Feb 18
"Brother's mace, most like... He's strong".
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"Brother's mace, most like... He's strong".
Blessing of the Seven
Pairing ✦ Maekar x pregnant wife
Tags ✦ semi-graphic depiction of childbirth, protective Maekar, hurt and comfort, fluffy ending
Wordcount ✦ 2,160
Despite having experienced fatherhood several times, nothing could have prepared Maekar to be called into your chambers to assist you in giving birth to his seventh babe.
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Maekar had been pacing the hallway in front of your chambers much like an animal in a cage, reaching the wall at the end and turning on his heels, walking again until he reached the staircase and once again, taking a ragged breath each time. He had always had a nervous disposition, quick to anger and just as quick to worry—at least when his family was concerned.
He would have thought that after six children he would have been used to the bone-deep fear that came with it, hearing his wife scream her pain on the other side of the door, but he felt it as keenly as he had the first time when Aerion had been born. After the passing of his first wife, Lady Dayne, he had never thought he would remarry and yet, the Gods had blessed him with a second marriage, one he firmly believed he did not deserve—you were often a balm on his nerves, unminding of his rough edges and bitter temper, and he thanked the Gods every day for your presence at his side.
Now, another blessing had been bestowed upon him, that of a seventh child. The Maesters had thought it a good omen, for the figure seven was meant to bring fortune, but he did not believe the ludicrous beliefs of men of knowledge, even less men of faith. No faith could soothe his nerves as he heard you wail and sob, and though it had only been hours, it felt as though it had been eternity, and he loathed how powerless he was, faced with your pain.
Battle pain was different, he knew, and the aches he still felt from his old wounds were nothing compared to what you were going through. He would have gladly felt his flesh reopen under blades if it could have spared you the burning agony that childbirth could be.
Muttering prayers he only half-heartedly believed in, Maekar rested the flats of his palms against the wall opposite your chambers, hanging his head between his shoulders and attempting to ground himself, but it was in vain. “Fuck me,” he groaned, and as though the curse had summoned an answer, the door slammed open behind him.
“She’s asking for you, my prince,” a young midwife called, and he made his own head spin with how quickly he complied, shoving the veiled woman aside and rushing inside the room.
The smell hit him first, and it made him as nauseous as the sight of you in pain—the Maester was burning herbs he did not recognize, and the smoke was permeating the whole room. In a similar position he had been in a second ago, you were leaning against a wall, your fingers curled until your nails were digging into the stone. All in the room fell silent as a deep, broken groan came from you, pulled out of your chest and tearing past your lips, a sound he had never heard from you.
“The baby is in the right position but she is struggling,” the Maester said. “I have tried to persuade her to be calmer, as it would help the delivery, but she is not keen on listening.”
“Fuck off,” came the instant reply, and Maekar would have laughed if he had not be so sick with worry.
“This is most peculiar, as is your presence, my prince,” the Maester continued. “The husband should not see this part of the birthing process.”
“Yes, well, fuck off, as my wife so eloquently said,” Maekar admonished.
Uncaring for the man’s opinion, he rushed to your side under the concerned gazes of the midwives, but daren’t touch you. His hands hovered over your quivering frame for a moment before he reached for your temple and pulled your hair aside, uncovering your face. Flushed and wet with exertion, you glanced up at him with a wild look that took his breath away.
“I need air,” you gasped, and he sprung into action.
“The cold will not help—” the Maester called, to which Maekar replied by a dismissive wave of his hand.
Once the windows had been opened and the smoke dissipated, it seemed your labored breathing calmed somewhat, but only for an instant, and soon you were toppling over once more, your lovely face contorting in pain. Maekar did not hesitate this time and you fell into his arms gladly, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
Another roar of agony was heard, slightly muffled as you pressed your face into his chest, and he said nothing, holding onto you with all his might, hoping his presence would be enough to sustain you.
“Gods be good, do something instead of standing there!” Maekar called over the top of your head.
“She will not let any of us touch her,” another of the midwives explained, rather pained. “She has been calling only for you.”
“Then tell me what the fuck to do,” he replied behind gritted teeth. “And tell him to get out!” he added with a sharp nod towards the Maester, who gave a small bow and left despite the visibly displeased look on his face.
Once the door had closed again and the wave of agony had seemingly passed, Maekar guided you to your knees when you felt heavier in his grip. Your hands unclenched from his arms and you reached for your shift, which was soaked with sweat and something thicker that smelled like copper, and reminded him of the aftermath of battle.
Without needing a word, Maekar reached for the soiled garment and helped you pull it over your head, baring your entire body to his gaze and that of the midwives. He supposed modesty did not matter when such a matter as the birth of a new life was concerned. He threw the linen aside, caught by one of the nurses and quickly whisked away.
“Do you wish to lay down?” he asked, pressing a hesitant kiss to your forehead. The glare you gave him told him his suggestion had been ludicrous, but he was relieved to know your wits and spirit had not abandoned you.
Kneeling on the patterned rug you knew would likely be ruined, your husband’s hovering hands over your finally bare skin, you felt as though you could breathe for the first time in hours. “It hurts,” you moaned pitifully to your husband, who was looking down at you with worry.
“I know, my love,” he answered, then turned to the older midwife. “Tell me, what the fuck do I do?”
The woman hesitated, then reached for a glass bottle sitting on a nearby table. “Your hands,” she ordered, and he did not mind her directness. He presented his palms for her to pour the liquid—some sort of strong brandy, clear and acidic—and after coating his skin in it, wiped the wetness with a clean cloth she handed him. “Feel, between her—” the woman started, then cut herself off, and Maekar rolled his eyes in annoyance.
“I am quite familiar,” he retorted, to which you laughed, a broken, nearly ugly sound.
Worry tended to make your husband vulgar and you had often found it endearing. It was a breath of fresh air much as the one coming from the open windows, and to your surprise, it grounded you. In-between the waves that tore your whole abdomen apart, only an ache subsided, and an intense pressure where Maekar was now pressing. His fingers were rough and his touch less gentle than the midwife’s, but the bewildered expression on his face was enough to distract you.
His wrinkles smoothed over, his eyes growing wide and darker in shock. A stand of stark white hair fell into his face, his mouth dropping open. “Is that the head?” he stammered, and this time it was you who wanted to roll your eyes. “Is that hair?” he continued, looking almost disgusted and you would have pushed him away in frustration if another wave wasn’t suddenly mounting.
“Fuck,” you groaned, stretching the vowel, your head dropping back, and this time you allowed the young midwife to support it with a firm hand. “You are never touching me again!” you threatened, and it was clear to all what you meant. Maekar, in other circumstances, would have laughed.
“Give in to it, my lady,” the older woman instructed. “You must push or the babe will remain stuck.”
“I can’t,” you cried out, your fingers digging into your husband’s shoulder. “I can’t, Maekar, I can’t—”
No words came from him and you were grateful that he did not try to contradict you or encourage you with mindless praises. Instead he remained on his knees in front of you, one of his hands at the apex of your thighs, the other holding your shoulder with enough pressure for you to push back against. His touch grounded you, and as the burning wave crashed into you again, taking your senses and your words with it, some of your mind remained tethered to him.
Maekar swallowed the bile rising in his throat when the hot mass he was holding in his hand shifted, and soon it seemed to slip forward, his palm suddenly filled with the familiar weight of a babe’s head. You cursed again and he welcomed it, muttering his own curses and encouragements under his breath, unaware of what he was saying, mesmerized by the sight of you and the feel of his child being born from your body.
All of a sudden your jerked forward, your head colliding with his upper arm and he felt the pinch of your teeth through the fabric of his sleeve. A howl, much like he imagined that of the dragons must have been, erupted from your chest, and he reached with his second hand, catching the small body that came from yours.
Sobs tore through you as you felt yourself tear open, and you were surprised, looking down, to see that you were indeed not split into two—instead, your husband’s large, strong hands were holding a babe, its face scrunched and its eyes shut.
Silence fell over the two of you and you held your breaths, only gasping together when finally, the babe’s mouth dropped open and a piercing wail erupted in the room. Tears still streaming down your face, you laughed, your chest feeling lighter than it had in hours, at the sight of your child and the amazed look on Maekar’s face. It was as though he was seeing the Gods themselves, his own eyes glazed over with tears.
You could feel hands on your shoulders, wrapping something around you, perhaps a sheet, and words were being said in your ear, but you did not hear them. Instead the babe’s cries and your husband’s quiet gasps of joy filled your head. With a gentleness you had never seen or felt from him he pressed your child into your chest, your four hands cradling it to your skin.
“What a marvel you are,” Maekar laughed, pressing a kiss to your brow, his beard uncomfortable against your sensitive skin.
One of the settees was pushed closed and with the help of your husband and a nurse, you were hoisted onto it, your babe resting between your breasts, the first cries of life soon quieting.
Maekar thought it was the most marvellous sight a man could get to see in his entire life—forgotten were the glories of battle or the deferent bows of the realm, instead the meaning of life itself rested, curled and flushed, against his wife’s chest.
“Congratulations, my prince,” the midwife announced. “You have a son.”
More laughter erupted from you, and you felt utterly ridiculous for how far from your mind the thought had been, pushed to the side by the sight of your husband welcoming your babe to the world into his own hands, and the dazed look on his face was almost enough to make you recant your earlier threat.
Pressing a kiss to your son’s head, you closed your eyes, feeling as though for once all was right with the world and the answers to everything you had ever wondered was right there, contained into soft skin and lovely coos. The midwife wiped him clean, and he flushed an even brighter pink under the gentle press of the wet linen—then and only then did you notice the pure white of his brows and of his thin hair.
Your laughter turned to a sob again, one of utter joy.
“He looks like you,” you wept, and Maekar’s lips quivered at your temple. “I meant what I said, however, you shall never sleep in my bed again.”
Maekar’s laugh was quieted by the press of your lips, tilting your head to find his mouth. His large hand came to cover his son’s body, the small back fitting perfectly into the crook of his palm, and he thought that it would be fine, were this his last experience with fatherhood. Seven was an auspicious number indeed.
Dividers by @/saradika. Not beta read.
A/N: I wrote this entire oneshot in one go, in less than an hour and a half, and I honestly have no idea where it came from. The idea just took hold of me and did not let go until the words were all on the page.
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Taking the Maekarlings to school.
THE MADNESS OF MARRIAGE
aerion targaryen x martell!f!reader
SUMMARY: a marriage with aerion to you seemed like never-ending cruelty. but very soon after your vows, you realized just how far aerion was willing to go for not only your marriage, but you. WARNINGS: consummation, smut 18+, fluff, angst, language, dornish princess reader, poc reader, reader has curly/coily hair, talk of children, violence, blood, ooc aerion, arranged marriage, partially edited
WORD COUNT: 5.2k
you'd rather kill yourself than marry aerion targaryen. and of course, you thought about it the night before the ceremony, sitting within the red keep, wondering what exactly your life would like look with aerion targaryen by your side. you'd pressed a knife to your throat and stood against the window, feeling the cool air waft in from outside.
and you were close to it, even felt the breaking of your skin as you pressed it harder and harder, ready for the blood to spill.
for majority of your life spent in sunspear, you knew you'd be married off to the richest, ugliest lord in the nine realms, but you underestimated your parents' desire for your so-called preservation. they didn't care for your happiness; they only cared to further the martell line, and even though martells and targaryen's weren't always cordial, the blood of the dragon was tempting.
so when prince maekar announced his son's enterance into the marriage market, you were one of the first canidates. you were the oldest princess of sunspear, and pretty, and those qualities put you at the front of the lines.
though rumors sprouted that aerion only became a bachelor because he angered his father, which seemed very plausible. you'd never met your future husband before the ceremony, and he was just as expected.
aerion rarely spared you a glance throughout the ceremony, and even when the two of you were forced to kiss, he pulled away immediately afterward, muttering curses beneath his breath, then he left the altar entirely.
maekar rolled his eyes at his son as he did it, then he glanced at you and nodded at aerion, as if he wanted you to follow. of course, you didn't, and maekar sneered and took your place behind aerion, yelling for the guests to move to the great hall for feasting.
even as your family greeted you during the feast, all you could think about was aerion, sitting beside you, wearing immaculately tailored red-and-black velvet, his fingers spinning marbles, face placid as he watched the guests dance.
you were still in your heavy, dornish wedding dress, sweat accumulating on your brow, your chest rising and falling with every breath as you tried to draw oxygen into your lungs.
"must you breathe like a fucking cow?" aerion spat out, turning to you abruptly as he slammed the marbles down, ignoring the way they rolled and crashed to the ground.
you gave aerion a minuscule glance, hand against your torso, heart speeding into a panicked beat. the last thing you needed in the moment was his childish temper. all eyes were on you, even when it seemed like they were not.
the people expected you to burst, act out, lose your ladyship, and that outcome was approaching faster than you wanted it to. instead, you would've liked your outburst to be in the comfort of your marriage bedchamber, beside aerion—unfortunately.
"my dress is tight, i'm beside a fucking child who is now my husband, and people keep whispering about my fucking breasts, so no, i can't." aerion recoiled at your words, his eyebrows raising, then he shrugged, "that is unfortunate." he glanced down at your breasts in the process, noticing how they were spilling from your corset.
when he was done examining you, he turned forward once more, leaving you to your devices. so, reaching behind yourself, you began pulling at the ties of your dress. by that point, air was whistling in and out of your mouth, and maekar was looking down the table, noticing your frantic movements, though your attempts were poor in there subtly.
"what the fuck is the issue?" maekar spat, tossing a piece of beef at aerion. it hit the prince on the cheek, and he glared at his father, "she can't breathe, and there's no need for you to throw shit!"
"then help her!" aerion rolled his eyes and turned to you, grabbing your arm to twist you in your chair. he began ripping at the laces of your corset, fingers wiggling.
"what a way to be subtle." you ignored his words, inhaling a deep, calming breath, then snatching the bottle of dornish wine off the table and pouring it into your cup.
"everything they say about you is true." you only said it to strike a nerve, and it worked, because aerion turned to you, lips curled into a sneer. "and what do they say about me, wife?"
"don't tell me you don't know, husband?" you matched his stare, noticing the way his hand curled into a fist, muscles working in his arm. aerion cleared his throat to draw your attention, "i care little for what the small folk think of me."
you grinned and shrugged, "it is the highborn too." aerion hummed and shook his head, though you could see his jaw in an ironclad clench. "that woman is whispering about you." he said, pointing lazily at a woman sitting at a table with a few ladies, noticeably highborn.
"women always whisper. you're lucky men immediately throw fists. that is if you can fight?" you rested your chin against your hand, watching aerion lazily, and he chuckled, as if the very thought of him not being able to fight was foolish, "of course i can fight."
"how well can you fight, prince? or are you just trying to impress me?" aerion leaned against the table, licking his lips, "i could show you."
you rolled your eyes, "men that hit their wives are weak." aerion scoffed, "that's not what i meant. i thought they said you were smart."
humming, you turned towards him, "what do you propose to show me you can fight?" aerion pointed at a man resting against the wall. he was watching the people dance, a cup of ale in his hand.
"that one." aerion began standing, but your eyes widened and you grabbed his arm, "you're going to beat that man? he's done nothing!" aerion pulled out of your grip and smirked, "i'm only meaning to prove you wrong." he continued pushing out of his seat, but you grabbed his arm once more.
aerion was strong enough to pull you with him, and before you knew it, you were wrapped around his torso, feet dragging, though he was heavily lifting you.
"this is foolish! how do you mean to prove the people wrong if you constantly show how cruel you are?" you spat it heavily, foot clamping down on his, and aerion winced, arms wrapped around your waist.
"i don't care about that." your only other thought was to wrap your arms around his neck. aerion was tugged down, hand lingering on your hip, and you pushed him further into the crowd, "just dance. it is your wedding day after all."
your lips whispered against aerion's ear, and he let out an annoyed sigh, melting in your grip and grabbing your hand, intending to dance. it was awkward at first, pressed against him so firmly, your dress dragging around you, but then, like unclenching fists, you relaxed.
cheek against aerion's chest, you were squeezing the ever living hells out of his hand. a breath exitted your lips, and your eyes closed, reveling in the steady beat of aerion's heart.
"you mean to distract me, but he's staring." aerion whispered. you glanced up at him, and he was grimacing, eyebrows furrowed as he watched behind you. when you looked, the man was watching.
"most people are watching." aerion glanced around and hummed, realizing that that was entirely true. his face relaxed, and he bit his lip, "they will think we are in love." you chuckled, "then they can speak on that instead of my breasts."
it seemed the crowd was muttering a common word by the time you broke out of your bubble with aerion. consummation.
the entire thought of consummation was something you'd thought about for years leading up to your marriage, and although you weren't necessarily nervous, you could see the gleam of annoyance in aerion's gaze.
he glanced down at you, face blank, then he pulled away entirely. back rigid with evidence of stress. maekar was standing when the two of you returned to the table, and it seemed he'd been losing his irritation throughout your dance with aerion.
"it is time to prepare for consummation." he didn't say much else, and as the crowd opened with knowing gazes, that's when the anxiousness set into your bones. aerion was lingering behind you as you walked and you could feel the heat radiating off of him and the steady burn of his eyes on the back of your head.
the inside of the marriage bedchamber was prepped perfectly for consummation: lit candles, pillows fluffed, sheets folded back, and your chambermaid, mary, waiting for you.
aerion split off to prepare for the consummation while you entered. mary immediately began removing your dress, her fingers quick and nimble. then she bathed you, tied your hair up nicely, applied lotions and oils, and helped you step into a silky shift that was entirely too scandalous.
your fingers couldn't stop shaking as you waited for aerion, and not because of the sex, but because you weren't as inexperienced as they expected you to be. all ladies were meant to lose their virginities during consummation, which then made it easy to prove the binding of the husband and wife and make sure the possibility of children was in the near future.
as you were sitting on the edge of the bed, picking at your nails, the door opened and aerion walked in. he was wearing a simple robe, face pulled into a glower. your chambermaid curtsied, but he didn't pay her any attention, immediately leering off to the decanter on the tea table and pouring a heavy bout of wine into a cup.
once mary left, aerion turned to you, and raised his glass mockingly, "cheers to you, wife." you rolled your eyes, watching him guzzle down the entire cup of wine. "are you meaning to get drunk, aerion?"
he shrugged, pouring another, then coming to sit on the bed. "no one ever said you can't be drunk during the consummation."
you eyed him silently, leaning against the pillows, "are you...a virgin?" aerion glanced at you, lips pulled into a frown, "no, i am not."
"then what is the issue?" aerion placed his cup on the nightstand then sighed, "i just don't want to do it. just like i didn't want to marry you."
"you are stubborn." you said matter-of-factly, climbing beneath the sheets. aerion nodded, "and i don't like being ordered around." aerion glanced at you—at the slopes of your hips and the softness of your belly. "you are...pretty." the flatness in his tone made you laugh, "i am not the problem is what you're saying."
he shook his head absentmindedly, "what will happen if i refuse?" you inhaled deeply, thankful for the large bed because it made it easy to avoid his touch. "your father will be angry. word will spread, people may riot, the council will denounce our marriage, we'll become pariahs, more so than before. they will no longer speak of my breasts, but aerion refusing to fuck his wife."
"that is rediculous." he went beneath the covers too and stared ahead at the fireplace, watching the rise and fall of the flames. "let's get it over with then, yes?" you glanced at him and aerion watched you for a second before he nodded, beginning to undo the ties of his robe while you slipped down the bed, knees raised.
you stared at the canopy of the bed, hearing aerion shuffle around before he entered your vision, hands near your head. he was naked, pale chest covered in dark moles and a white brush of hair leading down to his groin. your eyes stopped there, and slid back up to his face.
aerion's lips were puckered, eyebrows furrowed, and he pointed at your chest, "i need something to—" you rolled your eyes, pulling up your shift to reveal your breasts. aerion was silent for a moment, admiring you, but then he nodded stiffly and leaned back, grabbing your thighs.
"i think—" you shook your head, "don't say anything, please." he scoffed, rubbing his dick against your entrance. you were wet enough for him to slip in, but pressure and pain built, and you let out a moan of pain, eyes closing.
"aren't you supposed to bleed?" aerion's voice was clouded with pleasure as he thrust into you. your pain had subsided into mild satisfaction, but it wasn't nearly what you needed to orgasm.
"aerion—" "women bleed when you take their virginity!" he paused, glaring at you, and you sighed, tugging your shift back down and shoving him off of you, "women don't always bleed!"
"oh fucking please! you aren't a virgin are you?" he watched you, awaiting an answer, and you crossed your arms tenaciously, "no, but does it really matter?"
aerion grabbed your arm, "they need confirmation, wife! without the fucking blood, we're as good as fucking dead." you rolled your eyes at his dramatics, "i can still have babes! the blood is the least of our worries."
aerion threw the covers off of himself and stood, ignoring his stark nakedness. "we can worry about the fucking babes later. now, we need blood. is there a blade here?" aerion rummaged through the drawers and you blushed, watching the clench and squeeze of his ass.
he was harder than a rock and leaking precum, and you felt slightly guilty that you'd given him a boner and he couldn't fulfill it properly.
the prince returned a second later with the stake from the fireplace, clenching it tightly as he raised it to his wrist. "you fucking owe me after this, yeah?" you ignored his words, snatching the stake and raising it to your own wrist, "no, you owe me."
aerion glared at you and took the stake, then shoved you aside, causing you to almost fall off of the bed. then he sliced his wrist, and spilt a few drops onto the sheets. when he thought it was enough, he raised his wrist to his mouth.
your heart spiked when the blood dribbled over his lip, staining his pale skin red. and aerion watched you the entire time. "stop staring." you glanced away and motioned to his dick, "what will you do about that?"
aerion climbed back onto the bed, lips red, "it'll fix itself." you raised your eyebrow, arm brushing his as the two of you lied down, "will it?"
ꫂ᭪݁
the next morning, mary came to collect the sheets. you were tired from a night in the same bed as aerion. he was terrible in his sleep; moved constantly, muttered words as he dreamt, and couldn't keep his hands off of you, as if you were his personal stuffed animal.
"do you think they'll suspect?" aerion questioned after getting dressed, and you shrugged, "blood is blood, aerion." you were quite surprised at his anxiety when it came to the consummation. maybe your words of wisdom placed fear into his heart, and rightfully so.
"what will you do today?" you questioned in the hall outside the marriage bedchamber. aerion hummed, hand placed on his head. "terrorize someone. you?"
"sit with my ladies in waiting in the drawing room." aerion stayed by your side as you walked, his hands stuffed within his pockets. "and what do ladies in waiting do?" you shrugged honestly, "we talk and gossip and sew." aerion smacked his lips, "that sounds dull."
"it is very dull."
"then i shall come along and see what ladies speak about." you were surprised at his interest, but you assumed it was his lack of things to do that compelled him to sit with you.
you had three ladies in waiting, vanessa, june, and daisy, who accompanied you from sunspear to kings landing, meant to be your companions. they weren't necessarily your friends, but it gave you women to speak to consistently, and because they were in your service, they were forbidden from spreading gossip.
aerion sat in the far corner, staring out of the window, while you sat at the tea table within the drawing room. you wanted to sneak wine into your tea and perhaps brighten up the day, but instead, you were sewing.
vanessa was to your right, june to your left and daisy across from you. you could see aerion directly behind daisy and he was examining his dagger and speaking to a kingsguard near the door.
"how is married life?" vanessa asked and you shrugged honestly, "it has only been one day. there is little i can say about a man i just met." june nodded in agreement, "i'm sure he's...polite." you chuckled at her attempt to be gentle, "he isn't polite, but he also isn't as cruel as i expected."
the ladies nodded, humming, while you took a sip of your tea, eyes finding aerion. he was stadning now and throwing false punches at the guard, who was looking increasingly panicked, though aerion only seemed to be playing, but then he sat and continued staring out the window.
"and what of the consummation? we only have daisy's story, and it was quite boring." said june, who ignored daisy's scoff. you didn't answer immediately, hand pressing to your belly absentmindedly, and vanessa gasped, "are you already pregnant?"
that drew aerion's eyes, and he glared at you.
"no, no, i'm not pregnant. i was—" june spoke next, "the consummation was well then?" you wanted to snap at them for assuming and interrupting, but all you could focus on was aerion mouthing things at you.
"all hells—say yes!"
"...yes, it was well." none of the women knew you'd had sex before then, and it wasn't something you planned on telling them anyway. "then how was it? sex with the prince i mean." vanessa watched you with excited eyes and you chuckled anxiously.
"it was...nice. hurt a little at first then..." you trailed off, noticing that aerion was watching expectantly, a tiny little smirk on his lips as if he'd actually done something.
"actually, aerion was a little impotent. barely performed." your ladies gasped, each glancing back at aerion as they giggled. the prince's face burst with anger, and he shot out of his seat and approached you, "she's lying. i was fucking perfect."
"then why is there no evidence?" daisy asked, eyebrows raised innocently, and aerion stuttered, mouth agape, "what evidence?"
"love bites? bruises?" aerion glanced at you, then your clean, clear neck and he spat out a curse, snatching daisy's embroidery and pulling the ends of the thread, ruining a couple of hours' worth of work.
you sighed as aerion smirked proudly at her and daisy frowned heavily, head sagging. "that was cruel, husband."
"you know very well what i am." he leaned down to your ear, "and i don't like your fucking lying." the whisper of his breath against your ear made you shiver, and you blushed then turned away entirely. "we will speak of it later."
ꫂ᭪݁
a month after the marriage, the targaryen's were hosting a joust in your honor, meant to welcome you to kings landing as the newest member of their family.
you were sitting beneath the royal pavilion, valarr and daeron were to your sides, while maekar and baelor were behind you. and although you and your in laws were cordial, you had no desire to have long conversations with them and neither did they.
aerion was the bridge between the gap, and because he was participating in the joust, there was no one to clue you in on family conversations that almost always referred to incidents that took place before your arrival in king's landing.
though you didn't mind it. besides, it gave you time to watch aerion. for the past month of your marriage, the two of you had slept with miles between you, and not for any particular reason—unless you count the words shared with your ladies-in-waiting.
he was polite to you—brought you meals when you didn't want to eat with the others, requested your baths be warm after the sun set, didn't order you or even touch you unless you asked, which you hadn't.
that was another source of stress for you: the lack of sex. you didn't think it'd be so hard to ask for sex, but you didn't know how to go about it, especially after the consummation. so you didn't say anything at all, though every morning that you saw aerion shirtless, with bed head, the desire grew larger and larger.
aerion was sitting atop his pitch-black horse, speaking to a kingsguard as he awaited the joust to start. you had your veil in your lap, meant to be given to aerion as your favor, to grant him luck within the joust.
it was wrapped around your arm, the main source of your anxiety, mainly because all eyes were on you. attention was something you were used to as a princess, but the smallfolk in king's landing were different. they spoke proudly and bravely, and because of the wedding, you were the source of gossip within the city.
"he will do something stupid." valarr said, leaning towards you. you gave him a nod, grinning, "i've only known him a month, and i'm sure of it." valarr ran a hand through his hair and sighed, "he is...complicated."
humming you turned to him entirely, eyes leaving aerion, "complicated how? i think our versions of complicated are vastly different." valarr shrugged honestly, "he's always been cruel."
"and he hasn't been cruel...to me." valarr watched you for a moment, "you just made my cousin much more complicated." you rolled your eyes politely and sighed, though as soon as you did, there was a man lingering in front of the pavilion.
you glanced down at him, wondering what his purpose was, but he bowed, ignoring the kingsguard as they kept him a safe distance away. "princess targaryen, is it fair if i ask for your favor?" your inlaws paused, and every seemed to take a deep breath.
"what a stupid man." maekar muttered, shaking his head.
you squeezed the armrests of your chair, mouth opening as you shook your head, "ser, that is improper—" aerion was approaching, eyebrows raised as he led his horse behind him.
your heart spiked as your body sagged, glancing away from the entire ordeal as you saw aerion grab the mans shoulder, "why are you speaking to my wife?" he said it oddly calm, face placid, though you could see his foot tapping against the ground anxiously.
the foolish knight turned to aerion and wiped his forehead free of sweat, "i only mean to—"
"ask for my wife's favor? what makes you think i'm not entitled to it?" aerion shoved his horse's lead into a guard's hands, then he placed his hands on his hips, head tilted curiously.
"aerion, the fool meant nothing by it." baelor spat out, annoyed, standing. maekar didn't bother, throwing hard candies into his mouth, eyebrows raised, though there was a sneer on his lips.
"no, no, uncle. how would you react if a fucking man asked for your wife's favor?" aerion glanced at baelor, turning his body towards the pavilion. the knight relaxed entirely and began stepping away, but suddenly, aerion spun around and clocked him directly in the jaw.
you could hear bone colliding with bone as the spectators gasped. baelor sat, hopeless, while maekar was yelling at the kingsguards to grab aerion before he beat the man to death.
blood sprouted from the knight's nose as aerion continued hitting him, and aerion jaw was clenched firmly as he shook off the guards, hands wrapping around the knight's throat.
"not so complicated during these moments." valarr mumbled, and you nodded your head in agreement, finally pushing to your feet and calling aerions name.
"aerion, you can't dirty my veil with blood, so you might as well stop now." the prince froze long enough for the guards to finally get a hold of him, and he glanced at you, palms raised, "too late."
the valyrian steel band around his finger shone in the sunlight and you called his name once more. aerion ordered the guards off of him, then he approached the pavilion, staring up at you, "you expect me to not be fucking pissed? who does that?" aerion ran a hand through his hair, and you nodded placantingly.
"yes, but—" aerion opened his mouth to interrupt you, but you gave him a look, and he sighed, allowing you to continue, "your violence will consume you one day, lest you stop now." aerion reached up and grabbed your hand, giving it a tiny squeeze, before he turned around and grabbed his horse.
you just hoped your words didn't go in one ear and out the other.
that night, you and aerion lied silently in bed. you'd been freshly bathed and oiled, your hair tied away, thumbs twiddling as you stared up at the bed's canopy.
"and what do the people say now? i hope there's no more talk of your breasts." aerion muttered suddenly, and you turned to him, "my ladies say the people think of you just the same as they usually do. enough to forget about my breasts at least."
aerion nodded, licking his lips and sighing, "that man will be fine." you scoffed, "no he won't. you broke his jaw." aerion's eyes squinted, "he will be fine."
you ignored his words and twisted onto your side, deciding you were ready to sleep, but the bed shifted, and aerion was hovering over you, elbow resting against the pillow.
"are you cross with me?"
"you have a ton of questions, and why do you suddenly care what i think?" you matched his gaze with a childish frown on your lips, and aerion chuckled, "i thought husbands cared for their wives thoughts."
you scoffed, "you've got it all wrong aerion. husbands beat their wives and tell them to never speak and use them as sex toys." aerion hummed, "is that what you want? for me to use you each night and bruise you so strategically that no one will know? because it is surely possible."
the thought made your skin buzz with subtle fear, and after a moment, you shook your head, "no."
you still had no clue why aerion had a sense of care over you, and why he wasn't the type to treat his wife like trash, but you were thoroughly grateful, but that wasn't the issue at hand.
"there's something else." he said matter-of-factly, collapsing back onto the bed, though his arm was brushing your spine. the cold sole of your feet pressed against his ankle, and you sighed, "there is something else."
when you didn't clue him in, aerion glared at you, "and what is it?"
you turned to your back, hands resting against your belly. your arm was over the top of aerion's, and each time he picked at his pants, the hair on his arm would rub against you, making you prickly with goosebumps.
"do you have a lover?" he was silent for a moment, then he glanced at you, sneering in confusion, "no i don't have a fucking lover. what are you on about?"
"you don't kiss me, you don't fuck me, you don't even spend time with me." aerion recoiled away from you and stood entirely, "don't tell me you're hurt."
you scoffed, tugging the covers above your head, "i'm not hurt, i'm confused."
"i can not read your mind, wife. if you want kisses and dates and sex, then you must tell me!" he was entirely irritated, and you could tell there was a sense of disappointment in himself because he didn't fulfill your needs to your liking.
you peeked at aerion, and found him leaning against the post of the bed, hand against his head. "do you even want those things?" the miniscule tone of your voice made aerion soften entirely, and he sighed, "yes."
there was a red blush covering his cheeks, and you refused a smile, peeling back the covers to welcome him. aerion took up your offer and stared at the canopy, pale lashes fluttering as he blinked.
"after the consummation, i thought this was just... an arrangement." he muttered, "and each time i tried to please you, you didn't say anything." timidity was never something you thought you'd see with aerion, but it warmed your heart.
"i didn't know how to react."
he shook his head, "that is a poor excuse." you rolled your eyes, twisting onto your side, back to him, "it is the truth, aerion." a few seconds passed, but then he curled around you, legs tangling with yours.
"do you want to have sex now?" he said, and you nodded, "a little, yes." aerion tugged your shift up slowly, then pressed his clothed dick against you, which was unsurprisingly already hard.
"i have thought about you, a lot." the rumble of his voice in your ear was enough to have you gushing, eyes closed as you relaxed.
"when?" aerion pushed through your folds, nails digging into the soft skin of your hip, "in the morning mostly. when you undress in the bathing room. i could see you—fuck—every inch of you." he began pushing into you, lips locked around the skin on your neck, leaving a purple bruise that multiplied as he focused on another inch of you.
you body was buzzing with pleasure, inhaling every scent of aerion—his hair, his sweat, his musk, everything. something about him made your body want to burst like a firework.
he knew exactly what to do too, fingers pinching at your nipples, tongue working at your skin, all the while he thrusted into you, slow at first until he was fully hilted.
the pressure built, but at his first thrust, the pleasure overtook your body entirely. you reached back and fisted aerion's hair, delighting in his rough moans. his front kissed your back each time he pushed into you, and when you grabbed his hand and placed it on your clit, aerion began to flick dutifully.
"your ladies won't know what happened to you." aerion muttered, forehead on the curve of your spine. you chuckled at his words, grabbing his arm and pulling it tighter around your body.
"i'll be pregnant in a fortnight if you continue on like this." you muttered when you felt him tighten and release inside of you, warm with his cum. your thighs were trembling as your orgasm grew, piquing each time he rutted into you.
"what if i want you pregnant?" aerion sucked on your earlobe, smirking when you came, every muscle in your body releasing with a spasm. you inhaled deeply and let out a moan, "you don't want me pregnant, aerion. you want to have fun as long as possible, without the children."
he hummed, nodding, "you know me better than expected." aerion suddenly flipped you onto your belly, hands pressing into your back as he slammed into you.
your ears were ringing, cheek pressed into the pillow, but all you could think to do was moan. "i'll need moon tea." you muttered, and aerion nodded, pushing into you one last time before he came.
his mouth was agape, eyelids squeezed tightly shut, and when he fell on top of you, neither of you bothered to move. "i'll make it myself, yes?"
"the people will just assume we're having trouble producing. or you, rather." aerion grumbled, "i perform perfectly."
Maekar approximately every day
Fix Me
Maekar Targaryen x fem!reader
✿ after coming into contact with a strange flower, maekar seeks the help of his trusted healer (or, a sex pollen fic with our favourite grumpy targaryen). ✿ 18+ ✿ wc: 7.5k ✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is not physically described and she’s well-travelled asfff (slay), sex pollen, SMUT, finger-sucking, oral (m!receiving), throat-fucking, pussy pronouns, unprotected piv, mentions of anal, rough sex, painful sex (initially), praise, pet names (sweetheart, etc), use of ‘woman’ as a term of endearment lol, foul-mouthed and moody maekar, a bit of fluff, strong language, maekar being maekar <3
Maekar groans atop his horse, slumping forward slightly as he watches his hunting party fumble with their bows in an attempt to shoot a distant stag. The creature bellows as it spots its hunters, vanishing into the brush as the smartly-dressed hunters take off on foot, pursuing the animal with too-loud shouts.
“Fucking idiots,” Maekar mumbles, watching the lords disappear deeper into the woods. He rolls his eyes before looking around, finding himself alone save for a pair of guards lingering several metres away.
The prince dismounts his horse, giving her a solid pat on her flank, before he pulls his riding gloves from his hands and pockets them. His thighs are aching from being in the saddle for too long, his knees creaking upon his dismount. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, and he reaches his arms up, cracking his lower vertebrae in a satisfying pop.
He needs to go for a walk. And he has no interest in joining the hunting party in pursuit of a stag they most definitely will not catch.
Maekar makes for the opposite direction, ducking between a pair of towering pines. Behind him, the shuffle of footsteps, and with a disgruntled huff, he turns and shoots daggers at his approaching guards.
One of them pauses, nodding at his prince. “Your grace, you must not stray far.”
“Yes, yes, fuck off,” Maekar mumbles in response, before disappearing between the trees and leaving his guards behind.
The air is thick with the smell of pine needles and wildflowers, and Maekar finds himself drawing in a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed. A lovely spring afternoon, Summerhall glimmering on the nearby hills, sunlight reflecting from its multitude of windows. There is hardly a breeze, and the space around the prince is warm enough that the thinnest sheen of sweat collects beneath the thick collar of his tunic.
He continues walking, hearing the distant shouts of the hunting party he was supposed to be a part of. He didn’t even want to be out here. If it were up to him, he’d be lounging around his own gardens and doing, for lack of better words, fuck all. But the Prince of Summerhall, his older brother had insisted, must keep up appearances.
Eventually, Maekar’s legs bring him into a small clearing surrounded by an array of trees. Their branches weave together overhead, creating an intricate patchwork of greens and browns. Bright white sunlight filters between their thin leaves, bathing the area in angelic light. The ground is thick with soft grass which sprouts small purple flowers, their petals dainty and delicate as though they’re made of silk.
Maekar’s knees crack as he squats to pluck one of the flowers between his thumb and forefinger. The dark violet petals are soft beneath the pads of his fingers: they felt like silk just as much as they looked like silk. He has never seen anything like it, and when he raises it to his nose, he smells a rose-like sweetness that he can almost taste. It lingers in the back of his throat, and when he brings it away from his face, the smell seems to stick to his sinuses.
Maekar looks around the small clearing, not much bigger than his solar in Summerhall. The little flowers grow plentiful, and his mind wanders to his pretty healer back at the castle, wondering if she knows what these things are.
He shakes his head, grumbling curses to himself. He drops the flower.
He should not be thinking of you.
The best healer in all the realm, it seems, and yet you’re right here in Summerhall. He can remember the day you arrived at the royal residence—bright eyed, smiling ear-to-ear, looking so much… happier than any of the home’s previous healers. You weren’t like the other maesters with their scowls and curt instructions. You were the personification of sunshine: you helped anyone and everyone, you were cheerful and amiable and so incredibly easy to talk to.
Which is why Maekar couldn’t stop thinking about you. He still can’t stop thinking about you, and you have resided in his castle for long enough, having spent three of his namedays brewing remedies for his frightful hangovers.
He decides he’ll bring a few home for you. He likes the way they look, and the way they smell, so surely they must do something.
With surprisingly gentle hands, Maekar plucks several flowers from the base of their stems. He collects a bunch, holding them between pale fingers, and when his fingers struggle to hold around the collection, he stops. He peers down curiously at the cluster of violet flowers in his hand and notices something glistening on his skin. From their ivory centre, a shimmering powder dusts out as they’re jostled together.
He swaps the bundle to his other hand and raises his fingers, appraising the sparkling substance that settles between the grooves of his fingerprints. It’s as though he had run his fingers across the surface of a pearl and the sheen had stuck to the dew of his skin.
“Strange,” he thought aloud, then almost on impulse, he brought his hand to his face. Inhaling, he once again caught the pungent aroma of roses. Sweeter than roses, as though they had been drenched in sugar water.
His mouth began to water.
“The fuck?” Maekar frowned, feeling his saliva pool around the base of his lower teeth. But it was subconscious: the flowers smelt so sweet, so dessert-like, and he had been out in the sun for way too long.
So he licked the powder off of his finger before his brain could tell him otherwise. Before his brain could tell him that No, Maekar, we don’t lick strange powder from strange flowers in the middle of the forest.
But he felt like a child, finding something he just had to try. He has to.
The powder was almost better than he imagined. A thinner, lighter version of the sugar stocked in the kitchens back in the castle. Smoother on his tongue, the flavour brighter, almost floral in its aftertaste. He couldn’t help himself from licking the dust from his other fingers, his brain telling him to. Something swirling around his brain like a gentle breeze, urging him to taste more: it tastes good, your body needs it, it’s not poisonous.
Well, he deduces it isn’t poisonous when, after a three minute stroll back to his guards and his steed, he hasn’t keeled over and sicked his guts out. In fact, he feels great. His sinuses have cleared of a small spring sniffle he had developed several days ago, his vision seems clearer and less misty, and his thighs no longer ache as he boosts himself onto his mare.
Maekar stuffs the flowers carefully into a small pouch and fastens it to his belt.
The hunting party returns, as he expected, empty-handed. They look up at him bashfully, and he simply shakes his head. A couple of the lords look at him strangely: the prince didn’t reprimand them for their incompetence? He didn’t chide them for being too slow, or too stupid, or too pathetic?
No, he didn’t.
Because Maekar is too busy staring off into the distance, his bright vision now beginning to blur at the edges. That pleasant heat trapped beneath his collar is now beginning to blaze, his skin prickling as sweat begins to build. His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth, and he can still taste rose-tainted sugar along the lines of his teeth. Something is happening to him, but his brain is telling him that everything is fine. Everything is great.
“I must… return to… my castle…” Maekar manages to say despite the lead weight of his tongue. His tone remains the same—stern and measured—so no one questions him as he abruptly pulls his horse around and flicks the reins hard.
—✿—
Your quarters are in a shadowy, quiet corner of Summerhall, but you don’t mind. It serves both as your work space and as your chambers, with your bed pushed into the corner of the cramped room surrounded by drapes of black and green silk. A long wooden table is pinned against the adjacent wall, the wall above crammed full of plants and jars filled with all sorts of natural remedies. They are all carefully labelled, and even colour coded, and you often find yourself staring up at your creations with pride bursting from your chest.
You have lived here for three years, and have come to be very fond of the Targaryen’s who so often spent the warmer months within the stone walls. Despite the work of other maesters, it seems Prince Maekar has developed an affinity for you—seeking you out for medicaments to treat the seemingly never-ending ailments of his children.
You have become an expert in applying salves to the cuts and scrapes Rhae receives toppling from her palfrey; brewing soothing teas to ease the pain of Daella’s moonblood; tending to the wounds of the adventuring Aegon; and, of course, ensuring the troubled Prince Daeron did not drown in his own sickness. Even the wayward Aerion allows you to clean and bandage the lacerations he receives after a day’s training.
For most of your life, people have referred to you as a woods witch. But here, within the walls of Summerhall, you are a healer. A maester, of sorts.
Sunlight streams in mottled stripes through the tall windows on the far wall of your chambers. The trees that grow outside obscure most of the light, but enough gets in to settle the room in a pleasant, milky glow. You busy yourself at your workstation, replenishing a large vial of ground herbs used as the base of moon tea: a heap of tansy and wormwood, and a bunch of mint.
You hum to yourself as you pop a cork onto the vial, and as you slot the bottled powder onto its slot on your shelf, your door bangs open.
The heavy oak door slamming against the stone wall trembles the glasses sitting on your shelf, and you jump, yelping as you whirl around. Your eyes grow wide as Prince Maekar’s tall frame fills your doorway, one large hand splayed over the door, the other balled at his side. His shoulders move as he pants, and when he takes a step inside, he slams the door behind him with just as much strength as when he had opened it.
You hurriedly sink into a curtsy. “My prince—”
“Tell me what these are.” Maekar produces a small pouch from his belt and tosses them onto the table.
You eye him curiously as he continues to suck in laboured breaths. You carefully pry open the pouch and spot small flowers, their silky violet petals coated in a shiny white powder. You catch a whiff of roses, and immediately draw the pouch shut.
“Where did you find these, your grace?” You ask him, turning quickly to find him approaching.
He grabs the edge of the table with both hands, leaning his entire body weight onto it, his knuckles white with his grip. He groans and you frown, noting the way his white hair clings to his sweaty forehead. His cheeks are flaming red beneath his beard too.
You speak again, “My prince? Where did you find these?”
“The fucking forest,” he replies curtly, head hanging between his arms. You note the strong expanse of his shoulders and back beneath the stretch of his black hunting tunic. He grunts. “You didn’t answer me.”
You sigh through your nose, watching the prince tremble where he stands. You have half the mind to run your hand down his back as if you were soothing Rhae to sleep.
“They’re an incredibly rare floret, I didn’t even know they grew around here! I believe they were brought over from Essos, possibly from the forests of Lesser Moraq—”
“I didn’t ask for a fucking history lesson,” Maekar grumbles, lifting his head. His light eyes are black beneath the expansion of his pupils, his white eyelashes fluttering as he sucks in another troubled breath. “What are they?”
“...Flowers,” you say slowly and simply, noting the way his eyes drop down your body.
You have only ever seen the effects of these flowers once, and that was long ago on your travels around the known world. You found a small pot being cultivated on the roof of a pleasure house in Lys, and watched the way experienced courtesans applied the sugared pollen to their necks before allowing patrons to lick their way across their shimmering skin.
Your stomach dropped. “Oh, gods, your grace, did you consume the pollen?”
Maekar grunts, eyes snapping up to yours. “What?”
“The pollen,” you repeat. “The white powder. Did you taste it?”
Maekar’s eyes drop. This time, he appears bashful as he stares down at the ground. He’s still gripping the edge of your table, willing himself not to topple over under the weight of the burning pleasure no doubt coursing through him. You almost feel bad.
“My prince,” you say sternly. “Why did you do that? You should know better—”
“Do not berate me,” Maekar growls, finally pushing himself away from your table.
He walks across the room, sweat slick across his skin. He begins to unbutton his tunic, his doublet likely tossed somewhere down one of Summerhall’s winding corridors. Across the room, he turns to you and you swallow thickly as he finally unbuttons his tunic, exposing his pale chest and stomach. He’s wet with sweat, moisture beading between the soft grooves along his strong abdomen.
He gestures to himself. “Fix this.”
You shake your head. “My prince, there is no medicinal cure.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he tells you. “You can fix anything.”
His tone softens as he tells you that last part, and you find yourself leaning back against your table as your knees tremor slightly. With a loud groan, Maekar sits down on the edge of your bed, the straw mattress dipping deeply beneath his weight. He sheds himself of his tunic, exposing his strong, scarred shoulders and the muscled length of his arms.
“My prince,” you squeak, averting your eyes. Your body heats up beneath your cotton robes at the usually reserved prince’s boldness. “Please, there is nothing I can do—”
“Tell me plainly,” Maekar utters, his breathing erratic. There is a noticeable tent in the front of his trousers, and he covers it with his forearm, groaning before speaking again. “How do… how do I get this to stop?”
You swallow nervously. It was such a simple answer, yet you struggle to articulate the right words. Maekar stares at you, eyes dark with desire, his brows furrowing as his patience wears thin. Thinner and thinner like a fraying string.
“Out with it,” he snaps, a few strands of his hair falling over his forehead.
“Release,” you spit out as quickly as you can. “You… you need to release.”
Maekar’s brows furrow deeper. “What?”
Gods, this was humiliating. Shame crawls up your spine, invading your nervous system as you fidget with a ring on your finger. A prince of the realm was under the effects of an aphrodisiac, half-naked on your bed, looking at you as if he wanted to rip you apart.
Just get on with it, you think.
“You need to come,” you tell him almost breathlessly. “You—”
“I heard you,” Maekar interrupts, his voice low. He stares at you, head cocking to the side. “So… I can pleasure myself and I will feel better?”
“Well…” You’re still fidgeting with your ring. “I believe you can, but it is more beneficial… it will ease quicker if you… release within someone.”
“Ah,” Maekar replies. “I see.”
His voice is scarily calm despite his entire body being on fire. You can see it within him: the dewy red flush across his pale skin indicates the burning of his blood in his veins, heading south. He’s panting like a dog too, still perching on the edge of your bed. You look at him carefully, your backside pinned to the edge of the table.
Maekar continues to cock his head, looking you up and down appraisingly. His eyes linger on where you fidget with your ring, the smooth metal hugging the base of your middle finger. His eyes lie on the movement, watching you spin, spin, spin the ring around until he finds himself growing dizzy.
“Your grace?” You speak softly, still not moving from your position across the room. You point to the door though, finally removing your fingers from your ring. “Shall I inform your maester? Or perhaps organise for… for a woman to be brought to your—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the prince interrupts. He removes his forearm from his pelvis with a breathy groan that makes you squeeze your thighs together. His handsome face screws up a little in pleasure as he presses his palm flat to the bulge in the fabric of his trousers. “You can fix anything,” he says for the second time.
Your mouth goes dry. “My prince?”
“Fix me.”
“Maekar, please—”
Maekar gets to his feet, fingers deftly unbuckling and untying the intricacies of his trousers. They drape open, but he leaves them hanging around his hips as he crosses the small chambers. Your eyes flicker down momentarily to the thick stripe of white hair that delves below his waistband from the base of his navel. There’s a deep, well-healed scar that runs horizontally through the line of hair too, like a bridge across a river.
“Fix me,” he repeats, looming over you now. You lean backwards, scared not of him, but of his proximity. You are lowborn, a commoner, a woods witch. He is the Prince of Summerhall. He is Maekar Targaryen.
“My prince,” you breath out, eyes finding his.
You can see the scars that mottle his rouged skin beneath the white hair of his beard, and you can see a small knick across the bridge of his nose. You remember the day he came to you with it—you had sat him down on his chair in his solar and applied a soothing balm to it, your hand cradling his face, his eyes closed in what you now realise would have been bliss.
Maekar watches you. “Can you fix me?”
The tent in his trousers presses to your lower belly, and you can’t help the whine that escapes you. A low hiss leaves his mouth, the muscles of his jaw working as he fights to capture a groan before it rolls unfiltered from his tongue.
“Yes,” you whisper, but it’s timid. “But I can’t. I–I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“You’re—” You suck in a breath, and all you can smell is him. Sweat, pine needles, polished leather, fresh spring air. You shake your head. “I can call for a woman for—”
Maekar grunts. “I don’t want a fucking whore, woman. I want you.”
You gape, body hot beneath your cloak.
He continues. “I want you. I want you to fix me, for fuck sake. Are you blind to what you do to me?”
You stammer over your words, the heat of his clothed cock warm through the thick cotton of your cloak. “It–it’s the flowers, my prince.”
“Maybe it is,” Maekar whispers, shrugging. “But why was the first person I thought of you? Why did I need you, hm?”
I don’t know, you want to say.
The silence that stretches allows him to continue undeterred. “So, will you fix me?”
You bite your lip. It was no secret that the prince was a handsome man, even in his age now. He was always regarded as a handsome young man, but now? You heard the maids’ whispers from the first day you arrived, you heard the shy murmurs of the stablehands and the cooks and hell, even Aegon and Rhae’s tutor. Maekar’s a handsome prince, s’just a shame he’s such a moody bastard. A brewing storm, widowed for years now, stalking the halls of Summerhall or skulking around the gardens when the castle grew too loud.
And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. Your eyes would linger when you rubbed ointments on bruises along his back; your hands would skim his warm skin when you applied bandages; you would try not to stare as you cuddled Aegon in your lap whilst his fever broke, Maekar watching from a chair across the room, legs splayed wide.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Maekar mutters, slightly impatient, but his tone is too breathless to hold any real weight. He peers down at you with his swollen pupils and his red cheeks, his sweat-slick forehead and his hair brushing his eyebrows. “I need you to be good and fix me.”
You nod, and the smile that splits across the prince’s face is vulpine. He crowds you now, a delighted groan slipping up and out of his chest as his hand reaches behind you as his face lowers. You gasp lightly as he traps you against the table, and you note the shimmer along the lines of his lips.
“How do you feel?” You ask quietly, your hands finding his bare chest.
He groans loudly, eyes falling shut. Your hands are heaven against his burning skin, fingers soft along the curve of his pectorals. When your thumbs brush over his nipples, his cock twitches heavily in his breeches and another groan slips between his teeth. One of his hands finds the back of your neck, and he simply holds you.
“Like I’ve been dragged through hot coals,” he hisses, hips grinding against you, the bulge of his erection hard on your soft belly. Your hands skirt lower, over the ridges of his abdomen. Maekar curses, eyes flying open when one of your thumbs drags over the dip of his navel. “Fuck, fuck, woman, Seven above.”
“How’s your head?” You ask, thumb pressing to the scar that cuts through his trail of hair above his waistband. “Are you dizzy? Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, yeah—uh, wait, no, not dizzy,” Maekar rambles as you stroke the scar, watching curiously as the lower muscles of his abdomen contract as his hips jerk. “Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t… yeah, doesn’t hurt.”
He pants as he watches your fingers toy with the flaps of his trousers, nails tapping briefly on the unfastened buckles there. The point of your tongue presses to the corner of your mouth as you focus, eyes fixing up and along the sweat-slick skin of his abdomen.
“What about your cock?” You look up at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Does it hurt?”
Your hand slips down between you two, beneath the material of his trousers but overtop of his breeches. Your palm slides against his hard length, warm and leaking against the linen. The moan that leaves his throat is broken into shards of pleasure, strung together on thinning whimpers as his hips jerk, attempting to chase the contact.
“S’fine, s’fucking fine, it doesn’t hurt,” the prince grits out, but then opens his eyes. He stares at you, eyes narrowing, and you smile up at him shyly. He shakes his head. “Are you seriously trying—fuck, t-trying to map my symptoms? N-now?”
You stroke your palm up and down the imprint of his cock, relishing in the way his eyes gloss over as he watches you. He doesn’t seem so moody now.
“I’m a healer, my prince,” you tell him simply. “It is my job.”
“Fuck your job.”
“I need to know—”
“No, you don’t.”
You huff, vexed. “Maekar—”
Maekar bends and slams his mouth to yours, silencing your protests. His hand on the back of your neck forces you to arch up to meet him. He groans into your mouth as your lips part for him, and he finally slips his tongue against yours, flicking over your teeth momentarily. A sick thrill runs through you, something like fear, but he soothes you with his warmth: the warmth of his hands, his body, his tongue. Even the kiss is warm as the force knocks your teeth together, saliva slick against your tongue as his slides along it. It’s messy, and you find yourself digging your nails into the fat of his biceps as he curves you against the edge of the table.
His other hand crawls towards the pouch of flowers. He blindly opens it, his thumb delving inside until he can feel the silken petals, rubbing along the florets and collecting a fine layer of pollen. He does this while kissing you, drinking the little mewls that escape your mouth. Your lips are soft against his hard ones, supple from your herb-based remedies. He wonders if you can taste the rosy sweetness along his teeth.
You can. The smell of the flowers seems to be trapped in his saliva as your tongue struggles to keep up with his. The kiss is all Maekar—dominant, rough, particular. You succumb to it, letting yourself move in languid strokes to meet each of his. He seems pleased with this, a deep grumble vibrating where you hold his biceps. He continues to rut his hips, the tent in his trousers firm against you.
Maekar pulls out of the kiss with a quick lick to your lower lip. It makes you squirm, and he chuckles as he withdraws. Your hands drag down from his biceps, along his chest and abdomen, before finding his breeches and open trousers. You curl your fingers around the strings of his breeches, tugging gently until they begin to loosen, the knots unravelling.
Maekar hums, pleased. “Mm, that’s it. Y’gonna fix me, sweetheart? Gonna make all this go away, huh?”
You nod eagerly, guilt long gone now. You pull the laces undone and tear open his breeches, shucking them down until his cock can fall out. You manage to trap your gasp between your teeth as you take in the sight of his cock, heavy with pleasure and flushing a brilliant red towards the head. The velvet skin at the base is paler than the rest of his body, sitting before a patch of white hair that is an exact match to the hair on his head. Not a shade lighter or darker.
You look up at Maekar, all starry-eyed and wanting. If it weren’t for the pollen running molten in his veins, he would have kissed you again. But his cock was drooling, slit wet with precum as your small hand enclosed around the base. The hiss that leaves his throat is serpent-like, and he only just manages to squeeze the back of your neck to get your attention, your fingers barely touching where they grasp him.
He holds his thumb to your lips now, the pad shining with the white pollen. You look at it, then blink up at him.
“You want to suck it?” Maekar asks, voice dark. He doesn’t wait for a reply before his thumb presses to your closed lips, waiting.
Your response is to open your mouth. You part your lips, allowing the prince to slide the pollen-coated digit past the ridges of your teeth and onto the flat of your tongue. You whimper as your lips wrap around his knuckle, tongue laving across his thumb and tasting the sweetness of the pollen. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before.
“There we go,” Maekar utters, running his thumb along your tongue. “What a good girl. Bet that taste’s real good, doesn’t it?”
You nod.
“Yeah… yeah it does.” His eyes are black with lust and it makes your stomach flip.
His gaze is predatory, and you’re completely pliant beneath him. Vulnerable. His thumb pushes further, the base knuckle bumping against your lips, and he presses down, making you gag. He appears transfixed as he repeats the actions, making you gag again, and then once more after that, until tears build in your lash line.
“Y’’know what else’ll taste good?” He whispers, almost to himself then to you, but you know it’s for you by the way he drags his thumb until he can hook your bottom teeth.
You yelp around his thumb as he pushes firmly, pressure on your jaw, other hand still on the back of your neck. He carefully guides you down until you understand what he wants, and you drop to your knees on the worn Myrish carpet beneath you.
The prince grips the base of his cock firmly as he aligns it with your face. He retracts his thumb, wiping it across your lips before patting your cheek.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, hips inclining forward until he can rub his wet tip across your parted lips. You pout at him, and he groans, the hand he had on your neck now resting on the top of your head. “Don’t look at me like that.”
With a gravelly groan, he continues to drag the head of his cock against the warm skin of your face. Precum smears across your chin, then your cheek, and you whimper at the heat that passes through your core. He moves his hand from your head to grip the edge of the table for support as he finally presses his tip to your mouth once more. Your face feels sticky, and he peers down at you proudly, no doubt committing the gloss across your skin to memory.
“Pretty fuckin’ girl,” Maekar mumbles as you open your mouth and he slowly begins to feed his cock inside. He groans, bending over you, crowding your space, trapping you parallel to the table’s edge. Your cunt is slick and molten-hot within your smallclothes, and you desperately want to rock against your heel, but Maekar keeps you pinned between him and the table. He groans again. “That’s it, that’s it, that’s a good girl.”
His cock stretches your mouth wide, and you find yourself gagging again as the thick tip nudges towards the back of your throat as he bottoms out as far as he can go. You take a deep breath, your nose brushing against the hair at the base. A string of grumbling noises falls from his mouth as he ruts his hips a couple of times, testing the waters, feeling the quivering of your throat around him, feeling the hot slide of your tongue against the vein on the underside. He spares a glance down at you, and you meet his gaze—your eyes watery, pleading as your hands shift to rest on his thighs.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Don’t cry for me just yet,” he says, but it isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, nearly whiny. He pulls his hips back and then jerks back in, cock slamming against the back of your throat, and this time you manage to hold back a gag. “Let me use your mouth and then—uhh, f-uh-ck—then I’ll fill t-that pretty little pussy.”
He groans at his own words, and at the suction you apply when you hollow your cheeks. You’d picked up a thing or two from the working girls you had befriended while travelling the Free Cities, and the girls in Lys were especially knowledgeable.
“Gods, woman, fuck,” the prince curses, his cock twitching in your mouth, his balls drawing up already somewhere close to your chin. That draws your attention: you reach a tentative hand away from his thigh and cup his balls, running your fingers gently along the soft skin. That makes his hips buck, the back of your head nearly hitting the table. “M’gonna spill down your fuckin’ throat, sweetheart, y’know that? And you’re gonna swallow it like a good—fuckin’—girl—”
Maekar punctuates his sentence with firm thrusts into your mouth, tip slamming into the back of your throat. A tear rolls from each eye as you take him, mindful of your teeth, fingers still working over his sensitive skin. A moan is torn from your throat when you swallow around him, and you feel his cock, burning hot against your tongue, give one last final jerk before he’s shoving himself to the hilt. You don’t have time to gag as your nose is pushed flush with his pelvis and he’s spurting down your throat with your name loud on his lips.
He heaves above you, still hunched over. His eyes open though, looking down at you in awe. Never in his life has he spilled that quickly before, and he can’t help the shame that further reddens his cheeks. But the pollen’s effects stop him from dwelling on it too much.
He’s still hard, and when he pulls himself from your mouth, the tip is still dribbling strings of cum and blood continues to pump hotly in the head. That makes him grumble, frustrated, as he fists the base and slaps it across your lips again.
“Fix it,” he mutters, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “Kiss it better.”
Your brows furrow, lips jutting out in an unimpressed pout. “I told you, my prince, the best fix for this is if you spill—”
“Inside,” Maekar grits out, as if only just remembering.
The word is loud in the small chambers of your room, and you can’t help the yelp that escapes you as he hauls you to your feet with unsurprising strength. His mouth finds yours once again, and it’s just as desperate as before. His tongue is quick to breach past your lips, licking his spend from your tongue while his hands find the metal clasp of your cloak. Black and red, the House colours.
He remembers the day you wore it for the first time. Merely a month after your arrival, finally out of the old brown rag you had been wearing whilst you traipsed the Free Cities like some wandering merchant. It suited you well, he deduced, the moment he saw you whisk down the halls in it, his daughters in tow, giggling happily as you recounted a story of how your hair was pink for a month after visiting Tyrosh.
You looked like you belonged here.
The clasp comes undone and Maekar tears the cloak from your body. You wear only a simple linen dress, the warmth of the day making you reluctant to dress in your usual layers of skirts.
Maekar’s hands are warm on your waist as he pulls you to him. His mouth kisses away from your lips now, across your cheek, until he can suckle at the curve of your jaw. You moan for him, hands scraping down the strong expanse of his back as you arch against the table. His beard scratches against your skin. You moan even louder, sensations heightened as sweat peaks on your forehead. The pollen’s effects are well kicking in.
“Need you right now,” the prince mutters against you, teeth nipping. His hands find the ties at the back of your dress and he begins to blindly undo them. “I know you can fix me. Just know your pretty pussy’ll do it for me.”
Testament to his six children, you expect a lot from Maekar, but the filth that spills from his mouth is something else entirely. He undoes the ties at your back in record timing, your dress falling loose at your shoulders and waist as he continues to whisper to you. His rough hands push the fabric down, and you hurriedly pull your chemise over your head.
“Seven forgive me,” Maekar whispers as he pulls back and takes two large handfuls of your breasts, kneading the flesh roughly and making you keen.
“My prince,” you respond around a mewl, and he tuts at you in turn.
While his hands are occupied, you help finally rid him of his trousers and breeches, until finally, you’re both bare and the heat of the chambers feels suffocating. You gasp out as he rolls a hardening nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
With no warning, Maekar grabs you once more by the back of the neck and hauls you across the room. You stumble, body falling across the edge of the mattress, your breasts pushing harshly into the soft sheets.
He kicks your legs apart as he holds you down. “S’this what I need to do?”
Your body is on fire, the dappled sunlight bright in your cleared vision. Visions of Maekar swirl around your mind, and you struggle to look back over your shoulder at him.
He clutches the base of his cock, slick with his spend and your spit, and fists himself a few times. He does this while he drags the leaking tip across the curve of your arsecheeks—the left, and then the right, before finally settling the length of himself between them. A pathetic whimper is your response, back arching, spine dipping further, and he simply chuckles, the hand around the back of your neck tightening.
Not squeezing, just holding.
“Something tells me you’d let me in here, too,” Maekar says lowly as he taps the tip against your arsehole. You draw in a deep breath before biting down hard on your lip, something clenching tightly in your tummy. The prince hums, intrigued. “Yeah… bet she’ll let me right in, won’t she?”
You shake your head, biting your lip so hard you taste copper over the rosy sweetness still on your tongue—somehow, even over the musk of Maekar’s cum, the sweetness still lingers, and it’s starting to make you dizzy.
“S’alright, sweetheart, not today,” he says, then drags his cock down. It catches at the entrance to your cunt, which is slick and wet in such a way it makes him choke on an unexpected moan. “Oh, now I know she’ll fix me.”
And then he’s pushing in.
There’s no warning, no trawl of his cock through your folds or a poorly drawn circle against your puffy clit. Nothing. The prince simply pushes in and doesn’t stop.
You thrash against the mattress, pussy splitting apart as Maekar shoves himself inside. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and you can’t help the embarrassingly loud moan that leaves you as a heady mixture of pleasure and pain manifests in your brain. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest, sweat clinging to the line of your spine as he holds you still, other hand moving to grip your hip now as he feeds his cock into you.
He had groaned when the tip sunk in with a wet pop, but the rest of his thrust consists of dog-like panting that ends in whines. It’s pure, unbridled desperation: his hips roll low as he fills you, gummy walls contracting tightly around the thick of him. You arch so perfectly for him, your legs tremble and your noises are music to his ears. His cock seems to pulse in time with his concerningly fast heartbeat, and he wonders, for a moment, if he’ll spill straight away.
“Maekar.”
He loves the way you say his name. And he feels no need to reprimand you for using it so openly.
“Am I doing it right?” He utters as his hips finally come to a rest against the fat of your arse. His cock throbs deep inside you, head nestled right up against the plug of your cervix. He sees you wince a little when he rocks his hips experimentally.
“Yes,” you hiss out, unable—but wishing—to turn around and look at him. But you keep your cheek pressed to your sheets as he holds the back of your neck and leans over you.
“This’ll fix me?” He pants, withdrawing.
Air fills your lungs and you gulp in a deep breath, but the thick head of his cock is still inside you. You try to answer him, but he thrusts back in again and cuts you off. Well, you cut yourself off, words strangled by a dry gasp as he fills you.
“Course it will,” Maekar mutters, answering himself. He continues to anchor himself with a hand to your neck and hip as he builds a rhythm, pollen potent in his bloodstream. His face stings with heat, and another orgasm is already contracting low in his abdomen. “All I have to do is come inside this tight little pussy and I’ll be better, won’t I, sweetheart? S’what you said. S’what you said I need.”
His thrusts drown you deeper and deeper into the tangle of sheets on your bed. Your hands grip them uselessly, attempting to steady yourself as the prince shifts in and out. Skin-on-skin echoes through the small chambers, and the force of his movements have your rickety bed creaking against the wall. His balls slap heavily against your clit too, and that makes you bleat out his name like a lamb, heat blooming through you.
“She’s so wet,” Maekar whispers behind you, watching a frothy white ring build at the base of his cock as he slams your hips back onto him. He watches the sweat build up along your spine too as your pussy sucks him in, the wet plap-plap-plap of his movements forcing him to draw in faster. “Fuckin’ listen to her. She’s just as wet in my dreams, y’know. Gods, woman, you soak me in my dreams, y’know that?”
You squirm beneath him, his cock hitting right up against your cervix. You want to cry, to sob out, the pleasure all too much as a huge ball of tension nestles itself deep in your gut. It sits low, tugging at the nerves that shoot up your spine and down your legs.
He dreams of you. Maekar Targaryen dreams of you.
“Maekar, please,” you moan, wriggling against him. Pleasure begins to prick down your spinal cord, tension building taut in your abdomen, pussy clenching tightly around the thick of his cock. “Uh–oh, fu–please, please, please—”
“M’not stopping you,” he slurs out as he rails into you. He’s chasing his high, his thrusts rough and ill-timed and barely rhythmic now. He grunts with each push and pull inside of you, your slick leaking down the seam of his cock each time he rolls his pelvis outwards. His thumb massages the side of your neck. “Be good and squeeze me nice and tight, okay? Then I’ll do what you said—I’ll spill deep inside this pretty little pussy, yeah?”
You’ve never heard him speak this much in a proper sentence, let alone speak with this much conviction. He’s a man possessed, his words churning together, forward and vulgar, and the ends of his sentences are beginning to taper off with each of his laboured grunts or whines.
“Yeah, let me feel you, sweetheart–uh, uh,” Maekar ends in a loud pair of groans. His cock knocks up against the perfect spot inside you, angling so deep you see stars.
That’s when you come, your back arching even deeper, your fists balling your sheets and his name tumbling from your mouth like it’s the only word you know. Your body trembles violently as your cunt clenches around him, drawing a resounding moan from the depths of his chest. He sounds wounded, almost. He watches with hooded eyes as your body wracks with tremors as you come around his cock, and he finally lets go of your neck to let you melt comfortably into the sheets.
Your pussy is so wet, so warm, so perfect, he doesn’t last much longer.
He comes. A lot.
Right up against the plug of your womb, Maekar empties himself into you with a yearning gasp of your name. His seed spills in hot, continuous spurts, and you can’t help but let out a feeble complaint as it fills, and fills, and fills you until you can swear you feel it sloshing around in your belly as you shift to peer over your shoulder.
Maekar grunts, his cock twitching, and twitching again, a sharp pain shooting through his head before suddenly, he blinks, and his vision is clear. He can’t help but gasp as his cock finally begins to soften inside you, the ache in his stomach dissipating as his orgasm recedes, and he finally, finally stops coming. He doesn’t have to look down to know he’s leaking out of you and onto the Myrish carpet.
But he doesn’t pull out.
“See?” Maekar says, hands shifting to slide up and down your damp back. The subtle sting of regret is evident in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. Instead, he takes the time to gently lay himself over you, draping his body against yours, placing kisses along your bare shoulder as he pins you to the mattress. He whispers in your ear, “Told you you’d fix me.”
You huff. “You weren’t broken to begin with.”
He nuzzles your cheek, and your common sense urges you to pull away. But you don’t, and instead, you angle your head to drag your nose against his before your mouths meet again. He groans against you, rolling his hips against your arse enough times that his cock gives a tired jerk inside you.
“Actually…” You pull out of the kiss and Maekar grunts, annoyed, and continues peppering kisses along every inch of your face he can reach while being practically completely on top of you. “If you want it more potent, I can grind it up, petals and all, and you can put the powder straight onto your gums.”
Maekar licks the corner of your mouth and you shudder.
“And you know this… how?” He tries to draw your mouth back to his but you resist.
You can’t help but laugh. “I’m well travelled, my prince. I know plenty.”
———
i need him so bad it’s sickening