He is lying back on his bedroll, his body taking up almost all the space, looking up at you with wide eyes, his large hands hovering over your waist as if he’s afraid to break the moment. When you sink down onto him, taking all of his impressive length, his hips buck reflexively, and a strangled noise leaves his throat.
"Seven hells” he gasps, his voice rough "You fit... you take all of me so perfectly, i didn't think- i didn't think it was possible”.
As you begin to move, finding a rhythm that works for his size, his hands finally settle on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. He watches your face, mesmerized by your expressions.
"You’re so beautiful up there” he whispers, voice full with adoration "I don't... i don't deserve a view like this, m’lady. You’re doing so good,you feel incredible, just like that... gods, please, just like that."
➥ Aerion Targaryen -
Aerion is vain, cruel, and obsessed with his own self, but he is fiercely possessive of you. He likes you on top because it gives him a show, he lounges back on his bed, wearing nothing but his rings, he watches you with smirk, enjoying the power play of you working for his pleasure.
He runs his fingers up your spine, his nails dragging lightly over your skin to make you shiver "go on then," he purrs, watching you struggle to take his length "Show me you can handle a dragon."
When you finally start bouncing on him He grips your hips hard enough to bruise. "That’s right” he hisses. "Look at you,my perfect little whore. You like that, don't you? You like knowing you’re the only one who gets to do this. You look divine when you’re desperate. Ride me harder, make me feel it. Yes... fuck.. burn for me."
➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen-
She lays back on her sheets, her hands are possessive, resting on your thighs or gripping your waist, she watches you with a heavy-lidded eyes enjoying the sight of you working for your pleasure and hers.
"That’s it” she purrs, her thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as you grind down against her, “Ride it, sweetling, take what you need."
She loves the view of you on top of her , she reaches up to trace the line of your throat as your breath hitches."look at you” she whispers, a smirk playing on her lips,”so eager,so wet for me, i love watching you lose control,you look Beautiful. Grind harder my love ,ruin yourself for me. Yes... just like that."
➥ Baelor Targaryen -
He lies against the pillows, his dark hair spread out, watching you with hungry gaze while his hands are firm on your thighs, guiding you, helping you find the angle that pleases you both the most. his eyes crinkling at the corners when you gasp. "that’s it” he praises, his voice smooth, "Set the pace, my love. You are magnificent."
When you pick up speed, his composure slips just enough to show how hungry he is for you ,he reaches up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing the hardened nipple.
"you are my queen” he groans, his hips snapping up to meet your thrusts” look at how you ride me, perfect... there is no one else, do you hear me? You feel incredible ,good girl... take what you need from me."
➥ Valarr Targaryen -
Young prince is gentle and very romantic and he loves the face-to-face connection, the ability to kiss you while you move. He lies flat on his back breathless as you start moving on top of him your hands interlaced with his.
As you slide up and down, he keeps pulling you down for quick, desperate kisses. "I have you” he whispers against your lips, his different colored eyes shining “I have you right here, you feel... oh gods, you feel so good."
He loves watching you lose control, when your head falls back, he squeezes your hands tight."So lovely”he pants, his voice cracking,” you’re the loveliest thing in the Seven kingdoms , don’t stop... please don't stop. I love watching you... i love how you feel around me. you’re perfect, my love,absolutely perfect."
➥ Daeron Targaryen -
He is lying back against a pile of velvet cushions in his tent ,the candlelight flickering over his sandy brown hair. He loves having you on top because it allows him to admire you fully.His hands are never still,they are constantly touching your body,your waist, your hips, your thighs.
He looks at you with wide eyes"my love” he breathes out, his hands gripping your hips to help guide you down onto him. "you look... gods, you look like a dream. slowly... yes, take all of me”
He arches his back off the mattress, his head falling back before snapping forward to watch you again, he’s is mesmerized by the way your body connects with his “so beautiful” he gasps, reaching up to cup your face "you feel perfect, you’re so warm, so tight... i could stay inside you forever,you’re doing so good for me. Just like that... please, don't stop. i’m yours, i’m all yours”.
Synopsys: Four days without his wife, and Prince Valarr Targaryen is certain he is dying.
The court calls it excess. His brother calls it pathetic. Valarr calls it devotion.
And he intends to survive it. Probably.
Word count: 2.6k words
The sun had no right to be shining.
Valarr Targaryen knew this with every fiber of his being, the certainty of it settled deep in his bones as he lay sprawled across the vast, empty expanse of his marriage bed. Outside the windows of Maegor's Holdfast, the morning light spilled across Blackwater Bay in a display of golden indifference, painting the room in cheerful hues that made him want to scream.
It had been four days.
Four days since his wife—his sun, his moon, his very reason for drawing breath—had climbed into a wheelhouse and rolled away from him, bound for whatever minor keep happened to be housing her brother and his excessively fertile wife. A daughter. They had produced a daughter, and apparently this was cause for such celebration that Y/N simply had to attend.
He understood this, theoretically. In the same way one understood that the sun would eventually set or that winter would someday come. He understood that sisters loved brothers and that new nieces were supposedly wonderful creatures worth traveling for. He understood all of this with his mind, which was a traitorous organ that had clearly never been in love.
His heart, however—his poor, neglected, Y/N-less heart—understood nothing except that she was gone.
Valarr rolled onto his stomach and pressed his face into her pillow.
It still smelled like her.
He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. They had looked at him strangely, which was absurd. Who wouldn't want to preserve the last traces of their wife's scent? The faint floral notes of whatever oil she used in her hair, the warm sweetness that was simply her, the way the fabric seemed to hold the memory of her cheek against it—
A knock at the door.
"Go away," he said into the pillow.
"Your Grace, the King requests your presence at the small council meeting." It was his squire, a boy of twelve who sounded far too cheerful for someone whose master was clearly in mourning.
"I'm ill."
"You said that yesterday, Your Grace. And the day before."
"And I remain ill. It's a persistent illness. Very serious. Possibly fatal."
A pause. "Should I fetch a maester, Your Grace?"
Valarr considered this. A maester would poke at him and ask questions and inevitably conclude that he was suffering from nothing more than a severe case of missing his wife. Which was true, but also humiliating to have spoken aloud by a man in grey robes.
"No. Tell my grandfather I am... indisposed. With grief."
"Grief, Your Grace?"
"My wife is gone." He said this with such profound tragedy that the boy actually went silent for a moment.
"Ah. Yes. For... four days now, isn't it, Your Grace?"
"Four days, seventeen hours, and—" He squinted at the window, trying to gauge the sun's position. "Approximately six and a half hours. Not that I'm counting."
"Of course not, Your Grace."
"The counting would imply that I have nothing better to do than track her absence, which I don't—because she took my purpose in life with her when she left."
Another pause. Valarr imagined the boy standing in the corridor, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if the prince had finally lost his mind. He probably had. It didn't matter.
"Shall I bring you breakfast, Your Grace?"
"No."
"Lunch?"
"I said no."
"Dinner? Perhaps some wine? Bread? A boar? Anything at all?"
Valarr lifted his head just enough to glare at the door. "Do I sound hungry to you? Does a man whose heart has been ripped from his chest and carried away to some distant keep where he cannot reach it sound like he wants bread?"
The boy wisely retreated.
Alone again, Valarr flopped back onto the pillow and resumed his vigil of misery.
---
An hour later—or perhaps three; time had lost all meaning—he found himself in his chambers, seated at the desk where he had once, in a former life, attended to correspondence and other tedious duties. Now it served a far more important purpose.
He opened the locket.
It was a beautiful thing, commissioned three days ago from a goldsmith who had clearly thought him mad but was wise enough not to say so. The outside was simple enough, a smooth disc of gold that fit perfectly in his palm. But inside, nestled against the fine enamel work that had cost him a small fortune and the goldsmith's entire week, was her face.
Her face.
The painter had captured her perfectly—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way one eyebrow always lifted slightly when she was about to tease him. Valarr had described every detail with the precision of a maester cataloging a rare specimen, and the man had somehow managed to translate those fevered descriptions into art.
He kissed it.
Then he kissed it again.
Then he held it against his chest and stared at the wall, imagining that she was here, that she was laughing at him for being so dramatic, that she would wrap her arms around his neck and press her forehead to his and tell him that four days apart was nothing, that he was being ridiculous, that she loved him anyway.
He would take that. He would take her calling him ridiculous a thousand times over if it meant having her here.
The door opened.
"I told you I don't want—"
"Brother." It was Matarys, his younger brother, standing in the doorway with an expression of unholy amusement. "Still alive, I see. The servants were placing bets."
"Get out."
"I've come to save you from yourself." Matarys strode in as if he owned the place, flinging himself onto a chair with the careless grace of someone who had never known true suffering. "Four days, Valarr. Four. She'll be back in another fortnight, at most."
"A fortnight?" Valarr sat up so fast the locket swung wildly on its chain. "You said a sennight yesterday."
"I was being optimistic. Babies are unpredictable. Births take time. Celebrations take longer. You're looking at ten more days, minimum."
Ten more days.
Ten more days without her laugh, without her hand in his, without the way she hummed while she brushed her hair at night, without—
"I'm going to die," he said flatly. "I'm going to expire from lack of her, and they'll find my body here, clutching this locket, and the maesters will write treatises about it. 'The First Recorded Case of Death by Wife-Absence.' They'll name it after me. Valarr's Malady."
Matarys snorted. "You're pathetic."
"I'm devoted. There's a difference."
"There really isn't." His brother leaned forward, expression shifting to something almost like concern. "Valarr, listen to me. You need to do something. Anything. You haven't left these chambers in days—"
"I left yesterday."
"To stand on the battlements and stare at the road south for three hours. That doesn't count."
"It counted to me."
Matarys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Father is worried. Grandfather is worried. Even Aerion looked mildly concerned, and he's usually too busy practicing his cruel smile to care about anyone's wellbeing. You're making a spectacle of yourself."
"Let them watch." Valarr touched the locket again, tracing the outline of her painted smile. "She is my wife. I love her. I am not ashamed to miss her."
"No one expects you not to miss her. We expect you to miss her like a normal person. Go to council meetings. Eat food. Bathe, for the love of all the gods, you're starting to smell like a stabled horse."
Valarr sniffed his own armpit. It was... not pleasant. But that was beside the point.
"The small council can function without me. Food is unnecessary without her to share it. And bathing—" He paused, considering. "Would it be strange if I used her soaps?"
"Yes."
"They smell like her."
"I know. That's why it would be strange."
Valarr disagreed fundamentally with this assessment, but he was too tired to argue. He slumped back against the pillows, pulling the locket out to gaze at it once more. Her eyes. Her smile. The little mole near her left eyebrow that he kissed every morning without fail.
"She's so beautiful," he murmured.
"We know. You tell us constantly."
"Do you think she's thinking of me? Right now, at this moment? Do you think she misses me too?"
Matarys stood abruptly. "I'm leaving. I came to help, but I find I have no stomach for watching my brother dissolve into a puddle of sentiment. If you need me, don't find me."
The door closed behind him.
Valarr hardly noticed. He was too busy imagining her in some distant keep, holding her new niece, perhaps glancing toward the window and thinking of him. Perhaps touching her chest where a matching locket—because of course he'd had two made, one for each of them, so she could look at his face too—rested against her heart.
He hoped she was looking at it.
He hoped she missed him even half as much as he missed her.
Another knock.
"What?"
A servant entered, this one older and wiser to his moods. She carried a tray with bread and cheese and a cup of wine, which she set on the table without comment.
"Your Grace," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "The Princess Y/N's wheelhouse was spotted on the Rosby road an hour ago. Moving south. Away from the city."
Valarr's heart plummeted through the floor.
"Away?" He sat up, clutching the locket like a talisman. "Why would she be moving away? She's supposed to be moving toward me. The world is meant to bring her closer, not farther. That's the natural order of things."
"The messenger said the princess decided to accompany her brother's family part of the way to their next destination. She'll be delayed by another few days."
Another few days.
He was going to perish. Truly and completely. They would find him dead of yearning, his cold fingers still wrapped around her painted smile, and on his lips would be her name, and the singers would compose ballads about his devotion, and—
The servant was still there, watching him with an expression that might have been pity.
"Leave the bread," he said weakly.
She left.
Valarr stared at the tray. The bread looked dry. The cheese looked plain. The wine looked like the kind that would make him maudlin rather than numb, and he was already so deep in maudlin that any further descent would require ropes and a guide.
He reached for the locket again.
Four more days. Possibly five. Possibly a whole sennight of additional Y/N-less existence stretching before him like an endless grey sea.
He could do this.
He could survive.
He had her locket. He had her pillow. He had the memory of her voice, which he replayed in his mind constantly, and the way she laughed, which he conjured up whenever the silence grew too loud.
He would be fine.
He would be fine.
---
He was not fine.
Three hours later, he had migrated to her solar, where he sat surrounded by her things—her books, her embroidery, her little pots of color for painting, her shawl still draped over the back of her chair. He held the shawl in his lap, stroking the soft wool, breathing in the fading scent of her.
"Y/N," he whispered to the empty room. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."
It helped, somehow. Saying her name. Keeping her present through sheer force of vocalization.
"You have to come back soon," he continued, addressing the shawl. "I'm running out of things to do. I've stared at the locket so much I might have worn a hole through the enamel. I've read every letter you ever wrote me—twice. I've counted the floorboards in our bedchamber. There are forty-seven. Did you know that? I didn't know that. I know it now."
The shawl offered no response.
"I talked to your pillow this morning. Told it about my day. Which was nothing, because you weren't here, but I described the nothing in detail. The pillow was a good listener. Better than Matarys, certainly."
He sighed, slumping lower in the chair.
"Do you remember our wedding? Of course you do. But do you remember how I couldn't stop staring at you? How they had to nudge me to say my vows because I was too busy looking at your face? The septon thought I was nervous. I wasn't nervous. I was just—you were so beautiful. You're always so beautiful. I'm not sure you understand how beautiful you are. I should tell you more often. I'll tell you every day when you come back. Every single day. Multiple times a day. You'll get tired of hearing it."
He paused, considering.
"No, you won't. You love me. You think I'm wonderful. You tell me that all the time, and I never get tired of it, so why would you get tired of—"
A knock. He was going to have words with whoever kept interrupting his mourning.
"Your Grace?" A different servant, this one young and nervous. "There's a raven. From the princess."
Valarr was on his feet before the sentence finished, crossing the room in three strides and snatching the tiny scroll from the servant's hand. He unrolled it with shaking fingers, devouring the words:
My love,
My good sister is recovered and the babe is healthy and beautiful. They have named her Valerya, after you. (I may have suggested it.) We will be delayed another few days as we travel with them to—
He stopped reading.
They had named the baby after him.
A tiny girl, carrying a piece of his name. Because his wife had suggested it. Because his wife thought of him even while holding a newborn, even while surrounded by her own kin, even while separated by miles and miles of road.
He read the sentence again.
They have named her Valerya, after you.
"Your Grace?" The servant was still there, hovering uncertainly. "Is all well?"
Valarr looked up, and for the first time in four days, he smiled.
"All is well," he said. "All is very well. Tell the kitchens to prepare a feast. Tell my brother I'll be at council tomorrow. Tell my grandfather I've recovered from my illness."
The servant blinked. "You have, Your Grace?"
"I have." He pressed the letter to his chest, right over his heart, where the locket rested against his skin. "My wife has sent word. I am cured."
---
That night, he wrote her a letter.
It was very long. It contained approximately seventeen declarations of love, twelve descriptions of how much he missed her, three jokes that she probably wouldn't find funny but he hoped she would anyway, and a detailed account of his conversation with her pillow.
He did not mention the forty-seven floorboards. That seemed excessive even for him.
At the end, just before sealing it with wax, he added a postscript:
I have commissioned a third locket. This one will have two paintings—one of you, one of me—side by side. So that when I look at you, I can also imagine you looking at me, and we can be looking at each other even when we're apart. I know it's not the same as having you here. But it's something.
Come home soon.
Your devoted husband,
Valarr
P.S. If you see this baby Valerya, tell her her uncle loves her already. Not as much as I love you. Nothing could be that much. But a respectable amount for a niece.
He sent it with the fastest raven in the rookery, then climbed into bed—her side, always her side now—and fell asleep with the locket pressed to his lips and her name on his tongue.
Five more days.
He could survive five more days.
Probably.
---
Author's Note:
Normalize men being this pathetic about their wives. The dragons may be gone, but dramatic devotion should not be.
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westeros’s most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I don’t even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerion—but specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciated
“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.
You bristle instantly.
“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”
“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.
“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”
You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
“You should know already,” you hiss.
“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.
They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—
—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
“The Lannister girl?”
You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.
“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”
“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”
“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.
“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”
“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.
“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”
“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.
“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”
“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.
“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”
“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”
“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”
“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”
Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”
“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”
“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.
“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”
Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”
“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.
“It does not matter.”
“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”
You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.
“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.
“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”
You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not.
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”
“No one.”
“Who has frightened you, then?”
You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”
“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.
“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”
“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”
“I did not know that,” you whisper.
“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”
“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.
“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”
Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”
“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”
Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”
“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?”
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”
“Do not mock me,” you mutter.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“Terribly,” he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”
“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”
Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.
You blink. “Well, yes.”
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”
Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”
“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”
You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”
“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?”
You eye him warily. “What?”
“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.”
Something in your chest twists painfully.
“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”
“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”
“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.”
“You are insufferable, is what you are.”
He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”
“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”
He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”
“I will poison you if you do.”
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”
“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”
“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”
“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”
“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.
“And I you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “Sleep, ñuha jorrāelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.”
Summary: A conquered daughter of House Blackfyre is given to the Prince of Dragonstone as both peace offering and prize. Each night, at the hour of the wolf, she is summoned in his chambers.
TW: dubious consent (dubcon), noncon, power imbalance, forced marriage, captivity, possessive behavior, obsessive dynamics, emotional manipulation, coercive intimacy, isolation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, explicit sexual themes, reader has valyrian features (plot relevant), skintone ambiguous, blackfyre reader, valarr targaryen has an inferiority complex, fixation on appearance and legacy, political marriage, post-war setting, targaryen vs blackfyre tensions.
WC: 10K
The knock came at the same hour it always did.
Three sharp raps against the iron-banded door of your chamber. Not loud enough to wake the dead, but loud enough to wake you. The rhythm was burned into your bones now, two quick strikes, a pause, then a final blow that seemed to reverberate through the cold stone walls like a death knell. It was the knock of a man who took no pleasure in his task but performed it with the grim efficiency of one who had long ago learned not to question the orders he was given.
Ser Alan of the Kingsguard. A broad shouldered Reachman with a face like weathered granite and eyes that had seen too many horrors to be surprised by anything anymore. He had been assigned to you the day you arrived at the Red Keep, a silent shadow who followed you everywhere and nowhere, appearing only when you were summoned to your husband's chambers or when you attempted to wander somewhere you were not permitted to go.
You were not asleep. You never truly slept anymore, not since the first night they had dragged you from your bed at this same wretched hour. Now you simply lay in the darkness, your violet eyes fixed on the embroidered canopy above you, counting the silver threads that formed the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You had counted them a thousand times. You knew every stitch, every knot, every place where the thread had worn thin from age and neglect. The dragon's ruby eyes seemed to watch you in the darkness, patient and eternal, waiting for you to break.
The door opened without your leave. It always did.
"His Grace requires your presence, my lady."
Ser Alan's voice was flat, carefully neutral, stripped of anything that might be interpreted as either sympathy or satisfaction. He stood in the doorway like a statue come to life, his white enameled armor gleaming faintly in the light of the single candle that burned on your bedside table. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not in threat, but in habit. A Kingsguard was never truly at ease, even in the bedchamber of a traitor's daughter.
He did not look at you directly. None of them did. The servants, the guards, the ladies in waiting who had been assigned to attend you, they all treated you as if you were made of smoke and shadow, something that existed on the edges of their vision but could not be acknowledged without risking contamination. You were a Blackfyre. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre ran in your veins, the blood of rebels and usurpers and men who had dared to challenge the rightful rule of House Targaryen. Looking at you too long might be mistaken for sympathy, and sympathy for a Blackfyre was treason.
You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep, when a young kitchen maid had smiled at you in the corridor and offered you a warm roll fresh from the ovens. The girl had been dismissed the next day, sent back to her village with a black mark on her name and a warning never to seek employment in King's Landing again. You had not seen her go. You had only heard the whispers, carried to you by Lady Jeyne with a smile that did not reach her cold gray eyes.
"It seems some servants forget their place. A shame. She seemed a sweet girl."
The message had been clear: kindness to the Blackfyre was a crime, and crimes were punished.
You rose from the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, the spring chill seeping through the mortar despite the thin rushes scattered across the flagstones. The chamber was always cold. The servants who tended the fires in the royal apartments seemed to forget that this room existed, or perhaps they remembered all too well and chose to let the flames die out of quiet, spiteful neglect. The single candle on your bedside table guttered and smoked, casting long shadows that danced across the bare stone walls like specters at a feast.
You had been given this chamber on your wedding night. You had been naively grateful then. "Your own space," Valarr had said, his mismatched eyes warm with false consideration. "Every woman deserves a refuge. Somewhere she can be alone with her thoughts, away from the demands of court and husband. I would never deny you that."
A refuge. That was what he had called it. But there was no refuge in this cold, barren room with its bare walls and its threadbare tapestries and its single window that looked out over the black waters of the Blackwater Rush. There was only silence. Only the slow, grinding erosion of everything you had been before the war, before the surrender, before they had stripped you of your name and your family and your future and dressed you in Targaryen red.
You had not bothered with a robe. The first night, you had wrapped yourself in a heavy cloak, clutching it around your shoulders like armor as Ser Alan led you through the darkened corridors. When you had arrived in Valarr's chambers, he had looked at you with that gentle, puzzled expression he wore so well and said, "Why do you hide yourself, sweet wife? You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Old Valyria flows in your veins. You should be proud of what you are."
He had taken the cloak from your shoulders himself, his fingers brushing against your skin with deliberate, lingering softness. He had folded it carefully and set it aside, and you had never seen it again. The next night, you had worn a different robe. The same thing had happened. By the third night, you had understood the lesson he was teaching you.
You will come to me as you are. You will hide nothing. You belong to me, and I will see all of you.
So now you wore only your shift. Thin linen, pale cream in color, cut low enough to show the elegant soft swell of your breasts. It had been laid out for you by one of your ladies in waiting, Lady Alia, you thought, though it might have been Lady Mariene; they all blurred together in your mind, a procession of cold faces and colder eyes.
The shift was too fine for a prisoner, too revealing for a proper lady. It was a garment designed to display you, to emphasize every curve and hollow of your body, to remind you that you were an object to be looked at and touched and possessed.
And you hated it. You hated your beauty because it was the reason you were here, in this cold room, in this cold castle, married to a man who looked at you like you were a prize he had won in battle. If you had been plain, if you had been ordinary, perhaps they would have sent you to the Silent Sisters, like your sisters had been, or allowed you to join your brothers at the Wall. But you were beautiful, and your beauty was Valyrian, and Valarr Targaryen wanted to possess it.
You followed Ser Alan through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. The hour of the wolf, they called this time. The torches burned low in their iron sconces, their flames reduced to guttering embers that cast more shadow than light. The stone walls were slick with condensation, moisture beading on the ancient masonry like sweat on a dying man's brow.
The Red Keep was never truly silent. Even at this hour, there were sounds, the distant tread of guards on the battlements, the scurrying of rats in the walls, the mournful cry of gulls wheeling over the Blackwater. But the silence between those sounds was vast and empty, a yawning chasm that seemed to swallow everything it touched. You walked through it like a ghost, your bare feet making no sound on the cold stone, your breath forming small clouds in the chill air. The thin linen of your shift did nothing to ward off the cold, and you could feel your nipples hardening beneath the fabric, could feel the gooseflesh rising on your arms and thighs. By the time you reached the Prince's chambers, you would be shivering, your body betraying your vulnerability to him before you ever spoke a word.
You knew the way by heart now. Down the winding stair from your tower chamber, past the door to the servants' quarters where you sometimes heard muffled laughter that fell silent the moment you drew near.
At the end of the passage, a heavy oak door bound with iron bands marked the entrance to the Prince's private chambers. Two more Kingsguard stood on either side, Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, their white cloaks hanging still in the motionless air, their faces hidden behind the gleaming visors of their helms. They did not acknowledge you as you passed.
Ser Alan pushed open the door and stepped aside, his duty discharged. His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity, quickly suppressed, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the corridor like a wraith.
You crossed the threshold alone, as you always did. The warmth hit you first.
It was like stepping from a frozen wasteland into the heart of a dragon's lair. A great fire roared in the stone hearth, flames leaping high and golden, filling the room with a heat that seemed to seep into your bones and thaw the chill that had settled there during the long, cold walk. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet and faintly musky, like the perfume of night blooming flowers mingled with the clean, sharp scent of male skin. It was the scent of him, you realized. The scent of Valarr Targaryen, embedded in every tapestry and cushion and fur, saturating the very air you breathed.
The Prince's chambers were vast, easily four times the size of your own barren room. The furniture was dark and heavy, carved from exotic woods that had been imported from the Summer Isles and the forests of Qohor at unimaginable expense.
And there, in a high backed chair before the fire, sat your husband.
Valarr Targaryen did not look up when you entered. He was reading a leather bound book that lay open in his lap, its pages yellowed with age and covered in the spidery script of some long dead maester. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. He was dressed in a robe of black silk embroidered with red dragons, loosely tied at the waist, revealing a glimpse of his chest, lean and muscled, with a dusting of dark hair that matched the short cropped locks on his head.
He did not look like a dragon. That was the first thought that had crossed your mind when you had seen him at your wedding, standing before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor as the realm watched and whispered. And it was the thought that returned to you now, as fresh and bitter as ever, each time you laid eyes on him.
He was handsome. You could not deny that, no matter how much you wanted to. His jaw was strong and sharp, his nose straight and aquiline, his brow noble. His mouth was perpetually curved in a half smile that never quite reached his eyes, giving him the look of a man who knew a secret that no one else did and found immense satisfaction in that knowledge. His body was lean and well made, not bulky like a tourney knight, but wiry and graceful, with the long muscles of a swordsman and the easy, coiled tension of a predator at rest.
But his coloring was all wrong.
His hair was dark, a deep, rich brown that bordered on black, and cut short, close to his skull in the martial style his father Baelor Breakspear had favored. It was thick and soft looking, and you had felt it beneath your fingers enough times to know that it was indeed as soft as it appeared. There was only a single streak of silver gold to mark his Targaryen blood, a narrow ribbon of pale brightness that ran from his temple to the nape of his neck like a brand. It was as if the gods had begun to paint him in the colors of Old Valyria and then grown bored, abandoning the work halfway through.
And his eyes. Those mismatched, unsettling eyes. One was a clear, piercing blue, the blue of the Stormlands sky, the blue of his mother Jena Dondarrion's bloodline. The other was a deep, warm brown, almost black in certain lights, flecked with amber and gold, the brown of his Dornish grandmother. They sat together in his handsome face like two strangers forced to share a room, never quite meeting, never quite agreeing. They gave him the look of something assembled from spare parts, something the gods had cobbled together from whatever materials they had at hand and then sent out into the world unfinished.
He looked like a Stormlander. He looked like his mother's son. He looked like a mongrel.
And there you stood, Y/N Blackfyre, the spitting image of Daena the Defiant reborn.
You were everything a Targaryen should be. You were the living embodiment of the bloodline that had conquered Westeros, the bloodline that had ruled for nearly two hundred years, the bloodline that Valarr Targaryen could claim by name but not by appearance. And you wore the name of his family's greatest enemy, Blackfyre, the house of the usurper, the house of rebellion and treason and broken oaths.
The irony was not lost on you. It was certainly not lost on him.
You could feel his attention on you even before he looked up. It was a physical thing, a weight, a pressure, like the heat of the sun on bare skin. He was always aware of you, always attuned to your presence in a way that made you feel like prey being stalked by a patient, methodical hunter. And when he finally raised his eyes from his book, the impact of his gaze was like a blow.
His mismatched eyes traveled over your body with the slow, deliberate thoroughness of a man savoring a fine wine. They lingered on the swell of your breasts, visible through the thin linen, on the curve of your hips, on the length of your legs. They traced the line of your throat, the soft hollow where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath your skin. They drank you in, consumed you, devoured you. And when they finally met your eyes, there was something in them that made your breath catch, a hunger so raw, so intense, so utterly possessive that it stole the air from your lungs.
He wanted you. That was nothing new; you had known that since your wedding night. But there was something else in his gaze tonight, something darker and more complicated. It was as if he resented you for making him want you. As if your beauty was a personal affront, a reminder of everything he was not, everything he could never be. He looked at you like a man starving, and hating himself for his hunger.
"My wife," Valarr said, his voice low and smooth. He did not look away from your face, though you could see the effort it cost him. His eyes kept flickering down, tracing the lines of your body, before he forced them back up. "How kind of you to join me. I was beginning to fear you had forgotten the way."
As if I could forget. As if I could ever forget anything about this nightmare you have constructed for me.
You said nothing. You had learned that too, in the long weeks since your wedding. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with that gentle, reasonable smile he wore so well. Words could be used to trap you, to expose you, to give him more ammunition for the slow, grinding war of attrition he waged against your spirit every single day.
Silence, at least, was your own. He could not take your silence. He could not twist it or weaponize it or use it to humiliate you. He could only wait, and watch, and try to find new ways to make you speak.
He closed the book and set it aside, but he did not rise. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading slightly, his posture one of casual, arrogant ease. The robe fell further open, revealing more of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the silk. He was aroused, you realized with a jolt. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, pressing against the fabric of his robe, and he made no effort to hide it. Why would he? This was his chamber, his kingdom, his world. You were the intruder here, the supplicant, the conquered.
"Come here," he said.
Just that. Two words. Soft as a lover's whisper, heavy as a command. It was not a request. It was never a request, no matter how gently he spoke it. Every word that fell from his lips was an order wrapped in silk, a demand disguised as consideration.
You walked toward him. Your bare feet made no sound on the thick Myrish carpet, and you moved with the unconscious grace that had been drilled into you since childhood, the posture of a noblewoman, the bearing of a lady, the carefully cultivated elegance that marked you as someone of consequence even when you had no consequence at all. The thin linen of your shift whispered against your skin as you walked, a constant reminder of your vulnerability, your exposure, your complete and utter dependence on his mercy. You could feel his eyes on you with every step, could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical caress, sliding over your breasts, your hips, the shadowed juncture of your thighs.
You stopped before his chair, close enough to feel the heat of the fire on your skin, close enough to smell him, that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and smoke and warm male skin that you had come to associate with long nights and tangled sheets and the slow, inexorable erosion of your will. He looked up at you, his head tilted slightly to one side, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight.
His hand rose. You braced yourself for his touch, on your face, your throat, your breast. But instead, he caught a strand of your silver gold hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if testing the quality of fine silk. His touch was light, almost reverent, and his eyes softened with something that might have been mistaken for genuine admiration by someone who did not know him.
But you knew him now. You had spent a moon learning him, studying him, cataloging his every expression and gesture and word. And you knew that the softness in his eyes was not admiration. It was hunger. It was envy. It was a desperate, consuming need that he hated himself for feeling.
"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was rough, almost pained. "Gods, do you have any idea what you do to me? What you've done to me since the moment I first saw you?"
He drew the strand of hair to his face and pressed it to his lips. His eyes closed for a moment, and you watched his throat work as he inhaled the scent of you, the faint perfume of the lavender soap you were permitted to use, the clean, sweet smell of your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark with something that looked almost like anguish.
"You know," he said, still stroking your hair, still holding it against his lips as if he could not bear to let it go, "I used to dream of hair like this. When I was a boy, I would pray to the Seven every night, every single night, to make mine silver. To make me look like my grandfather. Like my uncles. Like a true Targaryen."
His voice was soft, musing, but there was an edge to it now. A bitterness that he could not quite hide.
"I would kneel before the altar in the royal sept," he continued, "and I would promise the gods anything, anything at all, if they would just change the color of my hair. I promised to be brave, like my father. I promised to be wise, like my grandfather the King. I promised to be pious and just and merciful and all the things a prince is supposed to be. And every morning, I would wake up and run to the mirror, hoping that this time… this time, they had listened."
He released your hair, letting it fall back against your shoulder. His hand moved to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone with a touch so light it was almost not there at all. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and you felt your lips part involuntarily, a small, betraying response that you could not control.
"They never did," he said. "The gods have a cruel sense of humor, don't they? They gave the Valyrian beauty to the Blackfyre, the daughter of traitors and rebels, the spawn of a usurper's bloodline. And they gave the dornish coloring to the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne."
His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing slightly, feeling the soft, full curve of it. His eyes were fixed on your mouth now, and you could see the conflict in them, the desire warring with resentment, the hunger battling with something that looked almost like hatred. Not hatred of you, you realized with a start. Hatred of himself. Hatred of his own weakness, his own need, his own desperate, consuming want for something he believed should be beneath him.
"You should have been mine by right of blood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should have been born a Targaryen. You should have been my sister, my cousin, my equal. Instead, you are my enemy's daughter, and I have to pretend that I married you for politics. For duty. For the realm."
His hand slid from your face to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the slender column with a gentle but unmistakable pressure. He could feel your pulse beneath his palm, quick, fluttering, like a trapped bird. His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat, feeling the warmth of your skin, the life that beat just beneath the surface.
"But that's not why I married you," he said, and his voice cracked slightly, revealing a rawness that you had never heard before. "I married you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because from the moment I saw you, standing there with your family, defeated, kneeling, surrounded by guards, your head held high even in defeat, I knew I had to have you. I had to possess you. I had to make you mine."
He hated you because you made him feel weak, made him feel wanting, made him feel like a mongrel scrabbling at the gates of a palace he would never be worthy to enter.
And beneath all of that, beneath the hunger and the envy and the resentment and the hate, there was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love. But it was a twisted, possessive, consuming love, the love of a dragon for its hoard, the love of a collector for his most precious acquisition.
His hand tightened on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware of his strength, his power, his absolute control over you. His mismatched eyes blazed with an intensity that was almost frightening, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working as he struggled to contain whatever was raging inside him.
"You are mine," he said, and it was not a statement. It was a vow. A curse.
His hand released your throat and moved to the back of your neck, tangling in your silver gold hair. He pulled you down, and you went willingly, or perhaps not willingly, but without resistance, which amounted to the same thing. His mouth found yours, and he kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger that stole your breath and set your blood on fire.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the careful, controlled kiss of a husband performing his marital duty. It was raw and hungry and full of all the twisted, complicated emotions that churned inside him, the desire, the envy, the resentment, the need. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, devouring you. His hand in your hair held you in place, not allowing you to pull away, not allowing you to escape the intensity of his kiss.
And gods help you, you kissed him back. You did not mean to. You did not want to. But your body betrayed you, as it always did. Your lips parted beneath his, and your tongue met his, and your hands came up to grip his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you could not have said. The taste of him filled your mouth, wine and smoke and something dark and addictive that you could not name. The heat of him surrounded you, enveloped you, consumed you.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His hand was still tangled in your hair, and his other hand had found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of your hip with a possessive grip.
"You are cold," he observed, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "The walk from your chambers is too long. I have told the servants to keep your fire burning through the night, but they seem to forget. Careless of them. I shall have to speak to the steward."
You will do no such thing, you thought. You want me cold. You want me to arrive here shivering and desperate for the warmth of your fire, the warmth of your bed, the warmth of you. This is by your design, as everything is by your design.
But you said nothing. You simply stood there, letting him touch you, letting him pretend to care about your comfort. What else was there for a traitor's daughter to do?
"The hour is late," he said, withdrawing his hand. He rose from his chair with the easy grace of a man who had never known a moment's true hardship, who had never had to fight for anything in his life. He was not tall, shorter than his father had been at his age, you had heard, and shorter than most of the knights who served in the Kingsguard, but he still loomed over you, close enough that you could count the flecks of lilac in his blue eye, the flecks of amber in his brown one. "I trust your chambers are comfortable?"
Cold. Empty. A prison with silk curtains and a bed that feels like stone. "Yes, my prince."
"Good." He smiled, and for a moment, he almost looked kind. "I would hate to think you were suffering. You have suffered enough, I think. Your family's choices… well. We need not speak of that. The past is the past, and you are my wife now. The future is what matters."
He reached down and took your hand. His fingers were long and elegant, a musician's fingers, a scholar's fingers. They wrapped around yours with a gentle but unmistakable firmness, a claim of ownership that needed no words to express.
"Come to bed," he said, his voice rough and low.
He rose from the chair, pulling you with him, and began to walk toward the great canopied bed. You followed, because you had no choice. Because your body was already responding to him, already softening and warming and preparing itself for his touch. Because some traitorous part of you wanted this, wanted his hands on your skin, his mouth on your throat, his body moving against yours.
He did not release your hand as you walked. His fingers were warm and strong around yours, and you found yourself gripping back, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water and smoke.
The act itself was never violent. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream, to weep, to claw at your own skin until you could feel something other than this terrible, suffocating gentleness.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had hurt you, truly hurt you, if he had taken you with the brutal entitlement of a conqueror claiming his spoils, you could have built walls of rage and disgust to shield yourself from his touch. You could have retreated into the cold, clean fortress of your hatred and watched him from behind its battlements, untouched and untouchable.
But Valarr Targaryen was not cruel. He was gentle. And his gentleness was more devastating than any cruelty could ever be.
He laid you down on the bed with the care of a man handling something precious and fragile. The furs were soft beneath your back, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. He loomed over you for a moment, his mismatched eyes traveling over your body with that hungry, reverent gaze, drinking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. The firelight played across your skin, gilding your silver gold hair, casting shadows in the hollows of your throat and the valley between your breasts.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed. His voice was thick with emotion, almost pained.
He lowered himself beside you, propped on one elbow, and his free hand began to explore your body. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if he were mapping the contours of a holy relic. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft swell of your breast. They circled your nipple through the thin linen of your shift, feeling it tighten and peak beneath his touch, and he made a low sound in his throat, a sound of satisfaction, of possession, of hunger barely restrained.
"I want to see you," he said. "All of you."
He did not tear your shift away. He did not rip the fabric from your body. Instead, he gathered the hem in his hands and slowly, slowly drew it upward, revealing you inch by torturous inch. The mound of your sex. The skin of your stomach. The curve of your waist. The undersides of your breasts. And then, finally, your breasts themselves, full and round and perfect, the nipples a color that darkened as he watched, tightening in the cool air of the chamber.
He made that sound again, that low, almost pained sound, and lowered his head. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, hot and wet and devastatingly skilled. His hand found your other breast, his fingers rolling and teasing the sensitive peak until you were arching beneath him, your body betraying you with every shudder and moan. His tongue swirled around the bud, sucking gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him. A gasp tore from your throat, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging at the silver streak as pleasure warred with the haze in your mind. Was this what you wanted? His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your wetness.
He took his time. Gods, he always took his time. He explored every inch of you with his hands and his mouth, learning you, memorizing you, claiming you. He kissed the hollow of your throat and the inside of your elbow and the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He traced the curve of your hip with his tongue and pressed open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your inner thigh. He touched you everywhere, tasted you everywhere, until you were trembling and desperate and utterly, completely his.
And through it all, he watched you. His eyes never left your face, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, every involuntary arch of your body. He wanted to see your pleasure. He needed to see it. Because your pleasure was proof, proof that you were his, proof that your body recognized his claim even if your mind resisted, proof that the Valyrian beauty he coveted responded to the mongrel prince who should have been beneath you.
"Feel how wet you are for me," he growled, slipping a finger to stroke your slick folds. You bucked against his touch, a moan betraying your body's eagerness even as you bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut. He circled your clit with pressure, dipping lower to push one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth returned to yours, swallowing your cries as he pumped his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, your whispered 'wait' lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, but your hips rose to meet him, chasing the building tension.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me."
You tried to look away. You tried to close your eyes, to retreat into the darkness behind your lids where he could not follow. But his hand caught your chin and turned your face back to his, and you had no choice but to meet his gaze as his fingers found the slick, aching center of you and began to move with devastating precision.
"Look at me," he repeated, and there was something in his voice, a desperate, almost pleading quality that made you obey. "I need to see you. I need to know that you feel this too. That I'm not the only one burning."
Your climax crashed over you like a wave, and you cried out, a sound you could not contain, a sound that was torn from you against your will. Your back arched, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his as the pleasure consumed you. And through it all, he watched. His mismatched eyes blazed with triumph and hunger and something that looked almost like worship.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's my girl. My beautiful, perfect girl."
He moved over you then, settling between your thighs, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your entrance. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say my name."
You did not want to give him that. It felt like too much, like a surrender too complete to be borne. But his hips shifted, the head of him pressing against you but not entering, and you knew, you knew, that he would wait all night if he had to. He would wait until you broke, until you gave him what he wanted, until you acknowledged that he was the one giving you this pleasure, that he was the one you needed.
"Valarr," you whispered. The name tasted like defeat. Like surrender. Like the death of everything you had been before.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty, triumphant and hungry and impossibly tender all at once. "Again."
"Valarr."
He thrust into you in one smooth, devastating motion, and you cried out his name a third time, not because he asked, but because you could not stop yourself. He filled you completely, stretched you perfectly, and for one endless moment, you simply stared at each other, joined in the most intimate way possible, your breath mingling, your hearts pounding in tandem.
"Mine," he breathed, and began to move.
He made love to you slowly, reverently, as if you were something holy and he were a pilgrim who had traveled a thousand miles to worship at your altar. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one designed to draw out your pleasure, to make you feel every inch of him, to imprint himself on your body and your soul. He watched your face the entire time, his eyes dark with intensity, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp and moan that escaped you.
"So perfect, so mine," he whispered, voice thick with emotion, slow thrusts that built like a gathering storm, pulling out almost fully before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with each hilt. His hands worshipped your body, one tangling in your silver hair to tilt your head back for his kisses, the other pinning your hip to the bed, controlling the pace. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper despite the lingering fog of consent's shadow.
The intensity mounted, his reverent touches turning possessive, gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sucking marks into your neck that would linger like claims. Sweat slicked your skin, bodies sliding together in a symphony of gasps and moans.
He shifted, angling to hit deeper, faster now, the bed creaking under the force. Your walls clenched around his cock, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. "Come for me," he urged, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you.
The climax crashed over you like a wave, your pussy spasming around him, milking his length as you cried out, silver hair sticking to your damp forehead, purple eyes glazing with release. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded you with hot cum, ropes spilling into your core, burying his face in your breasts as his body shuddered against yours. You felt the hot pulse of his release inside you, felt his arms tighten around you as if he were afraid you might disappear, felt his lips press reverent kisses to your throat and shoulder and the corner of your jaw.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal, your bodies still joined, your skin slick with sweat. His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and despite everything, despite the hatred and the resentment and the bitter knowledge of what he had taken from you, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. But in that moment, in the warm, firelit darkness of his chambers, with his body pressed against yours and his breath soft on your neck, you could almost believe it.
He stirred finally, rolling off you but not letting go. His arm remained wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his side, and his hand came up to stroke your hair with a gentle, almost absentminded tenderness.
He pressed a kiss to your temple and settled back against the pillows, his arm still wrapped around your waist.
"You may return to your chambers now," he said, his voice already growing distant, dismissive. "Ser Alan will escort you."
The words were the same as they always were. The dismissal was the same as it always was. And yet tonight, something was different. Tonight, the thought of leaving, of rising from this warm bed and walking back through those cold corridors to your cold, empty chamber, filled you with a despair so profound that it threatened to swallow you whole.
You did not move.
The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three. You could feel his attention shift, could sense him turning his head on the pillow to look at you. You kept your eyes fixed on the canopy above, counting the dragons. Five. Six. Seven.
"You are still here," he observed. There was no surprise in his voice, only a kind of clinical curiosity. "I gave you leave to go."
You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "I know."
"Then why do you linger?" He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with those mismatched eyes. In the dim light, they seemed to gleam with an inner fire of their own, the blue one cold as ice, the brown one warm as embers. "Have I not been a considerate husband? Have I not given you your own chambers, your own space, your privacy? I would never force you to remain where you are not wanted."
Where you are not wanted.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with double meaning. You were not wanted in his heart, you knew that, had always known it. He did not love you; he possessed you. He coveted you. He resented you and worshipped you in equal measure. But he did not love you, not in any way that you recognized as love. And you were not wanted in his chambers either, except when he summoned you, except when he wanted to use your body and watch you respond to his touch.
But here you were. Tangled in his silk sheets, breathing his air, warmed by his fire. And the thought of leaving, of rising from this bed and walking back through those cold, dark corridors to your empty room, made you want to weep.
"You summon me," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You summon me every night."
His brow furrowed with perfect, practiced confusion. It was a mask you had seen him wear a hundred times, the face of a man who could not understand why anyone would question his actions, who genuinely believed himself to be acting only with the purest of intentions.
"I summon you because you are my wife," he said, as if explaining something simple to a child. "It is my duty to attend to you. To ensure the continuation of our line. The realm needs heirs, sweet wife. Our union must bear fruit."
He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his touch feather light, almost tender. His fingers lingered on your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear.
"But I would never keep you here against your will," he continued. "That would be… unseemly. You are not a prisoner. You are my wife. If you wish to return to your chambers, you have only to say so. I will summon Ser Alan myself."
You are not a prisoner.
The words were a lie, and you both knew it. You were a prisoner in all but name. Your every movement was watched, your every word reported, your every attempt to reach out to the world beyond the Red Keep carefully and quietly thwarted. You were not permitted to write to your brothers at the Wall, not permitted to see your sisters, not permitted to send word to your mother in Tyrosh, not permitted to leave your chambers without an escort of guards who claimed to be protecting you but who served only to remind you of your captivity.
You had tried, once, to walk in the gardens alone. It had been a small thing, a tiny act of rebellion. You had simply slipped away from your ladies in waiting and wandered down a path you had not been shown before. Within minutes, two guards had appeared at your side, their faces carefully neutral, their voices politely insistent. "For your safety, my lady. The Red Keep can be dangerous for those who do not know its ways."
You had not tried again.
And your ladies in waiting, they were not companions. They were watchers. Spies in silk and velvet, assigned to report your every word and deed to the Prince. They whispered behind their hands when they thought you could not hear, their voices dripping with contempt. "Traitor's daughter." "Blackfyre whore." "She thinks herself a dragon, but she's nothing but a pretender in borrowed scales."
They pulled your laces too tight when they dressed you, leaving bruises on your ribs. They brought you cold food and colder stares, and when you asked for something, a book, a warm bath, a moment of peace, they smiled sweetly and promised to see to it, and nothing ever came of it.
The world had been carefully, methodically stripped away from you. Your family, your name, your freedom, your dignity. Everything that had made you who you were had been taken, piece by piece, until only he remained. The only person who touched you without care. The only person who looked at you without disgust. The only person who spoke to you as if you were a person, not a symbol of a defeated rebellion.
You were tired. Gods, you were so tired. Tired of the cold walks. Tired of the cold bed. Tired of the cold stares. Tired of being alone with your thoughts and your grief and your rage until you felt like you might shatter into a thousand pieces.
And he was warm.
He was here, solid and real, his body radiating heat beside you in the vast bed. He was the only person in the Red Keep who touched you without making you feel like something unclean. His hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, his presence filling the empty spaces inside you, it was a poison, you knew, sweet and slow and deadly. But it was the only warmth you had.
You hated him for it. Hated him with a fierce, burning intensity that sometimes took your breath away. Hated him for what he had taken from you, for what he continued to take, for the way he made you need him even as you loathed him.
And you needed him. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream. You needed his warmth, his touch, his voice. You needed the only human connection that was offered to you, even knowing that it was offered with chains attached.
"Valarr."
His name felt strange on your tongue. You usually called him "my prince" or nothing at all, maintaining that last, fragile barrier of formality between you. But in this moment, in the dying firelight, with your body still humming from his touch and your walls crumbling around you, you could not bring yourself to maintain that final pretense.
"Yes?"
His voice was soft. Encouraging. The voice of a man who already knew what you were going to say and was savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment like a cat playing with a mouse.
You closed your eyes. You could not look at him while you said it. You could not watch his face as you surrendered this last, precious piece of yourself.
"Let me stay."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard.
You could feel him smiling in the darkness. You did not need to see his face to know that the satisfaction was radiating from him like heat from the dying embers, that his mismatched eyes were gleaming with quiet triumph. You had given him exactly what he wanted, exactly what he had been working toward since the night of your wedding.
"I'm sorry," he said, and there was nothing but gentle confusion in his tone. "I don't understand. Stay where?"
You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.
You knew what he wanted. You had always known. He wanted you to say it clearly, to spell it out, to beg for the privilege of sleeping in his bed like a dog begging for scraps at the master's table. He wanted you to acknowledge that you needed him, that you wanted him, that all his careful manipulation had worked exactly as intended. He wanted you to hand him this victory on a silver platter, to kneel before him and offer up your last shred of pride as a gift.
And you were going to give it to him.
Because you were too tired to fight anymore. Because the thought of that cold walk back to your empty chambers, of lying alone in that cold bed with nothing but your thoughts for company, made you want to weep. Because whatever this was, this twisted, poisonous thing between you, it was better than the alternative.
"The corridors are cold."
"The corridors are always cold." His tone was mild, pleasant. "I have offered to have braziers placed along your route. You declined."
Because accepting would mean admitting I notice the cold. Because accepting would mean I owe you gratitude for every scrap of warmth you deign to give me.
"I did not wish to trouble the servants."
"Ah." He said it as if you had revealed something profound.
"You are too considerate, wife. Most ladies would demand a dozen braziers and complain of the smoke. But not you. You bear your discomforts in silence." His hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm. "I admire that about you. Truly."
You wanted to pull your hand away. You did not.
"Please," you said instead.
The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like defeat, like the death of something precious and irreplaceable. It was the word of a supplicant, a beggar, a woman who had been stripped of everything and was grateful for whatever scraps were thrown her way.
"I am asking. I want to share your chambers. I want…"
You faltered. What did you want? You wanted your family back. You wanted your freedom. You wanted to wake up and discover that the last moon had been nothing but a nightmare, that you were still in Tyrosh with your mother and your siblings, that the war had never happened and Daemon Blackfyre still lived and the world still made sense.
But those things were gone. They were ashes and dust, scattered on the wind of history. All that remained was this room, this bed, this man.
"I want to stay," you finished, your voice barely audible.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty.
It transformed his sharp, mismatched features into something almost angelic, the face of a savior, a protector, a man who had rescued a fallen woman from the consequences of her family's treason and lifted her up to stand beside him. His blue eye sparkled with warmth. His brown eye gleamed with satisfaction. He looked like a painting of some ancient hero, a knight of legend who had slain the dragon and claimed the maiden as his reward.
"Oh, my sweet wife," he murmured.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, tender, achingly gentle. It was the kind of kiss a devoted husband might give his beloved wife after a long separation, a gesture of pure and selfless affection. And it made you want to scream.
"Of course you may stay. I would never deny you anything you truly wanted. I told you, did I not? I am the only one in this world who will care for you. The only one who sees your worth."
He pulled the furs up over your body, tucking them around your shoulders with careful, almost paternal attention. His hands smoothed the fabric, ensuring that you were completely covered, completely warm, completely enveloped in his care. Then he lay back against the pillows and drew you against his side, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close.
His body was warm. Solid. Real. And for one terrible, shameful moment, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. This safety was an illusion, a gilded cage dressed up as a sanctuary. He was not your protector. He was your captor, your jailer, the architect of your slow and methodical destruction. The warmth of his body was the warmth of the dragon's breath, and you were the lamb curled in its jaws.
But it was warm. And you were so tired. And for just this moment, just this one moment, you could pretend.
"Sleep now," he murmured against your hair. His breath was warm on your scalp, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You are where you belong. With me. Where no one can hurt you. Where no one can whisper their poison in your ear. Just us, sweet wife. Just us."
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rise and fall of his chest, the solid reality of his presence. He was everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, claiming you.
And then his lips found your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper so soft you almost didn't hear it.
"I will make you love me," he breathed. "I will make you need me so completely that you won't remember how to breathe without me. And when that day comes, when you finally see that I am the only one who will ever truly want you, I will be there. Waiting. As I have always been waiting."
He pressed a kiss to the curve of your ear, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of it, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the dark promise in his words.
"Sleep," he said again, his voice returning to that gentle, soothing tone. "Dream of me. Dream of us. Dream of the life we will build together."
You closed your eyes.
The tears came then. Silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the silk pillowcase. You did not make a sound. You had learned not to cry where anyone could hear, learned to swallow your grief and your rage and your despair until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, an endless river of sorrow that you had been holding back for too long.
His arm tightened around your waist. You felt his lips curve into a smile against the crown of your head.
He knew.
He always knew.
And tomorrow, when the sun rose and the world went on as it always did, you would wake in his bed. You would open your eyes to the sight of his chambers, surrounded by his scent and his warmth and his quiet, suffocating care. You would look at yourself in the polished bronze mirror that hung on his wall and see a stranger, a woman who had begged her captor to keep her close, who had traded her last scrap of independence for a few hours of warmth.
The servants would know. They always knew everything that happened in the Red Keep. By midday, the whispers would have spread through every corridor and every kitchen and every stable. The Blackfyre whore has moved into the Prince's chambers. She begged him to let her stay. She crawled into his bed like a dog seeking warmth.
Your ladies in waiting would smile their cold, knowing smiles. Lady Jeyne would make some cutting remark disguised as concern. "How wonderful that you and the Prince have grown so close. I'm sure your mother would be so pleased to know that you have found… comfort… in your new home."
And Valarr would watch it all with those mismatched eyes, that gentle, reasonable smile playing at his lips. He would see the whispers and the stares and the quiet cruelties, and he would do nothing to stop them. Why would he? They served his purpose. They reminded you that he was the only one who treated you with anything resembling kindness, the only one who touched you without making you feel like something unclean.
He was the disease and the cure. The poison and the antidote. The dragon and the knight who slew it.
And you were his.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, in the dying firelight, wrapped in his furs and his possession, you lay still, your body pressed back against his in the spoon of his embrace.
His cock, still half hard from your earlier joining, nestled against the curve of your ass, warm and heavy. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your breathing, to let the exhaustion pull you under, but the tears kept coming, silent tracks carving paths down your face.
Then you felt it, a subtle twitch, a thickening against your skin. His length stirred, growing firm once more, pressing insistently into the cleft of your cheeks. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through you.
Not again. Not when your heart felt so raw, so fractured. But your body, traitorous as ever, responded with a faint clench low in your belly, the lingering slickness between your thighs a reminder of how he'd already claimed you.
Valarr shifted behind you, his hand sliding from your waist to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the still sensitive nipple. He hardened fully now, his cock rigid and hot, the veined shaft sliding along your ass as he rocked his hips forward in a slow, deliberate grind.
"Shh," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your back. "Let me hold you closer. Let me make it better."
You didn't protest, words caught in your throat, choked by the sobs you refused to voice. His free hand trailed down your side, over the flare of your hip, fingers dipping between your legs to part your folds. He found you wet, despite everything, his touch gentle as he stroked your clit in lazy circles, coaxing more arousal from your unwilling core.
A whimper escaped you, muffled into the pillow, as his cock nudged at your entrance from behind, the broad head parting your lips.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you again with that stretching burn that blurred the line between ache and need. Your walls fluttered around him, gripping his thickness as he sank deep, his hips flush against your ass. The position pinned you in place, his body a solid weight over yours, one arm banded across your chest to hold you tight while the other worked your clit with unerring precision. He didn't thrust yet, just held himself buried inside, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb against your inner walls.
Tears streamed faster now, soaking the silk beneath your cheek, your purple eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming flood.
Why did it feel good? Why did his possession twist the knife of your despair into something almost like solace? He began to move then, shallow rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your depths, grinding against that spot that made stars burst behind your lids.
His breath was hot on your neck, lips pressing soft kisses there even as his pace quickened, thrusts turning firmer, the slap of skin on skin echoing softly in the chamber.
"That's it," he whispered, his mismatched eyes no doubt fixed on the back of your head, imagining your surrender. "Take me. You're mine to comfort, mine to fuck, mine to keep." His fingers pinched your nipple lightly, rolling it as he drove deeper, his cock pistoning in and out with controlled power.
You cried silently, body rocking with each impact, ass pressing back against him involuntarily as pleasure coiled tight despite the grief tearing at your chest.
He fucked you like that, possessive, unyielding, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip, pulling you onto him harder.
The angle let him hit deeper, his balls slapping against your thighs with every plunge. Your sobs broke free in quiet gasps, tears blurring your vision, but your pussy clenched around him, soaking his length with fresh wetness. He groaned, low and reverent, burying his face in your silver hair, inhaling your scent as if it were his lifeline.
The build was relentless, his thrusts erratic now, chasing release while forcing yours. "Cry if you must," he said softly, voice laced with that dark tenderness. "But come for me again. Show me you need this as much as I need you." His hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing fast and firm, and the dam broke. Your orgasm ripped through you, walls spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you shuddered, tears flowing unchecked.
Valarr followed with a muffled curse, slamming deep one last time, his release flooding you hot and thick, ropes of cum painting your insides. He held you through it, cock twitching as he emptied himself, his arms wrapping tighter, as if to absorb your sorrow into his own body.
In the quiet aftermath, he stayed inside you, softening slowly, his lips trailing kisses along your shoulder. The fire had died to embers, casting faint shadows over the furs tangled around you both. Your tears slowed, exhaustion finally claiming you, and as sleep pulled you under, the dreams came, of dragons, but also of mismatched eyes watching over you, a cage that felt, in the haze, almost like home.
And Valarr held you through the night, his possession complete, your cries a secret shared only in the dark.
“i am your wife. what need would i have for a mistress?”
valarr was very happy in his marriage, especially in his marital duties, he thought everything was going perfectly until a friend had him realize he had never once made you reach a peak. he begins to spiral as the idea gets brought up you must be getting satisfied elsewhere.
valarr targaryen x wife!lorathi!reader
w.c: 5k
c.w: smut. no y/n sub!valarr, reader knows alot about sex, fingering (fem), p in v, creampies, inexperience valarr, sweetie valarr whos in love with his wife, porn with plot, proofread once sorry for mistakes!
a.n: i stand with my one line of dialogue and never shows up again king valarr ! ive started like four wips abt him not including this one… ive been injected with a virus
"how has married life been treating you my prince?"
valarr was sitting in his office in dragonstone, entertaining his guest that had been there for a fortnight now. the son of the sealord of braavos was planning on traveling around to establish more trading ports in westeros with some of the lords. he had decided to make a stop in dragonstone to see valarr and his new wife.
you two had been married for six moons cycles now. you were from lorath married to valarr in the hopes of establishing good relations with the free cities as lorath seemed to have good standing with all the other cities. you and valarr got along very well, you were not shy like many of the court ladies he had met. you laughed loudly, always spoke your mind and you were always kind to him. you were not the kind of lady he ever thought he would marry but he was happy. the two of you were a good pair.
you and the son of the sealord, ser antar, were apparently childhood friends and he had not been able to come to you wedding so he decided to make the trip to dragonstone an extended stay where he would be here for a whole moon cycle. he remembers you telling him he was free to decline the invitation from antar, that relations with braavos would still be good should he say no but when he really thought about it he decided to accept it.
valarr rarely held company of others. while you had plenty of ladies in waiting valarr tended to stay by himself. too busy dealing with issues presented to him at court, petitions and many other matters as lord of dragonstone. he was nervous he would not get along with antar since he had little to no male friends but the two were fast friends. more so since antar was an extremely outgoing man and basically forced valarr to spend time with him."it is well, we get along well-"
"you know that is not what i meant." valarr looked up from his papers and tilted his head at the eagerly smiling man. "whatever could you mean then?"
"the marital bed of course! shes the daughter of a mistress from a whore house turned wife she must be excellent." valarr couldn't fight the redness that burns up his throat to his ears. he coughs hard into his fist as if antar had punched him in the throat. valarr readjusted himself in his chair in his awkwardness as he tried to avoid antar's eager gaze.
"i don't see why… i don't know why you would…" he sort of trails off, not knowing how to answer. a look of shock takes over antar's face before valarr is saved by a knock on the door. valarr allows whoever it is to enter, not even caring if it was an assassin anyone could come in now to save him from this conversation.
it just so happened to be you. you were wearing a gown he had made for you in his houses colors, there were a few dragon patterns stitched on the sides of the skirt. he couldn't fight the smile that creeps up on his face. you always looked beautiful but when you wore his colors there was a strong sense of pride and affection that washed over him.
"hope i am not interrupting your very manly conversation." you were holding a tray with some snacks on it. you give valarr a sweet smile as you place the tray on his desk. he smiles back at you as he tries to push the earlier conversation from his mind. you reach over the desk and grab his hand lightly before you move away. antar's grin only grows as you sit down next to him and across from valarr.
"simply talking about your marital bed is all." valarr coughs once more and forces himself to look down at his papers. scribbling nonsense on a blank paper. "antar. i told you not to tease him."
"i am not teasing! i am truly curious is all. you must be a very wicked women to have him so flushed." valarr did not look up though he could feel their eyes looking at him.
he had nothing to complain about truly. before he had gotten married many of the knights in the court would always try to invite him out to the brothels with them which he adamantly declined. the thought of bastard children running around made him sick. when he had stupidly asked why they seemed to love to go there so much the men had told him there was no pleasure like the pleasure sex provided, especially from the women at the pleasure houses. 'my wife just does not do it for me.' they would say.
valarr does not understand that in the slightest. he remembers his wedding night very vividly. he was worried for you in the beginning as you did not touch a single piece of food that whole night. you did not even drink anything. there was to be no bedding ceremony but there would be two men sitting in the room to make sure the deed was done. you had left the dinner early, saying you needed awhile to prepare.
it had taken you a full hour before you came into his bedchamber. he had been sitting awkwardly in his bed, your brother who was one of the men sitting in took pity on his and tried to ease his nerves and conversate with him but the young prince could barley hold a conversation. he did not know the name of the man with your brother, likely one of his fathers personal knights.
when you had finally walked in valarr truly thought he was going to faint. you had clearly changed out of your elegant gown and fixed your hair, you were completely covered by a large cloak.
his hands clenched in his lap as he watched you remove the coat to show you were wearing just a simple robe, the neck was so low and loose your breasts were very obviously making themselves known. your skin glowed, you had put on some sort of oil, when you stepped closer and closer to him he could tell you were covered in a floral scent. it wasn't overpowering it was a little relaxing actually to the point his hands softened.
"don't worry my prince, this will be nice for you. if the boys back there are a problem i swear once i start you will not even know they are there."
he tried to look away as you had straddled him sitting down firmly in his lap. your hands cupped his jaw and forced him to look at you. his face had to be deep red at this point and he was trying to ignore how terribly uncomfortable his pants had begun to be."seems you're already firmed up, you like me that much my prince?"
it was more of a tease than an actual question but valarr still answered. "of course i do my lady…" you still paused for a moment like you weren't expecting an answer. or more like you had not been expecting that answer. the two of you were a political marriage, it was not a bond of love. yet valarr had found himself growing fonder and fonder of you with each passing day. maybe one day it could be love. maybe what valarr felt already was love.
you moved your hands away from his face and undid the tie on your robe to let the fabric drop and expose your completely naked body. valarr swiftly moved his head to try and look away but you had caught his head with your hands and forced him to look at you. "don't get embarrassed now my prince."
you had kissed him quickly. it was not like the one you had shared hours ago. that kiss was simple, sweet and quick. this one was hot heavy and passionate. he felt like you were practically trying to eat his lips off his face. but he liked it, he liked it so much he put so much effort into trying to give you that same feeling back.
he didn't even realize he was laying on his back now until you pulled away to catch your breath. the two of your chests raising quickly up and down. before he could even think of doing anything else you had captured his lips again and he gasped, you had stuck your tongue in his mouth. he had no clue people even did this but he was not going to complain.
you froze when he felt your hands drag down his chest to the helm of his pants. you pulled away only a small inch away from his lips, they were practically still touching his when you spoke.
"can i?" it was a stupid thing to ask. of course you could it was the whole point of the bedding ceremony in the first place bur the fact you had stopped to ask made himself feel stiffer."of course, whatever you wish."
the words were a little slurred, your salvia must be full of booze. he felt like he was above the clouds. you pushed your lips back to his as you tugged down his pants just enough to free his cock from them. he hissed against you, the cool air of the room hitting his cock made him shiver. he was not cold for long as practically without any warning you had adjusted him and pushed his leaking cock inside of you.
those men had to be lying. sure they were right, there was truly not greater pleasure than the heat the warmth he was feeling in that moment but the concept of his wife not being the one giving it to him? it was a ridiculous concept.
he was so lost in a drunken heat as you push yourself up and down on his length, your lips sloppily against his as you captured every small groan or moan that escaped his lips. as he found himself getting close and closer to his peak your lips had begun to suck on his neck as his hips had uncontrollably began to thrust up to meet yours. when he reached his peak he had almost fainted for the second time that night. he barely remembers anything after that. minor flashes of you dismissing the men from the room, you had cleaned him up before the two of you got into bed and slept.
as the moons passed he still found the same pleasure in you he had that first night. sometimes the position was different, you taught him many things, many positions, it was some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. even now he finds himself firming up just at the thought of you. he looks back up to see you lost in a conversation with antar, the subject clearly and thankfully having steered away from sex.
"apparently his step father only gifted him five slaves instead of ten and he was so mad he had their marriage annulled." you had made a gross face as antar laughed at the ridiculousness of it. you two were clearly talking about some of the other free cities but he had not been paying any attention. the knock on the door startles him completely back into reality. his voice slightly cracks as he says to come in. your eyes immediately dart to him as a knowing smirk makes its way to you face. you had once told him he had plenty of tells when he was 'needy' as you would put it. he always claimed he didn't do any of the things you said but he knew he did.
it was one of your ladies here to inform you that you were needed in as one of your ladies in waiting was pregnant and you liked to keep up all her health check ups. you bid a goodbye to antar before leaning over valarrs desk and giving valarr a knowing grin."i will see you tonight husband."he fought down the groan that creeps up in his throat. you know he loves to be called husband. your husband. you were teasing him. he watches you leave like a love sick dog until antar pointedly clears his throat causing valarr to look at him."have you told her you're madly in love with her?"
he is silent. he hadn't. he did not know how to even breach the subject with you. he was so sure you did not feel like same way. you acted the same around him as you did everyone else, he did not feel any different from one of your lady friends. except when you did your martial duties of course. "no."
antar laughs before he leans further back into his chair. he lets out a thoughtful sigh as he gazes out the window. "you know. i was in love with her as a kid."
valarr's entire body freezes as he feel like a frost has come over the room. he felt sick. "i am not anymore if you are worried about it so please get that look off your face. i am simply saying i always imagined the two of us would end up together. but when i see the way she looks at you, i can see she never saw me in that same light."
the young prince says nothing but a small smile creeps up on his lips. maybe antar was right, he had known you his entire life. maybe he should plan a dinner with you, unlike the ones you usually share together every night, and tell you how he feels. "you must at least tell me if she screams when she peaks."
valarr felt like an ice cold bucket of water splashed over him. "I'm sorry?"
"she tells me she never does but i know she must be lying. shes a screamer i am sure."
valarr for the first time in awhile had no clue what the man in front of him was talking about. he came to find out antar had a habit of saying pretty random stuff but this didn't seem like anything he had said before. the look on valarr's face must have told antar what he was thinking causing the sealord's son to burst out laughing.
"oh gods you've never made her peak? i almost feel sorry for her. shes a needy woman, maybe she even has a mistress." it was said in a jest. one that valarr let out a fake humorous laugh to but the room was covered in an ice cold chill.
that conversation had been hours ago but valarr couldn't get it out of his mind. antar had left to go find you, after assuring valarr there was nothing wrong and that's how most marriages are. he drowned himself in his work in an attempt to not think too much about it. it bothered him. the idea that you sought out another man bothered him so much. he should be able to provide for you. why had he never considered this before? you had never once complained to him. you seemed perfectly content after you two have sex it had never crossed his mind.
he takes his dinner in his room. he knows its selfish of him, the two of you always ate dinner together, but he couldn't stand the thought of having to see you knowing you were likely thinking about another man. so he stayed in his office far too late into the night. he finally felt comfortable leaving knowing you were always sleep at this hour.
yet when he walked into the room he saw you perfectly wide awake. you discarded the book you were reading as you stood up. you were wearing the same robe you always were when you two had sex. he tried to ignore how his body began to ache. "i am surprised to see you are still up my lady." hes shocked he even managed to push the words out of his throat. you simply narrow your eyes at him. your posture is stiffer than normal, your hands clenched in front of you. you're angry. "you were not there for dinner."
he deflates. hanging his head in embarrassment. "i am sorry my lady. i was… swarmed with work." he can't bring himself to tell you the truth, that he was so sick with jealousy that he did not even touch the dinner that was brought to his office. you look even angrier now than you did before. you lift your had and signal for him to come closer to you. when he gets close enough you grab his hands tightly. "if you have an issue with me I'd like for us to talk about it. i do not want there to be resentment between us." he lets his head drop onto your shoulder, his turns his head to the crook of your neck to smell your sweet scent.
"i am sorry i have not been good at my marital duties." you reach and hand up and caress the white streak in his hair. "whatever could you be talking about my prince? i am more than satisfied."
he suddenly finds himself filled with rage as he swiftly pulls away from you. "you do not have to lie to me." he turns is back to you as he walks a few steps away from you. he does not see the look of shock on your face. prince valarr was not a temperamental man you came to know that well in the moons you've known him now. the fact that he is acting like this tells you he is clearly very upset about something.
you knew something was amiss when one of the servants came to tell you he would be taking dinner in his office. if it was any other day you would have gone straight to his office to see him. but you had guests to attend to. once the room was cleared and it was just antar, you and a large table of food did antar finally speak with a sheepish look on his face. "i may have poked him too much today my friend. its my fault."
you knew antar was a man of many words but not many thoughts which is why you had explicitly warned him when he first arrived to watch his tongue in front of the young prince. it was not as lax about crude topics or joke like you and antar were, he was a very prime and proper boy like his father. antar winces as soon as your face twists into an anger snarl. "I'm sorry!" you lean over the table and glare, your words spoken through clenched teeth, "what did you say?"
you decided to wait for him in your shared chamber once antar finally spilled what he had said. you knew he was likely mad about the idea of you having another mans child. when he came in you would get him to admit his issues, you would assure him that it was not true and antar was kidding and you would thoroughly punish him for the comment then you could both go to bed peacefully. yet it seemed like he was not mad about that at all. he seemed more, upset? about the marital bed? you did not understand at all.
"i am not lying my prince i am sorry if i did something to make you think that. for my sake if you could clarify exactly what you mean i could offer some sort of solution." as always you were very forward. you did not like to let issues linger, your mother always told you men build resentment towards woman easily and it was best to stop issues right as they began. you did not want issues with valarr you liked him a lot.
no words are spoken as valarr keeps his back towards you. you don't like the silence its deafening. you take a deep breath, it seemed like valarr was not going to say anything so you make the first move. you take a few steps towards him, not too close but close enough he could certainly tell you were right behind him. "my prince if this is about that crude joke antar made earlier to you allow me to apologize on his behalf-"
"what kind of husband am i if my wife must take a mistress? i am a failure." he keeps his back turned as he cuts you off. you are lucky he has his back turned as you believe you have never been so caught off guard in your whole life. "I am your wife. what need would i have for a mistress?"
he turns his head to face you, your face completely falls as an uncomfortable ache hits your heart at his distraught face. "i have never made you peak." he says it like it is complete fact. the young prince seems intent on continuing his streak of shocking you as you can barely believe the words spilling from his lips. "I'm sorry?"
"what kind of husband.. what kind of man am i if i can't make the woman i love satisfied." he turns away from you like he is ashamed to even be standing in your presence. you walk up to press completely against him, your hands reach around his body, grabbing his clenched hands and lace your fingers through his. you press your head against his shoulder before speaking. "my love, it is not your job to please me in the marital bed. is it my duty to assure you are pleased so we can produce an heir."
"but you are unsatisfied." "says who?' he is silent but you feel his grip tighten against you. "i am more than satisfied my love i am not lying. if you count the times i peak with you on my mind and your name on my tongue you have made me peak countless times."
he swiftly turns around leading you to almost stumble back before he grabs you to keep you pressed close to him. "whatever do you mean?" your face has your normal teasing smile on it now, you press a small peck to his lips. "my love, why do you think it takes me so long to come to the bedchamber whenever we are about to have sex?"
he thinks for a long moment. he had never truly considered it. he knew women took much longer to get ready for things, he simply had always assumed you just needed more time to get dressed. knowing he was not going to answer you begin to tell him. "before we had gotten married, my mother told me my first time was going to hurt. but i did not want it to hurt so i asked her if there was any way to prevent such a thing. she told me if i prepped myself i would feel no pain at all. she gave me a couple of bottles of oil and liquids i could slather myself with to make myself looser on top of the prep therefore it does not hurt at all. every since then before we end the bed i make sure to thoroughly prep myself."
you press your foreheads together, "i love you husband. there is no need for any other." his heart felt so warm so full. all the terrible thoughts he had been having for hours fled from his mind as he was fulling consumed by you. "i love you wife." your lips connect in a heated kiss. the awkward tension in the room turning into a heated passion as he pulls you flush against his body.
"teach me." he had mumbled against your lips. "teach you what?"
"how to please you." you pull away fully, trying not to get distracted by his plump lips. "my love…" "please."
you relent. like you always do to him. you drag him over to the bed and remove your rode. "take off your clothes." he follows swiftly after you, discarding every piece of fabric from his body as you make your way to sit near the pillows on the bed, leaning comfortably on the backboard. he had long gotten over his embarrassment over your naked body or his own, he loved to look at you now, you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. he places a kiss on your shoulder as he sits in front of you. you almost laugh at the concentrated look on his face he looks like he would hang on to every single word you said.
he gulps when you spread your legs wide, "woman are more complicated than men but not as complicated as many think." you take your hand down and spread your lips open, he has to take many deep breaths to keep himself calm. "this is the main thing that stems pleasure for woman, the pearl." he lets a groan slip out of his mouth as you hum delightfully as you rub yourself.
"use your fingers and simply copy what i was just doing. some people use their mouths but that is a lesson for another day." his fingers replace yours and you immediately tense up, "not so hard." he lets out a quick sorry as you laugh, "don't threat. now simply do as i was doing." he begins swirl his fingers around in a circle and your reaction is breathtaking. your hands reach out to grab his arms as you say his name in a moan. "faster not too fast." he listens just as he would if he was out in the training yard with his mentor. he watches your eyes close and your mouth agape as small murmurs and moans pass through it.
"valarr oh with your free hand, hm your fingers put your fingers in me." his eyebrows furrow deeper in minor confusion, "my fingers?" "yes please i need it." you do not say how many so he simply goes with two. its so warm. so wet. he shudders as your back arches off the bed as the highest pitched moan he's ever heard from you fills the air. "valarr in and out just like you would your cock." his cock twitches at the mention of it, the bed was stained with the precum dripping out of it but he did not care one bit. he followed your instructions exactly as you said. he had no idea why he was not doing this sooner, your noises the way you looked, you were so beautiful and he was so hard.
he curled his fingers when you asked he split his fingers when you said to. the longer it went on the louder and louder you got. he ended up reaching down and wrapping his lips around your nipple while his fingers moved faster and faster. "I'm so close husband." you continued to chant his name and he did not slow his pace, he pulled back from you to get a good luck at your twisted face as your body twitched in pleasure, letting out a loud shout of his name before you fell back, your chest heaving up and down as you tried to catch your breath.
he pull his hands away from you. his awkward held his slick covered fingers in the air unsure of what to do with them. you grab his wrist and twist his hand towards his mouth. "suck on them." he immediately groans as your sweet taste hit his mouth eagerly sucking at his hand to lick up every single drop. "fuck me husband."
he was now so desperate for relief he did not hesitate before lining himself up and pushing into you. he was no longer in control of his body as he began to push himself in and out of you. lust taking control of his body as his now free hands play with your nipples as his hips eagerly thrusted to meet yours. you sounded louder than you ever did any other time he was inside you, your hands reaching around him to claw at his back. "touch my pearl." he was so lost he almost did not hear you he opens his shut eyes to look at your shining ones. "i want to peak with you husband please."
his hands moved on their own, he kept on hand playing with your breast while the other reached down to circle your pearl. he let out a spew of curses as you clenched around him in pleasure. the room was filled with the air of sex, the sound of wetness and skin hitting against each other and the sound of your combined moans. "husband I'm so close." he groans loudly as his head falls to your shoulder. "me too cum with me wife." he reaches his peak before you but he manages to continue to thrust into you so you follow very quickly afterwards. his body fell completely on top of yours as you both laid covered in your own sweat. he had never came so hard in his life. it seemed like you had never either as it took you far too long to exit your dazed expression.
"so. no more talk of mistresses right?" he playfully slaps your side and you both laugh. he does not bother to pull out, too comfortable in your warmth. "we should get cleaned up my love." he ignores you, tugging the blanket from under you both to cover you as he lays peacefully on top of you. "later." his soft sleeping breaths fill the air and you know later certainly means tomorrow. you stare at the ceiling while you play with his hair, sleep unable to take you from this moment.
you would have to thank antar tomorrow as much as you hate to admit it. that bastard.
warnings: non con. dub con. smut. possessive men. obsessive men. spanking / aftermaths of spanking. dacryphilia. oral male and female receiving. manipulation. overstimulation. orgasm denial. character deaths / implications of murder. 18+
a/n: guys i can't stop writing and i really don't want to clog up the tags. please also note that this is down to opinion and you might not agree and that's okay.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
You were probably expecting Daeron to be the most neediest out of the three of them. But seriously believe this, Aerion craves attention.
Super Needy! Aerion Targaryen
You belong to him. He may not admit it but he craves your attention and affection.
Aerion wants your eyes on him at all times and when he can’t have that, he’ll be pestering you with his hands climbing up your skirts or even pinching your sides. He likes to scare people, Lords and Ladies alike but there’s some people he can’t simply scowl at and send away, like his family. So his hands up your skirts at dinners will have to suffice.
He’s never going to admit how fond he is of you, how he likes the way your nails graze his scalp or your fingers lightly trailing over the palm of his hand. But he’ll never shy away from it, clearly happy for anyone to see how much you dote on him.
He’s a dragon, what would he need to be embarrassed about.
When he’s out training in the court yard, or away at tourneys, he’d expect you to be there with him. He might not tell you in words but he’ll search for your face within the crowds and smirk when he notices you there.
How do you know all of this? Well there are the times where you may have not paid him the attention he feels like you should have.
Those days of not having you around end up in nights that leave you battered and bruised.
Blood shot eyes, soaked cheeks and nasty red hand prints all over your ass cheek. Aerion would have you begging for mercy with his cock hitting the back of your throat. You can barely breathe yet you try your hardest to mumble out apologies.
Aerion would want to take pity on you. He really does. But you should have really known better.
He’s teaching you a lesson, watching you choke on him. He doesn’t let up either, not until his balls feel sufficiently drained. Even then he’ll have you bent over the nearest table, rutting into you like your some brood mare that needs to be punished.
He’s satisfied when you’ve stopped talking all together. All that’s left of you is shaky breaths and tears that make a small puddle on the table. Then he’s all forgiving, yanking you into his arms and telling you that he knows “you didn’t mean it” and how he knows “you’ll do better” for him next time.
He’ll let you sleep then, brushing your wet cheeks with his fingers and saying how much he knows you love him.
Very Needy! Daeron Targaryen
This man drowns himself in a bottle trying to push down his feelings for you. He’s embarrassed not of you but himself and the way he genuinely desperately needs you.
It all comes out at once in a drunken needy kiss when he has you alone in the gardens and he completely forgets himself. From then on forward, he’s truly screwed.
He’ll try and play the dutiful prince, not wanting to seem that pathetic in front of his father but his hands will search for yours under tables. He will literally let out a sigh of relief when you touch him, rubbing your finger along the back of his hand to give him reassurance.
When he’s drunk, he’s more careless. He’ll nuzzle his face into your neck and practically beg you to stroke his cheek like the good pet he is. People may be looking but he’s too drunk to care what they think.
And when he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to him, he’ll take your hand under the table, placing it on top of his hard cock and grind into it. All tinted cheeks and glazed over eyes as he groans into the feel of you through his breeches.
The worse is when you completely forget him, off to do your own duties instead of being with him. Then he’d find you, it doesn’t truly matter where you are. He’ll snatch you way into the closest room and have you either tossed over the furniture or lying on the floor, his head burying itself beneath your skirts.
You had only been without him a few hours but this man would eat at your cunt like a man starved. He’d take it slow, from kissing all over your thighs to then lapping at your folds with his tongue like he was the one that needed to apologise.
He’d look up at you with those wet puppy eyes begging for your forgiveness, trying to get you to tell him what he did wrong.
He would pull orgasms out of you like it was nothing, not finished until his face was dripping in your juices and you were crying from the overstimulation.
When he does calm down, he’s deeply buried into your walls, pulling you on top of him as you tell him how sorry you are and how you’ll never do this again. He’d sleep with his mouth on your neck, your body caged underneath him like at any moment you’d slip away. But you knew better than to face the consequences of leaving him.
Needy? Valarr Targaryen
Valarr doesn’t scream needy to me. In fact, he likes it the other way round.
You may have never initially wanted Valarr before but he’ll be sure to turn you into a desperate brat screaming for his attention.
He’s a prince. In line to inherit the throne after his father, he simply can’t be seen as needy. But having a needy wife that is wrapped around his finger. This man’s dream.
How did he manage such a thing? Fear is his best tactic. The idea that being without him simply wasn’t a life worth living. Making him your lifeline and cutting out everyone else.
You paid attention to that suitor at the banquet, the one that was found with flies swarming his body in the Godswood. Or the one who asked for your favour at the tourney, the same one that ends up screaming with Valarr’s lance buried in his shoulder.
He’ll make sure you fear what lurks around the corner when he’s not around. He’d make himself your knight in shining armour.
He won’t need to beg for your attention then. You’ll always be beside him, curling up beside him at banquets or watching beside his father at tourneys. You’d even beg him to let you sit in council meetings but it never works, so you'll listen to him and to sit pretty in your chambers for when he’s finished.
It’s simple really.
All of that just to coo at you when you crawl into his lap after a long day, peppering his face and neck with kisses. Only for him to tell you he’s tired and tell you if you're a good girl and stay still all night with his cock buried inside you, he might be kind enough to reward you when morning comes.
But it’s too hard with him cockwarming you. You’ve been craving him all day and the feel of him inside you isn’t enough. Would he really notice if you wriggle slightly around or if you touched yourself a little bit?
He would and he wouldn’t be so kind in the morning. He’d take his sweet time spreading you out on the bed, delivering torturously slow strokes that have you clawing at the sheets underneath you, toes curling and that feeling growing in your stomach. Only he’d stop when he could feel you close, taking it all away. Bad girls don’t get to be satisfied.
Valarr would spend the morning ruining you. Making you almost reach climax again, and again, and again until you’re whimpering at him to give you some sort of mercy. He’d leave you empty then, watch how all day you’ll practically claw at him like some needy cat, whining at how much it hurts, at how badly you need him to touch you.
Then when night finally comes around he’d have you all over again, fucking you thoroughly until you’re overstimulated and a mess. Until you’ve cum so much, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to come again. Then, and only then, would he be satisfied.
divider by @ sweetshuga
a/n: currently working on some modern drabbles that i hope you guys will love.
summary: Valarr has neglected his soon-to-be wife, no passion in their political union. But one glance at you in your simple nightgown manages to completely unravel him.
warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; inexperienced!Valarr; Valarr is an eater (it's the enthusiasm that counts); cumming untouched
words: 3.4k
notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. I literally wrote this before bed, so if you see something suspicious?? No, you didn't.
When Valarr was first betrothed to his soon-to-be bride, it was a union forged from duty rather than desire. He sought to honour his father’s wishes, securing the alliance that Prince Baelor had so deftly arranged. To Valarr, you were an obligation, a means to an end. Yet, despite the coldness of his motives, he treated you with the manners befitting a true gentleman, for his father had raised him in the values of courtesy and respect.
With a subtle smile gracing his lips, Valarr would speak to you in tender tones, his words laced with a polite charm that could not entirely mask the absence of warmth. He opened doors for you, his strong hand at your back or entwined with yours as he guided you through the bustling halls to grand feasts. Such gestures were the height of chivalry, yet all you craved was the fire of passion and the bloom of love, emotions that danced just out of reach.
Over time, you found solace in accepting this harsh reality, making peace with the truth that your marriage was merely a political arrangement, binding your noble house to his in a web of duty and allegiance. It was a bitter truth to swallow, yet you resolved to fulfil your part in this grand tapestry of power and lineage, even as your heart ached for something more.
This wasn’t the worst fate you could have endured, you knew that well. You were surrounded by a multitude of maids to attend your every whim, feasting on the finest delicacies the realm had to offer, and your future son would rise as the heir to the iron throne. Yet, the last point bore a certain weight, for the honour of ruling was often shrouded in peril and intrigue.
It's not that Valarr found you unsightly or undesirable, far from it. In his eyes, you were a vision of beauty, with hair that shone and skin as smooth as the finest silk. You possessed the enchantment of a siren, beckoning sailors to their doom upon treacherous shores.
However, he kept busy in the web of politics, far too entangled in the affairs of state to fall for your siren song just yet. His gaze was set on aiding his father to rule the realm wisely.
But all it took was one evening for Valarr to finally see the woman in you, not just a beautiful maiden he was to wed, awakening a desire he had kept locked away for too long.
In your private chambers, the dying fire flickered, casting warm shadows across your freshly bathed skin, still faintly fragrant with honey and dates—a scent that wafted through the air like an aphrodisiac. He had stopped by as he did each night, but this time it felt different.
You turned to him, a sweet smile curving your lips, your hair left loose, untamed, and perfumed, an allure he had never before witnessed. Gone were the elaborate gowns and intricate braids. A soft blush on the apples of your cheeks, feeling almost naked in the rather flimsy nightdress.
This was something else. This was raw.
As he lingered in the doorway, his gaze roamed over your figure, dressed in a nightgown, the fabric sheer enough to unveil the gentle curves of your body in the dim light.
Valarr had never seen you in such a state of unready before. As if the Gods had conspired to unveil your softness.
It was like tossing a scrap to a famished wolf—his breath quickened, sweat beading on his brow, the air thick with a growing warmth that made the chamber feel as though it had reached a fevered pitch. The sight of you stirred something deep within him, illuminating the desire he had kept locked away until now.
For a moment, it seemed as though Valarr's throat had gone dry, his gaze fixed upon you. The sheer nightgown's fabric betraying just enough to fuel his imagination, the soft candlelight playing a teasing game with your curves.
He took a step closer, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His eyes roamed over you, tracing the contour of your hips, the gentle swell of your breasts. His voice, normally controlled, now held a rasp that betrayed his desire.
"My lady," he murmured, his voice low. His eyes drank you in, lingering over the slope of your shoulders, the gentle arch of your neck. The sweet scent clung to your skin, adding an intoxicating edge to the moment.
He took another step forward, the distance now mere inches. His hand moved of its own accord, his fingers gently tracing the line of your collarbone, the touch soft yet possessive. "You look…" He swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. "Breathtaking."
You blushed, feeling goosebumps rise on your arms as he grazed your skin. Feeling such a gentle touch for the first time from him, swallowing with slight nerves. "My prince, do not be silly. I am simply in my nightgown," you joked with a light tone, your voice breathy.
You felt a warm flush spread across your cheeks, and a shiver coursed through you as his fingertips danced lightly upon your skin. It was a gentle caress, unlike any you had ever known from him, igniting nervous anticipation in your belly that made you swallow hard. “My prince, do not be foolish,” you bantered softly, a teasing lilt gracing your breath.
“I am clad in my nightgown.” Your words hung in the air, sweet as honey, while your heart raced at the intimate closeness between you.
He hesitated, fingers barely touching your collarbone, worried he might cross an unwelcome line. His mind raced with thoughts that made him ache, nearly choking on his words.
“I’m not joking. You look... ravishing." The word fell from his lips like a confession, barely above a whisper. "Like a goddess made flesh,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. Valarr’s gaze devoured you, trailing down your body to the low neckline that had him yearning and weak in the knees.
Valarr swallowed hard, realising he had never allowed himself to acknowledge the depth of his attraction to you until now. He felt blood rush to his cock so fast it almost made him dizzy, breeches tightening against his bulge.
His hand drifted lower, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric. He felt your nipple stiffen at his touch, betraying your arousal. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken desires.
You gasped as Valarr's fingers brushed your soft breasts, your nipples stiffening instantly at his touch. "Valarr," you breathed out, instinctively arching your back to press your breasts more fully into his palm. Your eyes fluttered closed, body burning with a sudden, intense ache that made your core throb.
"Touch me," you murmured, voice husky and low, a plea laced with newfound hunger. Your own hands moved to cover his, holding his touch against you as you felt your heart pounding. The cool air and your racing pulse made your skin prickle with goosebumps.
Now that you'd had a taste, you could never go back.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the action slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation. The air between you felt electric, heavy with the promise of passion about to be unleashed.
Unable to resist any longer, Valarr cupped the soft mounds fully, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. He leaned down, breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "As my princess commands..."
Valarr leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth moved over yours hungrily, tongue delving past your lips to taste you deeply. One hand remained at your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other slid down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing almost painfully against his breeches.
You kissed him back clumsily, but with growing fervour. Your tongues tangled awkwardly as you let out a muffled moan into his mouth. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging in as you tried to steady yourself and simultaneously pull him closer.
Gods, but he kisses like a starving man, you thought dizzily, your own hunger rising to match his. You could feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent, against your stomach. It thrilled and intimidated you in equal measure.
Valarr's hands slid down to grip your rear, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him. He could feel your body melting into his, your soft curves moulding perfectly to the hard planes of his body. His hips rocked forward, grinding his cloth-covered erection against your core, seeking friction even through the layers of fabric separating you.
Breaking the kiss, Valarr's mouth trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He nipped and sucked at the tender skin, determined to mark you as his own. His hands slid under the hem of your nightgown, calloused fingers skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Valarr was inexperienced, having lived a sheltered life and never visiting the brothels as his cousins often did. But he was a man—a Targaryen. He instinctively knew where to trace his fingers.
"I want to taste you." He whispered, voice shaky with how many thoughts and feelings were swirling inside him.
Driven by a yearning that stirred deep within, he needed to taste you, to have your honey on his tongue.
You let out a shaky sigh at his bold confession, the breath catching in your throat for a fleeting moment. "Taste me?" you inquired, uncertainty lacing your voice.
Your knowledge of intimacy came from books or your handmaiden, who kept the description of the act rather vague. Teaching you that the main purpose of a man and woman being together was to reproduce.
Valarr's hands slid further up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at the apex. "Here," he murmured, voice low and thick with desire. "I want to put my mouth on you, taste your essence, feel you come undone against my tongue..."
"Forgive me, I forget myself. This is new for me too." His thumb caressed your inner thigh soothingly.
I want to put my mouth on your sweet cunt until you're writhing and begging for more. That is what he truly wanted to say, but he kept his baser instincts at bay.
Your eyes widened, and you let out a breathy gasp, "Oh! I see..." You bit your lip, a blush spreading across your cheeks. "Well, I suppose that could be... pleasant." You trusted him; that's what made you agree almost embarrassingly quickly.
Valarr's heart raced at your breathy consent. Slowly, almost reverently, he eased you down onto the bed, settling between your parted thighs. He gazed up at you, eyes darkened with lust and a hint of tenderness.
"Pleasant doesn't begin to cover it," he murmured, hands sliding further up, thumbs brushing maddeningly close to your core.
With that, he leaned in, breath ghosting over your clothed sex. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your mound, breathing in your scent before pulling the fabric aside.
Gods, she smells divine, he thought, mouth watering.
Your stomach fluttered nervously asyou felt Valarr's breath ghosting over your most intimate place, thighs clenching instinctively. A breathy, almost mortified whimper escaped your lips as he pushed your nightgown up and exposed your womanhood to his hungry gaze. "Ah," you gasped, cheeks flushing crimson. Yet, you made no move to stop him, pulse quickening in anticipation.
Valarr paused, looking up at you with a mix of hunger and tenderness in his mismatched eyes. "Shh, don't be nervous," he murmured. "I would never hurt you, my princess."
He leaned in, inhaling your scent deeply before placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your bare mound. His tongue flicked out, parting your lower lips, tasting your essence. He groaned at the flavour of you, eyes fluttering closed.
"Sweet gods, you taste even better than I imagined," he rumbled against your skin, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them.
His tongue delved deeper, exploring your folds with a growing hunger. He lapped at your essence, savouring the taste of your arousal. His hands slid up to grip your rear, kneading the flesh as he pulled you tighter against his mouth.
"Valarr~" you mewled, back arching off the bed as jolts of pleasure shot through you. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the fine linen in your fists as you gripped them for dear life.
What is this feeling? You thought dizzily, overwhelmed by sensations you had never known before. Soft, breathy mewls and whimpers spilt from your lips uncontrollably.
"So... so good..." you trailed off, unable to even articulate the depth of your pleasure, your body writhing with a hunger you had never known before.
Valarr groaned against your sex, the sound vibrating through you. Behaving more like an animal rather than a prince.
He sealed his lips around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud. His tongue flicked over it in quick, teasing strokes, drawing more of your essence.
Your breathing grew ragged, mingling with the obscene sounds of his suckling, filling the room with a symphony of lewd noises.
Valarr's thumbs spread your glistening folds apart, revealing your slick, little hole to his hungry gaze. "Exquisite," he breathed, the sight of your dripping sex making his painfully hard cock throb against his breeches.
Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit, savouring your ambrosial taste, before delving inside your tight channel with a low moan.
He thrust his tongue in and out, fucking your hole with his mouth as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you harder against him. His nose brushes your sensitive clit with each thrust, the stimulation driving you wild.
Valarr's movements might have been clumsy, but he was too focused on making you feel good. Listening what exactly you seemed to like, ears trained on the pretty sounds you made for him.
He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading muscle, your body instinctively trying to draw him deeper. Nothing else mattered in that moment but bringing his princess to the pinnacle of ecstasy.
One hand slid up to splay across your belly, feeling it quiver beneath his touch as he pleasured you with lips and tongue. The other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place.
"Oh fu- gods!" You cried out, voice ragged with pleasure. Your body undulated beneath him, thighs quivering and clenching around his head. You could feel every drag of his tongue, every suckle and nip, stoking the fire building in my core.
Moans spilt freely from your lips, growing louder. In that moment, you cared not who might hear. Your fingers tangled in his brown hair, nails digging into his scalp as you held him to you, pushing his face into your cunny.
Valarr's eyes rolled back in bliss as he feasted on your dripping sex. The lower half of his face was entirely coated in your juices, but he didn't seem to mind at all.
"Ah, gods, I can't... I can't..." you gasped, voice breaking as your body began to tremble uncontrollably.
He pushed his hand more firmly on your stomach, holding you in place so he could continue lapping at your cunt, making sure you couldn't run away from the pleasure.
A broken cry tore from your throat, eyes fluttering shut as a coiling heat gathered in your core. Valarr's grip on your hips held you in place, preventing any escape from the intense sensations consuming you.
His cock had been hard and leaking the entire time, pulsing against the mattress as fresh beads of precum kept staining his breeches.
Valarr's hips began to hump the bed instinctively, his painfully hard cock rubbing against the mattress as he lost himself in pleasuring you. The friction of the fabric against his aching arousal only heightened his lust, making him hump against the bed like a dog in rut.
Uncontrollable, near animalistic moans spilt from your lips, your body writhing beneath him. "Valarr!" you choked out, your voice ragged and raw with pleasure.
The coil of tension in your belly wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel the impending release building, your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading tongue.
You had never known such intense sensation. It felt as if you were possessed, leaving you a writhing, mewling mess.
Valarr's own body was wound tight, his cock throbbing almost painfully as he rutted against the bed. He needed to make you come, to feel your pleasure crest before he sought his own release. Only then would he allow himself the satisfaction of spilling in his breeches like a green boy.
He could only whine into your cunt, the sound muffled by your dripping flesh. He sees your body tensing. He knew you were close. He needed to taste your release, to feel you come undone against his mouth.
He sucked your clit hard, his lips sealing around it as his tongue flicked over the tip rapidly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
He could feel his own release building as well, his balls drawing up tight as he rutted desperately against the mattress, chasing his own end. But he focused only on you, determined to please you before seeking his own.
"Valarr!" You cried out, voice ragged and raw with ecstasy. Your body convulsed beneath his touch, back arching off the bed as you shattered into a million pieces.
"Mmhhh~" you mewled shamelessly, fingers fisting in his hair, holding him tight against your sex as you rode out each intense wave of your climax.
Valarr's own body seized, his cock pulsing hard as he found his release in his breeches. With a muffled cry against your sex, he found his own release, his body stiffening as hot seed spurted from his cock, staining his breeches. His hips jerked and shuddered as he came, the sensation of your quivering walls under his tongue pushing him over the edge.
He shuddered and twitched below you, gasping for breath as the intense pleasure of his climax rolled through him. Hecouldn't remember the last time he had come so hard, so intensely. The taste of your sex, the sound of your cries, the feel of your body writhing above him—it was all too much.
He held you close as you trembled and shook, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he helped you ride out each intense wave of your climax.
Finally, as your body went limp beneath him, he slowly pulled back, looking up at you with hooded eyes.
"Fuck," you panted, chest heaving as you stared up at the canopy above. "That felt... really good." You sat up on your elbows, meeting his gaze. "I didn't know men did that to their women." You admitted shyly, still catching your breath. "Can you do it again sometimes?"
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the musky flavour of your release. His hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts and kneading the soft flesh.
"I must be patient until we are married," he murmured against your lips. "I need to be proper. But once you are mine, I will have you every day if you only let me. I want to fill you with my seed until it takes, until your belly swells with my child."
Rolling onto his back, he gathered you to his side, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist.
You sighed in bliss as he held you, relaxing into his touch. Finally feeling loved and appreciated in this union, caressing his chest softly while your lids grew heavy with sleep.
His other hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen lower lip. "You're exquisite, my princess," he whispered, studying your face as if committing it to memory. "I am not nearly done with you."
