The most important meal of the day.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ ~ 18+ requests are open masterlist ~ other interests ~ @horroryolks ~ @eggontheside ~ ~ feed the egg ~

[wholoveseggs]

{masterlist}

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ 𝕷𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖆. she/her. 30s. canadian. gemini. feminist. cat lover. artist and writer. lover of gentlemen vampires and morally questionable knights. elijah mikaelson’s wife. daemon targaryen’s whore. I write for tvdu and asoiaf ... mostly smut. this blog is 18+ only

"Do you have any idea how rare love is? In a thousand years, I have found it but twice, and when I have, I have honored it."

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"Love is the death of duty."

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[wholoveseggs]

MY THOUGHTS ON HOUSE OF THE DRAGON SEASON 3:

I miss akotsk

[kitkatkitzune]

POSTURE PAIN

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!reader

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

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 1.3k

MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST

———————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I believe it is from your posture.”

“My…posture?”

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

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

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

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

“How’d…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better, much better.”

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

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

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

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

“And you still agreed?!”

“You have a pretty face.”

Since he caught a stray during this I must add…

[wholoveseggs]

AHHH this is SO CUTEEE

More smutty Jace content plz n thx ♥️

[wholoveseggs]

Stay

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Jacaerys Velaryon x f!Reader} Jace is determined to fly into war, and no amount of pleading will change his mind. But you'll do anything to keep him from leaving...

♡ will forever miss the prince of pouts ♡

1.6k words - Warnings: smuttt, wall sex, desperate sex, semi-clothed sex, arguing, mentions of character death and lots of angst,..

The corridor was empty save for the two of you, the torchlight casting long shadows across the stone. Jacaerys was already dressed in his riding leathers, dark and fitted, the Targaryen sigil stitched across his chest. He moved with purpose, shoulders squared, jaw set. Every step he took toward the Dragonmont was another step away from you.

"You cannot be serious." Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the stillness. He didn't stop. You watched his back for one heartbeat. Two. "Jace."

He paused, then turned, the torchlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. His face, usually so full of warmth for you, was now unreadable. "I must."

"No," you said, shaking your head, stepping into his path. "You don't. Send someone else. Send Ulf. Send Addam. Send anyone-"

"You want me to sit back and send others to fight my war? To risk their lives while I remain safe in my keep?" His tone was low, incredulous. "That is not the behavior of a king."

"You are not a king yet," you shot back, your voice trembling with an anger that was just fear in disguise. "Your mother is queen. This is her war. This is her madness."

"I am a dragonrider. I have faced worse than-"

"Worse?" You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a sharp, desperate edge. "Your brother Lucerys is dead, Jace. Dead. And you would have me believe that flying into the very maw of war is safe?"

The name of his fallen brother struck like a physical blow. Jacaerys flinched, his composure cracking for just a moment before rage rebuilt the walls around him.

"Do not speak of Luke," he warned, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "Do not use him as a weapon against me."

"I use him as a reminder!" You stepped closer, your own anger rising to meet his. "A reminder of how quickly the world can steal those we love." Your chest ached, a tight, painful knot. "I cannot. I will not. Watch you go to your death."

He tried to gently pry your hands from his chest, but you held fast. "It is not that simple."

"It is that simple! Stay!" The word was ripped from your throat, raw and pleading. You shook him, a futile, desperate gesture. "Stay with me."

His hands finally managed to close over yours, stilling your frantic movements. His grip was firm as he pried your fingers away, one by one. He held your hands in his, trapped between your bodies. "I cannot."

The finality in those two words was a cold blade to your heart. You pushed him hard, both hands flat against his chest. He stumbled back a step, surprise flashing in his eyes. The fury in you burned away all pretense of decorum, all quiet restraint.

"I will not mourn you," you spat, the words tasting like ash and betrayal. "I will not stand on that cliff and watch Vermax fly away knowing I may never see you again. I will not be the dutiful wife who waits by the window for a husband who never returns."

"Don't then." His own anger was a storm now, rising to match yours. "Go, then. Leave. When I return, do not expect me to share your bed. Or- or share anything else with you. Go back to your father's for all I care."

You both knew it was an empty threat, a cruel barb thrown in the heat of the moment. But it still found its mark. Tears burned hot behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You lunged for him again, your intentions a muddled mess of wanting to hit him, to hurt him as he was hurting you, and wanting to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

He caught your wrists in a bruising grip, holding you off. You struggled, a frantic, wild thing, and the effort only made him tighten his hold until you were well and truly trapped, your chests nearly touching, breath coming in ragged, angry pants.

"Look at me," he growled, and you did. His eyes were dark, almost black in the flickering torchlight. They were burning with a fire you knew well, a fire you had kindled a hundred times, but this was different. It was fierce and possessive and fueled by war. "Why are you making this harder?" 

"I will not lose you," you whispered, the fight draining out of you, replaced by a profound, bone-deep terror. Your body went slack in his hold. "If you go I go."

The admission hung in the air between you, naked and raw. The anger in his eyes didn't vanish, but it shifted. The hard line of his mouth softened. He let go of your wrists, but only to frame your face with his hands, his thumbs stroking the line of your jaw.

"I will come back to you," he said, his voice broke slightly, and the vulnerability in it was more terrifying than any anger. "I swear it."

"No," you sobbed, the tears finally breaking free. "Don't swear it. Don't you dare swear it to me. Not when you can't promise. Not when you know as well as I do that you might-"

He cut you off with a kiss. His mouth crashed down on yours, all teeth and desperation, a kiss that was meant to wipe out the conversation, the argument, the reality of the coming dawn. He kissed you like he was trying to brand himself onto your soul.

You tugged at the leather laces of his tunic, your clumsy, desperate fingers fumbling to get to the warmth of his skin underneath. He pulled your hands away again, pinning them to the cold stone wall beside your head, his body pressing flush against yours.

"Jace, please," you whimpered against his mouth, trying to arch into him, to get closer, to feel anything but this crushing fear.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your chest. He released your hands to grab the back of your thighs, hoisting you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your bodies locking together, the hard stone at your back.

"I cannot lose you either," he repeated, his voice low and rough against the shell of your ear. "I cannot. So I will fight twice as hard. I will slay every single Hightower to keep you safe."

You kissed him again and the pain of being apart was too much, too terrible, too heavy a burden. You fumbled with the laces of his trousers, and he hiked your skirts up, pushing your smallclothes aside.

The moment he pushed inside, the moment your bodies came together, it felt like you could breathe again. The weight that had been suffocating you, threatening to crush your lungs, finally eased.

"Jace." You moaned his name as his hips started to move, his cock pressing deep.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, the drag of his stubble against your sensitive skin making everything feel sharper. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there, clinging to him.

"Don't leave me," you gasped with every thrust. He held you so tight, the leather of his tunics creaking as he pressed you against the stone.

"I'm here," he grunted, his pace growing more frantic, more desperate. "I'm here. I'm here." With each word, his hips rolled into yours. "Right here."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. His lips were swollen from your kisses, and there was a flush high on his cheeks. He looked so young in that moment, so terrified beneath all he had to bear.

You cupped his cheek with a trembling hand. "My love."

The words, soft and tender, shattered the tension. Something snapped, a dam giving way. His lips found yours again, softer now, a slow and sensual glide. His thrusts became slower, deeper, his body grinding into yours.

"I need you." He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing harsh and ragged.

You felt it build low in your stomach, that tight, hot coil. It grew with every movement, every touch, until you were trembling with the strain of it, clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulder.

"I need you," he said again, his hand sliding down between you, his fingers finding the spot that made you gasp and clench around him.

It hit you like a wave, pulling you under, leaving you breathless and gasping. You clung to his shoulders, burying your face in his neck, biting down on the leather as you muffled a cry. He held you through it, his arms tightening, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

He followed right after, his hips jerking as he spent himself inside of you. You held him tight as his body shuddered, his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

After a long moment, he lowered you carefully, steadying you with an arm around your waist. You leaned against the wall, still breathless and aching, but the crushing weight was gone. For now.

He leaned in, kissing you again, gentle and lingering. His hands skimmed down your arms to lace his fingers through yours.

"I love you," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. "I do not wish to fight with you."

"I don't want to lose you," you murmured back, clinging to his hands. "Stay. Please."

He hesitated, a frown tugging at his lips. Then he kissed you again, soft and sweet.

"Just a little longer," he said, pulling you against him, his arm tight around your waist.

Just a little longer.

[asongofworld]

HBO's House of the Dragon (2022, United States) Season Three, Episode Two

Matt Smith as King Consort Daemon Targaryen

[wholoveseggs]

GIRL I MISSED YOU

Thank you babes!! I have lots of stuff to post so stay tuned ~xo

[gameofthronesdaily]

Matt Smith as Daemon Targaryen HOUSE OF THE DRAGON ; S03E01 "Salt and Sea, Fire and Blood"

[wholoveseggs]

Lissa are you alive?

I've been resurrected by the power of Matt Smith...

[wholoveseggs]

Emergency Contact

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader} You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...

♡ dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo ♡

8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...

You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.

And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.

The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.

"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."

Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.

You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.

"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."

He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.

"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."

Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?

You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you. 

You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.

But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.

"Father."

Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.

The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.

"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."

Your stomach dropped.

Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.

"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."

The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."

Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.

Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.

Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."

The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.

He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.

"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"

Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.

He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."

He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.

You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.

Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-

You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.

But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.

He's not coming.

The thought was a cold stone in your gut.

He's not coming. He was never going to come.

Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.

You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.

Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.

Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.

You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.

And the screams began.

Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.

Screams.

You stirred. The dream flickered.

Screams. Real ones.

Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.

And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.

Caraxes.

Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-

Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.

You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.

Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.

"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"

His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.

He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open. 

You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.

And then you saw him.

Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.

"Wife."

He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.

You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.

"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.

He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"

"They told me-"

He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"

You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.

Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."

He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.

Daemon moved before you could breathe.

He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.

The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.

It took seconds. Less.

"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.

There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.

The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.

"Keep moving."

You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation. 

And then he pulled you onward.

Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.

The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh. 

But the fighting was over.

Byrch's men were on their knees.

Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.

The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.

Daemon walked you through them.

His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.

Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.

At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.

"Byrch."

Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.

The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."

Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"

"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"

"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat. 

Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"

"Because I- because-"

"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen. 

Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.

The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.

Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.

Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.

Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.

A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.

You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.

Daemon turned to you.

He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. 

"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."

"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.

He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.

"You're hurt," you breathed.

He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.

You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.

A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.

He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.

"Sovès" Daemon yelled.

Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.

And then the dragon launched itself into the air.

You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.

The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.

A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-

You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.

Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.

"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.

It was alright.

You were safe.

At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.

But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.

Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.

Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.

Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.

Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.

You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.

The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.

This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.

"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.

"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.

"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.

He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.

"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't."

He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.

"Daemon."

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.

"I'll live," he said. "Sit."

You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."

His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.

The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.

"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.

"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."

You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.

He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.

"I should have killed them slower."

"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.

He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.

"That needs stitching."

"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."

"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.

You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.

But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."

"Breathe," you repeated.

"Aye, you're shaking."

You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.

"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.

"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.

"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.

His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.

"Why did you come for me?" you asked.

He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.

"Because you're my wife."

"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.

"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"

You didn't know what to say to that.

He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.

"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."

"Make meaning then."

He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.

"Drink."

You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.

"I didn't think you would come."

He said nothing.

"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"

"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.

You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.

The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.

"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over. 

He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked.

"The truth."

"You won't like it."

"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising. 

"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?" 

He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.

"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."

He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.

Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.

By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.

He walked into the sea without a word.

You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.

You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.

You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.

The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.

The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.

"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"

"Something like that."

You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.

"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.

He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"

"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."

He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"

"Shut up."

He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."

You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."

"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."

"You are a terrible husband."

"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."

You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.

"You're selfish."

"And?"

"A cheater."

"Keep going."

"Infuriating."

"More."

"Unkind."

"Very."

He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.

He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.

"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.

He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.

"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."

He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."

You stared at him.

He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."

"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."

"You've never once asked me what I want."

He tilted his head. "What do you want?"

You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.

"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."

You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."

"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.

You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"

You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."

"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"

"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.

He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.

You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.

"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.

"Getting warmer," you murmured.

He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.

When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.

He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.

"How's your leg?"

"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.

"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.

He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.

"You're very far away," you said.

He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"

"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."

His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."

"How considerate."

"I have my moments."

You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.

You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.

"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Take what I want."

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"

You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."

He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."

You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.

"What's all this for?" he murmured.

"Because I want to."

"Not because I rescued you?"

"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."

His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"

You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."

He kissed your fingertips.

"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."

"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."

"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."

He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."

You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.

Your cheeks flushed.

His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."

"I recall you being rather drunk."

"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"It's the truth."

You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.

"You're still too far away," you said.

"I'm right here."

"Then kiss me."

His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.

When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.

"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.

"Years of practice," he smirked.

You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.

"I don't want to hear about your practice."

"Then don't ask."

You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."

His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.

His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.

"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.

He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.

You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.

Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.

"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."

Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.

"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.

"Then take what you want, wife."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.

When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.

You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.

"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.

His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."

Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.

He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.

"Look at me."

His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.

"You're beautiful."

The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.

He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.

He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.

"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.

"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.

It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.

"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.

"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.

"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."

His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."

"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."

"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."

Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.

He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.

[kitkatkitzune]

Hii Kit!! I love your work!!

I have this idea that I think you would do justice! Aerion definitely knows all about Targaryen history, but does he know about dragon lore outside of his family? The play Tanselle's troupe puts on is a story about dragons being in Westeros long before the conqueror! I'm thinking reader could tell Aerion about the history, maybe make it a bit suggestive if you are comfortable with that!! (I just think aerion would be horny for some dragon lore)

No pressure tho and thanks!!

MIRROR SHIELD

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!reader

Summary: A servant girl tells Prince Aerion the Legend of the Mirror Shield.

Warnings: Power imbalance, Suggestive!, Aerion being mean (Aerion being Aerion), Use of the word “Whore”, Potential inconsistencies in tense (shocking)

Notes: This is my first time writing for Aerion! I hope I captured him well and this is also the most suggestive thing I’ve written so far!!

Thank you so much for the request anon!! I had a lot of fun with it, I hope you enjoy :)

Just to note, I don’t condone any of Aerion’s actions… Finn Bennett is just very pretty

Word Count: 2.6k

———————

Everyone had heard what had happened. Prince Aerion had lost it during a puppet show and attacked a performer. He snapped nearly all of her fingers and would have done worse had the hedge knight not showed up to stop him. Word of it spread like wildfire, even you, a serving girl of house Ashford, still inside the castle heard of it before the prince even returned to his guest chambers.

You were told by Mina, another serving girl who just turned ten and one. She had made sure you leaned in close so she could whisper in your ear, afraid that the prince would materialize and break her fingers too. The woman attacked, who you learned was called Tanselle, was performing a classic Westerosi play. Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.

You wish you could say you were shocked but you weren’t. While every common folk child had been told the story of the Mirror Shield growing up, it made sense that the Targaryens wouldn’t have been aware of it. The legend of Ser Serwyn actually predated the Targaryen’s arrival in Westeros but Targaryen’s have a culture of their own, and they have always trampled on everyone else’s.

That was a few hours ago. You had since busied yourself with cleaning the kitchen which had been a disaster due to all of the guests and the tourney. You were humming quietly with Mina nearby when one of the head maids entered with her hands clasped in front of her. She was an older lady with a permanent frown engraved on her face.

“Prince Aerion requests that wine be brought to him at once.”

Everyone seemed to freeze at her announcement before looking at Mina. As the youngest, a lot of the servants older than her would pass their work onto her and she could not protest. Mina looked panicked at sudden attention, her face growing pale. You could tell how scared she was, and she had every right to be after what had happened at the puppet show. Not to mention all of the other rumors of his cruel behavior.

Taking a deep breath you step forward, “I will bring him his wine.”

The head maid raises a brow, “You will?”

You nod, already moving to fetch wine and ignore the stares from the other girls. You didn’t want to delay any further.

There are two knights of the Kingsguard standing outside of Prince Aerion’s guest chambers. One of which gives you a sympathetic look before opening the door for you, closing it behind you just as quickly.

The prince was sitting on a large ornate chair by the fire, staring into it as if he wanted it to consume him. You can see where his skin is red from the beating he took, some of the marks already beginning to turn into purple bruises, just a few shades darker than his violet eyes. The only acknowledgment of your presence he gives is a gesture to the glass next to him.

Just pour the wine and leave, you kept telling yourself.

The pitcher felt heavy in your hands, which was funny because you had been pouring wine for many years now and you’ve never had such a problem.

“You took your time,” he mutters bitterly.

Your eyes widen, “M’lor—my prince—"

“M’lord?” he hums, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair before finally looking at you.

“I meant no harm your grace, truly, I only—“

“You’re shaking like an unsteady flame. Put the pitcher down before you spill my wine.”

You nod quickly and set the pitcher down on the side table before turning on your heel to leave.

He waits until you’ve nearly made it to the door to call out: “Stop.”

Taking a deep breath, you plaster a smile on your face and turn around but still keep your gaze fixed directly past him, not daring to truly look at him, “Yes, my prince?”

“I do not recall dismissing you.”

“Apologies, your grace, I just assumed—“

“Assumed?”

You don’t respond and he clicks his tongue a few times while shamelessly raking his eyes over your figure. “Sit,” he commands, nodding to the chaise.

So you sit and stare at the fire.

Aerion pours his own wine and takes a sip while watching you. He sets the goblet down a little too hard, the sound makes you flinch and yet you refuse to look away from the flames.

He stands from his chair and stalks toward you, like a predator hunting its prey. He stops in front of you and reaches out, using the side of his pointer finger to lift your chin, forcing you to look at him, really look at him. He brushes his thumb over your lip as you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“You’re quite pleasing to look at, for a servant…”

“Your grace?” you ask as your face grows hot.

“You’ve been cooped up in this castle rather than serving on the tourney grounds. A real shame…you’re much nicer on the eyes than the other girls and hags. Why aren’t you present? I always believed every serving girl dreams of a lesser knight finding her palatable enough to take back to his tiny castle or shack as his wife.”

“…I am content serving the Ashfords, my prince,” you mumble quietly, his hand still on your jaw making your skin hot.

He hums, “Are you? It really doesn’t intrigue you at all? The show? The violence?”

“I hear plenty of violence, and violence at shows. That's enough for me,” you say before you can stop yourself, your eyes widening at your own nerve.

He grins, “You hear of violence? Tell me then, what do you hear?”

“Forgive me, your grace…I should not have spoken of it…it is improper of a lady…”

“But you are no lady,” he deadpans, “you’re a serving girl. Just two steps up from a common whore.”

Aerion pauses as if in deep thought, “Or is it one step? Would you say you’re better than a bar wench?”

“Your grace?”

“No, no, bar wenches open their legs just like whores for enough coin. But some servant girls do as well, do you?”

“What? No!”

“You mean to say you take no coin then? That makes you worse than a whore.”

“No, my prince, please, I simply mean to say—“

“You’re a virgin?”

Aerion had already known that. It was clear in the way you entered the room, and it became impossible to ignore after your face flushed at his first compliment. He grabs his goblet of wine and takes a drink before offering it towards you, he looks at you expectantly and not wanting to upset him you reach for the glass but he clicks his tongue and raises the drink to your lips.

“Attagirl,” he praises when you take a sip, “Now, share what you’ve heard,” he coos before setting the goblet to the side. You had never had wine like this before, this was strong and sweet, not at all like the watered down mead you were given.

“Men get hurt all the time at tourneys…but some injuries are more violent than others.”

“Go on,” he encourages and you know he knows what you’re thinking of.

“I was told of a man whose horse was inpaled…the horse, it fell on top of him and crushed his legs…They had to kill the horse to get the man out from under it.”

“And who was this man?”

“I…am not sure of what his name is, your grace.”

“Exactly. Because he isn’t anyone important. Just a no name knight from nowhere who got too cocky. He had to be reminded of the dragon's power.”

You don’t respond, letting your gaze fall to the floor and he lets out a sound of disapproval before sitting next to you. He lounges on the chaise, leaned back with one arm over the top, it’s a complete contrast to how you sit so rigid.

“And the puppet show?” he asks, tilting his head, “will you tell me about it?”

You fidget with your hands, “You were there my prince, you…”

“That I was. But I want to hear what all the little servants are running around saying.”

You take a deep breath, “I was told about a performer who…whose fingers were broken during her show…”

“By?” he asks.

“You,” it’s said as a whisper.

His eyes flicker, “Why’d I break the whore’s fingers?”

“You did not like the story…” you state but it’s really more of a question.

He scoffs, “Of course not. A story meant to incite rebellion. To show a dragon being slaughtered…” he trails off, this conversation was clearly reigniting his anger.

“That was not the purpose of the story,” you say all too quickly and immediately curse yourself for your big mouth.

“What?” he asks, his tone dangerous.

When you finally looked at him, it was clear that he was becoming annoyed at you. So you did the best you could to backtrack, “Forgive me, my prince. It is a famous story…for peasants and servants and wenches. A royal such as yourself would have no need to concern themselves with a peasant tale.”

“And yet I now find myself curious, tell me this story.”

Your gaze falls back to the fire. He scoffs when you open your mouth to speak, quickly interrupting whatever protest you were going to make, “But first, more wine…you aren’t shaking as terribly now. I trust you won’t spill it.”

You nod and stand, “Of course your grace,” quickly you make your way to the side table to refill the goblet.

Just as you attempt to hand him the now full goblet he reaches forward and tugs you into his lap making you gasp as some of the wine spills over the edge. Wine spills on the chaise but that is not what makes you panic—the chaise is red, the stains will hardly show if they show at all—no, what makes you panic is the few drops that landed on the prince's tunic. You freeze as it begins to trickle down your wrist and arm but Aerion only grins.

He glances at his tunic and chuckles before looking at you while tilting his head. Without breaking eye contact and a softness that you hadn’t expected, he wraps his fingers around yours, trapping your hand between the warmth of his skin and the cold of the cup. Then slowly, he brings your wrist to his mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick the sweet wine from your skin.

Aerion hums, licking his lips before taking in your flushed expression, “Your Lord Ashford has spent more than he’s worth on this tourney…let’s not waste his wine now,” he then presses a surprisingly soft kiss to your wrist.

“Your grace…I…” you didn’t think it was possible for your face to become hotter than it already was, “I am so deeply sorry.”

“What for? My tunic? It’s red. Like the chaise. It won’t show. If it does I’ll have another tunic made. I have the coin for it, you’re not trying to imply I don’t… are you?”

“No! Of course not your grace! I only meant…”

He hums in response and begins to rub circles on your hip with his free hand, it is then you’re reminded of your current position.

With his hand still around yours, he pulls the goblet to his lips before resting the cup in between the two of you. It was a flimsy barrier that would be easily removed but it was the only one you had.

“Will you start your peasant story now? I do so enjoy your squirming but I’m beginning to get impatient.”

“Right, of course, your grace. The story is of… Ser Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.”

“Stupid name. Continue.”

“I don’t believe you saw this part during the puppet show but in the songs Ser Serwyn saved a woman named Daeryssa from giants.”

“That’s a Valyrian name. I’ve never heard of this Daeryssa…”

You hum, nodding, “I don’t think she’s real, your grace… made up for the story… and Valyrian names are just so beautiful.”

He grins, letting his head fall back against the cushion to really look at you, “They are aren’t they?”

“Yes, your grace, very beautiful.”

“And what do you think of my name?”

“It is…a brave name, Prince Aerion. A brave, handsome name…”

His grip on your hip tightens, his fingers were no doubt leaving little indentations that would bruise. Although, his grip wasn’t angry or aggressive, it was possessive. Possessive like the way other servants would hold onto their crumbs of bread in the presence of others or how high born girls clutched their jewels while walking in towns and shops.

Aerion quickly downs the rest of the wine and tosses the goblet to the ground caring very little about the noise. He relished in the way you tensed up in his lap at the sound and how you jolt when his now free hand rests on your other hip.

As for your free hand, it falls to your lap with your other one where you begin to play with them. He clicks his tongue and grabs your hands, “Here,” he commands putting them on his shoulders, “don’t drop them.”

You nod and he grins, taking hold of your hips once more. Clearing your throat, you resume speaking, “The story you saw is how he got the title of Mirror Shield. It was said that Ser Serwyn defeated a dragon by outsmarting it…he polished his shield til it was as shiny as a mirror and snuck up to the dragon while hiding behind the shield. The dragon only saw its reflection and did not react and once he was close enough, Ser Serwyn slayed it.”

Aerion is silent for a long time and for a moment, you believe you may have offended him. And that maybe he will lash out and punish you as he did the girl with the puppets.

“That is a foolish story.”

“I agree my prince,” you say almost too quickly, “a dragon would never be so foolish.”

He hums, a smirk playing on his lips at his words while he rubs circles on your hips, “Is that what you think?”

“I think…the dragon ought never lose.”

You feel his cock then, growing hard and pressing against you. His grip tightens and you tense, shifting ever so slightly making him groan and close his eyes.

“My prince…”

He shushes you, “Perhaps I will take you back to Summerhall with me as my maid, I’m sure that Lord Ashford can go on with one less servant…”

You knew that was a bad idea. Nobles always had short attention spans, he would eventually grow bored of you and then you would be discarded. And yet, you still felt a fluttering in your stomach at the thought of going with him.

“Perhaps…” feeling his cock against you gave you confidence, making you bolder in your teasing, “but I am not yours yet, my prince. I need to go tend to other lords…”

“Hmm…” his eyes are half lidded as he stares at you, “I do hope you don’t sit on the laps of these other lesser lords…”

“Are you… possessive, my prince?”

“Dragons always are.”

Reluctantly, he allows you to slip from his lap. But you were not entirely naive, you knew this would not be the last time you would see and interact with the prince. He had you in his sights.

In fact, the very next day the head maid approached you to tell you that Prince Aerion had requested you by name. To tell him more peasant tales of course, no other reason.

[wholoveseggs]

I'll sit on his lap any time 😋

[wholoveseggs]

You could write one for Robb where him and reader are meant to be married and the night before the wedding he goes to her to sleep with her. They’re both virgins, and he knows there will be a bedding ceremony the next day but he doesn’t want their first time to be that way in front of so many others, for them to both be humiliated- he doesn’t want that intimate moment ruined for them. He wants to be able to please his wife their first time together, but he knows at the bedding ceremony he will do what needs to be done as quickly as possible so the embarrassment can end for them both. So, Robb goes off what he has heard the other lords say around Winterfell and what he has heard from Theon. Just, sweet, intimate first time sex with each other filled with giggles.

First Night

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Robb Stark x f!Reader} One night before vows, one night just for you.

3.6k words - Warnings: smut, virgin!reader, secret rendezvous, shyness and awkwardness, theon's terrible romantic advice, aftercare, wedding eve fluff && grey wind being a snitch ♡

Robb moved through the stone halls like a thief, cloak tucked tight, footsteps soft on the worn floors. The castle had mostly gone to sleep. Those who hadn’t, were still drinking themselves into a stupor in the Great Hall. Good. Fewer eyes.

Behind him, Grey Wind padded in perfect silence, his large loyal shadow. Nose twitching.

"No," Robb whispered, crouching and reaching out to touch the direwolf’s thick fur. "Not this time."

Grey Wind huffed, unconvinced.

"You’ll get us caught. I need you to stay. Please."

Another soft growl. Not angry, just questioning.

Robb exhaled, pressing his forehead to the direwolf’s. "I’m not going too far. Just to her."

Grey Wind stilled, watching with those strange, knowing eyes.

"I’ll be back before dawn," Robb promised. "Stay."

With one final reluctant glance, Grey Wind slunk back into shadow.

Robb stood. His heart beat like a war drum.

You were just beyond the next corner. He could see the glow of firelight beneath your door, leaking out into the corridor like warmth begging to be touched.

What he was about to do was foolish. Improper. Dishonorable. But he couldn't bear the thought of sharing your first night in a room full of drunken fools. That moment, that memory, was meant for the two of you.

He didn't wish to knock, knowing how the sound would echo down the hallway. A soft push was all it took to open the door.

He slipped inside and closed the heavy door behind him. The latch clicked softly.

A fire burned low in the hearth, and his eyes took a moment to adjust. When they did, he saw you, sleeping softly in bed. Your hair was a spill of silk over the pillows, your eyes gently closed. Furs and blankets tucked around your shoulders.

His chest ached with a strange, warm feeling. The two of you had grown up together. Robb had loved you since before he knew what love was, and tomorrow you would be his wife.

It was a day meant for joy, but all Robb could feel was dread. The thought of the bedding ceremony had kept him up late into the night.

Theon had told him it wasn't so bad. All he had to do was lift your skirts, sheath himself inside and get it over with.

Even with your assurances that you would endure it bravely, Robb would not let your first time be something merely to endure. He wanted you to enjoy it.

There was another reason, a secret, selfish one. More than wanting to bring you the kind of pleasure Theon boasted about in his crude tales. Countless nights he had imagined your heat, your sounds, the soft glory of your body around him. Tomorrow, every god would know you were his. Tonight, he only wanted you to feel it.

He stepped further into the room. Your breath was slow, even. He wondered how long it would take for you to wake, should he join you under the blankets.

But no, you would stir and panic at the unfamiliar shape, the sudden weight on the bed. That was the last thing he wanted. 

Instead, he shed his cloak and went to the fireplace, stoking the flames and adding a few more logs. He pulled off his fur-lined gloves, letting his hands bask in the heat.

"Robb?"

He turned, seeing you awake, your eyes bleary, voice still heavy with sleep.

"Did I wake you?" he asked, sitting carefully on the edge of your bed.

“Just a little,” You blinked up at him, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, I just... couldn't sleep."

"Are you worried about tomorrow?"

"Yes," he admitted, taking your hand beneath the furs. Your fingers were warmer than his, and he curled into the comfort. "Very."

You smiled. "Have you come to end the betrothal, my lord?"

"You can't be rid of me so easily."

"A shame." You sat up, the blankets falling away to reveal a shift. It was thin, white cotton. In the firelight it nearly glowed, faintly see-through, and Robb’s eyes darted away like he had been burned. His cheeks growing hot.

"What are you doing here, Robb?"

"I've come to steal a kiss," he said. "Is that allowed?"

You laughed. "I suppose so."

He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. It was sweet, tentative. You pulled him closer, shivering slightly. "You're cold. Come here.”

He hesitated, then climbed beneath the covers. You squeaked when his icy feet brushed your leg.

"Gods, you're freezing."

"Sorry," he whispered, curling closer. "I'm thawing, I swear."

You giggled, pulling the furs tighter around you both. "Thaw faster."

He smiled and kissed you again, deeper this time. His fingers found your hip, your arm, awkward in his gentleness.

"Is this all right?" he murmured.

You nodded. "Yes. Just... don't stop kissing me."

That was easy. Kissing you felt like breathing. He slid a hand along your thigh, faltered, then tried again. Your own hands wandered to his shoulders, clumsy with nerves, bumping his chin, tangling in the blanket.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"Don't be," he said, laughing softly. "I think I'm doing worse."

He kissed your cheek, your neck. When his hand drifted up, brushing your breast through the shift, you gasped.

"Is this all right?" he asked, searching your face.

"Yes."

He lowered his head, kissing you again, deeper, slower. Your fingers found his curls, tugging gently.

He pulled back, gasping. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come here, we-"

"You've only just kissed me." You smiled. "We've been doing that since we were children."

"Not in your bed, with so little clothing," he said, color rushing to his cheeks. "Your father would have my head if he knew I was here."

"Yet you still came."

"I couldn't stop myself," he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

"And I am glad you didn't." You kissed him, smiling against his mouth. "Kiss me again, my lord."

"I would have you call me by name," he said, kissing the side of your mouth, down to your jaw. "When it's just us."

You giggled. "As my lord commands."

He huffed a laugh, eyes warm, lips meeting yours again. The shyness you had both clung to since childhood slipped like snow off a branch. Robb made a startled sound, half-laugh, half-moan, when you nipped at his lower lip.

You kept kissing, addicted to each others’ lips, until heat pooled everywhere your bodies touched. Robb shifted, and suddenly his quilted doublet clung too tight, suffocating in the space between you.

You broke away, palm pressed to the broad plane of his chest. "You’re going to melt in all this wool," you murmured. "Let me."

He sat up, knees still on the mattress, allowing you to help him shed the layers of his outfit. You were methodical, fingers brushing over clasps and ties, and Robb sat obediently still, feeling like a child being undressed for bed. It should have been silly. But your touch was reverent, your eyes intent. It was thrilling.

Underneath, he wore a simple linen shirt, thin and well-worn. It clung to him slightly, catching at his shoulders.

You reached for the collar, then stopped. Your eyes met his, a soft blush blooming across your cheeks. Robb smiled, and leaned in, catching your lips in a quick, chaste kiss. He felt your smile against his.

He broke the kiss, but not the connection, forehead to forehead, his breath mingling with yours.

You tugged the hem of his shirt. Robb raised his arms, letting you peel it over his head. He shivered slightly as the cool air touched his bare skin, gooseflesh rising on his arms.

Your gaze was heavy, traveling the length of his torso, taking in the hard lines and soft shadows. The light cast from the hearth turned his pale skin golden. A glow that spread from his collarbone to his navel, down the length of his strong, sturdy arms.

You had seen Robb without a shirt before. In the river, swimming in summer. On the training yard, sparring with Jon and Theon. You had always found him a pretty lad. But now he was truly a man grown, with muscle and strength. And yet, his expression was shy. Underneath he was still the boy you had always loved.

You cupped his cheek, smiling. He leaned into the touch, sighing contentedly. Then he was kissing you again, pushing you gently back against the bed.

You gasped, giggling. Your shift rode up with the motion, soft fabric sliding along your thighs. And suddenly his hand was there. Bare. Warm. Rough. A bold touch that made your stomach flip.

You tensed. Robb broke away at once, eyes wide, hand lifting like he had been caught stealing.

"Sorry," he stammered.

"It's all right." You whispered, taking his hand and placing it back on your thigh. "Touch me,”

His fingers were gentle, uncertain but eager, tracing the line of your thigh, the curve of your hip. You sighed, sinking back into the furs, eyes falling shut.

He didn't quite know where to put his other hand, or if he should say something about your beauty. He was too nervous and aroused to form proper thoughts. The sight of your breasts, pressing against the thin shift, was more than his brain could process. They rose with every breath you took, just beneath the sheer fabric, like something sacred he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look at.

In the haze, he remembered something Theon had told him once. A line he claimed would make any woman insatiable. Robb doubted the veracity of the statement, but he had no better ideas.

He took a deep breath and pressed a kiss to the side of your neck.

"Your breasts are so lovely," he said, the word strange and clunky on his tongue. "I hope they are the last thing I see before I die."

Your eyes flew open. Your mouth parted, a soft laugh bubbling forth.

"What?" you said, trying to catch your breath.

Robb’s face went beet-red and he quickly buried it in the crook of your neck. "That was terrible."

You couldn’t help but laugh. He joined you, chuckling into the soft skin of your neck, the sound sending sparks through your chest.

"Who told you to say that?" you managed, running your fingers through his thick hair.

"Theon," he mumbled.

"Why are you taking romantic advice from Theon Greyjoy?" you teased, still giggling.

He wanted to sink through the floor, or at least find a convenient snow pile to hide in. 

"Because," he said, pulling back so you could see the honesty in his eyes, "I don't know what I'm doing."

You sobered, watching him for a moment. "Me neither."

"I want it to be good for you," he said, cheeks still pink.

"Then it will be." You smiled, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from his forehead. "As long as it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it."

He smiled, then leaned in to press his lips to yours, letting his body relax into the comfort of your soft, warm frame. He stopped thinking so much. It was easier if he just listened. Your sighs and quiet moans were a good guide. The way you arched your back, hips lifting off the bed when his hand brushed over a particularly sensitive spot.

He moved, shifting his weight, until he was settled between your legs, his hips pressing between your thighs. The hardness in his breeches was unmistakable. You blushed, remembering what your sisters had told you. How big a man’s cock could get, how it would grow and lengthen and swell when it was ready to take a woman.

You bit your lip, feeling the press of it against the apex of your thighs, your breath catching in your throat.

Robb’s lips trailed down the length of your neck, over your collarbone, pausing at the neckline of your shift. He glanced up, searching your eyes.

Your nod was subtle, almost imperceptible.

He reached down, taking the hem of the thin fabric in his fingers. Slowly, carefully, he peeled the shift up and over your head, revealing the rest of you.

For a moment, he just stared. Taking in every detail, every curve and plane. You felt a sudden rush of insecurity, wanting to cover yourself with the blankets. But he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, and sighed.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, cupping your cheek.

"And you are far too handsome for your own good," you said, kissing him again.

His hand drifted down your shoulder, ghosting across the swell of your breast. When his thumb brushed across a hardening nipple, you gasped, hips jerking up in surprise.

Robb grinned. The expression was boyish and proud. "Did that feel good?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, cheeks hot.

His hand found the other breast, rolling and pinching gently. His lips followed, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest, across the tops of your breasts, over each nipple. Your fingers carded through his hair, overwhelmed. There were so many new sensations, so much warmth and pleasure you had never imagined possible.

Your heart pounded. Your skin flushed, a fine sheen of sweat coating your body. Robb was the same. His chest glistening, breath unsteady. You ran a hand down the slope of his shoulder, marveling at the muscle there, and the way he trembled under your touch.

His hand moved higher on your thigh, and you spread your legs, allowing him access. His breath caught when his fingers grazed the heat between your thighs.

You had touched yourself before, in secret. A curious finger slipping into the wet, aching heat…but never further. You had always worried someone would catch you.

But now, with Robb, all of those fears faded away. He was warm and gentle, coaxing little gasps and moans from you.

He felt your arousal, the slick gathering between your legs. He wanted to taste it. Had imagined it more times than he cared to admit…but wasn't sure if that was too bold, too vulgar. He didn’t want to shock or scare you.

Your eyes fluttered shut when he slid a finger inside, the movement slow, deliberate. You were hot, tight, and so wet. It took all his self-control not to rut against the mattress like a green boy.

He was gentle, cautious. But soon your body was rocking against his hand, silently begging for more. He added a second finger, stretching the sensitive walls, and was rewarded with a soft gasp.

"Robb," you moaned, nails digging into his forearms.

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "You must be quiet. We can't be heard."

You let out a soft giggle, his beard tickling the skin of your neck. "Easier said than done when you are touching me there.”

"Then I suppose I’ll have to kiss you to keep the noise down." He grinned, kissing you, smothering your laugh with his mouth.

Your hands moved down, fumbling with the laces of his breeches. His breath hitched, hips twitching, the hardness beneath pressing into the curve of your hip.

"Can I see you?" you whispered, pulling back just enough to see the blue of his eyes.

He nodded, too nervous to speak. He was suddenly hyper-aware of his own nakedness, and the way your eyes roamed his body.

You gently freed him, fingers trembling slightly. A small smile formed on your lips. "Oh," you said softly. "It's so... different."

"Different than what?" he asked, a blush forming.

"What I imagined," you admitted, cheeks pink.

He smiled. "Have you been imagining it, then?"

"Hush," you laughed, your cheeks warming.

"No, no." He chuckled, leaning down to kiss the soft skin of your cheek. "Tell me."

"Robb," you whined, looking away from him.

He grinned. "Do I meet your standards, my lady?"

"Perhaps," you said, biting your lip.

"I should hope so. I am to be your husband."

"My soon-to-be lord husband," you said, looking at him through your lashes. "Will you give me what is mine?"

He swallowed, arousal spiking through him. "Yes," he managed, kissing you.

You sighed against his lips, your bodies sliding together. You were both so warm, skin feverish, blood running hot. 

He pulled away, reaching down to free his cock, aching with the need to be inside you. Your eyes were dark, half-lidded. You were panting, chest rising and falling, thighs spread invitingly.

You took him in your hand, stroking him a few times, testing the weight. He bit back a groan, his hips bucking into your touch.

He had never been touched like that. Only by his own hand, when the need was too great. And even then, he felt guilty.

But now, with you, it was different. You were meant to be his wife, and he, your husband. This was how things were meant to be, two halves coming together, sharing and exploring.

His fingers brushed over yours, guiding himself to your entrance. He paused, catching your gaze, and pressed inside.

He had never felt anything like this. The soft, wet heat gripping him. His arms shook, and he had to stop for a moment, lest he lose himself too soon.

You were breathing hard, hands moving to grip his arms. He leaned down, capturing your lips, the kiss messy, distracted. He kept easing forward slowly, breath catching as he met resistance. Your face pinched.

"Wait," he whispered, panic rising. "Did I hurt you?"

"It’s all right," you said through clenched teeth. "I think that was it."

He kissed your cheek. "We can stop."

"No. Just go slow."

He did. Inch by inch, the pain faded, replaced by pressure and heat. You clung to him, sighing, adjusting to the fullness.

His hand found yours beneath the furs.

He began to move, careful and reverent. It wasn’t graceful. You bumped noses. He nearly slipped off the edge of the mattress. Your moans and sighs filled his ears, he bit back his own groans, not wanting to miss a single one of yours. Your nails dug into his skin, leaving marks, but he didn't mind. In fact he hoped they would leave a scar, a reminder of this perfect night.

"Robb," you breathed, voice ragged. "Something ... something's happening..."

"Yes," he panted, sweat-slick forehead pressed to yours. "Yes, go on, it's all right."

You shuddered, arching your back, head thrown back, toes curling. It felt like lightning had struck, the pleasure coursing through every nerve.

Robb watched in awe, committing every second to memory. He had heard this sort of thing could happen with a woman. But seeing it happen, feeling it happen, was an entirely different thing.

He felt his own release building, a tension like a rope, fraying at the edges. It didn't take long, the sight of you, the feel of your body, the sweet sounds you made.

You clung to him, kissing him, riding out the waves of pleasure. He groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, hips twitching and stuttering as he spilled inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Robb shifted, gently cupping the underside of your thigh as he slid fully against you, still inside, still trembling. One of his hands found its way to your belly, broad and warm, splayed low across the soft curve.

"Maybe," he murmured, voice hushed and rough against your ear, "maybe we made a child tonight."

Your breath hitched. He smiled, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

"I’d like that," he added, hand still resting there, possessive and reverent. "Something that’s ours. Made from this."

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a slow, lingering kiss. You didn’t answer with words, but your smile said enough.

You both lay there, trying to catch your breath. Your skin was tacky with sweat, limbs tangled. His hair tickled the side of your face, the curls damp.

"I love you," he said, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck.

"I love you too." You smiled, kissing his temple.

He rolled off of you, pulling you with him. You curled up against his chest, smiling as his fingers traced the line of your spine.

"We’ll have to face the bedding tomorrow," he murmured, thumb stroking your spine, "but this was ours."

"Ours," you echoed, drowsy smile against his collarbone. "I like the sound of that."

"Me too." He smiled, watching you, a wave of fondness and affection washing over him.

He could have laid there forever, but a soft whine came from the other side of the door, followed by a scratching sound.

"Grey wind," Robb whispered harshly, frowning. "Go away!"

Another whine. The scratching grew louder, and the direwolf let out a long, mournful howl. Robb scrambled out of bed, quickly pulling his clothes back on, while you grabbed your shift.

Robb went to the door, cracking it open just enough to peek out. The hallway was empty, but the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. The guards were coming to investigate the noise.

"Fuck," he hissed, grabbing the rest of his things, you were giggling as he fumbled around in the low light.

"Robb, they aren't going to care-"

"I will not have the guards speaking of you in such a manner," he said, finally managing to find his gloves.

You climbed out of bed, wrapping a robe around yourself. He paused, a grin forming, and kissed you.

"Sleep well," he murmured, stealing another kiss.

"Don't be late tomorrow," you said, smiling against his lips.

"Never."

He snuck back out, closing the door behind him with Grey Wind at his heels. You fell back into bed, still smiling, still giggling. Dreaming of all the tomorrows you would have together.

[wholoveseggs]

Hello my love!! New anon here who saw you say you're taking requests at the moment for a Knight of the seven kingdoms! I would absolutely love your take on Dunk and reader and a very rainy night with a very small bed. And maybe Dunk offers to take the floor because he's ever the gentleman and you insist it'll all be fine but he's just so warm and you're so close and his hands are in your skirts - why are his hands in your skirts? Because you're straddling him, obviously 😍

Would love to see a one bed trope with Dunk is what I'm putting down 👀👀 no pressure!!

Closer

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

{Ser Duncan the Tall x f!Reader} Relentless rain, a single bed, and nowhere to hide from each other. Sometimes the storm outside is just the excuse you need to let the one inside finally break.

♡♡ I love this trope anon! ♡♡

4.6k words - Warnings: smuttt, one bed, rain, size kink (naturally), riding, dunk being the sweetest, thunder-induced panic attack and a packed inn full of people who definitely heard everything...

You were soaked from head to toe as the rain came pouring down. You shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself, your teeth clattering loudly. It had been a terrible idea to set off from the last stop during such dreadful weather, but what were you supposed to do when there was work to find?

Beside you, your traveling companion Duncan seemed equally miserable, even though he was more than twice your size and should have been able to handle the cold much better. The heavy cloak he wore seemed to weigh him down, his shoulders were slumped and his steps heavy.

"Let's get to the inn before we catch our death," you mumbled, hoping that it wasn't too far away.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "It's my fault we're stuck out here."

"You can't control the weather," you pointed out, even though you did have to agree that his insistence to continue on in the morning had been a bit rash.

"Still... if we had stayed back." He didn't finish the sentence, a loud crack of thunder making you both jump.

Your hand reached out instinctively and your fingers intertwined with his. He didn't pull away, his fingers tightening around yours. He knew how frightened you were of storms, the sound of thunder reminding you of the day the rebels had landed near your village, and you had been forced to flee your burning home.

"It's okay, I'm here," he whispered, even though the both of you knew that he was no match for a lightning bolt.

"I know." You gave his hand a little squeeze, trying to focus on the way the rain pelted down against your skin instead of the memories threatening to overwhelm you.

It didn't take long before you spotted the lanterns hanging by the doors of the inn. The innkeeper didn't seem pleased to see you, her eyes narrowing and her nose wrinkling when she caught sight of the muddy puddle you were leaving on her freshly mopped floor.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone as sharp as her eyes, looking Duncan up and down.

"We wish to rent two rooms for the night, our coin is good," he said, reaching into his pouch.

"I'm afraid we have none available, my good Ser," she replied.

"None?" Your voice was filled with disbelief. "There's no rooms left?"

"There's a large group of merchants who arrived a couple of hours ago, and the weather delayed them. So all my single rooms are taken."

"I see." Duncan glanced at you, before looking back at the woman. "Do you have any rooms at all? Just a corner somewhere, we'll take it."

She gave a deep sigh, but nodded, taking the money he offered her. "I've got a storage room in the back, with a single bed. It's not much, headboard is cracked and the sheets are not the cleanest... but you won't have to sleep in the stables."

"That will do just fine," Duncan thanked her, handing her a bit extra.

"Do you have extra blankets?" you asked, hoping that there were still some clean ones left.

"Oh, I didn't think you would need such a thing." She grinned, glancing between the two of you. "Not with this great brute of a man sharing your bed."

Your face went hot, and you quickly averted your gaze, not sure what to say. Duncan looked equally flustered, the tips of his ears turning crimson.

"No no no," he quickly stuttered. "We are just... travelling companions. Nothing more. I was going to sleep by the door... keep her safe..."

"Well, suit yourselves. You're the one paying." She shrugged, before pointing you down the hallway. "Last door on the left."

"Thank you," you whispered, before following her directions.

The room was small, filled with random supplies and a tiny fireplace. The bed was in the corner, and the headboard was indeed cracked down the middle, the mattress barely big enough to fit one person, never mind the two of you. 

"I'll go fetch those blankets," Duncan said, closing the door behind him.

You quickly changed into a dry dress from your pack, hanging up your wet clothes the best you could. By the time you had finished, Duncan was back, his arms full of blankets.

"It's not much, but it's better than nothing," he muttered, dropping them on the bed.

"It'll be alright, thank you," you said, watching as he started a fire in the fireplace.

You were relieved when the wood finally caught and a flame started flickering, spreading a comfortable warmth through the room. You pulled a blanket around your shoulders and stepped close, holding your hands out.

"This was not how I had envisioned our journey," Duncan sighed. You heard the rustle of fabric as he changed out of his wet clothes behind you, the soft grunt he made when he had to tug his soaked tunic over his broad shoulders. "I should have listened to you."

"It's not your fault." You shrugged. "Remember that time I thought the weather would hold, and then we got stuck in a wind storm so bad I feared I would fly away? That was worse than this."

He gave a snort, a low rumble coming from deep inside his chest. It was a sound you were quite fond of.

"Well, I wouldn't have let the wind take you away," he laughed, before sitting down on the edge of the bed to take off his boots. The old frame groaned under his weight. "Do we need any more firewood?"

"No, thank you. This is perfect." You looked back at him, smiling softly. "Are you going to be alright on the floor? There is barely any space."

"I've slept in much worse places," he shrugged, his eyes finding yours.

"Then... we can share the bed," you offered, not sure why it suddenly made you feel shy. "We've shared one before."

"When we were children," Duncan pointed out, fidgeting with his hands. "Back when Ser Arlan was still with us, and he'd tuck us both into the same blanket whether we liked it or not. But here... it wouldn't be right."

"Why?" You tilted your head.

"Because... because." He looked down, his face nearly the color of the fire now. "You know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I am a knight, and you are a lady," he mumbled, glancing up at you through his eyelashes, looking at you like that statement alone explained everything.

"A lady is the last thing I am."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, his ears burning now too. "The bed's too small for me anyways," he insisted, though his voice had gone rougher. He grabbed a blanket and spread it on the floor near the door. "I'll sleep here. Keep watch."

You moved from the fire and stood next to the bed, laying out the blankets over the dirty mattress. "I'm not asking you to compromise my virtue, Ser Knight. I'm asking you not to catch a fever because you're too stubborn to share a mattress."

Duncan's eyes found yours again, before traveling down to your lips, and then to your chest, which rose and fell with every breath you took.

"Fine," he said finally, like he was letting out a long breath. "But I'll sleep on the outside edge."

You smiled, feeling victorious and laid down on your side facing the wall. Duncan moved beside you, except beside wasn't quite accurate, because there wasn't room for him to lie anywhere except curved around you like a great wall of warmth. His chest pressed against your back, his arm laying over your hip, and his hand looked enormous resting there, spanning half your waist. His legs were bent so the backs of your knees rested atop his thighs, which were like tree trunks beneath you.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered into your hair, throwing the remaining blanket over both of you.

"You're ridiculous," you laughed softly, and felt the rumble of his answering chuckle vibrate through his chest and into your spine. The rain was still falling, but somehow it sounded less like an assault now and more like a lullaby. The fire painted dancing shadows on the wall.

His arm tightened around you just a little, like he couldn't help himself.

"You're shaking," he said.

"Cold," you lied.

He pulled the blanket higher, tucked it more firmly around your shoulders. His hand lingered, and you turned your head just enough to see his face in the firelight. The strong line of his jaw, the softness in his blue eyes, the way his lips parted slightly like he was about to say something and thought better of it.

"Duncan."

"Hmm?"

You rolled over to face him, the lack of space making the motion awkward and a bit jerky. Your leg slipped between his thighs, and you put a hand on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your palm, and his skin was searing hot even through the fabric.

"We shouldn't-" he started.

"Probably."

"Someone might-"

"Mm."

He swallowed. Audibly. "Tell me to go back to the floor."

You reached up and touched his face. His skin was warm beneath your palm, a faint roughness of stubble, and he turned into your touch like a flower toward the sun.

"No," you whispered.

"Good," he breathed, and closed the remaining distance.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't the kind you imagined from stories, with a tender first brush of lips. This was a collision, a kiss born of years of unspoken things. His mouth was certain when it met yours, all slow and deep and deliberate, like he'd been thinking about this for a long time and had decided exactly how he wanted it to go. His hand cradled the back of your head, his fingers splaying wide and nearly covering your entire skull. His other arm curled around your waist and lifted you effortlessly, settling you more firmly against him.

You forgot all about the storm.

You pushed his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. He went easily… too easily, you realized, because he let you move him like he weighed nothing, when in truth he could have pinned you with one arm. The bed groaned in protest, and his head nearly hit the cracked headboard as you climbed on top of him. The sight of him beneath you, all that size and strength, looking up at you with wide wanting eyes. It made something in your chest tighten.

You didn't give him time to speak. You grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled, and he got the message immediately. He sat up enough for you to drag the fabric over his head, his arms tangling briefly in the sleeves.

Then his hands started working at your dress, tugging at the laces with a desperation that made you smile. "Patience, ser knight."

"I've been patient," he muttered against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "For years."

The confession made your heart stutter. You helped him push your dress up your hips and over your head. There was nothing beneath, no smallclothes, and the way his eyes went wide when he saw the bare expanse of your skin was enough to make you laugh.

He smiled in return, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and ran his hands along the curve of your hips and up to your waist. The motion brought your bodies flush, skin to skin, and the heat of him was staggering. He kissed the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. And then his mouth closed over a nipple, and you gasped.

"Shh," he murmured, though his grin was wicked. "We'll be heard."

It was easy to lose track of time. The room was quiet but for the soft sounds of the rain hitting the roof and the occasional crackle of the fire. All you could focus on was the way his hands moved over your body, his fingers tangling in your hair, the soft moan that left his lips when you rolled your hips against him and felt just how hard he already was beneath his breeches.

The first brush of his fingers against your cunt made you both moan. The slick heat of you seemed to undo something in him. His breath came out in a shaky rush against your mouth.

Your head fell forward, forehead resting on his. His fingers were so much thicker than yours, and the feel of them sliding through your cunt made your thighs tremble.

"You're so warm," he whispered, his breath ghosting over your lips.

You shifted slightly, your thighs parting more to make room for his hand. You could feel how much bigger his palm was than the space between your legs, the heel of his hand pressing against your mound.

His touch was slow and cautious as he explored you, parting the seam of your sex and circling the hard bud hidden there with the broad flat of his fingertip. When he found the exact spot that made you jolt, he made a low sound of satisfaction and did it again, slower this time. Every nerve ending in your body seemed focused on the touch of his hand. The rest of the world narrowed to this one moment.

"So pretty," he whispered, kissing the tip of your nose, then your cheek, and finally pressing his lips to yours once more. "Look at you…I could touch you like this forever."

You made a sound, half laughter and half moan, and he smiled. "What?" He asked sheepishly.

"Nothing."

He nipped playfully at your lower lip, then soothed the sting with his tongue. "You think I'm joking."

"I know you're not," you said, gasping as he circled that sensitive spot again with more purpose, the friction sending sparks up your spine. "You're always so sweet to me."

His fingers slid lower, finding the entrance to your body, and he slowly eased his finger inside. The stretch of it, just the tip of his one finger made your eyes flutter shut. Your hands tightened on his shoulders, and your hips rocked down against his hand, trying to take him deeper. He was still smiling, but his jaw was tight, his control visibly fraying.

"You deserve to be sweet to," he told you, his voice rougher now. "You're so beautiful. And you have no idea what you do to me, do you? Lyin’ on top of me like this, letting me touch you..."

Your face heated, and you pressed your lips together, not trusting yourself to speak. You could feel every ridge of his knuckle, the callus on his palm where he held his sword. The more he moved, crooking his finger just so, the better it felt. You could hear how wet you were now, a soft slick sound every time he pushed back in.

He kissed you again, and while his mouth was busy with yours, he added a second finger. The stretch was sharper this time. A bright, burning pressure that made you gasp against his lips. But he went slowly, so slowly, letting you adjust, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your lower back.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered against your mouth, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"You won't," you promised. "You could never hurt me."

Duncan’s fingers continued their slow, deliberate rhythm, stretching you open, making space for himself. You felt like you were coming apart, piece by piece, and he was the only thing holding you together. You wanted more, needed more. Your hips began to move of their own accord, matching the pace he set, your body desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of him.

You reached between your bodies and tugged on the laces of his breeches. He was already hard and straining against the fabric, the front damp where his arousal had leaked through. When you finally freed him, he sprang up against his belly. He was far thicker than his fingers, and suddenly the thought of him inside you made your stomach flip with want.

He moaned when you took him in hand, his cock a solid weight in your palm. You could feel his pulse, the heat radiating off his skin. He was smooth, the head slick and glistening. You swirled a finger through the liquid gathered there, then used it to stroke him, slow and deliberate, from base to tip.

"Ohh." He groaned and his eyes fluttered shut, his head falling back against the pillow. The sight was intoxicating: this massive, powerful man completely undone by your touch. You did it again, a little faster this time, and he bucked into your fist.

"Do you like that?" You murmured, rolling your hips against the fingers still buried inside you.

He nodded, the tendons in his throat standing out. "Y-yes. So much."

You smiled, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his throat. His breath hitched, and he made a needy little sound when you did it again, sucking harder this time.  His fingers moved a little faster inside you, matching the pace of your hand on him, the slick sounds of both your bodies filling the small room.  It was a clumsy, desperate dance, but it was yours. It was his. It was the kind of beautiful, imperfect thing you had always wanted with him.

But you were reaching a point where slow wasn't enough anymore. You needed to be closer to him. You wanted to feel all of him, skin on skin, with nothing between you.

"Duncan," you said, your voice a little shaky. "I want you."

He stilled, his fingers still deep inside you, and his eyes opened, the blue of them dark with an emotion so intense it made your breath catch. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you felt like he was seeing into your soul.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "We don't have to..."

"I want to," you insisted. "I've always wanted to."

A slow smile spread across his face. You loved that smile. It was rare, a reward for a joke well-told or a moment of quiet contentment. To see it now, in the dim firelight, with him looking up at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, it made your chest ache.

"Alright," he said, his voice soft. "Alright."

You lifted your hips, and he slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling achingly empty. You shifted forward, your knees on either side of his hips, your hands braced on his chest. He took himself in hand, stroking the length of his cock a few times, then guided it to your entrance. The blunt head of him nudged against you, and you held your breath.

"Easy," he murmured, his hands on your hips, holding you steady.

You sank down, taking him in an inch at a time. The stretch was a slow, burning pressure, more intense than you'd anticipated. It wasn't painful, not quite, but it was overwhelming. You could feel every ridge, every vein, every part of him as he filled you. You kept your eyes on his face, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way a bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

He was breathing hard, and you could feel his muscles trembling under his skin.

"You're okay," he whispered, more to himself than to you, and it was so endearing that you had to smile.

"I'm okay."

You let yourself relax, taking a deep breath, and then you began to move. Your first tentative roll of the hips made him moan, his fingers tightening on your waist. You rocked again, a slow, deep grind that sent shivers through your whole body.  One of his hands moved to your stomach, his palm covering your lower belly, and he pressed lightly, and oh. That was a sensation you'd never felt before, his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to the place where you were joined.

"Oh."

He smirked, his eyes half-closed. "Good?"

You nodded, biting your lower lip. He did it again, his other hand guiding the roll of your hips, showing you just how to move to find the right angle. Soon, you had a rhythm going, and the pleasure was building, white-hot and all-consuming, until there was nothing else.

His hips began to move, meeting you halfway, and the sound of your bodies coming together, of your breathless moans and his deep groans, was the most beautiful music you had ever heard.

His blue eyes were dark with passion, and he looked at you with such adoration that it made your chest ache. You felt a surge of affection for this big, clumsy knight, this man who had been your companion for so long, and who you now knew, without a doubt, you loved.

"I-" he started, but the words got lost as your pace quickened, the need for release becoming overwhelming.

The old bed frame creaked and groaned in protest, the headboard thumping against the wall in a rhythm that was sure to be heard by anyone in the rooms nearby. Neither of you cared. Your rhythm quickened. The pleasure was building low in your belly, a coil tightening with every stroke. You could feel yourself clenching around him, and the way his eyes rolled back told you he could feel it too.

"Don't stop," he pleaded. "Please, don't-"

The thunder cracked.

It was directly overhead. A deafening boom that shook the walls and rattled the windows. The fire flickered. The bed frame groaned. And you, halfway through a downward stroke, screamed.

The memory hit you like a physical blow. Your burning village, the screaming, the way the sky had split open the night you lost everything. Your body went rigid, your hands flying from his chest to cover your ears. Your heart slammed against your ribs, and suddenly you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't see anything but the flames.

"Hey ... hey, look at me."

Duncan's voice cut through the panic. His hands were on your face now, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head down so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. Blue. So blue. Not fire. Not smoke. Just him.

"I've got you," he said, firm and steady. "You're safe. You're here with me. Feel my hands?"

You nodded shakily, your breath still coming in short, sharp gasps.

"I need you to breathe for me. Can you do that?" He waited, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "In through your nose. There you go. And out. That's my girl."

Another crack of thunder rolled across the sky, farther this time, but you still flinched. Duncan's jaw tightened. And then, with a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man his size, he wrapped his arms around you and rolled.

The world tilted. The headboard creaked. And suddenly you were on your back. Duncan was above you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. But you could feel the heat of him, the sheer immensity of him, and somehow that was better. Safer.

He was still inside you. The movement had driven him deeper, and you both moaned at the sensation.

"Better?" he asked, his forehead resting against yours.

You nodded, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders. The panic was receding, leaving a raw, shaky feeling in its place. But the pleasure was still there, simmering just beneath the surface.

He started to move again, so slowly, a gentle rocking motion that soothed as much as it aroused. "There's nothing out there but rain," he murmured against your skin.

Another peel of thunder, muffled by the walls and the rain. You tensed, and he was ready for it.

"Look at me," he demanded, and you did. He caught your hips, angling them just so. Each thrust was a deliberate, rolling motion of his hips that pressed him against that spot inside you and stayed there, grinding, before he pulled back and did it again. His hand found yours and laced your fingers together, pinning them beside your head on the pillow.

"I've got you," he murmured against your mouth. "I'm not going anywhere. The storm can't touch you. Nothing can touch you while I'm here."

The pleasure built differently now. No longer the sharp, frantic climb from before, but a slow, spreading warmth that started in your core and radiated outward. Every stroke of him inside you pushed it higher. Every whispered word against your skin made it burn brighter.

"I can feel you trembling. Is it too much?" he breathed, though he didn't stop. He couldn't. The rhythm was too deep, too ingrained now.

You shook your head, a silent, breathless plea for more. More of this, more of him, more of this feeling that was washing away the fear and replacing it with something brighter, something better.

"You're beautiful," he said, and the words were a raw, vulnerable thing. "So beautiful."

He shifted his weight, freeing one of his hands. He slid it between your bodies, his calloused thumb finding that perfect spot. He circled it slowly, matching the pace of his hips, and that was all it took. The world shattered.

Your pleasure broke over you like a wave, hot and blinding. Your body arched, your back bowing off the mattress, a cry tearing from your throat that had nothing to do with fear. You convulsed around him, your cunt clamping down on his cock again and again, and the feel of it sent him over the edge with you.

He let out a choked gasp, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he pulsed inside you. He held you so tightly, his entire body rigid with the force of it, and then he relaxed, his full weight settling on you, a solid, grounding pressure that was exactly what you needed.

You both laid in the quiet aftermath, the only sounds were the rain, the fire, and your ragged breathing. You lay tangled together, sticky and sweaty, your limbs heavy and sated. The thunder rumbled again and you didn't even flinch. You only felt the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a rhythm that was stronger and more real than any storm.

"That was... unexpected," he said after a long moment, his words muffled by your hair.

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers stroking the damp skin of his back. "I think it was a long time coming."

He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at you with an expression of such tenderness it made your chest ache all over again. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"I've loved you for a long time," he confessed, the words coming out in a rush. "Since we were children, playing knights and princesses with sticks for swords. I just... I never thought I'd be worthy of you."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "Oh, Duncan."

"I am a hedge knight with little more to my name than my horse and my sword," he said, his gaze unwavering. "But I swear, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be."

"That's all I've ever wanted," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. "You are the best man I have ever known."

He leaned down and kissed you, a slow, deep kiss that was full of all the things he hadn't been able to say before. It was a promise, a vow, a beginning.

When he finally pulled away, he was smiling. "Do you think anyone heard us?"

You snorted. "The whole inn, probably."

He flushed, a deep red that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. "Right. Well… we will leave as soon as the rain stops then…"

You laughed, pulling him down for another kiss, because you couldn't seem to stop yourself. The storm would pass, the world was quiet, and for the first time in a long, long time, everything was exactly as it should be.

[wholoveseggs]

i've been following you since you started write for tvdu, and i want to say that seeing you expand to asoiaf as well is incredible, and it just prove how well you can adapt to different universes

This is so sweet, thank you!! I've been an asoiaf fan since the original show premiered. I adore everything about the world GRRM created!! The history, the politics, the way he creates such beautifully complex characters.

But writing in it is humbling. With TVDU I felt like I could outdo the writers (not hard with Julie in control). With GRRM? No fucking way, lol. The guy's on another level. I'm just here trying my best and writing the smut he's too much of a coward to give us 😛

[wholoveseggs]

I fully support your new character obsession (idk who Baelor is but I support😭) but pls do Elijah fics too I'm literally starved of them thanks

Awww thanks, first you should absolutely watch a knight of the seven kingdoms!! If Baelor isn't your thing there are about six other hot knights for you to choose from. (Also the show is ridiculously good)

As for Elijah... It will be a while before I drop another fic about him. But I'm not saying never again ~xo

[wholoveseggs]

now that you don't write for Elijah anymore, what happens with the request you hadn't gotten to previously? did you delete them?

I'm not judging if you did, I'm just curious bc I'm the one who sent you a boatload of them.

Hey darling! I never delete my requests!! They are all still there safe and sound. ❤️

[wholoveseggs]

I completely agree with the anon who said that you write Baelor the best; I've read other fics where I'm constantly thinking "he wouldn't do/say that", so props to you for keeping him in character!! (and making him delicious in the process) Also, I've just read your last Valarr fic, and I get the same feeling, like I can actually picture him acting that way. He's such a cutie!

Aww, thank you so much, anon! We get so little time with them in the book/show, so I really enjoy expanding their personalities.

I'm glad Baelor works for you. I've watched pretty much all of Bertie Carvel's thoughtful interviews about him. He describes Baelor as having this quiet authority (Bertie has that too 🤭), and that's what I try to capture. But I also think he would use that authority to maintain it in public, while setting it down when he's alone with the one he loves.

As for Valarr: honestly, I struggled with him at first. But once I started writing him as a young, slightly inexperienced version of his father, he came to life. I’m really happy you can picture him acting that way!

[wholoveseggs]

Lissa you can only choose Daemon or Baelor, choosing both is greed