do not feel so well.”
The lie tumbles from your lips so fluently that you are momentarily surprised by it. Lying to a king, no less. How far you have fallen.
“Of course, dear,” Daeron says, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “Do you require any maesters?”
You shake your head mutely. Your skin feels flushed from the holes that your father’s gaze burns into it.
You go to leave, stretching your slick palms across your gown as you spin away from the table. You try to escape without incident, but you do not move quite fast enough.
“Perhaps Lady Snow may require an escort to her chambers?”
You turn your head to the side only for them to fall on Prince Maekar. He’s turned away from you, looking pointedly to his second eldest son, who’s currently slouched in his chair pretending he’s anywhere but here, you’re sure.
You move to reply before Aerion can get the chance to. “It really is not necessary. I would hate to disturb the dinner for some stomachache.”
“Nonsense,” Maekar replies with a grin. His son still isn’t looking at him, instead stirring the maroon liquid in his goblet idly. His lips pull slightly down at the corners, his eyes narrowing with thinly veiled annoyance.
“Aerion?” he finally beckons. His second son finally looks at his father, then he looks at you.
He rolls his eyes away, and apparently emboldened by the maroon liquid in his goblet he says, “she can escort herself just fine. She’s got two legs and a sound mind, does she not?”
At the response, Prince Maekar looks like he is just one moment away from launching across the table and throttling his son.
You burn with mortification. Tears bead at your waterline and you force your gaze away from the shocked spectators. You duck your head and take a few steps away.
You are stopped again by yet another voice’s interference. Of the Gods Old and New, could you not be put out of your misery?
“—Brother,” you hear someone all-too familiar say from across the table. You shiver at the gentle lilt that rounds off his words, at the softened edges of kindness and wisdom that accent his word. It is the first thing he’s said in your presence since it happened. You do not turn your head. “I would be happy to escort Lady Snow.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to mentally will Prince Baelor from saying anything more. It will only make this worse, you think in vain. Can he truly not see that he will be killing any chance of a relationship with Lyanna by doing this?
Maekar barely raises his eyes away from where he watches Aerion. His eyes reflect confusion muddled by annoyance. He looks over at you and you try your best to convey to him the fact that this is the absolute last thing he should allow. But the words get lost in translation. Maekar shrugs and you hear the screech of Baelor’s chair pushing away from the table shortly thereafter.
You do not look at him as he joins your side, but you can feel the heat emanating off of him like the fireplace in your quarters. You keep your distance from him as you take the initiative to go to the doors of the dining hall.
There is a quiet space between the two of you as you walk side by side through the halls of the Red Keep. Everything feels wrong. The fabric of your dress rubs gratingly against your skin. Your mouth is still coated in the plain wine from the dinner. A cold drip of sweat goes down your neck.
Nothing is said immediately. Nothing has to be. The silence does enough. You think that you can breathe easily knowing you will not have to breach it.
Then, comes his voice.
“I suppose I should apologise,” Baelor murmurs. He keeps his eyes stubbornly in front of him as he walks, avoiding your probing gaze. “It was… unbecoming of me to do what I did that day. I recognize that I have caused irreparable harm to your relationship with Lady Lyanna, and for that I am distraught. I never wished to cause you harm… you or Lyanna.”
You feel something inside you break. Saltwater pushes against your waterline, searching for the least bit of resistance to escape and fall across your cheeks. You do not allow it, clenching your jaw stubbornly. That would be saved for the comfort of your quarters.
“It is just fine.” Your voice sounds meek, not at all carrying the strength you had hoped. “We both made mistakes.”
You feel his eyes on the side of your face before you see them in your periphery. He freezes in his stride, and you pause, eyebrows furrowed.
“I…” he starts, his throat bobbing, “I do not wish to give you the impression what we did… I did not think of it as a mistake.”
You do not reply immediately. Your heart stutters painfully, fighting against the confines of your restrictive bodice. Everything within you aches. It is the very last thing you had wanted him to say. The scorn, you could handle. The fear, the anger, the disgust, the regret, that you could handle. The way he stood before you now, his heart in his hands, reaching out for you to take it within yours, scared the shit out of you.
He backtracks when you do not reply. He clears his throat. “And of course, I understand that this is not something that can continue. You are at much greater risk than I. I also do not want to be presumptuous…”
“Baelor,” you interrupt, taking a few steps forward. He stops. His eyes soften and a hand comes to cup your cheek. You clasp it within your own two palms, preventing him from making contact. You hold his palm between yours against his chest. He squeezes your hand.
“I cannot be your mistress,” you say. His mouth opens to combat the notion, but you shake your head and he allows you to continue. “You say it would not be so, but I would be in the eyes of everyone else. I am a bastard. I am not ashamed of that, but the world will never let me forget it.” A tear flees from your eye and you watch his eyes trace it down your cheek. “You helped me realize I am more than just my name. I thank you for that. But you must realize… we cannot… we can never exist together.”
You drop his hand. “Lyanna is a good, virtuous woman. I have no doubts she will make a fine wife and an even better future queen.”
Baelor shudders. His jaw clenches as if holding back every emotion from stealing across his visage. You take a step back before you are dissuaded.
“Good night,” you say softly. “I can make it to my quarters from here. Go back to your betrothed.”
You leave before you can see his face fall.
The thing about sisters is that no matter what happens to cause a rift, one will eventually come crawling on their knees asking for forgiveness. You had tried that. Multiple times, even.
Any attempt to reconcile differences between you and Lyanna had been dashed by impromptu dinner plans, arrangements with septas, and other hurried excuses. She needed space, she told you once. Well, you had spent plenty of time holed up in your room between now and then. She needed time, you had given it freely. She couldn’t ignore you forever… could she?
No. You decide that morning as a young handmaiden helps tie a cerulean dress around your waist. You will not allow your one friendship to wither away because of some inane… horrible… thoughtless mistake. You and Lyanna, you were sisters. Men cannot come between sisters.
Just as you begin to ponder on how and where you will corner her, your handmaiden breaks through your thoughts with a soft, tremulous voice.
“Mi’lady, I heard Princess Daella has sought you and Lady Lyanna’s company this morrow over tea. Would you like an escort there?”
A grin sweeps over your expression before you can school it. The handmaiden looks startled at the sudden change from solemn contemplation to jovial exuberance. You school your features.
“Yes, that sounds lovely,” you say, barely containing your anticipatory grin, “take me right away.”
For the first time in the two days since you destroyed whatever buds of relationship had formed between you and Prince Baelor, a sense of hope and delight lead your strides. The servant girl shows you to a secluded part of the Red Keep, overlooking a small sector of the royal gardens. You slow your pace once you catch a glimpse of the two heads huddled closely together under the protection of a blooming hibiscus.
One has soft, silver hair that is braided in a crown on her head. The other has dark rivulets that shine under the morning sun. Whatever it is they speak of, it fades as they catch your eye. Your heart sinks at the silence. Sinks even further as your sister regards you with cold indifference and as Daella smiles sympathetically.
You take a seat across from the two girls and dismiss your handmaiden with a quick nod. Another servant quickly steps forth to pour a steaming, honey-colored liquid into your teacup.
You cross your hands within your lap nervously, looking between the two girls across from you.
“I appreciate you for thinking of me, princess,” you say once you realize no one else is going to say anything. “It is always a pleasure to be in your presence.”
Princess Daella offers a soft smile, but does not say anything.
“We were just speaking of our favorite childhood stories,” Lyanna says, her pale fingers curling around her cup possessively, as if even that she worried you would steal. “Do you want to hear the one I was about to tell Princess Daella?”
Your first instinct is to frown. Though it feels good to have Lyanna’s attention back on you, something gnaws at you. Her eyes. The expression reminds you of her mother. Her cruel words and her cold visage. You take a small sip of your drink to try to keep fear from twisting your features.
“Okay,” you reply even though the words feel like a hurdle to overcome, “I hope nothing too terrible.”
Lyanna does not reply. Instead, she turns to Daella. “She was always an unruly child. From the moment father brought her home, she was unfettered by social decorum. Father said she cried for three weeks straight, even the nursemaids couldn’t soothe her.”
“I had a cold,” you interject, hurt, though Daella’s lips curl with amusement all the same.
“A dire wolf with a cold,” Lyanna says with a laugh, before it halts in her throat as a devious thought forms. “Though I suppose that can be attributed to the fact you are only half one.”
You feel mortification burn at the fringes of your consciousness. Daella does not laugh at that. Her wide eyes flick between Lyanna and you, biting her bottom lip between perfect teeth.
“She was always outside. She often came home after dark, completely covered in mud, twigs, and leaves. Guards would sometimes not let her in at night because they thought she was some peasant girl.”
You know where this story is leading. You avert your eyes to the sight of a large blue butterfly flitting outside the castle walls.
“One night she was locked out,” Lyanna continues despite your discomfort, her dark eyes gleaming, “we found her in the morning. She was curled in a ball outside. And what did she have in her hand?”
“Please, Lyanna,” you say, something like desperation in your voice.
She ignores it. “She was so hungry, she ate a rat. All that was left of it when we found her, crumpled in her hand? The thin, pink tail.”
The princess’s face falls. A flush covers her cheeks, periwinkle eyes wide. She has never heard such a thing before because she has never experienced desperation. She has never heard of fear, of loneliness, of the kind of ostracization that led a young girl to kill and eat a rat.
You keep your eyes on your lap even as Daella stands.
“I have lessons,” Daella says, though you think it is just an attempt to escape the stifling tension brewing. Or perhaps she was just disgusted by the story, understandable either way.
The young girl ducks her head and shuffles away. Two handmaidens high-tail it after her in a flurried blur.
Silence falls like a blanket of snow. Frigid and impenetrable. You clench your teeth together so hard an ache forms at your temples.
“Did you like that feeling?” Lyanna finally says.
Your eyes dart to meet hers. She does not look like herself. Something has come over her. Some kind of predatory delight. The face only a dire wolf could make–and you, the hare stuck between her paws.
“That feeling of disgust? Of mortification?”
Your eyes slide shut. You feel blood rushing in your ears.
“Good,” she continues. Your eyes snap open again. “Because that is exactly how you made me feel when you kissed my betrothed.”
You hear a gasp from behind you. Your eyes dart to find a handmaiden staring with wide eyes. The kind of eyes one has when watching a man be impaled in a tourney.
“Do not fret.” Lyanna’s lips curl to reveal two sharp, gleaming canines. “They won’t tell. Not if they want to keep their tongues, that is.”
An idle threat, but it serves its purpose. The handmaiden ducks her head, hiding her shaking hands by clutching them to her front.
“You truly are not going to tell anyone?” Your voice sounds soft, so unlike your usual grit. You have been defeated. Who were you to think Lyanna would accept you with open arms? She had never been so forgiving. Not to anyone, not even you. Hardened by the heat of the Red Keep to a figure you no longer recognized.
Lyanna lets out a sharp laugh. “Tell father? And what purpose would that serve me?”
You swallow thickly. “You could have me on the streets in two days. You could have me ruined, gone from your life.”
You freeze as you consider the darkness lingering in her eyes, and realization crawls upon you like ivy tangling around your throat. “But… I’m exactly where you want me.”
“And I thought you were the smart one.” Lyanna takes a long sip of her tea. “Took you long enough to realize that.”
“But why?” you ask, “are you not worried someone will find out?”
Lyanna leans forward on the table. Her arm, ice cold and ironclad, comes upon your hand. You tremble beneath the weight of her stare.
“You will not tell if you know what is good for you,” she tells you. “Because you are smart. You know what your future holds, and honestly? I’m excited to see how it treats you.”
You swallow thickly at the implication. You remember Aerion’s threat. Your mouth fills with copper as you bite your lip.
“Besides,” she says, “I don’t give two shits what you do with my betrothed. Fuck him, kiss him, make him fall in love you with you. I don’t care.”
Your eyes widen and dart to meet hers.
She’s grinning. Her canines catch the light of the morrow, casting a grim shadow across her maw. “Because I’m the one marrying him. I’m the one that’s going to be a queen. You? He’d never have you when he could have me.”
You stare at her grinning face blankly. It feels like something has died within you, some kind of childish naïvety. You had finally done it. Ruined the one person that loved you.
Lyanna realizes this. She is enthralled by your suffering, the micro expressions flitting over your face. She stands once she’s had her fill of your misery. She waves a handmaiden to her side and saunters away.
You stare at the two teacups left across from you in stunned silence. Loneliness is nothing new to you. It is as close to your heart as its own beat, and yet, you feel the hurt all the same. Perhaps you had never known true loneliness before this, only an illusion of it.
You leave once your tea grows cold and you feel that you can properly support yourself upon standing.
The walk back to your quarters is a daze. You stumble behind the door and shut it tightly behind you. You feel the urge to cry, but no tears come. The lack of emotion confuses you.
Lyanna is your sister, she had been raised as such (albeit with clear distinctions made between you two) and yet, you do not feel as though you have lost much. You have lost a friend, certainly. The only one you had. But you were beginning to think, perhaps, you did not really like friends. In theory, they are nice. It is quite fun to have someone to talk to that understands you on an intimate level, that cares for you. But in practice, they are just… messy.
They end up betraying you like you did to Lyanna. Or you just end up kissing them, like Baelor did to you. You muse on this thought as you call a handmaiden to fetch you a bottle of wine. She goes without question. She’d seen the argument, she knew best not to question your motives.
You take a swig of the wine and wipe the back of your mouth with your hand. Perhaps the problem with Lyanna is that she wasn’t a friend. You take another sip. You truly can’t remember the last time you and Lyanna talked about something you wanted. It was all about her, her, her. Another long drink. And what about that condescending look when you tried to fit in with her? She was just as bad as her father. She just didn’t want to admit it. Another drink. She didn’t deserve Baelor. You didn’t either, though.
You are not sure how much time passes with you nursing this bottle of Dornish wine. It feels simultaneously like an hour as it does just a few minutes. You finish the bottle and put it down on the table. Or you think you do, but then it rolls across the floor so it must have not.
You stand and immediately regret it. Your head hurts. Everything is swimming around you. You have never felt this horrible in your life. You clutch your stomach as you hobble to the other side of the room.
You do cry then. It bubbles out of you like a fresh tap. Tears pour out of your eyes, your nose, probably every orifice on your face.
You stand there crying until you think you have released every bit of water in your system onto the hardwood floor. You turn your head and stumble, catching your hand on the dresser beside you to prevent yourself from falling.
Everything is wrong. You thought it was wrong before, but it is worse now. Nothing will be the same again.
You hear something break through your self-wallowing and tilt your head toward the noise. It is so soft you barely hear it. You frown and drunkenly stumble to the left. You cannot pinpoint the noise’s direction.
It stops. Then, you hear it again.
As you focus on the noise cutting through your cotton-filled head, you realize it sounds like voices. You creep toward the source of the sound, and end up at your slightly cracked window. You peer closer out into the gilded garden and a stagnant air licks at your skin. The view you have of the royal gardens is half-way obscured by a large tree that branches and winds toward your window. However your ears are sharp and you can hear the click of boots falling against brick before you see two long shadows darting across the ground.
You sit underneath your window sill and pull your knees to your chest, relying on your ears to tell you who it is.
You cannot see the speaker, but you recognize the voice immediately. Baelor.
“…Nyke ju'thtnos gaomagon daor vēdagon ūja wï’zérys.” (I just do not think it wise).
Your drunken mind scrambles. There are only a few people he could be talking to that understand High Valriyan. Even fewer situations that would require use of it over the common tongue. Whatever it is he spoke of, it must have required secrecy.
“Kepa emagon ael'rheaedyā aep'prróvëdā jentorysor. Daorun kostion sagon tatagon.” The second voice is one you distantly identify as belonging to Prince Maekar. You can only tell because his voice carries a deep grumble. You can see his disapproving frown clearly in your mind’s eye. (Father has already approved the union. Nothing can be done).
You dig your fingers into your sides, trying desperately to make sense of what it was you were hearing. Union? Marriage — it must be. But which…?
They must have begun walking again. Their voices are more distant now.
“Zirȳ issa baz'thárrdza. Gaomagon Aeær’yónnā drēje wa'nthrys kesīr?” Baelor’s voice is soft, diplomatic. But it hesitates on that word… “baz'thárrdza.” Your drunken mind does not have to search for long to find the translation. It was one of the first you learned all those years ago—bastard. (She is a bastard. Does Aerion want this?)
Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage. You close your eyes and will yourself to stop listening. To spare yourself from hearing Baelor’s true thoughts of you. Thoughts that were not yours to partake in.
“Muña issa rôll'ynngrys rȳ zirȳla grh'aevënos. Th'ínkéā skorī gaomagon ao cha'urreā abó'ûdhnos ón'ë’thva parr'éndhzza?” (Mother is rolling over in her grave. Since when do you care about one’s parentage?)
There is a lapse in conversation. You think for a moment they have gone too far out of your hearing range. Then, Maekar’s voice comes again, louder, and no longer under the Valriyan ruse. You worry your lip hard beneath your teeth.
“Ah, but you do not care, do you?” his voice trails off with a disbelieving laugh. “You just want the girl for yourself.”
Your breathing gets halted in your throat. Your stomach rolls with sickness and anticipatory nerves. You cup a hand around your mouth, willing the nausea to dissipate.
“…It does not matter what I want.” Your vision swims before you. “I just do not wish for a mistake to be made.”
There is another pause. Then:
“I will think on it,” Prince Maekar says, and oxygen is finally permitted to fill your lungs again. “But it may be hard to convince father…”
His voice finally grows quiet and dies away. They have gone too far from your window to be heard.
For a moment you continue to sit there, on the floor and against your window, staring into the darkness of your room. But then your stomach churns again, as tumultuous as the Narrow Sea. You do not possess the mental fortitude to continue thinking on the matter before your body decides it is time to head to the chamber pot.
The conversation you overheard has all but left you by the time King Daeron’s nameday comes a few days later. Preparations for the celebration begin before the sun has risen on the morrow. You have been dressed, have eaten, and have met more faces of nobles than you could possibly keep track of in a dizzying amount of time, until finally you are led to King’s Landing at midday.
The fanfare is signified through the sound of horns and laughter and the clanging of metal against armor. The noise only grows more raucous as you and the rest of the nobility are led to a private box overlooking the tourney stadium.
The red pelt hanging loosely around your neck feels a bit like a noose as you take your seat in-between your sister and Princess Daella. The thick black dress you are wearing does not help with this feeling of entrapment. Sweat accumulates in every fold of your body, some gathering at your temples and dripping down your cheeks.
When you chance a look at your sister, she does not look the least bit affected. The healthy flush to her cheeks could be attributed to the heat of King’s Landing, but it feels like a stretch. A handmaiden gently fans the side of her face, and Lyanna encourages her to move it more vigorously.
You avert your eyes away before she can catch you looking. Your eyes are drawn to the opposite side of the viewing gallery, where King Daeron sits beside his youngest granddaughter. He is laughing at something she’s said, his light eyes crinkled with amusement.
You furrow your brows and look away. In the lapse of action, your mind is able to finally drift to what you witnessed a few nights prior. The insinuation that your betrothal may not last. The fear that filled your chest that bled into hope into sadness.
Lyanna moves in your periphery. She’s leaned forward over the bannister as Prince Aerion charges on his steed toward his opponent.
You clench your jaw and shut your eyes when the other man, a Tyrell, is unseated and sent flying down to the dirt with a sharp yelp of pain. Lyanna lets out a loud cheer that makes your ears throb. Aerion does a victory loop, absorbing the cheers from the crowd. The Tyrell man is helped to his feet, though his left arm lays limp and crooked against his side. You wince.
Across the field, your eyes get caught on the black and reds of the Targaryen flags. Four Targaryens in one tourney. It would make history. King Daeron himself had requested his two surviving sons to participate, and then a son of each of their choosing.
It was his name day, after all. And he was a king.
Your eyes get caught on one Targaryen in particular as he watches Aerion across the way. He is not in his usual finery. It is a welcome change to see him donning the dark armor of his past. He has removed his helmet for the time being, and you can see his face as it catches the sun’s rays.
He furrows his dark brows at his nephew’s strutting. You can see even from here the hard line to his lips, the quickness of his gaze.
“Water, mi’lady?” a voice comes from your side. You turn to see a handmaiden there with a pitcher of water. You nod quickly, caught off-guard by the sudden questioning.
The handmaiden fills your goblet and steps away to ask the next person.
“Your betrothed is a vision on the field.” Hot air cuts across your cheek as Lyanna whispers this to you. “Perhaps he may be persuaded to spend a night with me.”
“Go for it,” you say tersely. “I’ve heard Prince Aerion will take a lay anywhere he can get it. The easier, the better.”
Your sister burns a hole through your cheek through the weight of her glare. “Are you implying—“
You stand with a flourish before she can finish her statement. From behind her, your father shoots you a warning look. You do not heed it.
You are too hot, too uncomfortable, and much too bored. You need air. The next match is called out just as you make it to the bottom of the stairs, clutching your hands around your waist to make yourself look smaller. Unraveling the fox pelt from around your neck, you delicately dab the sweat away from your forehead and cheeks as you stand halfway hidden beneath a tree.
For a moment you stand there and watch as the world goes by without you. Children laugh and chase each other with small wooden swords. Ladies titter and swoon at their favorite contenders, or theorize on who may be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty. From what you overhear, Lyanna is a strong contender.
Just as you will yourself to go back to the stands, your eyes get caught on a figure approaching in your peripheral vision. His dark armor gleams underneath the red sun, his strides long and quick. You do not think he sees you, but then he turns his head and looks you right in the eyes.
He stops midstep. Stares. You feel a heat to your face that does not feel entirely wrought from the sun. The fox pelt settles softly back around your neck as you place it there, trying to will yourself to look somewhat put together and not at all like the wilted flower you feel like.
Baelor does not seem like he is going to approach you. He is too chivalrous to go against your wants again. He does not want to upset you, though you think he might want to talk to you as much as you want to.
You step forth from the shade of the tree and he turns his head, magnetized as your form is bathed in light. A smile curls at the ends of your lips as you raise your hand to give a small wave.
His lips curl to match your expression. Something lurks beneath his gaze, a question in the eyebrow he cocks in your direction. You move your head in a sweeping gesture, an invitation. You take a step back into the shadows of the tree.
Baelor reaches you in two quick steps. His armor rattles as he moves, his long sword clanking against his side. His mismatched eyes search your face as if looking for an answer to some kind of mystery.
“Not enjoying the tourney?” He does not seem the least bit offended by the notion as he asks this, rather, amused.
You look off in the distance in the practice of seeming coy. You do not wish for anyone to get the wrong idea by your conversation. “I suppose I am not one to enjoy public displays of violence.”
Baelor lets out a chuckle. You can’t help but smile a little at the throaty, unabashed sound.
“How about you? Are you looking forward to your match?” You cannot deny that you are a bit curious. As a lady, you were always kept at a distance from the pastimes of men. You did not know much, but were always interested in the rites of masculinity.
He lets out a short laugh. “Mentally? I feel like a young knight again. Physically? I… have been better.” He looks down at his armor with a sarcastic grin. “I think I must appear the same as a fat lord on a hunting expedition compared to all these kingsguard.”
Your lips twitch with the force of smothering your laughter. You do not agree with the last analogy, but there is something to be said about the Lord Hand having to wield a sword again. From what you heard, many Hands of the King retire their swords the second they pick up the badge.
You step forward and lay a friendly hand upon his pauldron. “If it counts for much, I eagerly look forward to your match. Lyanna and I were raised hearing stories of the infamous Hammer and Anvil.”
Baelor lets out a long breath through his mouth. “I really do not feel any younger with that knowledge in hand.”
The unexpectedness of the statement and the realization of what you implied about your age and his, makes you let out a barking laugh. The noise startles him, but it is an expression quickly traded away as then a toothy grin spreads across his face. You eventually quieten your giggles, covering your mouth with your hand.
“My apologies,” you say, though you know not what for.
Baelor watches you in silence. You swallow thickly under his heavy stare and cross your arms over your bodice. He snaps out of it when a voice calls his name from afar. He barely turns his head to face the noise, a veil crossing over his expression.
He turns back to you, his eyes somber. “May I request something of you?”
You startle at the question, your eyes widening at the possible implications. You trust Baelor, though. You nod, frowning at his seriousness.
“Never feel that you have to hide from me,” he tells you softly.
He does not allow you to reply before he turns his back and begins to stride away to where he was called. You watch him as he leaves until he disappears from view. A breath that you didn’t realize you held escapes from your lips. You rub the dewiness from your eyes and head back to the viewing box.
Lyanna barely looks up at you as you return. However, your father leans forward and sets his hands on either side of your chair.
“Where have you been?” His voice is low and vaguely threatening.
You turn your head. “I had to get some air.”
A handmaiden comes by to ask him a question and he releases your chair and flops back into his own with a sigh. You turn back around just as two new competitors enter the jousting arena.
Your sister sees him before you do. “Oh, there’s Baelor.”
You angle your head to the side and you see him on his beautiful stallion—Vaegon, you recall—twirling his stick around idly. His opponent is a Lannister you only vaguely recognize. You had met him, but all details as to his personage have fled you.
The match moves quickly. Baelor unseats the Lannister without much resistance. Seeing the jousting stick put just enough pressure on the man without causing him damage makes you gain a new appreciation for Baelor’s wisdom and self-restraint. Qualities his nephew lacks.
The Lannister man scurries away as Baelor removes his helmet and grins to the cheering crowd. You hear King Daeron clap enthusiastically for his son.
As you watch him trot around the arena, flexing his legs and hips to guide his steed around sharp curves, something warm and fuzzy settles over your body. You shift to hide your unease at the feeling, crossing one knee over the other. Were you truly…? You shake your head and take a long sip of your water to chase away the feeling.
You were just lonely. That’s all it is. Or that is all you tell yourself. And yet as the matches fly by in quick succession, your mind keeps drifting back to that one picturesque moment when he removed his helmet. His face was still drawn tense with exertion, large rivulets of sweat dripping down the side of his temple and deeper into his armor, and his eyes were solely focused on Vaegon as he moved powerfully underneath him. You reminisce on how he bit his lip in contemplation, then raised his head to let the sun beat down on his skin and opened his eyes to his adoring subjects.
Something about the whole farce proves to be incredibly problematic for you. You know what arousal is, just as you know what sex is. It is the admitting part that makes you nervous. Were you truly so attracted to Prince Baelor that seeing him joust was enough to make you hot? It felt near blasphemous, like perhaps what you insinuated of your sister was actually true about you—that you were just easy.
You bite the end of your nail as the day draws to an end. King Daeron stands from his position on the far end of the box, his pale visage drawn ruddy with overwhelming delight. He gives a large speech about his appreciation of the name day celebration, that fades into a discussion on who it was who had impressed him the most.
“My grandsons, how youthful and strong they make an old man like me feel,” King Daeron says with a heavy sigh. He comes closer to the edge of the stage. He brandishes a flower crown braided of daisies, lavender, and calendula, and your sister tenses beside you.
“Prince Aerion, perhaps you may do the honor of choosing this tourney’s Queen of Love and Beauty?”
You shift unsteadily in your seat as your sister deflates. She believes her chances dashed at being selected. Aerion grabs the crown from his grandfather’s hand and leads his horse down the box’s side.
He looks directly at you—stares so long that you think he might actually pick you. Then, something shifts on his expression. A smirk pulls at his lips.
“Perhaps Lady Lyanna may take this laurel?” he offers, arm outstretched toward the silent ravenette beside you.
You do not allow surprise to take hold of your features, especially when you notice your sister turn her head victoriously in your direction. She’s looking for hurt to show through the cracks of your veil. You will not afford any weakness.
She stands with a delighted titter. Delicate white hands come to clutch the ends of her dress as she moves to the rail. She bends the knee and Aerion takes a long, torturous moment to place the crown upon her dark tresses.
You do not watch any longer as eyes and heads swivel in your direction. It is not a good sign for a betrothal to start in a betrayal like this, but it was beginning to seem you and Aerion had been doomed from its very conception.
You make it through the rest of the tourney unscathed. You dodge your father's questioning as well as concerned comments from Princess Daella and crude remarks from Aerion long enough to escape back to your quarters.
You suppress the tears that wish to escape and take a seat on your bed. As you put your weight down, you hear something rustle beneath you. You stand again, confused, and pull back your duvet.
What sits there, on the plush bed, makes your heart skip a beat and your breaths come out in stuttered gulps. Pinkish-orange hibiscus intertwined with vibrant lilies and snapdragon in a braided crown. Your fingers delicately brush the petals, a hand coming to cup your mouth in stunned awe.
As you lift it to rest upon your head, a slip of parchment falls to the floor. You bend to pick it up and read through the tears beading in your eyes.
For the true queen
— Baelor
Sleep does not come easily that night. Your drift between varying levels of consciousness, thoughts of sisters, betrothals, and princes. You wake with a start several times, your heart thudding against your ears.
By the fifth time this happens, you realize sleep will not be coming for you. You stand up from your bed and pull your comforter to hide the spot you once laid. The soft moon’s light streaming across the floor sends a shiver down your spine, worsened by the chill that erupts from the feeling of your feet landing on the cool hardwood. You move quickly to grab your thick wool-lined kirtle and draw it over your figure.
Stepping outside your room, your eyes rapidly adjust to the warm light that flickers from each sconce on the wall, one hand drawing across the cool cobblestone walls. You weave silently through the halls of King’s Landing, hiding behind sandstone columns when kingsguard clank by. You reach the palace library with little delay, and you shut the heavy door behind you.
The room is so silent one could hear a quill drop. Only one candle remains lit, flickering in the middle of one of the tables. You notice a book by that candle, as if sat out in preparation for your arrival. Moving closer, you brush your fingers across the worn leather cover. It has no title, and the pages are rustic and yellowed.
When you begin to read, you realize with great surprise that the entire thing is written in High Valyrian. You contemplate not reading it, for it feels a bit like taking something that does not belong to you. Only nobles are taught High Valyrian in the first place, and to gaze upon an entire book written in the royal tongue feels close to treachery.
What was that saying, again? Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. You cannot prevent yourself from reading.
You are not sure how much time passes as you parse through a few pages of the tome. You get utterly absorbed by the text, so much so that you do not hear the door open and shut behind you.
“Issa ao æn'njôyiñgtor yôûr'shëlfrys?” (Are you enjoying yourself?)
You leap to your feet. You spin around, but see only a figure cloaked in darkness. A very familiar silhouette, however. He steps forward into the amber circle of candlelight, and his features are brought into full focus.
“Baelor.” Your voice comes out with more relief than you had intended. For a moment, you had been scared at the thought of someone less diplomatic stumbling upon you reading this ancient text. You turn your head to the book with an apologetic smile. “Ūja issa ju'thtnos zid'dhíngtor issar. Nyke ch'oúldñ'dva baelagon my’zélfrys.” (It was just sitting there. I couldn’t help myself.)
Baelor steps close until he is but an arm's length from your side. He sets a hand upon the book and turns to the first page. “The words of my grandkepa,” he murmurs in reverence. “I imagine my father or brother were doing some light reading.”
You study the side of his face as his eyes rove over the text. His dark eyelashes flutter and a soft breath huffs from his parted lips. He turns to you and you startle at the intensity in his eyes.
“Why are you here so late?” He is not accusatory as he says this, rather, he seems perplexed by your presence.
You rub your cheek and avert your eyes. “I could not sleep.”
Baelor lets out a huff of a laugh, and the air teases the tendrils of your hair. “That seems to be a common theme with you. Perhaps you should see a maester for some chamomile tea.”
“And what of you?” You grin, reaching forward to poke his arm. “Why is the Hand of the King awake at this hour?”
Something settles upon his face as he regards you. His eyes draw down your face as if painting a mental picture of your image. He turns his head back to the book forcefully, as if only realizing the impropriety of his staring. “I needed to retrieve a book to ease my worries. I find it helps to consult my ancestors on troubling questions.”
You nod at the somberness of his voice. You could not help but agree with the assertion that books made your worries often disappear. To get lost in a book is a treasure, a much-welcome break from reality.
“Did you…” Baelor clears his throat, unable to meet your eyes. “Did you like your gift?”
“Oh, yes, Baelor,” you say giddily, remembering the handwoven crown on your bed. You lay a friendly hand on his where it sits on the table. “It was absolutely wonderful.”
Baelor turns his hand up so that your palms touch. He clutches your hand gently, with enough restraint to allow you to slip away if you wish. You do not. “Aerion should not have done that,” he tells you, “it is a grievous insult to you and your union.”
You gnaw your lip beneath your teeth. “It was embarrassing, of course,” you say, “but… I cannot seem to make myself care beyond that.”
Baelor lifts his head to stare into your eyes. The candle’s warm light flickers across his face, something fond and raw in his expression. You step closer.
“In truth, Baelor, I could not stop thinking of you.”
His throat bobs as he considers the weight of your words and the tantamount confession strewn beneath the phrasing.
When he does not immediately reply, you feel a rush of shame flood your conscience. “I am sorry.” Your heart pounds against your rib cage in fierce denial of his rejection. “I… should not have–”
You cannot finish your statement before his lips fall upon yours and a hand weaves across the side of your neck to cradle your jaw. You are now the one that is stunned. For a moment, your body simply does not respond. Then, life breathes itself back into your muscles and your lips match his pace.
The kiss is not as juvenile and restrained as the one you shared so many days ago in the shadow of an empty corridor. This one is with full intent and determination to make a point. His lips are warm and all-encompassing. He tastes of sweet wine and hibiscus, and you realize that you have never loved the taste of anything more.
Then, the moment is broken. Baelor pulls away slightly, his eyes drawing over the planes of your face as if he might never admire them this close again. A thin string of spit hangs like a lifeline between your two lips, stretched taut by the concern in his expression.
“I do not wish to cause you more difficulty.” His words are soft, devout. You can still taste the sweetness of his breath as he speaks quietly, only for you to hear. His hand gently strokes the part of your neck wherein your pulse thrums the loudest. “I do not wish for this to come between you and your sister, or you and Aerion.”
You let out a sharp laugh without intending to. Baelor’s eyebrows draw together. “Fuck them,” you say. Then, louder: “Fuck. Them.”
You lean forward to rejoin your lips to his, and he returns the initiative gladly. Soon you find yourself on the center of the table, your kirtle rucked up to your thighs, and the book and candle shifted to the corner of the surface. Baelor stands in the middle of your spread legs, one hand guiding your head to meet his lips while the other strokes your bare knee.
The heat returns in full force, a warm bubbling sensation rising from the bottom of your stomach to your chest. You drag a hand to the front of where his broach keeps his doublet together, fumbling blindly for some kind of give.
Baelor breaks the kiss to unbutton his top. You drag your coverup over your skin, hesitating for a moment at your midriff, before releasing it over your head. What remains is your sheer shift and Baelor’s smock-covered-chest.
You avert your eyes to the front of his white linen top, gently stroking his chest from where it peeks at the top. You cannot bear to see his reaction to your exposed skin, so you keep yourself occupied with tracing the defined line of his collarbone. Baelor does not let you continue the path as his large hand swoops to grab yours within his own. He cradles your hand to where his heart thrums underneath the cloth and the skin underneath, and you finally draw your eyes up to meet his.
His eyes are blown dark, so dark that you can no longer remember which is periwinkle and which is brown. A healthy flush covers the tips of his ears and his neck, and his mouth is parted to release short, panting breaths.
“Iksā gevie.” (You are beautiful).
The smile finds itself on your face as if it were always meant to be there, and you reach forward to stroke the fine, coarse tendrils of his beard. “Se ao.” (And you).
You can tell Baelor does not get complimented often for how he steps forward to bury his head into your neck, planting ticklish kisses across your exposed skin. You let out an airy laugh and move to bring your hand underneath his smock. His back is covered in corded muscle and healthy fleshiness, and he shivers as you bring your nails against his spine.
He pulls away to remove his smock. You watch as his stomach and chest are revealed to the silent library. For the first time since beginning the affair, you feel nervous. Baelor has literally and figuratively bared his skin to you, allowing you to be the one to see his battleworn skin, the curled, coarse hair that covers his pectorals and navel, and the slight pudge to his stomach. He has given all to you. Now, it is your turn.
You let your feet hit the floor and begin to lift the top part of your shift over your head. You are barely past your midriff when Baelor stops you with a gentle hand.
“You do not…” he starts, “you do not have to get completely bare if you do not wish it.”
You shift uneasily on your feet, threading the thin linen between your fingers. “I… I want to.”
Baelor strokes the skin of your wrist once more before pulling away. You remove the rest of your clothing without any other delay. You draw your arm to protectively stand beneath your breasts, but do not cover them.
Baelor steps close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of his skin. He touches your upper arm and you shiver.
“You are made of what Old Valyria wrote songs about.”
You turn your head bashfully. “I hope of the love songs, not the ones about war and destruction.”
Baelor lets out a grumbly laugh, his chest moving with the sound. You bring your hand to cup his where it sits upon your arm. You drag it to touch your breast.
“Do not be afraid of what I think,” you tell him softly, “I want all you can give me.”
Baelor’s throat bobs, but he heeds your request. He gently squeezes your breast, then draws his opposite hand to hold your neck as he kisses you. He finds himself in between your legs again as you attempt to squeeze them together. You feel a pool beneath your thighs forming, and you draw your lips from his to settle beside his ear.
“Perhaps you may take your breeches off now.”
He does not reply, instead his hand that was touching your breast draws down your hip and to the crevice between your thighs. The warmth there–the immediacy of the flesh against uncharted territory, makes you flinch. But Baelor does not remove himself.
You instead shift further back on your tailbone to accompany his adventuring fingers. He gently touches the outside of your hole and you shiver. He drags his fingers through your wetness so slowly it’s tortuous.
You shift in place and a small smile curls at his lips. “So impatient,” he tuts.
“It is not my fault,” you whine, “you have been nothing but a tease all day.”
“A tease?” He punctuates this by bringing his middle finger to circle your clit. You arch your back with a sharp gasp at the sudden overwhelming arousal that controls you like a puppet. “How so?”
You can hardly think, much less talk. To make it worse, he’s got a finger in you now, slowly pumping back and forth. It is too slow and too fast all at the same time. You squirm, letting out a soft groan.
“Seeing you all hot”--your words are broken off by a sharp moan as his finger is joined by a second–”and sweaty, riding your horse…”
He lets out a chuckle. “You really have been neglected, haven’t you? Getting all worked up over near-nothing.”
You can feel something delicious building in your loins, and you grab his wrist as he speeds up, not wanting him to slow or speed up, but hold the pace he was at infinitively.
“I suppose no one can blame you,” he says, “I have waited far too long to help you.”
The feeling is close to making you burst. You arch your hips as a third finger joins the fray and suddenly everything goes white. You dig your nails into his wrist as you let the feeling take hold of you. You think this is the reason people do anything for sex; sell it, trade it, commodify it. For this one brief moment of physical enlightenment. Your mind scrambles and then settles, like falling off the edge of a cliff. Your stomach feels like nothing and then everything, and then you hit the bottom and everything is normal again.
Baelor removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth. You watch through hooded eyes as he sucks them dry. You feel a familiar stirring in your mons and energy revitalizes your movements. You stick your fingers in the front of his pants and pull his hips flush against yours. Eagerly, you try to untie his breeches, but he stills you with a gentle hand on your wrist.
“Allow me,” he says. He blissfully does not pull all the way apart from you to drag his fingers into his breeches.
“Damned things,” he mutters as they fight against him. He finally pushes them hard enough to release his waist and they fall away. All that is left is his pulsing cock, staring directly at you.
You swallow thickly. This is what… this is what you are expected to fit inside you? It is so large, so much longer and fleshier than you had been expecting. Your–albeit brief–forays into the steamier literature on the male physique had not prepared you sufficiently for this moment.
“It is…” Baelor pauses, and turns his head bashfully. You notice a red tint to his ears. “It is a touch larger than most men’s, I am told. I… do not want to hurt you.”
Your breathing stutters, but you shake your head immediately. “You will not,” you tell him sternly, “I know you won’t.”
He does not seem entirely confident in the statement. He stares at his cock like it is a disembodied curse, but it does not register his eyes as it stands tall and proud against his stomach.
You move your leg to hook around his back, bringing him flush against you. “I trust you.”
It is all the encouragement he needs as he grabs it and lines himself up with your entrance. He looks at your eyes once more, as if giving you another chance to change your mind, before he enters you with one smooth thrust.
You let out a sharp gasp that has Baelor immediately stalling inside of you. He pushes past his own overwhelming arousal to wipe his eyes down your face. You feel the sharp pain ebb into something primal, more raw and dizzying. You dig your fingers into the wood grain beneath you.
“Gods Old and New,” you say into the still air, “forgive me for my lust.”
Baelor lets out a soft laugh, taking your words as encouragement. He backs out of you then settles into a pace, in and out, in and out, in and out. You moan, grabbing at his back as he brings himself upon you, digging your fingers like blades against his ribs and spine.
Baelor vocalizes just as much, his eyes fluttering shut then bursting open when he hears you moan, as if the very sound awakened something within him. As your high approaches, he begins muttering something under his breath. You can barely hear it through your own fogged mind, but you can catch pieces of it.
“Bisa iksis iā irudy… Gevie… Gevie… Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot henujagon,” he chants the phrases as if in a spiritual trance but you are his idol and he is but a lowly septa. (This is a gift... Beautiful... Beautiful... I never wish to leave).
You capture his jaw with your hand and bring him down to seal your consummation with a kiss. He returns it in full. It is messy, all tongue and teeth clipping and noses bumping. But it feels so fucking right. Everything does.
You pull away to let out a loud groan as your climax reaches its precipice.
“Baelor,” you call out.
“I know, I know. Let go for me, love.”
You reach your release with a moan. You clutch your legs tightly around his still-thrusting hips, and drag your nails down his back. He follows soon after you, finding his home in your sweat-slick neck, groaning so loudly and guttural, it shakes your pulse. His hips slow as he finishes, before they finally stop altogether.
He pulls himself out of you and you feel liquid follow. You continue to lay there on the table, breathing heavily, for several moments. When you come to, Baelor is next to your head, gently dragging a cloth against your sweaty head. He has his breeches back on and his smock, and his eyes look so gentle and so reverent you feel like you could cry.
“Perhaps you should get dressed,” he murmurs, “I do not wish for anyone to see you now.” He drops the cloth and strokes down your cheek with his fingers instead.
His thumb drops to your lip and you bite it softly. A low noise escapes his lips, but he shakes his head.
“The sun is rising,” he tells you, “I do not think we have the time for a round two.”
“Will that be the jousting round?” you say breathlessly, “are you going to hit me with a big stick? Oh wait, you already did that.”
Baelor barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “You minx.”
You stand on the feet of a fawn. You collect your shift and coverup and dress in silence. When you are finally covered, you turn your head to see Baelor watching you.
Sadness falls over you as you watch his loving gaze, a hollow pit in your stomach where warmth used to reside. You draw your hands protectively around your waist.
“What now?”
Baelor’s eyebrows furrow. He takes a step toward you, arm outstretched. You allow him to touch you, but cannot fully bring your eyes to meet his. You are afraid of the rejection that may come.
“I believe that I have a long conversation with my father in my future,” Baelor says, bringing his hand to cup your cheek. “And I will not be stopping until he gives me what I have claimed.”
You lean your face into his calloused hand. “They will be angry.”
He draws closer still, his nose brushing against yours. “Let them.”
“And if they decide I am not worthy to be a princess?”
“It does not matter,” Baelor’s voice is soft as he says this, as if he had already considered this possibility. “For you will not be a princess. You will be a queen.”
Grey Wind will not allow reader and Robb to have even a moment of time alone together. Every time Robb even so much as kisses reader, Grey Wind wiggles his way in between the two and whines. When they are already in bed the wolf will jump onto the bed and pad around to annoy them both. If they’re trying to cuddle? He puts himself in between them too. Robb understands, he’s obsessed with reader too but he misses his wife so one night- he boots Grey Wind from their chambers so he can have time with his wife.
Paws Off
18+ ---- {Masterlist}
{Robb Stark x f!Reader}
Grey Wind is almost as obsessed with you as your husband is... almost.
♡♡ You have the most beautiful mind anon!!! && this is also for @babyvamp-tw in her time of grief ♡♡
1.9k words - Warnings: smut, riding, cozy winter night in winterfell, robb being obsessed with you and grey wind related cockblocking...
The wind howled outside the tower, rattling shutters and setting the fire to crackle and spit as Robb fed it another log.
Behind him, the bed creaked softly as you shifted, burrowed deep beneath the furs with a book balanced on your knees and Grey Wind curled heavy and warm at your side. His tail flicked once with lazy contentment, thumping softly against the mattress.
Robb turned, brushing ash from his hands. "It’s freezing. Move over."
He crossed the room, tugging off his tunic with chilled fingers, but the moment he lifted the covers to slide in beside you, Grey Wind’s head snapped up.
A low whine. Then a growl, he wasn't angry, just... possessive.
"Don’t start," Robb warned, already half in the bed.
Grey Wind stood.
Robb froze as the stubborn beast stepped right into the spot Robb had been aiming for and promptly sat.
You snorted behind your book.
"Oh, you think this is funny?"
"A little," you murmured, eyes still on the page.
Robb glowered. He wasn't about to share his wife tonight, and especially not with his damn wolf. He gently pushed Grey Wind out of the way and crawled into the bed.
You giggled as Robb pulled the book out of your hands and tossed it across the room. He leaned down and nuzzled into your neck, trailing kisses over your bare shoulder.
"Robb," you gasped, "Your hands are freezing."
He hummed in response, pushing the covers down, so he could slip his hands beneath your nightgown. He kissed his way up your neck, his fingers tickling up your thigh.
You arched toward him with a breathy sigh, and Robb smiled against your skin, his voice low and thick with want.
"I’ve been waiting all day to have you like this," he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. "Warm and soft and all mine."
Your hands found his hair as leaned over you, the weight of him delicious, grounding. His mouth found your collarbone, your throat, your lips…and just as his fingers slipped beneath your nightdress, brushing over your soaked heat-
Whump.
Grey Wind jumped back onto the bed.
Pushing himself right between the two of you.
Robb groaned loudly, dropping his head to your chest as the direwolf circled once, then flopped down directly across your hips.
You let out a startled laugh, half breathless, half annoyed. "He’s so dramatic."
Robb sat up, shoving at the direwolf’s massive shoulder. "Off, Grey Wind."
The wolf blinked. Didn’t move.
"Down," Robb repeated, sterner this time. "Go lie by the fire."
With an exaggerated sigh, Grey Wind heaved himself off your legs and padded a few steps away... only to sit again at the end of the bed, watching. Judging.
Robb gave you a look that said ignore him, and you tried…really tried…as he lowered his head between your thighs and drew a slow, deliberate lick up your center.
You moaned, hand flying to his curls, hips canting toward his mouth. "Oh…Robb-"
Before either of you could register the sudden shift in weight on the mattress, all eighty pounds of fur and misguided concern landed directly on Robb’s back.
"Seven hells!" Robb sputtered, dragging himself up off you with an exasperated huff as Grey Wind walked over him, sniffing at your face, licking your cheek like you were the wounded party.
You couldn’t help it, you burst into helpless laughter.
Robb looked murderously betrayed.
"That’s it."
He stood, hoisting Grey Wind from the bed. The wolf let out a startled huff, clearly offended as Robb stomped to the chamber door, flung it open, and deposited the menace into the hall.
"No more interruptions. No more chaperones. You are banished."
Grey Wind sat outside the door and howled.
Robb slammed it shut and locked it, turning back to you with hair tousled, chest rising and falling, and a look in his eyes that made your thighs press together.
"Where were we?" he breathed, already climbing back over you, hands sliding up your sides.
"Hmmm," you hummed, grinning as you wrapped your legs around his waist. "I think you were about to make me forget my own name."
Robb smiled, a real, proper smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My favorite thing to do."
He reclaimed your lips, one arm braced by your head, the other pushing your nightdress up, helping you pull it over over your head. Your skin tingled in the firelight, the cold air a shock before the heat of him returned.
He kissed down your stomach, and your hands tangled in his curls as he settled between your thighs again. His gaze met yours over the plane of your body, dark and adoring, and then he lowered his head, and the world narrowed to the point of his mouth on you.
His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he worked you with his tongue, slow, languid strokes that built a tight, aching knot deep inside you. Every flick, every suck, every breath against your slick heat was deliberate, practiced. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly what made your breath hitch, exactly what made you arch off the bed.
He murmured something against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that vibrated through you. Your whole body tensed as he sped up, a relentless rhythm that made your toes curl, that made your own moans sound distant, unfamiliar. His name was a prayer on your lips as he pushed you over the edge, your entire body shattering in a wave of blinding, perfect release.
He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your stomach until you were trembling and pliant, blinking back stars.
When he finally moved back over you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. You could feel him, hot and hard and insistent against your thigh, but he made no move to hurry, content to just kiss you slow and deep, stroking your hair back from your damp forehead.
You pressed your hands against his chest, a gentle push that he answered easily.
You rolled with him, settling on top, straddling him. He looked up at you, firelight catching in his hair, his blue eyes soft in the dim light. He watched you as you positioned him, watched you as you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch.
You both groaned at the connection, the familiar, perfect stretch of him. You began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that had him fisting the furs, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
His hands came up to grip your waist, guiding you, encouraging you.
"There you go," he rasped, his head thrown back. "Just like that, my love. You're perfect."
You leaned forward, changing the angle, and the friction shot straight through you, pulling another moan from your lips. He sat up then, wrapping an arm around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. The new position left you breathless, every thrust deeper, more deliberate. His face was buried in your neck, his hands gripping your ass, moving you against him.
"Robb," you gasped, your own hands fisted in his hair.
"I know," he breathed, his voice ragged. "I know. Come with me. Come with me now, love."
And you did. It was a slower, deeper wave this time, a crest that broke again and again as you continued to move together, your bodies slick with sweat, your breath mingling in the frigid air. He followed you over, a choked groan against your skin as he pulsed inside you, filling you with his warmth.
After, you stayed tangled, a mess of limbs and heavy breaths. He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, small, soft kisses that made your chest ache.
Then, from the hallway, came a loud, mournful howl.
And then another.
Robb stilled, then started to chuckle, a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated through your chest. You couldn't help but join in, burying your face in his shoulder, your body shaking with laughter.
"I'm going to skin that wolf," Robb said, but there was no heat in it. "Make a lovely rug for our chambers."
"He's just protective," you mumbled against him.
"He's a menace," he corrected, but he was smiling. He rolled, pulling you with him so you were curled against his side, your head on his chest. The fire crackled, the only other sound in the room besides the occasional, pathetic whine from the other side of the door.
He drew patterns on your back, a slow, lazy path up and down your spine. "Maybe we should just leave him out there. A night in the cold might teach him a lesson."
"Now you are being cruel," you chided, sitting up to look at him. "He'll think we're angry with him."
"I am angry with him," he said, though he pulled you back down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet. "He interrupted his king."
You laughed, a soft, happy sound. "Well his queen has granted him mercy."
You slipped from the bed, pulling your discarded nightgown over your head. You padded to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open just a crack.
A huge, furry head pushed its way in immediately, a wet nose nudging your hand and a low whine rumbling in Grey Wind's chest. You knelt, scratching him behind the ears. "You are a troublemaker," you whispered.
He wagged his tail, thumping it against the stone floor and began to lick your face.You laughed, shoving gently at the wet nose now pressing insistently against your cheek. "Stop, stop-"
Grey Wind did not stop.
Behind you, the bed creaked. When you glanced back, Robb had pushed himself up on one elbow, watching you both with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and something unbearably soft. The furs had slipped to his waist. Firelight painted warm lines across his chest.
"You're too soft on him," he said, but his voice had gone quiet. Tired. The good kind of tired.
"You're too hard on him." You crawled back onto the mattress, and Grey Wind followed immediately, settling his considerable weight at the end of the bed like he'd never been banished at all.
Robb opened his mouth. You raised an eyebrow.
He closed it.
You smiled and curled into his side, your head finding its place on his chest like it had a thousand times before. His arm came around you immediately, hand finding your hip beneath the furs.
Grey Wind sighed. A great, rumbling sound, and then flopped down across your feet.
Robb huffed a laugh against your hair, his hand tracing slow patterns on your skin. His breathing evened out first. Then Grey Wind's, a low rumble you felt through your toes.
You were almost there yourself when Robb's lips brushed your forehead.
"Love you," he whispered. Half asleep already.
You smiled into his chest. "Love you too. Both of you."
Grey Wind's tail thumped once against the mattress.
Aegon the conqueror x reader
tw: blood, smut, dark aegon
"Tell me, little dove" Aegon murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the sapphire necklace he'd just fastened around your throat, "do you enjoy watching me suffer?"
The sapphire necklace was the fourteenth gift this moon alone. You'd lost count of how many silken gowns had arrived at your chambers since your arrival, each one more absurdly expensive than the last, the fabrics so fine they felt like water slipping through your fingers.
Aegon's generosity wasn't subtle. Neither were the way his eyes lingered on the curve of your neck when you wore his gifts, or how his thumb always lingered a heartbeat too long when he kissed your hand in court.
Yesterday, he'd sent a pair of slippers embroidered with pearls, and when you'd thanked him with a polite curtsy, he'd leaned in close enough for his breath to ghost over your ear. "Wear them to my chambers tonight" he'd said, as casually as if discussing the weather. You hadn't gone. You never did.
The knock came just past midnight, three sharp raps that made you flinch where you sat by the dying fire. You knew it wasn't the servants for they always announced themselves. The door creaked open before you could answer, and Aegon filled the threshold, his silhouette haloed by torchlight from the corridor. He carried no weapon, but the way his fingers flexed at his sides made your breath hitch. "You didn't come" he said, voice low as embers.
"I never do, Your Grace" you mumbled, scrambling to stand up so quickly the chair legs screeched against stone. The sapphire necklace suddenly felt like a noose. "It is improper." The words tasted like ash, you'd said them too many times before, and they never stuck.
Aegon's laughter was a dark, velvet sound that slithered up your spine. "Improper?" He stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his boot. The latch clicked like a verdict. "You think I give a damn about propriety?" The firelight caught the fevered gleam in his eyes as he crossed the room, his strides measured, predatory. You backed into the hearth, the heat searing through your nightgown.
Your heel caught on the uneven stone of the hearth, sending you stumbling backward. Aegon caught your wrist before you could fall, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. "Careful" he murmured, though the way his gaze dropped to your parted lips made it clear he wasn't concerned about your safety. The heat at your back was nothing compared to the slow drag of his thumb over your inner wrist, a touch that felt like ownership.
"Y-your Grace… I'm quite tired" you mumbled, even as his lips brushed your wrist, breathing in your scent before pressing a slow, open mouthed kiss to the delicate skin there. His exhale was hot, uneven, a man starved. You could feel the scrape of his teeth as he lingered, as if debating whether to bite down and mark you properly. Your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath his mouth.
Aegon’s lips lingered a moment too long, the scrape of his teeth sending a jolt of panic down your spine before he finally pulled back. His grip on your wrist loosened, but before you could exhale in relief, his hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing the hollows of your cheeks with unsettling tenderness. "Yes" he murmured, voice rough with something between amusement and hunger, "sleep is needed for such beauty, I suppose." His gaze dragged over your face like a physical touch, lingering on the way your lashes fluttered against your cheekbones. "Though you’d still be perfect without it."
His thumbs still pressed against your cheekbones, Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught between frustration and dark amusement. “You wound me” he murmured, though the way his fingers tightened infinitesimally betrayed the lie in his honeyed tone. The firelight painted his face in flickering gold and shadow, carving the sharp angles of his jaw into something dangerously beautiful. “Fourteen moons of refusing me. Fourteen.” His breath hitched audibly, the words roughening as his gaze dropped to your mouth. “Do you know what that does to a man?”
The pressure of his fingers against your jawbone bordered on painful, his breath ragged against your lips. "I’ve dreamt of this" Aegon confessed, voice thick with something you didn’t dare name. "Dreamt of you beneath me, screaming my name loud enough to shake the stones of Dragonstone." His thumb brushed your lower lip, parting it with deliberate slowness. "But you’d rather play the dutiful lady, wouldn’t you?"
"Y-your grace flatters me, but I think it is time you head to bed…" you stammered, twisting your face away from his touch, only for his fingers to tighten, forcing your gaze back to his. The firelight made the violet of his eyes look molten, pupils blown wide with something far more dangerous than mere desire.
His grip shifted suddenly, fingers tangling in your hair as he yanked your head back hard enough to make you gasp. "Flattery?" Aegon's laugh was a low, broken thing, his breath hot against your exposed throat. "You think this is flattery?" The hand not fisted in your hair slid down your side, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to bruise. "I could have taken you a hundred times over...in your chambers, in the godswood, bent over the damned Iron Throne—" His teeth grazed your pulse point, not quite biting, not quite kissing. "But I wanted you willing."
Your fingers trembled against the rough stone of the hearth as you instinctively took a step back, only to freeze when the heat of the fire licked at your bare heels. Aegon sighed through his nose, finally releasing his grip on your hair, though his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, trailing down the curve of your neck like a brand.
"My patience grows weak, sweet one" he murmured, voice dripping with false sweetness. The firelight carved shadows under his cheekbones, turning his smile into something jagged. "I assure you, a man having a wife has never stopped him from taking others." His gaze flicked toward the door, as if imagining the distant chambers where Visenya and Rhaenys slept, or didn’t. "Nor has it ever stopped other woman from wanting a married man."
"That is not me, your grace" you whispered, voice fraying at the edges as you pressed yourself deeper into the hearth’s unforgiving stones, the sapphire necklace cutting into your collarbone. "I would not wish my husband to take others…nor I to be with someone out of wedlock." The words tasted like cowardice even as you said them, too soft, too weak against the wild intensity of his gaze.
Aegon snorted, the sound dark and unamused, before lifting your trembling hand to his lips. His mouth was scalding against your knuckles, lingering too long, tasting the pulse that fluttered beneath your skin like a caged thing. "You are quite pious" he murmured against your skin, breath hot enough to sear. "Another reason I burn for you." The words curled around you like smoke, suffocating and inevitable.
You swallowed thickly, fingers twitching in his hold as Aegon's lips brushed your cheek, a chaste kiss that felt anything but innocent. His breath was warm against your skin, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stutter before he pulled away entirely. "I shall wait another moon" he murmured, the words thick with a promise that coiled low in your belly. You blinked, stunned by the abrupt shift in his demeanor, the sudden restraint where moments ago he'd been all teeth and hunger. The firelight caught the curve of his smile as he stepped back, the predatory grace of his movements making the distance between you feel like a taunt.
The silence after Aegon left was deafening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you slid down the hearth, your legs refusing to hold you any longer. The sapphire necklace felt like a collar now, the weight of it pressing into your throat as if to remind you, his, his, his. You tore it off with shaking hands, the delicate clasp snapping as you hurled it into the fire, watching the gems blacken and crack in the flames. It didn’t matter. There would be another tomorrow. There was always another.
The dress arrived at dawn, wrapped in black silk so dark it drank the morning light. You ran your fingers over the embroidery of dragons coiled around the bodice in silver thread, their tails twisting down the skirt like possessive claims. It was obscenely beautiful. Obscenely his. You wore it without protest, the fabric whispering against your thighs as you walked to the great hall.
The next morning Aegon’s gaze found you the moment you stepped into the hall, his goblet freezing halfway to his lips. The chatter of courtiers faded as he stood abruptly, his chair scraping against stone. "Little love" he breathed, his voice carrying across the sudden silence. He didn’t blink as he crossed the room, the crowd parting for him like waves before a ship. His fingers brushed the dragon at your collarbone, tracing the silver thread with something like reverence. "You honor me."
"It is so very kind of you to send me such gifts" you murmured, folding your hands together with deliberate grace, the silver dragons on your bodice glinting as you dipped into a shallow curtsy. Your smile was practiced, sweet enough to charm, tight enough to betray nothing. "The least I could do is wear them."
Aegon's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Kindness has nothing to do with it" he murmured, fingers lingering on the embroidery over your ribs, too close, too intimate for court. You could feel Visenya's glare burning into your back from the high table, the weight of it heavier than the sapphires you'd burned. His thumb pressed deliberately against the silver thread, right where your heart hammered beneath. "Tonight" he said, low enough that only you could hear, "you'll wear nothing at all."
"Your Grace, you must stop with such comments" you whispered urgently, fingers twitching against the embroidered dragons on your skirt as you took a half-step back. The heat of his touch lingered where his thumb had pressed against your ribs, branding you through the fabric. "Had your wives heard—"
"They would gut you—" Aegon started with a small tilt of his head, but you quickly shook your own, cutting him off.
"They'd be hurt" you corrected sharply, fingers tightening in the folds of your skirt as you watched Aegon's smirk falter for half a heartbeat. His thumb still hovered near the embroidery over your ribs, the phantom press of it searing even through layers of silk. The words tasted bitter on your tongue, not because they were untrue, but because admitting it felt like surrender. Visenya’s knives and Rhaenys’s sweet poison had never frightened you half as much as the raw, wounded pride glittering in their eyes whenever Aegon’s attention strayed too long in your direction.
Aegon's fingers twitched against your ribs...once, twice...before he wrenched his hand away as if burned. "Gods fucking damn you" he snarled, the raw edge in his voice slicing through the court's murmured conversations. The sudden silence was deafening. His chest heaved, the embroidered dragons on his doublet straining with each ragged breath. "Fourteen moons of this...this farce!" The word dripped with venom.
He didn't touch you again. Instead, he took three deliberate steps back, his boots striking the stone like hammer blows. The violet in his eyes had darkened to near-black, pupils swallowing the light. "I am growing tired..." he bit out, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood, "of you rejecting me for such reasons." The last word cracked like a whip.
You opened your mouth, to protest, to placate, to lie...but Aegon was already turning on his heel. The crowd scattered before him, nobles tripping over their own silks to clear his path. He didn't look back. Not when Visenya rose from the high table with her hand on Dark Sister's hilt. Not when Rhaenys' melodic laughter cut off mid note. He simply kept walking, the great hall doors shuddering shut behind him with a finality that echoed in your bones.
The absence of Aegon's voice was louder than his presence had ever been. For two days, he did not speak to you, did not send gifts, did not corner you in shadowed alcoves with promises that tasted like threats. But his silence was a lie. You felt the weight of his gaze like a hand between your shoulder blades, burning through silk and skin alike. At meals, he lounged in his carved chair with a goblet dangling from careless fingers, watching you over the rim with eyes that never blinked. In the courtyard, you'd turn from the training yard's clamor only to catch the glint of silver hair from an upper balcony, motionless as a predator assessing its prey.
That night the door didn't just open, it exploded inward with a crash that sent splinters skittering across the floor. You barely had time to drop the hairbrush before Aegon was there, his boots crushing the scattered shards of wood beneath him like bones. Moonlight caught the wild sheen in his eyes, turning violet irises into something nearly feral. "Your grace?" you whispered, the words catching in your throat as he took another step forward.
The hairbrush clattered to the floor as you stumbled back, your heel catching on the hem of your nightgown. Aegon didn't pause. Didn't hesitate. His hands closed around your upper arms with bruising force, hauling you forward so abruptly your scream tore itself raw against your teeth. "Enough!" he growled, the word vibrating through his chest and into yours where you were pressed against him. His breath smelled of wine and something darker, sharper, like the metallic tang of a blade left too long unsheathed.
"Stop moving, I'm not going to—" Aegon started, but your scream tore through the chamber like shattered glass, raw and primal. You twisted violently in his grip, nails raking down his forearms as you wrenched yourself backward, only for his fingers to slip. The moment he let go, regret flashed across his face, but it was too late. Your bare foot slid on the polished stone, your body arching backward in a terrible fall. The sickening crack of your skull against the wrought iron bedpost echoed like a death knell.
Aegon swore, the sound guttural and raw, as your body crumpled to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs and pooling nightgown. Blood seeped into your hairline instantly, dark as wine in the moonlight. He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering uselessly over your still form, half afraid to touch, half desperate to shake you awake. "No, no, fuck—" His fingers trembled as they brushed your throat, searching for a pulse. When he found it, thready but there, his breath left him in a rush that bordered on prayer.
"Stupid girl." Aegon sighed, lifting your limp body with an ease that belied the tremor in his hands. The blood smeared across your temple was still warm, sticky against his fingers as he cradled your head against his chest. His boots crunched over the shattered wood of your door as he carried you into the corridor, where a wide eyed servant stood frozen. "Clean it." he snapped without breaking stride. The servant's choked gasp followed him down the hall, but Aegon didn't turn. He didn't need to see the carnage to know what it looked like, the overturned furniture, the shattered vase you'd hurled at him, the dark stain spreading where your skull had met iron.
The guards at his chamber door stiffened at the sight of their king carrying an unconscious woman, but they knew better than to speak. Aegon kicked the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the tapestries, depositing you gently on the bed before turning to the nearest man. "Remove her lord father from court" he said, voice eerily calm. "Him and all his kin." The guard hesitated, your father was Master of Coin, after all but one look at Aegon's face had him bowing sharply. "Burn their letters before they leave" Aegon added as the man retreated. He didn't need spies whispering to your family about bloodstains and midnight screams.
Aegon's fingers came away from your temple slick with blood, the metallic scent filling his nostrils as he swore again, low and vicious. The wound wasn't deep...he'd seen enough battle wounds to know that, but the way your head lolled against his arm sent something primal clawing up his throat. "Fuck" he hissed, pressing his sleeve against the bleeding gash as he strode to the door, bellowing for a guard. The man appeared instantly, his eyes widening at the sight of your limp form. "Fetch the fucking maester," Aegon snarled, "and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll feed you to Balerion in pieces."
The guard fled. Aegon turned back to you, his chest tight as he laid you carefully on the bed. Blood had seeped into the linen sheets already, blooming like some grotesque flower beneath your head. He tore a strip from the hem of his own tunic, dipping it into the basin of water by the bedside with hands that shook, whether from rage or fear, he couldn't tell. The water pinkened as he wrung out the cloth, pressing it gently to your temple. "Stubborn girl" he muttered, though his fingers were feather light as they brushed the hair from your face. "Always fighting me." The words tasted like ash. He hadn't meant to hurt you...hadn't meant for any of this.
The maester's fingers stilled mid replacing your bandage when your eyelashes fluttered, a butterfly's wing against his wrinkled knuckles. He exhaled sharply through his nose, adjusting the linen strip with practiced ease even as your head twitched weakly against the pillow. "Your Grace" the maester murmured, not taking his eyes from your face, "she stirs."
Aegon's chair screeched against stone as he lunged forward, his wine goblet forgotten where it rolled across the floor, staining the rushes crimson. He barely noticed. His entire world narrowed to the infinitesimal tremor of your fingers where they lay limp atop the coverlet, the first movement in three days of stillness so absolute he'd pressed a mirror to your lips hourly, watching for fog.
"Forgive me…" you mumbled, your voice raspy and eyes blinking hazily. The words felt strange on your tongue, like trying to recite a poem in a language you'd only ever heard whispered. "I am a bit confused… and my head hurts." Your hand drifted up toward your temple, fingers twitching instinctively toward the ache, but the maester intercepted your wrist with surprising speed. His grip was gentle but unyielding.
"Best not to disturb the wound, my lady" he murmured, pressing your hand back down onto the coverlet with wrinkled fingers that smelled of bitter poultices. The linen bandage wrapped around your head felt stiff against your skin, crusted with something dried and flaking. The maester leaned closer, his breath sour with sleep deprivation. "Do you remember your name?"
You opened your mouth and froze. The answer should have been there, resting on the tip of your tongue like a familiar sweet. Instead, there was only a yawning void where your name should have been. Your brows furrowed, sending a fresh lance of pain through your skull as you strained against the blankness. "I…" The syllable hung in the air, brittle and uncertain. Panic curled low in your belly, cold and slick.
A chair scraped violently against stone. Suddenly Aegon was there, looming over the maester's shoulder, his shadow swallowing the candlelight whole. His face was carved marble in the flickering gloom, too still, too perfect. The maester glanced between you both, then cleared his throat. "Memory loss isn't uncommon with head injuries" he said carefully, though his eyes darted to Aegon's clenched fists. "It may return in hours… or days."
"Who… who are you?" you mumbled, your voice thin as parchment. The man with violet eyes, so intense they seemed to glow in the dim light, approached slowly, the weight of his presence pressing down on you like a stormcloud. The maester opened his mouth, his lips curling into an obsequious smile. "His Grace the King—"
Aegon's hand shot out, fingers clamping over the old man's wrist hard enough to whiten knuckles. The maester's breath hitched, his words dying in his throat as Aegon leaned over you, his other hand cradling your face with terrifying gentleness. The lie slipped from his tongue like honeyed poison. "Your husband." His thumb brushed your cheekbone, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of you.
The maester's breath hitched audibly, his wrinkled hands freezing midair as Aegon's grip tightened on your cheeks. His thumbs pressed into the hollows beneath your eyes, not painfully, but with a possession that made your pulse stutter. "Shh" Aegon murmured, his voice roughened by three days of silence and smoke. The pad of his thumb brushed your lower lip, lingering just long enough for you to taste the salt of his skin. "You hit your head, my love. The maester says you may be confused."
"Husband?" you questioned, staring up at him. The word felt foreign, like trying to recite a line from a play you'd never read. The man looming over you, his silver hair catching the candlelight like molten metal, held your gaze with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Something primal stirred in your gut, a flicker of recognition drowned beneath the pounding in your skull. "You're… the king?"
The maester coughed discreetly, shuffling backward as Aegon's fingers tightened imperceptibly around your jaw. "Yes..." Aegon said, voice low as embers banking in a hearth. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, too intimate, too familiar. "And you are my queen."
Aegon's fingers twitched against your jaw, too tight, then abruptly gentle, as if he'd caught himself. His breath smelled of wine and something darker, something that made your stomach twist in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. "Aegon" he murmured, his thumb dragging across your lower lip again, slower this time. "And you…" His pause was barely perceptible, his gaze flickering to the maester, who had suddenly found the ceiling beams fascinating as your name fell from his lips.
The maester's lips parted, whether to protest or confirm, you'd never know. Aegon's glare silenced him before a single syllable escaped. The old man bowed stiffly and retreated toward the door, his robes whispering against stone like a guilty secret. When the latch clicked shut, Aegon exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers sliding from your face to cradle the back of your head instead. His palm was warm against your scalp, avoiding the bandage with surprising tenderness. "You fell" he murmured, thumb tracing the shell of your ear. "Three days ago."
"That is so sad" you murmured, your voice distant, as if commenting on some tragic tale told by a minstrel rather than your own missing memories. Your fingers twitched toward his, hesitant, uncertain, before finally curling around his calloused palm. The warmth of his skin startled you, sending an odd shiver up your arm. "You must have been so worried… as you are my husband." The word tasted strange in your mouth, like some fruit you'd never bitten into before.
Aegon's breath caught when your fingers tightened around his, hesitant, trusting. The tremor in his hands stilled as if you'd cast some silent spell. His gaze dropped to where your skin met his, the contrast of your pale fingers against his knuckles sending heat coiling low in his belly. "Worried?" he echoed, voice rough as he lifted your joined hands to his lips. His kiss burned against your knuckles, lingering too long to be proper. "You have no idea."
The maester's hands trembled slightly as he unwound the linen bandage from your temple on the seventh morning. Aegon loomed behind him, his shadow stretching across the bed like a dragon's wing. You barely noticed the old man's nervousness, too busy leaning into Aegon's thigh where it pressed against the mattress, your fingers idly tracing the embroidery on his breeches. The wound had scabbed over nicely, leaving only a thin white line barely visible beneath your hairline. "No sign of infection" the maester murmured, avoiding your gaze as he dabbed the scar with mint smelling salve. "Though headaches may persist…"
"Does she remember?" Aegon interrupted, his voice deliberately casual. His fingers slid into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that made you sigh and press closer. The maester's throat worked as he glanced between you, pliant and drowsy against Aegon's leg, and the king's too calm expression.
The maester's fingers twitched around his salve jar, his throat bobbing as if swallowing a stone. "You would have to ask her, my king" he murmured, gaze darting to where your hand rested on Aegon's thigh, your thumb rubbing absent circles through the fine wool.
You frowned, shaking your head slowly. The movement sent a dull throb through your temple, but it was the hollow ache behind your eyes that truly unsettled you. "I'm sorry, husband" you whispered, pressing your forehead against Aegon's hip in silent apology. His fingers stilled in your hair. "I don't."
Aegon exhaled through his nose, long and slow, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear in a gesture that might have been comforting if not for the tension coiled in his shoulders. The maester hesitated, then bowed so low his beard brushed the rushes. "The memories may yet return in time, Your Grace. Or…" His pause was heavy, weighted. "They may not."
Aegon's lips curled at the edges as he watched the maester gather his ointments and rolled bandages, a slow, secretive smile that didn't reach his eyes. You didn't see it, too busy tracing the embroidered dragons on his sleeve with a fingertip, marveling at how the silver threads caught the firelight. "We may make new memories, my love" he murmured, his breath stirring the loose strands of your hair where you leaned against his thigh. The words tasted like victory, thick and sweet on his tongue.
The maester's hands faltered as he cinched his leather satchel shut, the buckle clinking like a distant prison chain. He didn't dare look up, not when Aegon's fingers slid from your hair to cradle your chin, tilting your face upward with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. "Tell me" Aegon coaxed, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "what would please you first? A feast with singers? A hunt in the kingswood?" His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear, roughened by seven nights of watching you sleep. "Or shall I show you how a king worships his queen?"
Aegon's fingers stilled against your cheekbone, too long, too deliberate...before he turned his head sharply toward the maester. "Out" he commanded, the word cracking like a whip. The old man scurried backward, nearly tripping over his own robes in his haste to obey. The door clicked shut with finality, leaving only the sound of your breathing, too quick, too shallow and the distant crackle of the hearth.
"You've been unwell" Aegon murmured, his thumb resuming its slow arc along your jawline. His pupils swallowed the violet of his irises, black as the space between stars. "I wouldn't…" His voice roughened, his free hand flexing against the bedsheets where he braced himself above you. "I wouldn't take you while you couldn't remember the pleasure of it."
Your lips parted, not in protest, but in something softer, warmer. The way his gaze dipped to your mouth sent heat pooling low in your belly, unfamiliar yet intoxicating. "Oh..." you breathed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. The scent of him, smoke and salt and something indefinably male, filled your lungs as you leaned closer. "That's… kind of you."
Aegon's laugh was dark, unamused. His teeth flashed white as his lips peeled back from them. "Kind?" He pressed forward, his knee slotting between your thighs with devastating precision. The contact drew a gasp from you, half shock, half something else entirely. "I've been fucking my hand every night imagining this." he growled against your temple, his breath scalding where it seared your skin. "There's nothing kind about what I'm going to do to you."
The vulgarity should have repelled you. Instead, your body arched instinctively into his, your hips canting against the hard muscle of his thigh. Aegon's groan vibrated through you as his hands slid down your sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. "Seven hells" he rasped, "you're even more responsive than I dreamed." His lips traced the shell of your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive skin beneath. "Were you always like this? Or is this my reward for patience?"
Your breath hitched, not from fear, but from the way his teeth scraped along your pulse point. "I don't… remember" you admitted, your voice trembling. The confession should have been terrifying, but with Aegon's hands mapping your body like a man starved, it felt inconsequential. His thumb brushed the peak of your nipple through the thin fabric of your shift, and you cried out, your fingers twisting in his hair.
Aegon shuddered, his hips grinding against yours in an unmistakable rhythm. "Gods..." he gritted out, "you're perfect." His fingers made quick work of the laces at your bodice, the fabric parting like petals under his touch. Cool air kissed your bared skin, but his gaze burned hotter than any flame. "Look at you" he murmured, his palm skimming your ribcage. "Made for me."
You gasped as his mouth closed over your nipple, his tongue swirling in wicked circles. Pleasure shot through you like lightning, your back bowing off the bed. "Aegon—" His name tumbled from your lips, broken and desperate. His answering growl vibrated against your skin as his hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing through slick folds.
"You're dripping" he observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Do you know how long I've dreamed of this?" His fingers circled your clit with agonizing precision, your hips bucking against his hand. "Tell me you want this" he demanded, his breath hot against your throat. "Tell me you're mine."
"I—" Your words dissolved into a moan as his fingers plunged inside you, curling just right. Stars exploded behind your eyelids, your body tightening around him. "Yours" you gasped, nails scoring his shoulders. "Always yours."
Aegon's restraint shattered. He surged forward, pinning you beneath him as his cock nudged your entrance. "Look at me" he commanded, his voice ragged. Violet eyes burned into yours as he sheathed himself fully in one brutal thrust. Your scream echoed off the stone walls, pleasure and pain blurring into overwhelming sensation.
The moment Aegon pulled out, his cock glistening with your shared arousal, he froze. A dark streak smeared across his thigh, not just slickness, but blood. Crimson bloomed bright against his pale skin, stark as dragonfire on snow. His breath hitched, fingers tightening where they gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck" he rasped, staring down at the proof of your untouched state with something akin to reverence. "You were a maiden."
"What?" you mumbled breathlessly, fingers clutching the rumpled sheets beneath you. Your thighs still trembled from the force of his claiming, but confusion furrowed your brow as you glanced down at the blood smeared across his skin. A giggle bubbled up, light, airy, as you swatted his chest. "We were surely intimate before this, husband. You're teasing me." The words tasted like honeyed wine, sweet with the certainty of shared history that didn't exist.
Aegon's expression flickered, something dark and hungry shifting behind his eyes before he schooled his features into a mask of tender amusement. His thumb brushed your lower lip, coming away damp from where you'd bitten it during his relentless thrusts. "Clever girl" he murmured, though his voice carried an odd thickness. His cock twitched against your thigh, still slick with your virgin's blood. "Perhaps I liked pretending you were untouched. Perhaps…" His hips rolled lazily, the head of his cock catching at your sensitive entrance, "…I wanted to break you open all over again."
The chamber reeked of sweat and sex, the heavy velvet drapes doing little to stifle the sounds still echoing off the stone, your breathy whimpers, Aegon's guttural growls, the wet slap of skin meeting skin with each relentless thrust. He hadn't let you rest, hadn't paused except to flip you onto your stomach, your cheek pressed into the mattress as he hiked your hips up and plunged back in with a groan that rattled his chest.
The castle had fallen silent by the third hour, though the walls still hummed with the aftershocks of Aegon's possession. You lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets, legs trembling too violently to close, his spend dripping down your inner thighs. Aegon traced the mess with possessive satisfaction, his fingers painting lazy patterns through the sticky warmth before bringing them to his lips. "Sweet" he murmured, tongue darting out to taste you with unhurried relish. "Sweeter than I imagined."
The castle woke to silence the next morning, the kind of silence that came when servants walked on tiptoes and maids exchanged knowing glances over their scrubbing brushes. You stirred beneath the silk sheets, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache, the scent of sex clinging to your skin. Aegon's arm was a dead weight across your waist, his fingers still twitching possessively even in sleep.
The morning light bled through the heavy drapes in slanted amber stripes, painting Aegon's bare chest in molten gold as he watched you stir. His fingers traced idle patterns along your hipbone, not tenderly, but with the proprietary satisfaction of a dragon circling its hoard. You blinked up at him through sleep heavy lashes, your thighs instinctively pressing together at the memory of his roughness. The movement made his lips twitch.
The first thing you noticed was the ache, deep and throbbing between your legs, a pulsing reminder of what Aegon had taken from you. The second was the warmth of his palm splayed possessively over your belly, fingers dipping just beneath the silk sheets as if marking territory. His breath ghosted across your shoulder, slow and even, but the tension in his body betrayed his wakefulness.
The rustle of silk against bare skin was the only sound as you stretched beneath the sheets, wincing at the dull protest of sore muscles. Aegon's fingers tightened imperceptibly on your hip, not restraining, just present, a brand seared into your flesh as surely as the bruises blooming along your throat. When you turned to face him, his eyes were already open, violet dark and unreadable in the dawn light.
You had spent the morning in the tub, the water sloshed over the copper tub's rim when you flicked your fingers at Aegon, droplets catching fire in the morning light as they arced toward his face. His answering growl sent heat pooling low in your belly, half threat, half promise, before he lunged, dragging you against his chest with a splash that soaked the rushes. "Cheeky" he murmured against your temple, his erection pressing insistently against your lower back. You could feel the water ripple around it, the teasing bob of his cock stirring currents against your thighs.
One of the maids had left lavender oil by the basin, its scent clung to the steam rising between you, thick as the tension coiling in Aegon's shoulders when you reached back to trail soap slick fingers along his inner thigh. His breath hitched, sharp enough that you felt it in your own lungs, before his hand clamped over yours, guiding you higher. "Here" he rasped, your palm enveloped in heat and hardness. The water did nothing to disguise the way his pulse jumped under your fingertips, the rapid throb of veins beneath silken skin.
"It'll be easier if you face me" Aegon whispered, his breath hot against the shell of your ear as he turned you in the water. The movement sent ripples cascading over the tub's edge, but you barely noticed, not when his hands settled on your hips, guiding you until your knees bracketed his thighs. The second he placed your palm against him again, your fingers twitched instinctively around his hardness. You bit your lip, the taste of lavender and salt sharp on your tongue. "W-what do I do…?"
Aegon's exhale was ragged, his cock pulsing against your tentative grip. His thumb traced the crease of your wrist, pressing gently until your fingers tightened just so. "Like this" he murmured, his own hand covering yours, demonstrating the slow drag of your fist along his length. Water sluiced between your joined fingers, making the glide effortless, sinful. His head tipped back against the copper rim, veins standing stark along his throat as his hips jerked into your touch. "Fuck. Just like that."
You watched, transfixed, as a bead of moisture welled at his tip, not bathwater, something thicker, and your thumb brushed over it without thinking. The groan that tore from Aegon's chest was raw, his fingers digging into your hip hard enough to leave marks. "Curious little wife" he rasped, his other hand tangling in your hair, tugging until your lips were a breath from his. "Taste."
Aegon's fingers glistened in the steam heavy air, his thumb slick with his own release as it brushed your lower lip. You gasped, not in protest, but in startled arousal as he pressed insistently against the seam of your mouth until your lips parted on a shuddering exhale. The taste burst across your tongue like lightning, salty, musky, something indefinably him and your lashes fluttered shut instinctively. His groan vibrated through your chest where he held you flush against him, the water sloshing wildly as his hips jerked upward.
The copper tub groaned under Aegon's sudden movement, water sloshing onto the stone floor as he hauled you onto his lap. Your startled yelp dissolved into a moan when his cock slid against your slick folds, the blunt head catching at your entrance with delicious pressure. "You asked what to do" he growled into the crook of your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. His hands molded your hips, guiding you down with agonizing slowness until you gasped at the stretch, still tender from last night's ravaging. "This is what you do."
The water had gone cold by the time Aegon finally lifted you from the tub, his arms trembling with the effort of holding himself back. You clung to him, dripping and breathless, your thighs marked with crescent shaped impressions where your nails had bitten into flesh. He didn’t bother with towels, just carried you, shivering and slick, to the nearest flat surface of a carved oak table cluttered with scrolls and quills. They scattered to the floor as he laid you down, the parchment crinkling beneath his knees when he climbed atop you.
The quill snapped under Aegon's knee with a sound like breaking bones. Ink bled across an unfinished letter, some lord's petition about grain stores as he pinned your wrists above your head, his hips grinding against yours with deliberate, maddening slowness. "Look at you" he breathed, watching your nipples pebble in the morning chill, your thighs already parting in silent invitation. "Still hungry for me after last night."
The courtyard outside your chambers was unnaturally still the next afternoon, no clatter of armor, no chatter of serving girls, as if the entire castle held its breath. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of the bedframe and Aegon's guttural growls punctuating your broken cries. He had you bent over the window ledge, your fingers scrabbling against the sun-warmed stone as he pounded into you from behind, each thrust sending your breasts bouncing against the cool surface. "Louder" he commanded, his palm cracking against your ass in a sharp sting that made you yelp. The sound ricocheted off the Red Keep's towers, carried by the sea wind to every open window below.
"Look down" he snarled, his hand fisting in your hair to wrench your head forward. Below the window, a cluster of servants froze mid task, their upturned faces pale as milk. Aegon's hips snapped harder, his teeth sinking into your nape. "Let them see their queen well used."
Aegon traced the curve of your sleeping shoulder with the edge of his dagger, not enough to break skin, just enough to feel the heat of you beneath the cold steel. The blade caught the candlelight as he dragged it lower, following the dip of your waist where bruises bloomed in the shape of his fingers. He'd kept you abed for three days straight, fucking you raw every time you stirred, whispering false histories against your sweat slick skin until you repeated them back to him like prayers.
The dagger's tip lingered just below your collarbone, catching the predawn light in a thin silver gleam. Aegon's breath fogged the steel as he exhaled slowly, watching the rise and fall of your chest with something between worship and hunger. The gods had already answered one prayer...your pliant body, your trusting eyes, the way you arched into his touch like a flower seeking sun. Now he sent another into the silence between heartbeats... "Let her stay this way"
Your lashes fluttered as the cold metal traced a lazy path toward your nipple. A soft sound escaped your lips, not fear, not protest, but the sleepy murmur of his name. Aegon's gut tightened. He could count every time you'd said it without prompting since the injury…sacred utterances that meant you'd begun stitching him into the blank tapestry of your mind. The dagger trembled in his grip. "Let her never remember."
The dagger clattered to the floor when you reached for him in sleep, your fingers curling around his wrist with instinctive trust. Aegon froze, watching the way your thumb brushed his pulse point, softer than the touch he deserved, gentler than the violence thrumming through his veins. His free hand hovered above your throat, trembling with the need to claim even this fragile moment.
The dagger's clatter jolted you halfway awake, your fingers still wrapped around Aegon's wrist like a shackle made of silk. His pulse hammered against your thumb, wild as a trapped bird, until you made a soft, questioning noise in your throat and pressed your lips to his knuckles. The tension bled from his muscles all at once, his free hand cradling your jaw with terrifying gentleness.
All good things have things that can ruin them.
The parchment crumpled in Aegon’s fist as he paced the solar, the ink of his latest decree bleeding through the fibers like poison. Through the arched windows, he could see the courtyard below, lords and ladies milling about in their silks and velvets, blissfully unaware of the viper in their midst. His jaw clenched. Someone would talk. Someone always did. A serving girl with loose lips, a knight who’d once seen him beg at your door, a fucking stable boy who remembered how you’d recoiled from his touch. The thought made his fingers twitch toward the dagger at his belt.
You shifted in the chair by the hearth, the furs pooled around your waist slipping to reveal the bruises he’d left along your hip. The sight stilled him mid stride. Even now...especially now, your innocence was unbearable. You blinked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, fingers toying with the embroidery on your sleeve. “Will I meet them soon?” you asked, your voice soft as the firelight gilded your throat. “Your sisters… our ladies? I'm sure I have before but I'd like to again seeing as I can't remember.”
Aegon’s gut twisted. He crossed the room in three strides, caging you against the chair with his body until your breath hitched. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the question away. “Not yet” he murmured, tasting the lie like bile on his tongue. His other hand slid possessively up your thigh, fingers digging into the tender flesh. “The maester said no excitement. No strain.” The word dripped with double meaning as his knee nudged your legs apart. “Would you disobey his orders, sweet wife?”
You whimpered, but your hips arched into his touch all the same, always so fucking pliant, so his. It made the panic in his chest recede, if only for a moment. He could control this. Could control you. His lips found the shell of your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “I’ll bring them to you” he lied smoothly, his hand sliding higher until your nails bit into his forearm. “When you’re ready. When I say.”
Beyond the chamber door, a serving girl’s footsteps paused, too close, too curious. Aegon snarled against your neck, his free hand darting to the dagger at his belt. The footsteps scurried away. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your face up to his. “No one sees you until I’ve prepared them.” The words were velvet wrapped steel. “Do you understand?”
You nodded, breathless and dazed, your pupils blown wide with trust. Aegon’s chest ached with something vile and victorious. He kissed you then, hard enough to bruise...to seal the lie between your teeth.
Ser Dunk x Targaryen!cousin fem!reader (NO DESCRIPTIONS OR TARG FEATURES USED)
Overview: You've been promised to Aerion since you were a girl. You thought that when your aunt passed and Maekar doomed you to marriage, that your life was over. Until a nameday tourney in Ashford changes everything.
You find yourself a hedge knight that reminds you of the life you might have if you can finally escape the dragons.
a/n: Uhm, this fic is pretty telling that I do not like Aerion. Nor will I ever forgive him for traumatizing my baby Egg. Fuck Aerion man, and not in the fun way. (Love Finn Bennett tho)
mdni! 18+ for the following: fem! receiving oral. Thigh-riding, dunk is a munch that finishes in his pants (I don’t make the rules)
wc: 8.4K
You had not wanted to attend the tourney. When you’d heard of it, you’d been elated. Aerion would be sure to enter the lists and refuse to miss a chance to humiliate lesser men. Which meant that you might finally have a moment alone to yourself. Something you had not been granted in so long.
But Aerion had been displeased at the notion that his future lady-wife might actually enjoy herself. Thus, you’d been tossed on a horse and marched down to this farce of a nameday.
You had no interest in watching men gore one another with pointy sticks. And you certainly couldn’t sit up in the audience and suffer through every smirk Aerion might send your way at one of his ‘victories.’ Though you were of the opinion it wasn’t a victory if one had to cheat.
“Could you pretend you're enjoying yourself?” Maekar hisses, glancing over at you as you ride into Ashford.
You cut him a glare and he sighs. “Could you pretend to understand why I am the epitome of misery? It is your fault, after all.”
Maekar shakes his head and rides off with a grumble. Baelor smiles at you pityingly as he follows his brother. You choose to ignore them both. Just as they have ignored your desperate pleas for freedom since you were entrusted to Maekar’s care.
You lead your horse to the stables and see a rather large stable boy waiting. Gods above, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man so big. Must’ve been kicked in the head as a child, poor thing, he looks utterly lost.
“Would you ensure she has some oats and a good groom?" You run your hand over your mare's mane as you approach him. "She does hate muddy roads, and I’m afraid that’s all we’ve had,” you tell the boy.
He blinks big blue eyes up at you before frowning. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but I’m no stableboy.”
“Oh,” you tilt your head and smile. “That certainly makes more sense.” He lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You find yourself endeared by such sheepish behavior. It’s as if he has not one idea how to act around a woman.
Perhaps he doesn’t. It seems a skill lost to most these days.
“You there! Fetch me a nice wench and have her brought to my rooms.” You glance over your shoulder at your betrothed and scoff.
“How very princely.”
Aerion bares dragon-like teeth at you in a stiff smile that makes you grimace. “Until my lady flowers, I’m afraid I must find entertainment in other forms.”
“Better them than me,” you grumble, swinging your leg over your saddle.
“Here,” the large man steps forward, offering his hand. You smile, taking it gratefully as he eases you from your mare, steering you away from the thick puddles of mud.
“Flirting with the stable hands, now?” Aerion taunts, failing to hide the venom in his tone.
“He’s no stable hand,” you scold Aerion. “He’s…” you glance back at the man for some help.
He straightens, puffing his chest proudly. “A knight, your grace.”
Aerion’s eyes flit up and down the knight before he scoffs. “What a sorry state the realm is in that you are a knight.”
Aerion slips from his horse and heads into the keep. You’re going to apologize to the man when Aerion’s monster of a horse bucks out at one of the true stable hands. The man flies back, blood spraying from his face as his body slams against the ground.
You jump back with a sharp gasp as the knight rushes past you. He reaches Aerion’s mount and hushes her, grabbing the reins as he soothes her. You can’t help but be awed at the display as he leads her quietly to the stables.
“It’s alright, girl,” he whispers and you smile, following after him with your own mare.
“I don’t believe I got your name, Ser.”
“Oh, um, Dunk- Duncan,” he quickly corrects. “See Duncan the Tall.”
“A pleasure, Ser.”
“And you, m’lady?” He asks, still calming Aerion’s wily horse.
You give him your first name and then smile, “Waters,” the last name of all bastards born in the crownlands. “Soon to be Targaryen,” you sigh.
Dunk’s eyes go wide and you can’t help but laugh. “Fret not, sweet knight. I hold no true importance. I am betrothed to Aerion, the very same man who that beast belongs to,” you nod toward the horse.
“I am sorry for how he spoke to you. Could I make it up to you in some way?” Dunk begins to shake his head no. You appreciate the attempt at honor, but all men want something.
Slowly, his eyes drift back to the keep before he faces you once more. “Actually, m’lady, I’m trying to get my name in the lists. But I need a knight to vouch for me. All others have forgotten Ser Arlan of Pennytree. But he did always boast of his joust with Baelor Targaryen, perhaps the prince might remember.”
You let out a huff of laughter and nod your head. “It won’t be too hard for me to get an audience with him. Besides, if any man remembers a hedge knight, it would be Baelor. Come along, Dunk.”
His feet thud against the mud as he follows quickly after you. You glance over your shoulder and smile at the hopeful look on his face. Perhaps you’ve just found a reason to be interested in this damnable tourney.
“Will you be gracing us with your presence today, cousin?”
You glance at Valarr and sigh at the smirk on his face. “Only if you allow me some of that wine you keep in your tent.”
He laughs and nods, leading you out toward the field. “But of course, my lady.”
“Enough,” you scold, shaking your head at his antics. You'd rather be treated as a bastard than a proper lady, and he knows it. Always teasing you with formalities that only serve to remind you of the noble place you will soon be marrying into.
The king might have decreed you legitimate, but you still carried a bastard’s name. And a bastard's dislike for higher-borns.
Though Valarr was a rare exception to your hatred. Maekar had never quite mastered parenting after your aunt had died. His boys ran wild from him and slipped between his fingers. At least Baelor had brought up an honorable man.
Valarr leads you to his tent on the edge of the jousting field. He ducks inside while you sit on a chair outside the tent. He returns with two goblets generously filled.
You doubt he’ll drink much. He prefers to be clear of mind when competing. But you’ll happily finish his. The drunker you are, the quicker this will go.
Aerion rides out onto the field. His ridiculous armor clinks with each beat of his horse's hooves. He travels down the fence, stopping before you and Valarr.
Valarr tenses immediately. A wise instinct on his part, considering how much Aerion threatens his own brothers, he could hardly care much for a cousin.
“Do not worry, Valarr, I will not embarrass you. Not yet, at least.” You roll your eyes at his cocky demeanor as his gaze drifts to you. “I wish only for a kiss of luck from my beautiful betrothed.”
You choke slightly on your wine and cut him a sharp glare. “Perhaps a kiss of victory after, darling," you grit out.
Aerion’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head. “No,” he drawls, a lilt to his voice that has your body tensing on instinct. “Come here, love.”
There is no sweet lover’s lilt or crooning affection in his tone. It is wholly and entirely ownership, domination over your body and soul. You are something that has belonged to him since you were first forced to go to Summerhall. No means nothing to him.
You place your goblet on the table and rise to your feet. Your boots slip against the mud and he grins as he watches you struggle. Placing your hands on the pommel of his saddle, you push up to your toes.
Aerion slides the front of his helmet down and leans until you’re face-to-face with a metalworked demon. “Come on,” he taunts, voice echoing beneath the helm.
You force yourself to press your lips to the cold face, to the twisted visage of death he wears so proudly. He lets out a laugh, jerking back and urging his horse forward. The pommel slips from your hands abruptly and you nearly fall to the mud.
You glare at the back of his head and wish you would one day grow old enough to see him hanged or worse.
Oh, how he loves to taunt you like that. With little moments that show you the rest of your life. Visions of him commanding you as he sees fit. For all that you are is also his. As it always has been and always will be.
If you weren’t so stubborn and intent on living. You would have let the Stranger take you years ago. Slipped Tears of Lys into your supper wine and entered the long sleep as a child.
Valarr offers a pitying look as you walk back to him. It only serves to anger you further. It’s not as if he or his father ever said a word in your defense. No, you were Maekar’s burden. If he wished to marry you to his mad son, then you were a sacrifice that might benefit them in keeping Aerion subdued.
You throw yourself back down in your chair, tipping your head back and downing as much of your wine as you can swallow without drowning. Aerion looks toward you before he faces his opponent across the field. The horn bellows from the seats above and you avoid Valarr’s stare burning into you as the other men charge.
It is of no surprise to you when Aerion ducks to the side, a coward’s attempt at getting his opponent off balance. But he does not give the man time to recover. He turns his horse around and drops his lance low.
“It’s too low,” Valarr mutters, straightening up in his seat.
“Indeed,” you mutter, taking another swig of your wine. And, again, it is no surprise to you when Aerion drives the lance into the neck of his opponent’s horse. But that does not mean you enjoy listening to the piercing screams of the beast as it dies.
“Gods above,” you look over at Valarr and scoff. It is astounding to you that Aerion’s family is still surprised at his cruelty.
Your betrothed flips up his helm, grin wide on his face as the horse writhes, crushing his rider’s leg. The goblet in your hand spins against the table. You run your fingers over the gold and the jewels embedded in it.
The crowd shouts profanities at Aerion, cursing him for such poor sportsmanship. They riot, shoving up against one another as a violent, hungry wave of hate. Their screams fill you, remind you of the many injustices the Gods have dealt you.
The goblet is flying from your hands before you can think. Aerion flinches, jolting forward as it slams against the back of his helmet. You get to your feet just as he turns. But someone from the crowd sends a rock flying into his face before the full force of his anger can find you.
“Cousin,” you ignore Valarr, lifting your skirts and storming from the field before you have to take in the full consequence of your recklessness. You have had enough Targaryens for a lifetime. You need to be in the presence of someone who hates them as much as you do.
Lyonel’s tent is full and rowdy. They do not let the energy of today’s match dim their mood. Nor their generosity with their wine. You sit toward the back of the tent, sulking as you drown your sorrows.
“M’lady?”
You jolt at the voice and whip around to find the knight from the stables. “Ser Duncan,” you greet, wiping Dornish wine from the corner of your lips. “Please,” you nod to the seat beside you.
He offers a tentative smile before sitting on the bench. You let out a quiet groan as the table dips, gripping the edge of your seat so you don’t slide toward him. You’re sure a man like him is aware of his size, but you wonder how much he truly understands the effect it has on those around him.
“Did you enjoy the match today?” You ask dryly, already certain you know the answer.
Dunk blanches and shakes his head. “No offense meant, m’lady.”
“Nonsense,” you wave him off with a little laugh. “There is no bigger critic of my betrothed than myself. It was unseemly for a prince and absolutely abhorrent for a knight. Did you not wonder where that goblet came from today?”
Dunk chokes on his wine and sends you a wide-eyed look. “That was you?”
You let out a weary sigh and nod. “I am not keen to go back to the keep and face the consequences of my action.”
“No,” Dunk mutters, shaking his head.
You slam your hand on the table and Dunk jolts. Pushing off the wood, you stand on wobbly legs, warmed by the wine. “I wish not to think of my future husband. Would you dance with me, Ser?”
He blanches at the idea. You cannot fault him. You would not be eager to take the hand of a woman destined to marry such a cruel man. “M’lady, I shouldn’t-“
“I understand,” you cut him off. “Perhaps it’s time I retire, anyway. Face the music as is so often said.” You bite your lip, brushing off your skirts. You take in a shaky breath as you struggle to imagine how cruel Aerion might be tonight as he sneaks into your chambers.
Just as you turn to leave, Dunk jumps to his feet. You startle at the abrupt movement and he rocks on his heels. He’s slumped, like he’s unsure what to do with all his height. You have a few ideas.
“Perhaps, one dance,” he amends. You smile and let out a huff of laughter. You hold your hand out, smile only widening when the size of his palm completely dwarfs your own.
“Lead the way, Ser.” You sweep your arm out toward the dance floor and he eagerly leads you to it. His dancing is clumsy, but it’s more enthusiastic than anything your betrothed might ever give you.
He doesn’t care how he looks as you spin him about the floor, or how many times you step on his toes. He leads you through one dance before relinquishing control and letting you lead him through two more.
It is, perhaps, the most fun you’ve had since your tenth name day. The last year you remember being happy. He is a breath of fresh air, a man who reminds you of a time before you became Targaryen property.
When the dancing is over and sweat dots your temple, you take a seat with Duncan once more. You pick at honeyed bread while he devours a turkey leg nearly as big as his own bicep. You watch him with rapt attention. Such different mannerisms from the properly bred and behaved nobles. It is endearing, in a strange way.
“Might I ask you something, m’lady?” You nod your head with a smile, taking another drink of your wine. “You don’t seem to love the prince. How is it you came to be betrothed?”
“It’s sweet that you think love might have anything to do with a noble’s marriage.” Dunk flushes, ducking his head, and you smirk. “Aerion’s mother is my aunt. After my own mother passed, she took me in. They didn’t know who my father was, so I was named a bastard. But when Maekar noticed just how enchanted my cousin had become with me, he had the king legitimize me. He thought promising Aerion my hand might tame his son. But I’ve spent long enough time around him to know that when Aerion becomes tamed is the day dragons return to Westeros.”
You scoff and shake your head, “Aerion often likes to tell me he can forgive me the impurity of my bastard blood for the sake of the love he holds for his mother.”
Dunk's face is aghast as he listens, lips parted with disgust. You snort into your wine. “Trust me, I’m just as disgusted by a Targaryen’s tendency toward kin-fucking as you are. The day I actually have to marry Aerion, I’ll likely fling myself from the highest window. But!” You slap Dunk’s shoulder and he jolts.
“That is not tonight, so distract me with a tale of your travels, hedge knight. I wish to hear of this Ser Arlan you love so much.”
Dunk hesitates for a moment, looking like there’s a word of sympathy he wishes to give you. Blessedly, he simply nods and does as you ask. Regaling you with a ridiculous tale of his master’s drunken fights with gold cloaks and Lannisters alike.
The tourney ends up being far more enjoyable than anything you had ever expected. You can lay credit to that on Dunk’s shoulders. The nights you are here are spent dancing in Lyonel’s tent, getting drunk off Dornish wine and listening to stories you scarcely believe are real.
But your mornings, unfortunately, are owned by your kin.
You break fast around Lord Ashford’s table. There has been silence since Aerion’s incident on the field. He has been more temperamental after Baelor forced the prince to give his horse to that knight he’d dishonored.
“It is barely past dawn,” Maekar grumbles, glaring down the table as Daeron orders a flagon of wine from one of the servants.
“I know and I am already unfortunately sober,” he smiles, taking a deep swig. You bite your lip to hold back your laughter. They had found Daeron at an inn the night past, you don’t think your uncle has been able to get information about Aegon’s disappearance from him, yet. You’re certain it will be even more unlikely, considering how intent Daeron is on drinking himself to exhaustion.
“Have you enjoyed the tourney?” Baleor directs at you, attempting to dispel the tension between father and son.
You hum and look up from your meal to Aerion. He sends you a smirk that makes your blood boil.
“It is as all tourneys are,” you vaguely respond, wishing for your own goblet of wine right about now. Perhaps Daeron’s drunkenness is not a weakness of character but a sorry consequence of prolonged exposure to Targaryens.
“That’s hardly an answer,” your betrothed interrupts. Baelor shoots him a tired look. “Give us your honest feelings, my love.”
You suck in a sharp breath and lean back in your chair. “Honest?” He nods and you grin.
“I am ashamed that the man I am to marry has been the only one to perform so poorly that a riot broke out. I am disgusted that I had to listen to an animal screech in pain while it waited to be put down. And I am entirely sick of lord Ashford’s gruel and soggy bread.” You shove your plate away and get to your feet.
Aerion’s face has gone bright red, his hand tightening dangerously around his knife. Maekar lets out a tired sigh and pinches his brow. “You obstinate little-”
“Enough,” Baelor interrupts your betrothed. “Do not insult our host,” he chides you, making no mention of how you’d disrespected Aerion. Most likely because he knows it to be the truth.
“Apologies,” you mutter, glancing at the man in question, who was staring down at his plate with flushed cheeks. “But I do recommend you spend more gold on your crops rather than elaborate displays of wealth for the monarchy. Excuse me,” you snap, storming from the room.
They would not have an obstinate bastard to deal with if your uncle had simply granted you freedom after your aunt’s passing. No, instead, he swore to marry you to your cousin. To sate the itch Aerion seemed to crave for the old ways of Targaryen blood purity. Even if you were not pure.
By now, you should be heavy with Aerion’s child. You should already be wed and tamed by marriage. But Maekar had sworn that Aerion would only marry you once you had been flowered. After long over a decade, you think Aerion would have caught on that you’d flowered when you were thirteen and had been hiding it ever since.
Just this morning, your blood came. A servant had caught you burning the sheets. But they did not know of any such deal made, so you had hope it would not get back to your betrothed.
Rushing down the steps of Ashford Hall, you wonder what you might entertain yourself with until Evenfall. Until you can see your hedge knight again.
You stand in Lyonel Baratheon’s tent once more, hovering at Dunk’s side while he pillages the desert table. “Are you really going to be able to eat that all?” You wonder, eyes wide as you take in the three tarts balanced in his palm.
Dunk gives you a proud grin, “‘Course-”
“Is that a fucking Targaryen in my tent?” Lyonel’s voice breaks through the revelry. He stands in the middle of the tent, eyes narrowed as he glares over at you. Dunk stiffens and shifts to stand in front of you.
You place your hand on his arm and step around him. “Call me that again and you’ll lose your tongue. Won’t be the laughing storm much longer.”
Dunk whips around with an aghast look, but you pay him no mind. Lyonel is quiet for a moment longer before bursting out into laughter. The people in the tent laugh along with him, the liveliness returning as they go back to their drink and dance. “I have missed that barbed wit of yours.”
He strides forward and pulls you into a rough hug. You pat his back with a grin. “I’m sure you miss any wit out in those forsaken Stormlands of yours.”
Dunk’s eyes dart between the pair of you and he frowns. “You two know each other?”
Lyonel glances toward him, but ignores Dunk in favor of questioning you. “What’re you doing with my giant?”
“Oh,” you chuckle. “He’s your giant now, is he? I met him after he was introduced to the hospitality and grace of the Targaryens.”
Lyonel groans and shakes his head. “Your betrothed, then?”
“And his beast of a horse.”
You glance over at Dunk to see him looking bewildered. If not a little relieved that you’re not getting your tongue taken for speaking to a nobleman so brazenly.
“The monarchy likes to make a scene of visiting the lords and ladies of important houses. I have met Lyonel quite a few times during those tours.”
“Yes, and she’s the only royal I haven’t wanted to kill the moment I met,” Lyonel adds with a smirk, taking a swig of his mead.
“How flattering,” you drawl, shooting him a sharp look.
“Tell me, how is it that I have not seen you?” Lyonel questions, leading you over to his table. Dunk hovers behind you both, hand still laden with sweets.
“I imagine you’ve been too drunk to recognize the face dancing with your giant.”
“And what an interesting dance partner he makes.” You hum your agreement as Lyonel throws himself down in his chair. “Entertain me, Waters, I grow bored of the same Lord’s prattling on.”
You shoot Dunk a sly look that he returns with a hesitant smile, cheeks now full of tart. With a slight laugh, you sit down, preparing to regale your Lord with whatever wild tales you might think of.
“How long have you known Lyonel?” Dunk asks as he walks you from the tent and back on the path to Ashford.
“Since I was a girl. Though I have grown up and I don’t think he ever plans on it.”
Dunk laughs and shakes his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever met such an interesting man.”
“I doubt you ever will again,” you tell him. You look back at the tent before tossing him a weary glance. “You know, I don’t think you’ve shown me your pavilion, yet.”
Dunk flushes, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. You worry for a moment that you were too forward. “That’s because I don’t have a pavilion, m’lady. I sleep under the stars as any proper hedge knight would. I have only a tree for cover.”
“Hm,” you let out a little laugh. “Trees leak.”
Dunk chuckles, glancing over at you with a soft smile that makes something inside of you melt. “That they do.”
“Would you show me, Dunk? This grand tree of yours. The night is far too young to return to the dragons of Ashford.” Dunk hesitates at the mention of your family, sending you a worried look. You offer a smile, nodding toward the path.
“Alright,” he huffs out, only slightly reluctant. “But I’ll have you back before dawn,” he swears.
“Whatever you say, sweet knight.”
Dunk gives a firm nod and takes the hand you hold out to him, rough callouses a pleasurable change to your own smooth palms. You hold onto his arm as he leads you toward this tree of his.
It lies beneath a stone wall and isn’t half as large as you’d been expecting. But the trunk is wide enough for one to lie against and you suppose that’s all that matters. The rest of his camp is empty, his squire apparently quite enamored with the puppeteers at the tourney.
“Hm,” you hum, circling the base before resting with your back against it. “You know, I’m still not quite convinced that this is any better than a pavilion like Lyonel’s.” Dunk hovers a little way away from you, hands tight around the hilt of his sword as he watches you. He almost seems ashamed.
“Dunk,” you frown, “I’m only teasing.”
“Yes,” he nods and lets out a strained laugh. “I know. But… you’re used to castles and- and grander things than a hedge knight has ever known.” He moves closer to you as you wait beneath the boughs of the elm tree.
“Yes, and with gold and glory comes cruelty, entitlement, and some of the worst men to ever grace the seven kingdoms.” You step closer to him, reaching out for his hands. He releases his sword in favor of holding onto you. “Do you truly think I care for those things?”
Dunk finally meets your eye, and slowly he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers.
“No, sweet knight, I don’t.” Your eyes dip to his lips for a moment and you see him do the same. It would be foolish, stupid, even, to do this. You could be damning him to Aerion’s anger and revenge.
But, it’s as you said, nobles are bad people. Selfish people. You never said you were any different.
You push onto the tips of your toes and press your lips against his. It’s stiff, at first, hesitant on both your ends. Just as you begin to pull back, Dunk’s hand cups the back of your head, and he’s tugging you forward. You let out a slight gasp against his lips, clutching onto the front of his shirt as he walks you backwards.
Your back hits the rough bark of the tree while his other hand squeezes at your waist. The pommel of his sword digs into your stomach and you grimace, trying to ignore it and instead focus on the feeling of his lips against yours. The taste of Lyonel’s mead that still coats his tongue.
He undoes his roped belt with one hand, letting his sword drop to the grass in favor of tugging you even closer. Your body arches into his as he tilts your head, deepening the kiss. His thigh shifts, slotting between the loose skirt of your dress. You’re shocked by how brazen he’s being. You’d expected rejection, a claim that this was dishonorable to do as a woman promised to another.
But Dunk seems to care not for propriety as his hands drop to your hips, urging them to action. You let out a little moan as you grind against the firm muscles of his thigh. The girth of him alone is enough to have your skin buzzing with pleasure. He’d once told you his master used to call him thick as a castle wall. The old man certainly had a point.
The number of times you’d thought about mounting him is shameful to say the least. But you hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Certainly not under a tree, with nothing but the stars above you. Though you can’t say you’re complaining. Not as his lips leave yours, trailing down your neck and shoulder, before he drops to his knees before you.
“Dunk,” you whisper, staring down at him with wide eyes. For once, he’s caught you off guard.
“Would you allow me this, m’lady?” he asks, eyes wide as his hands skim the hem of your skirts. You cannot think of any reason you might say no. But you’re so flustered, you can hardly get the words out. So you simply nod, nails biting into the bark of the elm as he lifts your skirts to your hips.
Again, Dunk exceeds expectations. You’d thought there’d be hesitancy, a sheepish look as he delved beneath your skirts. But your permission is all Dunk needed. He wastes no time in shoving your smallclothes aside, pressing his lips to your core and taking in your taste like a man starved.
“Gods above,” you gasp, hands jumping from the tree to Dunk’s hair. He lets out a groan as your fingers tangle within the strands; the sound vibrates through you. Your head falls back against the tree as he lifts your leg onto his shoulder.
His tongue flattens against you, swiping between your folds as his hand lifts to your core. One thick finger breaches inside of you, and your hips jolt against his face. His nose bumps against your bundle of nerves and you let out a gasp, chasing the shock of pleasure. A rumbling moan vibrates against you as you use him.
You can’t tell who’s enjoying this more, you or the knight kneeling between your legs. But each buck of your hips incenses him further, until he’s stretching you wide with two fingers and you’re struggling to gasp out his name.
The pleasure hits you in a wave, thighs twitching and tightening around his head as your hips convulse. He lets you ride out the feeling, never stopping his ministrations as you catch your breath. He only relents when you begin to slow, pushing his face away rather than pulling him closer.
You open your eyes to the stars shining through the leaves of the elm. Perhaps he had a point about a tree being better than a tent. It is a much prettier sight than a roof of silk. “M'lady?” Dunk questions, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your thighs.
You glance down and nearly laugh at the sheen of your release on his chin. The way your leg is still hiked upon his shoulder. “Gods,” you whisper, rubbing your hands down your face as you slowly stand straight. “I hadn’t expected that,” you tell him honestly.
The man grows flustered, as if he had not just devoured you moments prior. “Was it too much?”
“No,” you’re quick to object. He gets to his feet and you smile. “Do you need any…”
You trail off as he begins to shake your head. Brows furrowed, you glance down to see a slight stain on his pants. If you’d thought him sheepish before, his cheeks are now burning a bright red. He can scarcely meet your eyes.
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a man to take so much pleasure from a woman’s,” Dunk says nothing, rubbing the back of his neck as he stares at the ground. “Thank you, sweet knight,” you press a kiss to his cheek and he finally meets your eye again. “I wish I could stay with you a while longer, but,” Dunk nods his head and you offer a sorry smile.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks, almost eager.
“Most certainly,” you promise. “Perhaps I can return the favor.”
His eyes fly wide and you let out a laugh, pushing away from the tree and him. “Until tomorrow, Ser.”
“Tomorrow, m’lady,” he says, giving you a soft smile that makes your chest ache. Were the Gods the type to spare any mercy, it would be Dunk you marry. Or a man like him. Not the dragon you are about to return home to.
You offer a brief wave before making your way back to the path. Reluctantly traveling back to Ashford.
Suddenly, the idea of sleeping beneath a tree did not seem as silly as it once had. No, the thought fills you with a mourning ache of something you will never truly have.
When you return to the keep, you race through the servant's entrance to your bedroom. It is not empty as you’d expected it to be. Aerion sits on your bed and you go still in the doorway, heart jumping to your throat.
He tilts his head with a sharp smile. “And where have you been?”
You swallow thickly, fingers trembling around the door as your mind empties. No answer comes to you. After what just happened with Dunk, you’re too petrified thinking that Aerion might discover the truth.
But Aerion does not wait for an answer. He gets to his feet, walking to your vanity and pouring himself some wine from the flagon the maid had left. “I was looking for you, so we might celebrate together.”
“Celebrate?” You finally find your voice again. But you’re still too afraid to step from the doorway. To be alone in this room with him.
“Yes,” he turns with a wide smile that shows off his sharp teeth. He’s never looked more like a dragon.
“The maids here, love, are not as loyal as the ones at Summerhall. They tell their prince the truth because they know what’s best for them. And today, I heard that you have finally flowered.”
Your entire world stops. The elation from a night with Dunk is gone, scattered against the cold stone of Ashford. Aerion stalks closer and you wish you could run, but you have been frozen with terror. He knows the truth, now. You can no longer hide from your fate or run from him. He will never let you free. Not now.
He stops just beside you, head dipping to your ear. You pray he cannot smell the events of the night on you. “When we return to Summerhall, we will be wed. Until then, you will remain locked in this room.” He pulls back, pressing a light kiss on the corner of your lips. “Wouldn’t want you to get any ideas of running away, would we?”
Aerion walks past you and lightly nudges you into your room. The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock falls in place after. But you just stand there, still. Sick with disgust and terrified by what your future now looks like. You are doomed.
There is no escaping this.
Two nights follow with no word of what’s going on at the tourney. No news of when you might leave this place. You pace within your room like a caged beast. You have already tried pleading with the guard outside your door, but he will not release you. You wonder if Maekar knows what his son is doing or if he would even care.
You think of Dunk, of the promise you’d made to return. You wished you had been able to keep it. You imagine how that night could have gone. You imagine a night where you convince him to run with you and you leave the Targaryens far behind. It’s a laughable idea, one that never would have come true. Especially not now.
The lock on your door clicks and you tense, quickly running to grab your empty flagon of wine. A poor defense, but Aerion had left you with few options. But it is not your betrothed who finds you. It is his father.
“Uncle?” You question, the flagon dropping to your side. His face is grave, even more serious than it typically is. But beneath that, he wears a similar sadness to one you’d only seen when your aunt had passed.
“What’s wrong?” You question, and as wicked as it is, you pray he has come to deliver the news that Aerion perished during a joust.
“Sit down,” he instructs. Frowning, you obey, taking a seat before the fire. He paces toward you, hands tucked tightly behind his back, but he does not sit. “I had not known that Aerion had you locked in here,” he tells you, cutting his eyes toward you for a moment.
Reluctantly, you actually believe that to be the truth. “Baleor is dead,” he tells you, such a blunt delivery that you almost don’t believe him.
“What?” you scoff, almost laughing.
But he nods and does not laugh as if it were one big jest. “My son,” he shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “He got into a fight with a hedge knight over some puppeteer’s honor.” Your heart stills at the mention of a hedge knight. Your hedge knight?
“The knight demanded a trial, and Aerion invoked a trial of seven. Baelor died fighting for that knight. But that is not why I’m here.”
“Why?” You ask, but something in his face, something of the guilt he wears, tells you that you already know the truth.
“I once thought that you might be the answer to Aerion’s madness. I know I was wrong. But I had little other choice.”
“You had plenty of choices,” you snap and he whips his gaze back to you. The glare he shoots you has you backing down, sinking further into your seat.
“I will be sending him to the East,” he grits out. “Perhaps there he might finally calm.”
Your stomach drops. The East, the Free Cities, as far from Westeros as you’ve ever been. Further still from all that you’ve ever known. Stuck in a foreign city with Aerion. His father wouldn’t be there to hold him back, to protect you.
You almost drop to your knees, beg for mercy, but Maekar is not done. “I release you, girl. You are no longer bound to my son. After what he has done, he does not deserve to marry you. And you do not deserve to be married to him. Consider yourself free from us, I know how much you’ve longed for that.”
“Uncle,” you get to your feet and he holds up his hand. He has no interest in empty platitudes. You nod, biting your lip so he can’t see you smile while he grieves. He turns to leave, but you stop him. “The knight, the one Baelor fought for. Who was he?”
Maekar scoffs and when he looks at you, you swear there is blame in his eyes. “The very one you brought to him. So he could be enlisted in the games.”
It was humming that Dunk awoke to. A foreign melody he’d never heard in Fleabottom. But it reminded him of the sort of songs the Sisters would hum to the sickly orphans. The type who wouldn’t make it through the night.
His left eye was fuzzy, a smudged shape becoming clearer as he slowly blinked. The humming stopped abruptly and Dunk missed the sound already. It reminded him of how he used to feign sickness for an extra serving of bread for him and Rafe. How kindly the Sisters would bless him.
“Calm, now, Dunk.” Her voice is soothing, low and calm. The type one would use to soothe a restless babe. “They’d told me that the maester hasn’t seen to you yet. I need you to be still.”
Dunk groaned and nodded lazily. “There you are,” she whispered. A stool scraped against stone, slippered feet padded away from him before quickly returning.
The feelings of his body were slowly returning to him. The pain brushed against the edges of his mind. A burn in his thigh, aching, weeping pain through his stomach. A hundred other bites of agony, but he couldn’t feel them. Not fully.
“I’ve given you milk of the poppy,” she tells him softly. “I was afraid you might not make it through the night.”
Dunk can only grumble, eyes rolling lazily about as he struggles to recall what brought him here to this kind voice and sweet melody.
Something cool and damp presses against his forehead. A cloth that she pats down before her humming begins again. “Awake yet, Dunk?”
Another grumble and she lets out a laugh. “Consider yourself lucky. I do not think this is a world you’re ready to wake to.” Cold fingers press against the skin of his stomach, checking a wound there before she pulls his shirt back down.
“Rest,” she instructs. “You will need all that you can get.” Dunk’s asleep before she leaves the room.
Your uncle had told you that Baelor had taken up the Maester’s attention, though there was nothing they could do for a dead man. So you’d seen to Dunk’s injuries the moment you’d been freed from your room. You had been trained by your mother as a girl how to heal. A skill you kept up as you grew older.
You weren’t as knowledgeable as a Maester, but you were decent enough to know boiling wine was the best thing for the large hole in Dunk’s side. A result of Aerion’s lance, apparently. You didn’t know how your former betrothed was ailing, but you intended to leave Ashford before you had to find out.
As soon as you were sure Dunk wouldn’t die in his sleep, you’d left him. You’d packed what little belongings you had and bought a white horse to travel with. Before you left, though, you thought it wise to see Dunk one last time.
He had been moved from Ashford Hall, back to his elm tree. You rode your new mare down the path, your bags attached to your saddle. Stopping at the stone wall, you slipped from the mare and jumped over the muddy rocks.
You found Dunk slumped against his tree, staring out at nothing. He did not move as you approached, merely blinked, the light gone from his eyes as you sat beside him.
Your stomach twisted, unsure what you should even say to him. It has only been a handful of days, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since you’ve seen him last.
“How’re your wounds?” You ask, fiddling with a loose thread on your skirt.
“Were you there?” He asks, ignoring your own question. “At the trial?”
“Aerion had me locked in my rooms. A servant told him I’d flowered and he wanted to make sure I could not run before he wed me. I tended to you after, though. When the Maester could not see you, I did my best to keep you alive. ”
Dunk’s head lifts at that. He turns to face you and you offer a weak smile, but he doesn’t return it. “Probably saved me, he’s a shit maester.”
You scoff, “That he is.” You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably. “I came to thank you, Dunk. Were it not for you, Maekar would never have released me from Aerion. I am free now, because of you. I owe you my life.”
“You owe me nothing,” he grunts, turning his head to stare back into the distance. Something burns within you, pity or anger, you cannot tell. But this empty look in his eyes, the disconnect in his face, it does not sit well within you.
With a short sigh, you press your lips to the only spot on his cheek that is not bruised. “Thank you nonetheless,” you whisper. He doesn’t even twitch. Pulling back, you get to your feet. “I hope I might see you again one day, Ser.”
You’re almost back to your horse when you hear him. “I don’t. I bring only pain and death to those around me.” You glance back at him but shake your head and mount your mare. You’ve only just received your freedom; you cannot risk staying here much longer. Not even for him.
Weeks of traveling on your own have already proved far more interesting than any time spent with the royals. It reminds you of when you were a girl. When it was just you and your mother. Before her sister had found you and you’d been cursed to be trapped within one keep for the rest of your life.
You still have the same mare from the Ashford tourney, though you’ve yet to settle on a proper name for her. She’s sweet, with a gentle disposition that’s far different from any other horse you’ve ridden. Perhaps something like Sugar might work.
Leading her to the side of the road, you dismount. You tie her to a low branch on the closest tree and rush down into the forest. You lift your skirts, squatting as you make water beside a stream. Perhaps today you might finally settle on a destination for where you want to go.
You’ve been riding aimlessly, but that doesn’t seem to be providing you with much luck. The number of bandits and sellswords you’ve come across this past fortnight has been worrying. You might have to part with some gold and invest in a decent dagger.
“Sweetfoot!” The sounds of hoofbeats come to a stop along the road.
You freeze from where you’ve squatted and glance over your shoulder. “Do you know this horse, ser?”
“Aye, but I sold her at the tourney. What’re you doing out here, girl?”
You frown, you would swear that you recognize those voices. Rising, you drop your skirts and rush back up to the treeline. A towering man stands beside your horse, petting her nose and smiling down at her.
Gods above, is that… “Dunk?” You question, wary as you approach. He jumps back from your horse and his head whips toward you.
His eyes widen as he takes you in, traveling up and down your body as his lips part quietly. “You?” He stutters out.
“Me,” you laugh, racing toward him. He pulls you into a tight embrace that you return eagerly. It has been far too long since you’ve seen a friendly face on the road. And you are more than relieved to see that he is far different from the broken man you’d left behind.
“What are you doing with my horse?” He questions, puling back.
“Your horse?” You glance back at the mare and frown. “I bought her at Ashford.”
But he’s no longer listening to you. He’s finally noticed the bruise along your cheek, the jagged cut decorating the bridge of your nose. His palm cups your chin, tilting your face as he runs his thumb lightly across the markings. “What happened?”
“Bandits,” you tell him. “Attacked me a few nights past. I was lucky to get away-” You cut yourself off as you finally notice the boy on the horse behind him. Your jaw drops and the boy’s eyes widen with recognition. “Aegon?” You squeak out. “Tell me there are no more Targaryens with you?”
You glance back at Dunk and he shakes his head, but his eyes are still trained on the injury. “No, Egg is my squire now. He’s traveling with me. Perhaps you should, too,” he mutters, frowning.
“What?” You and Egg both demand.
Dunk startles at the sudden tone of your voice and he backs up a step. “Well," he stutters, "you just said you got attacked. It might be safer for you.”
“Well of course it would be, look at the size of you. But are ladies really fit to be travling with knights?”
Egg rolls his eyes from where he’s seated. “Have you never read a fairytale?”
“Oi,” you snap, glaring over at him. “I’m the one who introduced you to damsels and knights, you little brat.” He shrugs, shooting you a smug grin that makes you feel like you’ve walked into a trap.
“Then you know very well, with a knight is the best place for a lady to be.” Sometimes that boy is too smart for his own good.
Dunk steps back with a smile. “He has a point. Besides, it’d be nice to travel with Sweetfoot again.”
You grin, already knowing your answer. “Just the horse, ser?”
Dunk flushes and shakes his head. “No, no, not just the horse. I mean it would be nice to be with you again, as well. Not again as in-”
“Relax,” you laugh, cutting off his rambling as you mount your horse. “I would be most grateful for you and your squire’s company. If you would have me?”
Dunk’s shoulders drop and he gives you a soft smile. “Of course I would have you.” The sharp smile you send him makes his cheeks burn red at the unintended insinuation.
“Where are you going, anyway?” You ask Egg.
He smiles, “I’ve never been past the red mountains. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like beyond them.”
“So have I, what luck it is that we’ve found each other, once more.” You turn toward Dunk as he mounts his horse. “Perhaps the Gods favor bastards and hedge knights most.”
Dunk smiles, but Egg cuts in. “And squires,” he adds with a huff, urging his horse past you both.
“And squires,” you add with a reluctant smile. It seems your fate hadn’t been cursed as you’d once thought. You just needed to endure the dragons until your sweet knight came along to slay them.
a/n: I have little faith in my smut in this one but, hey, what about that plot?
