Ness

🖤Taking over the galaxy with that imperial drip✨

[oldtowrs]

MAEKAR TARGARYEN NSFW ALPHABET the gods know it is a lie, but i will hear the whispers till the day i die

author's note — maekar has consumed my thoughts, so in order to give myself a break from grad school and scientific writing and satiate myself so i can focus in the times that i can't write a full blown fanfic, i wrote this. hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. engage with the content if you like it. thanks! also y'all i am the absolute epitome of gratitude atm. special thanks to @targlocket for her help in brainstorming and truly getting this behemoth to publication so thank you nene (everyone say thank you nene and go visit her blog and go read her writing NEOW)(its oldtowrs law).

also you can pry the em dash from my cold dead hands. the over 17k+ words of pointless maekar smut that i have written is my own. it is not ai slop. fuck ai. fuck data centers.

divider credits: click here !

word count—17.6k+ (ayo i'm a problem)

warnings & tags — maekar targaryen x wife!reader, no dyanna dayne au (whoops! that's the reader instead!), nsfw!!! mdni! 18+ content! (duh its a nsfw alphabet, you're responsible for the content you consume!), afab!reader, reader is descriptionless but it is kind of implied that she's got a good amount of meat on her bones for lack of a better term, can be read as chubby!reader, reader is described to have hair (color/texture not specified) and wears dresses. p in v, breeding and pregnancy kink, creampie, hyperspermia mentioned, exhibitionism if you really look, scent kink, oral (m! and f! receiving mentioned), slight breath play kink, some amount of impact play (not described as intense), breath play kink mentioned, maekar being a little bit of a masochist, masturbation (m! receiving). general kink discussed herein. i am a soft!maekar truther sorry, nsfw below the cut!! you are responsible for the content you consume. don't make me fucking block you if you are not 18+.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ A—aftercare (what are they like afterwards?)

on the comedown, the mask slips. he is hellbent in those moments, desperate to reach his peak surrounded by your velvety warmth and drunk on the heady scent of your bath oils and perfumes and something so distinctly you. but then the armor slips and with it, his restraint. and in the aftermath, maekar is molten beneath your touch. in the aftermath, he is quiet. solemn, but warm. he mutters small words of affection and soft endearments to convey the immense love he carries deep in his heart, the gratitude, the devotion he cannot seem to speak aloud, but that he wants you to know is there. 'my heart', 'my sweet wife', 'my girl' are all common murmurs in between the kisses he will lay to your sweaty brow, the crown of your head, a flushed cheek, a shoulder blade, a collar bone, the hollow of your throat, the palm of the hand that holds the side of his face just so, the valley between your breasts, right above your heart—all of them spoken in that weak grumble between a murmur and that deep, rolling timbre he gives to you alone. he does not know how to express to you the true depth of his being, that home you've made for yourself in his heart, that you are the unravelling of the hardened warrior he never asked to be and the keeper of the man beneath the facade of prince. and so he presses his kisses to your feverishly heated skin, pushes the hair from your eyes and behind an ear, traces the backs of his knuckles over a cheekbone. with an ache of inadequacy in his heart, that vulnerable, bloody wound in his chest, he yields. he pulls you close, encompassing your waist with those thick, scar-ladden arms of his, hands traversing the planes of your back with practiced civility and eventually losing themselves in the roots of your hair. he pulls you to the muscled wall of his chest and blurs that fickle line where he ends and you begin. if you catch him in the right mood, a rare 'i love you' will make it out of him once he thinks you're sound asleep and gone to the world beyond—but you hear him, every time, and draw closer. the world wouldn't think it, but your husband, that harsh, blunt prince practically made from valyrian steel, edges sharpened to something even sharper, becomes no more than a moody dragon wrapping itself greedily around the most treasured thing in his life, as if daring the world to pry you from his grasp. maekar, whose love his a heated living thing lingering in the thunderous beating of his heart, humming just beneath the surface. he becomes a dangerous thing that yearns for you, and nothing but you. there is literally nothing that could pull you from maekar in those moments, in the aftermath, where he is solely yours.

and if you reciprocate, meet him in that vulnerable place he is at and hold fast to the pieces of himself and bind them together when he cannot, then… well, lets just say there's no army in the whole of the seven kingdoms who could stop his pursuit of any cause, as long as the command fell from your raw, kiss-swollen, spit-slick lips. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖B—body part (their favorite body part and their favorite part of their partner's body)

maekar would say , if he was held at knife point, that his favorite part of you was your lower waist. but the truth is that its so much more complicated than that. in my mind maekar loves a healthily plump woman with ample softness to grab at and worship and the lower waist just incapsulates that. but i digress. 

he loves your lower back, the curvature of it and the elegance of your stature. he would love to place his hands there during feasts to claim you as his, to guide you closer to him. he doesn't know what it is, but if given the opportunity to look at you from a far, his gaze will linger there for far longer than is proper. whether it be across a dining hall, or simply across your marital chambers as you look longingly out at the expanse of the blackwater, or as you sit prettily at your vanity and undo your intricate braids before joining him in bed—his gaze lingers there, as if he could undress you with his gaze alone, reveal the expanse of your lower back and imagine the way his thumbs press into the soft dimples he knows are there even through the layers of fabric that conceals you from his wandering eyes. maekar is also hopelessly entraced by your ass, as much as he hates to admit it. it is a whole other part of you that has maekar's grip on reality sliding and which sends his feverish blood rushing to improper places. and where would he be without his love of your hips, the softness there that is always so compliant beneath his hands, the hard bone of your pelvis beneath it a reminder that you are solid, and real and his. it would be his favorite place to put his hands in the heat of the moment, as he gathers you against him those big hands of his will settle there like moth drawn to flame. there's also a part of him that would die happy if he suffocated between the lucscious expanse of your soft thighs. the way your stockings would dig into them would drive him mad and to no end. especially after the birth of daeron and aerion, they grow stronger and even softer, as if your body knew how to protect you and your children as well as instinct. you often needed small bits of ribbon to hold your stockings up around them, and it would drive maekar insane. but most importantly, he loves the delicate curvature of your lower stomach and the layer of that fat that develops once you have his babes too. it is a physical embodiment of your sacrifices for him and the family you build with him, and he would never neglect to worship at the alter of your hips, but especially at your lower stomach. 

your favorite parts of him are his arms, his shoulders and his neck. he hides it beneath layers of blood red velvet and the thick, textured leather of his doublets, beneath silver clasp and leather belt, but he was more knight before he was truly a prince. he spent his childhood and well into his early adulthood weilding mace and sword, not as a weapon but as an extension of the self. and despite the years since his days as a commander of an army that vanquished the rebellion, that physique remains—even if the softness of his days as a prince soften him around the edges ever so deliciously slightly. his broad shoulders are a wall of thick-corded muscle beneath his pale freckled, pox-marked and scar-decorated skin. his arms are more of them same, but you love when they frame any part of you, blocking out the world and pulling you close. there is no place you'd rather be than in the arms of your husband, hands planted firmly on his shoulders or at the base of his neck, pressing a kiss to scarred cheek, or that sacred little spot beneath his jawline where you could feel his pulse jump beneath your lips. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖C—cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

maekar is fully the type to push his seed back into you, whether that be with his fingers or with his cock, gathering it on the head of him and slowly pushing back in, a deep growl echoing from somewhere deep in his chest and spoken ever so softly against your neck or the shell of your ear.

'do not waste what i have so graciously given you, wife'.

'but you had been so greedy for it a mere moment ago, my love.'

'what kind of husband would I be to deny you of your wifely right, hm?.'

the words are said with a lilt that is as close to flirtatious and light and teasing as maekar is capable of getting, despite the low, rough growl in which he says it. it is enough to have that coil of heat tightening in your belly all over again.

but there's still an edge of seriousness to it. he will makes sure that it takes. and this only gets worse with hyperspermia!maekar. that man will prop your hips up with a pillow with a gentle 'lift your hips for me, my heart.' before he partially lifts you with a broad hand at the base of your spine, the other slotting the soft, feathered-down pillow into place beneath you. if you have not worn him out, he will take a few moments, with your legs locked about his shoulders, thighs bracketing his head as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses over your lower stomach and thighs, fingers casually collecting the copious amount of him that tries to spill out of you, the other groping at your breast tenderly. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖D–dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

maekar could get drunk on the taste of you alone, the gentle, naturally musky scent of your cunt enough to drive him to madness. it is between your thighs, with his tongue buried in your folds, nose pressed so close that the bridge of it nudges your pearl with every drag of his hot tongue over you, that he can understand how weaker men could wage war, spill blood, and commit atrocities for a shred of a woman's favor. 

this becomes rather apparent in the long summers, when the air in king's landing starts to become oppressive, suffocating and pressing in on all sides. it is those days that maekar finds you especially intoxicating. he will find you fanning yourself, wiping at your breast and forehead with a cold cloth, as rivulets of sweat drip down your back, and find himself hardening at the mere imagination of how sweet the summer heat has turned you. he will greet you as he always does, with a quiet, near-imperceptable, 'wife.' before he drops to his knees before whatever chaise you have taken to lounging on, movements languid in the heat of the day. its then that his hands will roam, beginning at your feet, planting them firmly on his thighs, and begin working at the muscles of your legs with the callused pads of thumb and forefinger, his touch practiced and firm enough that it sets your skin alight more than than the hot simmer of the summer air on your skin already has. his hands almost always travel upwards, ghosting over the bend of your knee, lips laying a gentle kiss to to the top of it, before continuing his upwards ascent until he finds himself mere inches away from your core. and as he begins to kiss and lick and suck at your folds, you notice that the depths of his breaths increase, the heaviness of them a weight in the quiet chambers that none but you and the stone walls of the keep are privy to. 

'maekar, i have not yet bathed! please!' you whine at him, hands pawing gently at his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt to push him away, cheeks flushing and burning bright at his advances, at the impropriety of it all. but it would take the stranger himself ascending from the seven hells to tear maekar from you then. when he looks up at you with that lilac stare of his, you find that all of that steely edge and unyielding iron will lingering in them has gone molten at the sight in front of him. no, now there is a sheen of something more carnal there, dilating his pupils until only a sliver of that starlit lilac remains. 'its so hot, i am terribly unfit-'

and its only then that his mouth will leave you. 

'i do not remember asking whether you have taken a bloody bath this day, my love''

the words are blunt as they fall from glistening lips, but gentle nonetheless. mostly because he does his absolute best to never curse at you, even when he is balls deep in your cunt, pleasure numbing those sharp edges of his mind until there is nothing left of the anvil but a puddle of molten iron. he will try to be better than his baser self for you always, and that includes the language he directs at you. there is no malice in the words. just simple disbelief, that you cannot see how easily you drive him to insanity without even trying, how your scent alone is enough to bend his every will and whim to your pleasure, how absolutely undone he has become in his marriage to you. 

he will take two fingers, long and lean, callused over in all the right places and adorned with the thick golden band inlaid with a ruby that shown like fire (the wedding band you had commissioned for him after the announcement of your betrothal) and allow them to roam the edges of your petal-soft cunt gently, your nerve endings fraying as he prepares to work you open on his hand. then his lips will reconnect with the slick, velvet heat of your core, nose nuzzling the hair that curls over your pubic bone, fingers working you open and hitting that one spot over and over again, until you aren't sure whether you're dizzy from the heat or from your husband's diligence. and all the while maekar is breathing so deeply you swear the sound of it is all you can hear—that and the deep groan leaving him every so often, and your high, pitchy whimpers and sighs that he draws from you like he hounds the men of the king's council for answers most plain. 

what you DONT know however, is that anytime maekar cannot be with you, cannot taste you on his fingers, cannot smell the pleasant, heady musk of you in the hot summer air clouding your marital chambers, he will find a pair of your small clothes, guiltily, as if he were committing some grave act the gods could never excuse him for, bring them slowly, delicately to his nose and breathe. its as though he can feel the tension leaving his every muscle in and instant, every aching thought in his head, every weight on his heart ceasing to exist the moment he catches the faintest scent of you on what little seabreeze can make its way through the cracked window at the side of the room. he will never admit it but this is exactly how he got through his time at the frontlines of the first blackfyre rebellion. with a pair of your panties hidden in his bags, in that place that only he knew of to covet when he saw fit.

what you don't see is the way that after meakar has sought you out in your chambers and made his love for you abundantly clear, he will sit in his council meetings, fingers settling just along the ridge of his upper lip as if he were deep in thought, hands unwashed so that he can still smell, can almost taste, the way you had come undone for him only hours prior. you don't see it but this man, after prying every known pleasure from you in waves will take those long callused fingers of his and bring them into his mouth, and lick them until they are clean, remembering the slow deliberate drag of his tongue over the part of you that belongs to him and to him alone, who's sweet intoxicating scent he can still feel lingering at the edges of his senses, placating him more than any dornish wine ever could.

⊹ ࣪ ˖E—experience (how experienced are they? do they know what their doing?)

given his longstanding history with the personal insecurity he tries to bury deep and away from the light of day, maekar entered his marriage with you with little to any experience at all. but he's overly analytical by nature, and would learn your tells and consequently, what has you coming undone for him and by him. and he will do so with terrifying speed. the way your eyebrows pinch almost imperceptibly upwards and your eyelashes flutter at the gentle pressure he applies with the flat of his palm to your lower stomach as he's buried in you? yup, the exact force needed to apply that pressure has already been memorized. the way you bite your lip to keep from moaning openly, high and blissful, the moment he tilts his fingers so they brush that spot while he's tongue-deep in your folds, nose nudging your pearl gently? ya, he's got that exact angle burned into his muscle memory. the way you whimper when he tangles his hands into the roots of your hair and tugs just so in order to get you to arch towards him and expose the patch of sensitive skin just behind your ear to his slow march of gentle, barely-there kisses as he makes his way down to the nape of your neck, and over your shoulders? he knows exactly how much you like it from the way you instantly clench and throb around his length. this man learns you like he learned to fight: diligently, attentively, resiliently, and without fail. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖F—favorite position (this goes without saying)

maekar's first rule is that he must be able to see your face. it is how he gauges your happiness and measures his welcome. he is aware of his nature, and it is by looking at your face that he knows how to toe that line of what is too much and what has you coming absolutely undone for him. (not to mention, the way your eyebrows pinch together when you come on his cock, the way you're soft lips part in the ghost of a moan… well, he begins to understand that old targaryen adage…understand why so many in his bloodline went mad). beyond that, it is your face—the visage that haunts his dreams and brightens his every waking moment. you often find that maekar's large palm will almost always find its way to your cheek, thumb nudging against the apple of your cheek and gaze roaming your face with something that looks oddly like yearning before he dips his head to your shoulder, those targaryen silver locks of his tickling your collarbone. 

beyond that maekar has preferences but honestly as long as he can see your face, he will be happy. the mating press is obviously a favorite of his (the man has 6 kids, fight with the wall). he likes being seen as strong, dependable, a support. so he lovingly anticipates the moment that all tension leaves your body, likely after he's already made you cum around his fingers or on his face, and you allow him to hike your calves around his shoulders and press ever inward. the graceful pliance you display in those moments, the way you succumb and rely on him and his strength to bring you pleasure makes maekar a little lightheaded at the thought. 

that being said, there is a very tender part of him that goes soft at the idea of you wanting him… maekar knows what its like to be needed, but seldom wanted. and that difference will drive his actions as a husband more than he would like to admit. and as such, he really loves when you ride him, in any capacity. but he especially loves it when you force him back into the pillows and eiderdown and furs, and climb atop him to take whats yours. its the wanting that undoes him in those moments—the undeniable understanding that you want him enough, that you love him enough to chase your pleasure through instead of because of him truly makes him happy. 

and so if you ask it of him, he will immediately settle, against the soft comforts of your wedding bed or the hard, high-backed wooden chair that sits at his desk, and allow you atop him. his hands often come to settle beneath the curve of your breast, palm finding the curve of your ribs, the softness there melding with the very real sensation of the rise and fall of your ribcage beneath his fingertips as your breaths come in increasingly desperate gasps and wanton sighs. he loves the satisfaction that comes with your wanting, with your need of him. he loves rutting up into you, and watching the scrunch of your eyebrows loosen as the motion, the sensation of him pressing up into you with equal fervor momentarily distracting you from your pursuit of your pleasure. he loves laying soft smacks to the curve of your ass, listening to the soft whimpers that fall from your lips as he settles the sting with a loving pass of his heated palms over the reddened, swelling skin he leaves in the wake of his actions. he loves the way you place your hand over his thundering heart, and weave your fingers into the silvery hair covering his chest—a sign he has come to understand as a mark of your wanting him, of your gratitude that he is yours, just as much as you are his. it is a sign of your claim on his heart. he knows it. you know he knows it. maekar is also quite fond of the way you, in the aftermath, collapse against him, relishes in the feel of you tucking your head beneath his chin, nuzzling into his chest as if seeking shelter in the heat and bulk of him. he relishes in wrapping his arms around you in those moments, letting the bulk of them conceal you from the world and anchor you to him. its then that he allows himself a moment of pride, of sheer, unadulterated joy—even if only for a moment—in the feel of you, against him, seeking refuge. because gods, the seven knew you were his refuge. he is just happy to be able to respond in kind. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖G—goofy (are they more serious in the moment? more humorous? etc.)

there is literally not a goofy bone in maekar's body. honestly the likelihood that he would find any amount of goofiness as a jest directed at him, his physique, or who he is is actually quite high. maekar is used to people making fun of his appearance. his bluntly chopped hair, the poxmarks, the slight unevenness in his teeth, his blunt attitude, his crass tongue, his brutally sharp nature, the immense intellect he possesses but which will never comapre to baelor's. there are things about maekar that some deeply hurt part of him worries you will dislike, no matter the number of times you tell him how dearly you love him, how deep and how warm your affection for him runs. one poorly timed, poorly worded and poorly placed jest would have any amount of comfort he feels with you crashing down. and you would absolutely need to work hard to reconcile it. 

so he is not goofy. he is not a fan of humor. there is a time and place for teasing, he feels. and they will happen, when the days' events have him feeling flustered, agitated and ornery. but it is a very specific type of teasing. otherwise he is a singularity. a single body, with a single focus, and a single mission. when he deigns to be vulnerable enough to give himself, mind, body and soul to you he is nought but a man—your man and husband—focused on none other than you, and that sickly saccharine thing that sits in his chest and turns his touch that much softer against the warmth of your body, against the beauty of you, as he brings you pleasure he would never give another, as he seeks from you a pleasure none other could give. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖H—hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc)

maekar's chest is dusted with whisps of silver hair that cover the expanse of his chest, connecting to that trail of hair that descends over his softening abs and down benath the line of his dark linen trousers. its not particularly unruly, but it is enough that that continuous trail of starkissed silver has you practically drooling everytime you catch even the briefest glimpse of it in those quiet hours as the sun rises and falls—those hours where he is nothing more than yours and yours alone in the quiet warmth of your marital chambers, door barred and locked against the realm and her duties and her woes. as for beneath his trousers, he is known to trim himself but only on occasion. that silver, targaryen-hair of his curls at his base of his cock, and covers the expanse of his thighs. if you truly had a strong aversion to it he would increase the amount that he trims it, but otherwise he could not be bothered beyond cleansing himself. especially not if you were to look at him with that animalistc glint of desire as your gaze travels down that silvery, "starlit path" of his, as you so affectionately call it. he hates the metaphor, some part of him railing against his heritage to be sure. but when you look so content and happy, and when you look at him like that, who is he to correct you?

⊹ ࣪ ˖I—intimacy (how are they during the moment?)

he is rough, but that is not to be mistaken for lack of emotion, intimacy, or care. he is rough but he is intense. maekar would be in love as he is on the battlefield—deliberately focused, diligently persistent, and with near-terrifying intensity. every gentle press of his fingers is dealt with exacting precision, intended to draw you to your peak doesn't matter that if its the third, fifth, seventh time he has given it to you in a single evening, to make you feel the same fire that burns in his veins for you. every slow drag and firm press of his length in and out of you is measured, as though you were a battle line on a map that he has traced in replicate, traced until he was sure he had true command over it, until it was his. he is a warrior, and as such he posses an innate knowledge of the strength and power coiled in every striation of muscle within him, each well-honed and dutifully managed. but that does not mean there is not love in it. that exacting nature, the calculation of every move, that power and heat that burns in him like dragonfire is his way of showing you how deep his love for you runs. it merely presents in the only way he knows how to express it. he would go to battle for you, water a thousand fields with the blood of your enemies if only you asked, overthrow any crown and conquer any throne because that is his way of showing his devotion.

but he also knows you are a woman, and a good one at that. you require—nay, are owed—some amount of affectionate softness from your lord husband. and so his intensity is not to be mistaken for lack of feeling towards you. it is not selfish or driven for his own pleasure, at least not in total. his intensity is to show you that he does love you, in his own way. and even if he can't always put it into words, it would be obvious in the way that he would focus the entirety of his being on you, an act practiced through years of commanding armies, of wielding mace and sword alike, of honing his body into a weapon of its own. all of that honed, exacting focus on you. for your pleasure. for your heart, to show you he loves you. and you will be well-loved by him, and he will show it to you in every thrust of his hips, in every kiss laid to your skin and cervix, in every drag of his hands and tongue, in every possible way. the court could whisper that he was not gentle, that maekar had to be a cruel terror of a husband, as stony and offending in bed as he was at court. let them whisper. for the gods knew the truth, and they could never say that maekar did not love you well. he would make sure of it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖J—jack off (masturbation headcanon)

if it is before he is married to you, and especially during his courtship of you and your inevitable betrothal, his hand was the only thing that kept him from defiling you in the eyes of the gods. you were just so sweet, it was entirely irresistible. the way you would drop your chin, eyelashes fluttering against the curve of a flushed cheek whenever he would compliment you; the way you would smile at him radiantly and he would, if only for a second, return your smile as if you hung the very sun and stars in his skies; the way you would gently squeeze his bicep as he walked arm and arm with you through the gardens—all of it would drive him to madness. often he would find his hands flexing, shaking with the restraint necessary to not pull you into the nearest corridor, away from prying eyes, and have his way with you. and his hands, normally so steady, still and precise in every swing of his mace and scratch of an inky quill on parchment, would shake until late at night when he could wrap it around his throbbing cock and work himself until the edge subsided, and he spilled himself against the scarred planes of his abdomen to the memory of your radiant smile, the way the silk of your dress and the gold of your jewelry rested against the fullness of your breast, the way you seemed to outshine everything around you, the way your hands, always so dainty in his own, would cling to him, the way your perfume clung to his senses still, gods damn him. each interaction would only feed more fuel to the desire that seemed to burn him from the inside out. he wished he could be a man of better piety and moral standing for you, but whatever shred of piety remained in him had died years ago. so he would let the shame bloom, hot and all-consuming, on his pale scarred cheek like a bruise while he stroked himself into complacency. it was either that or risk defiling your honor. and that? that was a sin he could not bring himself to commit.

after he marries you, however, he truly does not see a point in it. why would he when he has you at his beck and call, and you practically have him tightly wrapped around your smallest finger? that is unless, for whatever reason, he has to be parted from you for an extended period of time. then he will find some piece of you to bring with him: your handkerchief that smelled like the lavender you crushed into it earlier that morning before tucking it to your breast, your favorite pearl-encrusted hair pin that smelled of the oils you worked into your hair after every bath, your small clothes. he will bring some token of you along with him, and in those quiet moments between the hour of the sun's descent and her eventual rebirth he will hold them in gentle fingers, press them to his lips, whisper your name with strangled, sickening devotion in between the drawing of heavy strangled breaths while his hand pumps his cock incessantly in your absence.

it is an action only necessitated by your absence, but it is one that has saved him many a time. so though he would prefer the real thing—you, happy and sweet and alive and arching that pretty spine of yours against him and in his arms—he will settle for his hand or a pillow that smells like you in an effort to keep himself sane enough to return to you in one piece.

⊹ ࣪ ˖K—kink (one or more of their kinks)

the obvious one is the fact that he has to have a breeding kink. this man has 6 children. canonically, he has to have a breeding kink. but it is worth noting that this mostly stems from the idea and the look of you being pregnant. he loves seeing you round and radiant with his children. there is just something so endearing about how well you carry the weight of being a mother. the way he can feel your hips widen to accommodate your children, how you gain a little bit of softness that lingers in your arms and thighs, in the plumpness that settles along your cheekbones and beneath your chin, in the simultaneous heaviness and perkiness of your tits as they swell—all of it drives him crazy. and so it eventually manifests as the hope, as he's buried to the hilt in your velvety heat, worshipping you as best he can, and filling you multiple times over, that his seed takes. is he slightly ashamed of it? yes, but he also loves it. he takes pride in how well you mother his children. some part of him will always go soft over the fact that every good thing about his children comes from you—even though his children drive him, daily, to the brink of insanity in their varying degrees of madness and targaryen-bred temper and brashness and pride. he loves that, in them, he can see you and the physical manifestation of your unbowing and unyielding love for him. i also think that this is truly the sole reason for his undying devotion to his children. he may not know how to parent well. he knows he makes mistakes. but he will get up everyday and bend his every will to make them happy. to see them safe. in the worst cases, to see them alive and breathing, no matter the cost. and it is not because they are a piece of him, but because they are a piece of you. 

he also kind of gets off on making you watch yourself in a mirror while he makes love to you. there is definitely a large ornate mirror that sits off to the side of the bed in your marital chambers, heavy frame lined in gold and the tiniest rubies that glint in the firelight so that you can watch how well you take him, how divine you look doing so. if there is any doubt in your mind about your beauty, he will drive it out of you. he will make sure you know you are well loved by him, even if his heart is so hardened to the verbal expression of his love. he will try, for you, to tell you how much you mean to him. but when he falls short he will default to what he knows best—acts that show you undoubtedly where his favor lies. and sometimes, this will manifest in him fucking you from behind and in front of that stupidly expensive mirror. because if he cannot always say it, he will show you how sweet his heart is on you, in his own way, how dear you are to his soul, how deeply his love runs and just how much he admires you. he will show you just how undone he is by you, how well you fray his heartstrings, how well you have unclasped that armor around his heart and destroyed the walls he has built around him. and you will watch. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖L—location (favorite places to do the do)

he would prefer to take you in your shared chambers, where he can shut out the rest of the world and focus on the one person who makes him feel like more than a fourth son, more than a second choice, more than a soldier sitting in the shadows of his brother and basking in the light baelor cast, more than a prince of the blood and realm—the one who makes him feel loved and worthy for simply being the man he is.

but ! if he had to take you somewhere else, he would love taking you in his office. its convenient for the days that seem to stretch on without end, and the endless council meetings where the talk of coin, of blood and rebellion, of trade and blockade, of grain counts and the newest lord of a small insignificant house who's pride has grown too big for his seat and stature, frustrating maekar to no end. its then that he will thank the gods above for you, his wanting little wife who dresses in that maroon silk dress with the neckline that you know drives him wild, waiting prettily in his office with a spread of fruit and cheeses and meats for him. its those days that his office becomes his favorite place to take you simply for the relief you give him in those stolen, heated moments between council sessions where the two of you become a mess of heavy breaths drawn too slowly for the heat coursing through your veins, lips pressing so fervently together that your teeth and tongues clash, and hands that pull at his hair and your hips and the ribbons lacing through the tops of the stocking covering your thighs. 

there are also those nights that demand so much of him that his restraint is thrown to the wind the moment you walk in in nothing more than a shift and delicate shawl to maintain a shred of modesty, hair unpinned and gleaming in the firelight thrown about the sconces and candles and fireplace. its then that he will pretend to be annoyed by the interruption if only to hear your whines of how dearly you miss him. its then that he will let you climb atop him and let himself succumb to the slow roll of your hips, the swell of your ass and the curve of your spine as he lets his hands roam. he will soak in the moments where you draw his stress from him with fingers that trace their way slowly through his beard and tug at the hair at his nape and the pleasure you send coursing through his veins as you ride your dragon and take what you need from him, your breathy moans a prayer, a song that won't leave his head.

and then there was that one night, from which he is almost certain your son aemon was sired from. the one where he had, in a fit of passion, of gratitude, of a desire so monstrous it consumed him whole and reduced him to his carnal, more primitive instincts, taken you on his desk. he remembers the clattering of ceramic ink pots as he had sent them carelessly flying to the stone floor in order to lay you down on the heavy slab of dark walnut that served as his desk. he remembered thinking that you were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen the way your hair had sprawled like rivers on a map over the scrolls beneath you, spilling over the edge of the dark wood. the laces of your shift had come undone, the neckline shoved down below your breasts and the skirt upwards to reveal the expanse of your soft stomach. the fire had roared in the hearth, throwing its heat against his back as he worked your pleasure from you in waves until finally he had pulled you to the edge of the desk and taken you over and over again, your legs wrapped around his hips as they met yours, breasts bouncing and chest heaving with your whispered sobs, and hands clawing at his chest in an effort to draw him closer to you, to draw him so close that the line where he ended and you began seemed to blur into oblivion. he still remembers the burn of those scratch marks well into the following morning, and how soft his heart had become as he stared at his ink-stained fingers throughout the council meetings. and to this day, he still has no idea what the topic of said council meeting had been. nor did he care to find out. 

there's also a sort of perverted pride that rises in his chest when he realizes that any servant could walk in at any moment and see just how sweet you are on him, how lovely you look as he pounds into you, how well he takes you. surely the realm would whisper then of how the stony, cruel, ugly prince maekar could bring such pleasure to a lovely little thing like you, rather than the venomous wonderings of how he could even deserve you. it would never come to be, but the thrill of taking you in his office stems ever so slightly from the possibility. 

so ya, his office, if not the privacy of his your own marital chambers. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖M—motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

what gets maekar going is not blind devotion, nor pliant meekness—the quiet qualities so commonly expected of a noble lord's wife. it is you—in all of your unyielding wit and your fearlessness in meeting him head on, even in his grumpiest, most ornery moods. you do not shrink from him. you stand your ground, press where others wouldn't dare, test him where lesser souls would yield, and—on those rare, hard-won occasions—bend that stubborn, iron will of his till it matches the shape of your own. 

maekar's father is king of the seven kingdoms and his brother is hand and heir—the weight of the crown weighing heavy on both their brows. but maekar is faced with another sort of turmoil, a different burden entirely. maekar is valyrian steel sharpened to a deadly edge and wielded when house and blood of the dragon is called into question. he is the head of the king's armies, old valyrian wrath given flesh, chaos and war, the promise of fire and blood incarnate. and as such, maekar understands the consequence behind each decision, understands what is meant when power is brandished and the value in knowing when to restrain one's own hand. 

he may not wear the crown upon his brow, nor the pin of the hand of the king upon his breast. but the cost of the blade at his side and the fatigue that lingers in his bones and the furrow in his brow is a palpable thing—that tension in his shoulders that never truly leaves as if he's perptually bracing for a blow he cannot anticipate. no consequence goes unconsidered. no decision is measured less than thrice. no path walked without every possible end weighed and understood, internalized even. it is a weight that eats at him, one that he cannot set down—whether from anxiousness or from pride, it did not matter. 

and so you do not meet him as a simpering princess, with compliance aplenty, weak comfort, and empty words. no, that would not do. you meet his stormy temper with your own, show him that the fire that burns in you recognizes the fire that burns in him. you refuse to yield, even though that would be easier. because getting maekar to yield that care, to get him to offload some of that burden onto you, even if only for a brief moment, is a monumental feat. you meet him with devotion, with a care that will not yield despite how well he forges that iron armor around his heart. when you finally wrest that burden from him—turning him into something gentler, something that does not have to think so hard about every movement, that does not plan, that does not bear the weight, something that does not bear those consequences—he cannot help but love you endlessly for it. he loves you deeply, quietly, with a devotion that burns even hotter than the dragonfire in his veins, and in his own way. but he loves you all the same. 

but maekar will not yield easily. nor has he ever been taught how to ask for help. and so when he truly needs it, he will get ornery about it and deliberately bait you into taking that burden from him. and its then, when you match his fire and put him in his place—that's what gets him going. 

it always starts the same: with a wandering touch given without the intention to follow through. a smoothing of his hand up your thigh beneath the table at breakfast, a thousand kisses placed to every erogenous patch of skin he can claim in the quiet of the morning, a playful pat to your backside while you are dressing, a compliment that is more lewd than propriety allows. 

then? nothing. silence. he will avoid you for the rest of the day, vanishing into duty and pretense, finding some ledger or recounting of the histories to bury his nose in, making a thousand excuses as to why he must skip the midday meal he usually takes with you in his solar. he withdraws, as if you aren't the very shape his heart has taken, as if he believes himself too self important to rise to the occasion of loving you as thoroughly as he knows you deserve.

and when you do see him, it is always in passing. those lilac eyes are a shade of violet as deep as dusk, gleaming like cut amethyst in the firelight. he will say little, but that gaze will linger where he knows it shouldn't, where it is not proper—the low neckline of your dress, where the tops of your breasts are evident and the necklace he gave you hangs heavy; on your mouth when you speak, as if he wants nothing more than to drown your words in a clash of teeth and tongue that will leave your lips swollen and unistakably covered in him; on the place where the dip in your waist gives way to the swell of your hips, as if imagining the way his hands would look if he placed them there and tugged you so close that you molded to him, fusing you to him for eternity. 

he will be entirely absent—infuriatingly and tactically so. you only see him in passing, in council chambers where he knows that desire cannot escape and must simmer and crawl beneath your skin. he is nothing but a shadow on the wall, all duty and discipline and edges one does not dare touch for fear of slicing onself clean to the bone—save for that passing moment in the hallway just before supper, where his hand lands low against the curve of your ass as he brushes past you, a soft, insolent pat that burns your skin for longer than it has any right to. 

he is absent from supper, because of course he is.

you find him exactly where you expect him, in your chambers, sprawled in your bed in nothing but a pair of dark linen trousers, laces already undone where they fall halfway down his calves. he lounges against the furs and eiderdown, a book propped open against a bent leg. one sword-bitten, calloused thumb makes its way between the soft curve of his lips, drawn briefly to his tongue, before he turns the page with languid ease. his eyes lift to yours then—agonizingly slow, knowing, and tinged with a salaciousness that you swear would make the maiden herself blush in a way that cannot be proper. 

hello, my dear, the look says, beckoning. 

'wife,' he calls as way of greeting, slow and satisfied. a challenge. 

you scoff, the sound rough and unbecoming, one that would surely earn you scandalous looks if you were before the court. but you weren't. you were here—behind closed doors, tucked into the sanctuary of your marital chambers, with your husband sprawled recalcitrantly across your bed and a fire crackling healthily in the hearth. it was unbecoming, yes, but from maekar it earns you nothing but hunger. 

you crossed the room in less than a breath, lithe fingers snatching the book from his lap and snapping it shut in one fluid motion. you do not set it aside as much as you discard it, tossing it to some corner of the room you could not care for in the heat of the moment—attention already drawn elsewhere as you climb atop maekar's lap as though you belonged there. your thighs part to accommodate the breadth of his hips, hands thudding against the rough, old grain of the headboard, caging your husband in, honing his focus to none other than you. 

a certain smugness rolls off of him in waves. 

insufferable bastard, you think, a grin tugging at the stubborn corner of your mouth when you hear his breath hitch, catching in his throat in surprise. i love you. 

'you are reading the same page you were this morning,' you accuse, voice edged in frustration, but there is no true malice in it—only an unmistakable undercurrent of warmth that lines your every word. 'and you've ignored me all day…husband.' 

you catch an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips, a minute movement that any other would've missed. but you were attuned to every microexpression, every twitch, every glance given by the man in front of you—a language only the two of you could truly speak. 

'darling, i was occu-'

'no.'

a hand settles on his chest as way of interrupting the discernible lie waiting on the tip of his tongue. you can feel the beat of his heart quicken beneath your fingertips—just there, beneath the the hair that shown like starlight that curled over his chest, the war-honed muscle beneath, the steady, unyielding bone and sinew even farther below. you let your gaze drift, heated and longing, to his mouth—to the soft upper lip, the silvery mustache that kisses the top of it. you know he sees it. 

'do not give me falsehoods. you are many things, maekar targaryen, but you are not subtle. you wanted a rise, and now you have it.'

those amethyst eyes that never leave you gleam with a certain fire that stirs something just as scorching deep within you. a flicker. a crack in the armor. and you know he sees it—the frustration, the love, the longing. 

'you provoke me,' you continue, voice nearly as quiet as the dead. your thumb traces a delicate circle, once, twice, over his heart. 'you light the fire and leave it to burn unattended. and for what? to see if i will come to heel?'

a hand of his own, wide of palm, warm, and calloused where sword and mace have bitten for years, slides over your own. long fingers wrap around your palm, a disruption to the deligence with which you track his pulse. you see it for what it is: a plead—as if to say please, spare me. you know too much. 

'to see if you would come at all,' he admits, voice a low rasp under the weight of the affection he does not know how to bear, and does not know where to place. 

there it is. there it always is. the ugly truth that tears at his soul more than the weight of the crown and mace and diplomacy ever could. the question that, though it remains unspoken, is as clear as the bells' of the sept, tolling high and clear through the thick air. 

'all you need do is ask,' you murmur. an apology, a grief for all the softness he had been denied before you were there to convince him of anything else but the weight, the burden, the ache. 

'you would have me beg?' he says lowly, a sadness begins to creep into the edges of those molten violet irises of his, a faint blush gracing the arch of his cheekbones to match—as if he knew his own foolishness by posing the question. 'you would have me risk refusal?'

'i would have you be honest,' you murmured. your other hand moves from the wood of the headboard to cup his jaw, the texture of the rough grain replaced by the coarse hair of his beard. 'and i would never refuse you.' 

a bone-deep sigh heaves from him then, as the sheer certainty with which you say the words knocks the very breath from his lungs. you can feel all fight eddy from him then, a fraction of that tension that maekar keeps at bay like a storm brewing on the horizon ebbing, even for a fraction of a second. 

'i wanted you to come to me,' maekar mutters, a quiet, reluctant vulnerability trembling in the timbre of his voice. the statement is simple, deliberate and lacking any sort of ornamentation typical of courtly proceedings. but you can see the quiet way in which the statement undoes him, the toll it takes evident behind the hard set of his jaw, the jump of the tendon in his neck, the deepening of the furrow between his brows. 

i wanted you, but i lack the words to tell you. what if you did not want me in turn? what if the fault lay with me? what would become of me without you? how do i continue on if you do not allow me dominion over your heart? what if you have no use for mine?

you melt at the admission, heartstrings tugging achingly at the blatant need in it. when maekar makes eye contact with you, wary and searching, you give him a delicate half smile, a gentle tug at the corner of your lips. a gentle amused huff leaves you as both hands find their way to his face then. as if on instinct, maekar inclines his head towards you, as if burying himself in your gentle hold would grant him refuge. lips, warm and soft as a long summer's breeze smooths over the crease between his brows, your kiss a plea to relieve the tension building there. 

'you are impossible, my love,' you murmur gently, lips still hovering against his forehead. one hand slides up to tuck a fallen strand of silvery hair back into place behind his ear, noting how much longer it had gotten in the recent months, its silky softness beneath your trembling fingertips. 

'and you are relentless,' he complains. but when your gaze meets his own, you are delighted to see the softness lingering there, still despite it all—a content amusement and a fierce gratitude to match. 

'someone must be, if you are ever to relent and take rest,' you reply, heavy silence following your words as your hands fall down from his jaw, over the broad expanse of his shoulders and about the back of his neck, finding purchase in the silver strands at his nape instead. maekar knows you speak truth, it is just not one he has every truly wanted to accept. 

'you carry it always,' you murmur. 'the weight of life and death, the bloodier parts of the crown your father would rather a blind eye to, every fragile thread holding this realm in balance. even here… even with me.'

maekar's hands absently find their way to your hips, as if grounding himself to the bone and pliant flesh would remind him that he the weight he carries is not the only thing the gods provided him in this life, that there was still something good. 

'i know not how to put it down,' maekar murmurs, eyelashes fluttering shut as he another heavy sigh works its way from that place deep in his chest where he holds all his grief and hope and pride away from prying eyes. 'and i am not sure that i can.'

'i simply ask you to let me share the burden with you. even if only here with me, away from the court. just for a little while?' you plead.

'it is no gentle thing,' he mutters, always your grumpy cynic of a husband through and through. 

'neither are you, but i love you all the same,' you hum, a teasing lilt to your voice. your hands find their way to his jaw again, this time delicately angling his cheek upward to allow you to press another kiss to the soft, scarred skin there as way of emphasis.

that does it. something hardens with certainty in maekar's gaze, you feel his hands begin to roam, skimming the expanse of your waist until his thumbs finds that notch along the ridge of your hip, seeking some solid part of you to ground him to the moment, to you. it is only when he dips his head to press a lingering kiss to your shoulder, before resting his forehead along its ridge that he is able to drag his gaze from your face, your mouth, the twinkle in your eyes. 

'gods, you are a stubborn creature,' he sighs, half content and half desperate to have you as close to him as possible. the tension begins to melt from him, then, something mischeivous and mirthful rising to take its place. he tugs you closer, angling you in way that causes your hip to catch along the hard line of his cock where it now strains against the linen of his trousers. 

'are you going to free me of this dreadful corset, or shall i expect to suffer it all night?' you hummed, tone roguish and anything but innocent.

a sound that resembles somewhat of a disbelieving laugh tumbles from your husband then, a disbelieving sound that sounds so foreign in his voice and yet it sparks something bright in the cavity of your chest, that place within your heart that he always seems to occupy.

and he does not need to be asked twice, thick, ring-laden fingers finding the laces of your dress with deft efficiency, tearing at the layers of your dress until they litter the floor and nothing but your sweet moans fills your martial chambers. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖N—No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

degradation is an absolute no go for maekar. whether it be of himself or of you, he would not tolerate it. the moment he even gets a whiff of it the armor is back on, the walls around his heart thrown back up without haste, and the sneering, judgemental, cursing prince and stony facade of the rebellion-hardened warrior has snapped back into place. he would no longer be maekar, your husband, your lover. he would be maekar targaryen, prince of the blood and the realm, the anvil who squashed the rebellion dead and left its ashes in his wake. 

maekar has spent his life as a warrior, as second best to baelor. he was never his mother's favorite, nor his father's preferred—and even less so in the eyes of the realm. and though it is not baelor's fault, and he would never blame his brother a day in his life for the different lives they lead, but he lives his every waking moment in the shadow of his brother. and until you, there was no one who was ever truly sweet on him, who wanted him and made the active choice to stay by his side, to choose him day-in and day-out. he faces enough scrutiny from those around him, from his father, his mother, his brother's men on the small council. he does not need it continuing into the bedroom and into his love life. 

maekar also had the pox as a kid, and canonically has marks on his face from it. and though the scars are faded, the marks still remain. they're easy to forget about every now and again, but that self-consciousness never really leaves him, damages a part of him deep down inside. so any attempt to degrade him would set him off. 

furthmore, he would not tolerate degradation of you either—from anyone. even if his father, daeron, king of the seven kingdoms, were to raise a negative word against you, maekar would proclaim himself a blasphemous traitor in mere seconds, his discontentment known and loudly heard. he would not tolerate it. you are his wife, his heart, his guiding star and calming warmth. every good thing maekar believes you is right with the world, every lovely thing imaginable. you are everything, and maekar is a warrior. and a warrior will protect his own to the death. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖O—Oral (preference on giving or receiving)

maekar eats it. there is no other way to put it. he loves the taste of you–that sweet, honeyed musk of your arousal—on his tongue. he loves to watch you progressively fall apart on his tongue, loves to find that spot with his tongue and fingers, rubbing and licking against it until he hears the echo of his name on the stones of your marital chambers, echoing in that high, little whine that drives him to absolute madness. 

it becomes a challenge to him the moment he undresses you the evening of your wedding–the speed of his endeavors, how quickly he can wring your pleasure from you with his tongue alone, with his nose pressed to the hair that curls over your pubic bone, wide, strong hands trap your trembling thighs against his broad shoulders, pinning you to him so you couldn't squirm away from him, even if you had wanted to. how quickly he has you unravelling on his tongue soon becomes how often. how often then becomes whether he can do so with his tongue alone. then it becomes whether he can do so with your hips hovering above his face, his hands digging into the fat of your thighs to keep you from moving too far. and everything in between. and he gets very good at it very quickly.

that being said… maekar has a little bit of a… scent kink. and that goes both ways. he adores the smell of you—the soft scent of lye and clean linens, of the flowers he had imported from across the great grass sea because they were your favorite, of the scent of lavender oil on your skin, of the unmistakable smell of you beneath it all—that intoxicating essence that sets his senses ablaze. 

but…if you return his obsession?!?!!? you best believe that nothing will tear you away from maekar. ever. 

the moment you rid him of his heavy doublet, and leather belts undoubtedly decorated with a knife's sheath, his riding boots, and slowly undo the ties at the front of his tunic until it falls open to expose the ivory expanse of his chest, silver hair nearly glittering in the evening candlelight, and nuzzle your face into the hardline of his cock where it sits straining beneath the confines of his linen underclothes he specifically wears for riding, or training with the boys in the yard, or hunting—you will turn maekar, in all of his blasphemy and ire, into the most pious man the seven kingdoms has ever known, praying to the gods to thank them for whatever sweet twist of fate brought you to him. 

it is with his hand curling around the side of your neck such that his thumb presses gently into the column of your throat, just next to the slight bulge where he knows his cock sits, his fingers lost in the wisps of hair curling at the nape of your neck in the heat of the moment, that maekar comes undone. it is with open mouth and tension coiling in the base of his spine, that his face turns upwards in praise of the seven above and his bones grow weak under the weight of your devotion. with your nose pressed to the silver-spun hair covering the space just below his navel, cock disappearing between swollen, pretty lips that maekar prays to the stranger to leave you to him, to bless him with a long life with you by his side—that damn near threatens the stranger and curses him for the mere concept that the stranger could take you before it took him. 

because it is in those moments that you ruin him. utterly and entirely, he is yours from that moment on. not even death will take and keep you from him. nothing would, he thinks. nothing could tear me from you. my heart is yours until the stranger itself rips it from my chest, my love. 

because though maekar will never admit it, he would be utterly wrecked at the mercy of your lips. he would die on the sword of his own making as long as he was granted the prayer of your love, the weight of your devotion, your tears as you consume him, the constancy of your presence and the immeasurable, invaluable peace and pleasure you brought him…even in moments as utterly debauched as these. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖P—Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc)

maekar does not have a consistent pace. but he does have a consistent intensity. it would not matter if he fucked you with a voracity that would put the dornish to shame, or whether he take a painstaking amount of time to ensure that you felt every ridge and press of his cock. the intensity is still the same. either will satiate you at a rate so furious you wonder if it is his personal vendetta against the gods and their cruelty made physical manifest—as if he had some point to prove. 

as long as he gets what he wants—and that is of course, you—he couldn't be more content. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Q—Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc)

maekar, as a prince of the blood whose responsibilities weigh heavy, does not prefer a quick fuck—if he can help it. but he does understand their utility. there are a finite number of moments in the day in which he can be solely dedicated to you, especially during the rebellions, and especially as you populate the halls of summerhall with his white-haired, purple-eyed brood of dragon dreamers, and especially when the cruelty of fate burdens his brow with the weight of the crown and makes him king. so when the long days stretch into long nights that stretch into a long fornight and turn of the moon, and the only moments he can be with you are against the shadowed walls of some hidden alcove or the wet, lonely caverns of the cisterns in king's landing where your moans echo off of lofty, rocky ceilings; or sprawled across the parchment and inkpots and correspondence strewn about his dark mahogany desk in his chambers at summerhall; or in your carriage when the targaryen procession halts for luncheon on the journey his father demands he and baelor make across the seven kingdoms to 'uphold the crown's presence'—he takes it. and he does so gladly. 

would he prefer to have you unravelling over the course of hours against his tongue, rail you into the mattress of your marital chambers until your honey-sweet cunt takes the shape of him permanently, and settle into those hazy, peaceful hours in which your warmth settles and he can hear the soft snores of your breathing as you fall into a deeply satisfied slumber against him? would he rather spend his time where your mere presence is a constant balm to the tempest of his soul? yes. undoubtedly. 

but that is not always possible. and maekar may not be an optimist, or a simpering pacifist. he may be blunt and pessimistic and harsh. but there is one thing maekar is and it is a famished opportunist. for you, for your touch, for your attentions and affections he would go to war, slay a thousand mortal enemies and a thousand immortal more. he would rule until his heart gave out, swing the sword and the mace until nought all but your peace and happiness remained, and run himself absolutely ragged for the contentment of his lady wife. all of it would be done without question as long as there was one thing at the end of it all—you, his wife. his lady love. the object of all his desires, and the presence that disturbs and burdens him with a joy unlike any other. 

so if all he can get of you is those brief little moments throughout the day where he manages to steal you away from the realm and reclaim you for his own heart—then you best believe he will make the most of them. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖R—Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc)

maekar is painfully horrible at one thing. and that is telling you no. your marital chambers are no different. there is approximately one thing he would be opposed to and that is sharing you. but if you pleaded with him to wrap your wrists in silk, to smack your ass harder that he would normally, to suckle from your breast after your children have had their fill of your milk and your body hasn't quite caught up to that realization, if you asked if you restrain him, if you asked to suck his cock and end up worshipping his balls with your tongue instead—whatever it was… maekar would likely not be able to tell you no. it may take some convincing, but ultimately, if you want it bad enough, he will indulge you at least once. 

the risk has led to some of the best evenings of his life, to be sure. and so who is he to deny the opportunity to be hopelessly, and irrevocably, to absolutely ruin and be ruined by you. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖S—Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

(we get it how many times are you going to rely on the fact that he is forcefully discplined and incredibly strong, a skilled warrior through and through? we! get! it!) maekar is a warrior (DUH)—disciplined and used to the burning in his lungs, the fire in his muscles, the build of the fatigue and the persistence through it all. he's fought many a battle, slain many an enemy, and found the courage to press ever onward—even though every muscle in his body said to stop, even despite the cry of fatigue lingering in his very bones under the weight of armor and shield and mace and sword. 

but what is war compared to a woman's touch—nay, compared to the unabashed, claiming touch of the woman who loves you? nothing, maekar is sure. 

so yes, this man can go for hours. round after round. there is no shortage of stamina with maekar. there just isn't. if he is limited by anything it would be his own lack of patience. but even then… if you asked it of him, he would do it before his heart even had a chance to hammer to life in his chest. 

that being said, he will falter eventually if you are sweet and soft with him. if you can work it out of him, maekar's stamina will crumble under your vulnerability, your openness, your acceptance and him and the unrestrained penance you pay at the alter of your love for him. but it is less about the lack of physical ability, and more due to the intensity which you make him feel. he can go for hours, but the second you tenderly lift a hand to his pockmarked jaw, and kiss him with lips that seem to just barely ghost, warm and wet and wanting, over him—he is gone. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖T—Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

maekar takes the bedroom very seriously and takes a deep sense of pride in just how much pleasure he can work from you. he firmly believes that the only "toys" you need are his fingers, his tongue, his cock, etc.. the only thing remotely close to a toy that ever enters the bedroom is a wide, maroon silk ribbon you insist he buys for you for entirely too high of a price from a tyroshi merchant. later that evening as you crawl atop his lap, intending to take what is yours and show him just how grateful you are, that very same ribbon makes a rather welcomed appearance. 

it starts with your delicate hands working at the ties of his linen tunic until you can easily maneuver your delicate palms beneath its hem and ever so slowly over the planes of his abdomen until he tears it from his form in a desperate attempt to pull you closer, to feel you against him. you loop your arms around his neck, tugging him close and kissing him so fervently that maekar can practically feel his lips swelling beneath your attention, diligent tongue and teeth nipping at him as delicately as you can. one hand threads into the silver strands of well-groomed hair at the nape of his neck and tugs gently to expose the strong column of his throat, the protuberance of it bobbing as a low, rumbling growl tears through him. a grind of your hips into his own has maekar absolutely distracted to the sudden loss of the warmth of your delicate hands, and before maekar can truly register it cool silk runs across his skin in their wake. a protest rises in his throat but is lost to a strangled open-mouthed sigh as you begin to ride him in earnest, that gods-damned ribbon pulled taught around the back of his neck, forcing him as close to you as physically possible. maekar has no choice but to press hot, open-mouthed kisses at your shoulder, the hollow of your throat, the tops of your breasts. his hands grasp desperately for any anchor—hips, curve of your ass, the bottom of your thighs where they meet his over and over again—as you took what you needed and held him so close that all he could think about was you and the only air he could breath was marked by your perfume and the scent of your coupling and something so unmistakably you he feared you would drive him to insanity. 

and despite the taunting 'cruel little minx' and muttered 'gods, woman, you will be the death of me', that would fall from his lips in place of the admission, the whole affair rewires something in him, stirring something awake deep within him. something that hungers. your boldness has him blushing from the tips of his ears, to the high, scarred arches of his cheeks, all the way down his neck and over the hard planes of his chest in a way that never truly leaves him.

but of course he couldn't allow you to get away with your whimsical fantasies and plots without a little revenge of his own, nor allow your claim on his heart and loins to go unanswered. 

'maekar, dearest, have you seen my ribbons?' you asked the next morning, confusion burdening your brow in a way that maekar found entirely too endearing. 'i can't seem to remember where i placed them.' 

needless to say, you and your husband were late to breaking your fast with the royal family, king daeron included. and when you do show, it is with both of your hands clutching the thick iron-like muscle of your husband's bicep in an attempt to hide the low ache between your unsteady legs and the shakiness in your gait. you smile prettily through the flush that will not leave your face and silently thank the gods for the high neck of your dress that keeps out both the chill of the morning and shields the freshly-blooming bruises along your collarbone from prying eyes, leaving you with a tingling sensation (a cruel reminder truly) everywhere your husband had ruthlessly kissed and nipped at your skin, his assault only yielding and his tongue only soothing aggravated skin after it flushed for him. but most of all, you are thankful for the long, tight sleeves of your dress that covered your wrists and the lines that are surely imprinted into the delicate skin from where that same maroon ribbon had dug in as your husband forced your tied hands above your head and held them there with the iron-wrought grip of his wide palm and strong calloused fingers, forbidding you to touch him as he worked orgasm after orgasm from you with nothing more than the relentless pounding of his cock into your core. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖U—Unfair (how much they like to tease)

maekar tries not to be unfair towards you. he tries to give all of himself to you and your happiness. especially in the hazy, cerulean twilight of the morning, when the sound of the waves lapping at the cliffs below the red keep or the chirping of the song birds in the gardens at summerhall fill the cool morning air. with maekar, the mornings are for you—that seemingly timeless stretch between slumber and the rising of the sun that are dedicated to the devotion of you. the whole of you while you are still wholly his. he's still heavy between your thighs, deliberate in the pursuit of your pleasure as he splits you open on his cock in that slow way that hints at the fatigue that still pulls at his bones. 

but this is the version of your husband that teases you for the soft noises that make their escape from your warm, wanton mouth into the silence of the moring with a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth or in between the kisses he lays delicately to your temple and jawline and occasionally, nips at your shoulder gently—his canines sinking softly into even softer flesh. this is the version of maekar who would crack open his own chest and pull his heart from its depths if it would make you understand the man beneath the solderi and the armor and prince and the dutiful brother—the man who makes that love his sworn oath. this is the man who lets that swirling, all consuming warmth that lingers in the center of him slip through the cracks in the early whispers of morning as he wraps wide, heavily-muscled arms around you as if he could shield you from the servants who would eventually come to claim you for the court, as if he could merge the heat and dragonfire and ire of himself into the sweet, tender, warmth of you, as if he could truly bind you to him for eternity. you were never quite sure which. 

this is the version that has finally learned that there is no punishment waiting for him when he sets down the sword, when he lets you through the gate in the walls he subconsciously buries himself behind. he is a man changed, and a man who would fall on the sword of his own devotion if you merely asked it of him. you stay his more harsh ways, giving way to the version that loves with shame and without pretense.

but…if is instead one of those days where the sword seems to lay heavy and cold in his hands, and he cannot seem to put it down, the cool metal of the handle biting into his palm to prevent him from truly unfurling his fingers to set it down…when frustration and exhaustion draw his scowl into something deeper and more permanent, when the politics of court have driven him to his wit's end—this is when that dragonfire, that inner madness he and his line were so well known for, makes its appearance. 

now this…? this is the version that seems to barely hide that cruel twist of tension lingering just below the surface. this version snaps at the members of court, that bares its teeth and buries its softness in a veil of sharp wit and dark words. this is the version who will take to the yard and pick up the sword before he surrenders to the arms of his wife. this is the version that loves and loves, and loves hard. but this is also the version that hungers, that has needs. 

this is the version that, in the short periods of respite he gets from his duties, will pull you into the nearest forgotten corridor and kiss you, desperate and heavy and all-consuming, until his lips flush with heat and yours swell beneath the force of his love. this is the version that will scoop you up and place you amongst book and scroll, correspondence, inkpot and quill alike, lift your skirts and take you like the whole of the seven kingdoms and the free cities depended on it.

this is the version that will drive you to your pleasure countless times, dimly-washed glow of evening candlelight and incense and the fire that casts its dancing shadows across the walls. each scrape of his beard against the plush swell of your thighs and your poor, swollen, cunt sends yet another tingling sensation spreading from the fringes of your consciousness to your core like wildfire. meanwhile those large, calloused hands find the softness of you and pull. this is the maekar that consumes and takes and loves in equal measure.

but this is also the version that will bring you to the precipice of your fourth peak that evening before he reliqnuishes his mouth from your core, withdraws his hands from your stomach and his fingers from that slick, honey-sweet spot that has you praying for the seven to grant you mercy at his expense abruptly as though he were commanding his troops to pull out of battle,. and suddenly, every pleasure, every sensation just stops. this is the version that does not care how high and pretty you whine for him (trust me it will drive him insane, but maekar is not a man who does anything in partial. he will love you with the entirety of his heart and soul and mind, pleasure you with the entirety of his body. but he will teasingly neglect you with the total and complete absence of himself from you as well). this is the version that doesn't care how much you plead (though his heart warms at the thought of it, going soft in the center from hearing those words pour from your lips.). he is unfair. 

he will withdraw and place himself against the headboard and feathered pillows with all the suffocating heat of dragonflame in his gaze and the smugness of a man who knows he's won before his opponent has even begun. sword-worn calloused hands will begin to palm at his cock that is absolutely straining against the hard planes of his stomach, thick and flushed and heavy (he will not tell you that he has memorized the way youwould do it, palm swirling about the thick head of himself before, hand squeezing delicately as he traced ever downward until he could stroke his heavy balls with long, scarred fingers that pressed and kneaded with want and in absence of you. he will not tell you that, will not confess that you and those hands of yours are the undoing of him.. but you will notice). 

he will offer you his hand and helps guide you on top of him, hips straining to accomodate the wide expanse of his thighs as you shuffle up the expanse of furs and linen until you straddle them. 

he will murmur out a 'good, my sweet wife.' but that is where the line of total devotion ends, and that thing in the deepest, dark, depths of himself, the animal that has set its eyes on its prey and which will not be satisfied until it has it in its maw, begins. 

'now convince me of your devotion, dear,' he murmurs, voice toeing the line between that deep, ragged thing that commands respect and inspires fear in hedgeknight and kingsguard alike (towards the end of this ref for the tiktok edit folks: here) and that thing that goes almost imperceptibly softer for you (and the beginning of these three because i'm literally psychotic: here and here and here). 

his hands will settle on your hips, guiding you as you rock back and forth to begin, but then they travel upwards to pinch at the fat of your breast. and when you whine and your hands try, and fail, to pull his away, to relieve the sensitivity that he had been diligently working you up towards all evening, he will swat them away with a chilling look of warning lingering in that molten silvery gaze of his. 

'oh, my poor sensitive girl,' he will purr up at you, that wicked grin on his face deepening as he guides your hands to his shoulders and then pulls you against his chest until your arms wind helplessly around his neck. 'come on, take what you need. take what's yours.' 

if he is feeling really mean he won't touch you, opting instead to let your scratch and claw at his chest, the bulge of muscle that lies between his shoulder and back, and tug at the silver strands of his hair in your quest to find purchase of anything to ground you to this realm, to reality, to him, and failing. 

'show your lord husband how much you need him, dear,' he'll hum, tone gone absolutely and positively arrogant. 'make yourself come on my cock if you want me to truly satisfy you.' 'come on. my poor little dove. take it.'

and it is only after you've ridden yourself to your high, the backs of your thighs becoming raw from the thick covering of silver hair that whirls across the expanse of his muscled thighs and lower abdomen, that he will give in and fuck you the way you truly deserve, in a way that truly claims you as his, inside and out. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖V—Volume (how loud are they, what sounds do they make, etc)

when you first marry him, you would expect him to be silent. he is all whetstone-sharpened steel and hardened stone walls. brashness with no apology. plated-armor and mail. no frills, nothing fancy. just maekar. and so you envisioned him to be quite similar in bed—anticipate him being the type to do his duty to you and leave it at that. no pleasure. no seeking, no bowing under the weight of his own heart, under that heavy, ugly want. and yet…

and yet, when he finds himself buried to the hilt in your warmth, with the softness pressed so close to his own, he finds he is undone. wholly so. by every stitch and seam, every beat of his heart and hum of his heartstrings. every ounce of him calls to you like a song the moment he finds himself within your presence. and so he can't help but sigh into that notch between collarbone and neck, where he can feel your moans echoing through skin and sin and bone and sinew and want. and so you will frequently, much to your delighted surprise, hear 'my girl… oh my girl' or 'gods, woman' he will call you woman, but you know there is an undertone of my woman, when it is said in his voice echoed into the space between breaths as he drives himself further into you with every powerful thrust of his hips. occasionally, especially when he can feel you fluttering around the length of him, a curse will slip from his lips—'seven fucking hells' and 'a sure-fire sign that all that battle-hardnened, diligently disciplined control is slipping. oh my heart' spoken like you were the only prayer he cared to learn, the cradle of your hips his only altar as you tugged him ever closer, fingers digging until they leave little red half-moons in the pale planes of his well-muscled back. if you ask him to go harder, plead for him to be closer (every inch of him is already pressed, hot and heavy, to you), a soft 'i'm trying, i'm trying' will all but stumble from his lips, short and breathy and barely audible. but you will hear it, because every noise from him is another ounce of stolen pride you feel knowing that this, this mumbling, wanting, needing thing you reduce your husband to is because of you. 

the praises are short, babbled, mumbled, shoved into little pockets of sound so small that you know he cannot help himself as he mutters them, but knows just how foreign the softness is in the gruff tone of his voice. its as if he is well aware that his defenses are failing, that his restraint is a thin, fallible barrier between him and you and the total devotion he does not normally have the words to speak. and so they are whispers and hot, open-mouthed sighs and low, rolling groans that start somewhere in that part of his chest that has gone absolutely soft for you, and forcing itself from his throat despite maekar's better judgement. 'you feel divine' will leave him in a pant, as if it were a thought that meant to stay in his own head, but under his unravelling control slipped its way out. 'so beautiful, my girl' stumbles from his lips, holy and reverent as its murmured into your skin as he rests his head on your shoulder, violet eyes fighting to remain open, to continue observing the way his cock disappears in you over and over again, the evidence of your pleasure forming at the base of him.

when he gets close to spilling himself into you or along your pretty collar bones or the soft swell of your stomach, he sometimes slips into high valyrian. he almost finds it easier to say all the things he truly feels for you that way, in his mother tongue, in something older than himself and this duty that has shackled him so, something that proceeded the hurt and neglect that has turned him into an irrevocably icy and regretfully hard person incapable of softness. something primal and sharp in its syllables, but something nonetheless wrought with passion. 

he never truly tells you what they mean, brushing you off whenever you ask what it means with a flush rising to pockmarked cheeks. but there is one that is constantly echoed, the one you think you know better in his mother tongue than you do even in your own.. 'avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan' (i love you, i love you, i love you). repeated like a prayer, between kisses pressed to your throat, to that place just below your jaw that has your pulse nearly jumping up to meet him, to the bone between your breasts that shields your heart so dutifully for him. 

other phrases you will commonly hear as well include: 'lykiri, dārilaros, lykiri' (calm down, beloved, calm, but said like hush my love, hush i have you now) and 'ñuha jorelis' (my little love, adjacent to but more raw than 'my girl' or 'woman' to him).

⊹ ࣪ ˖W—Wild Card ( a random headcanon for the character)

dare i say that maekar is a little bit of a masochist? but its not in the way that one might typically think. because the thing is that maekar is extremely aware of the fact that his body is that of a soldier's. he is a man turned weapon. he is all well-honed, disciplined edges. his every muscle is akin to the heft of his mace, the heaviness of it matched with whetted wit and skill. and so he is incredibly aware of the propensity he has to cause pain. 

and he doesn't want to hurt you. he doesn't want pain to have a place in his martial chambers, in his bed. he wants you to trust him, to know that he is a weapon, but he is your weapon. to hone. to wield against those who would wrong you, the lords and ladies of court, the realm—whomever you damn well pleased. 

but that doesn't mean that it doesn't make its way in eventually. and it happens totally by mistake. he'll be taking you from behind and go to smack your ass and, in the throws of pleasure derived from the honey-thick warmth of your cunt, will forget to measure his strength—an angry, raised handprint rising to the surface of velvet-soft skin. 

he'll have you on your back, hips slamming into yours at an alarming pace and his hand will settle at your throat, lithe fingers nearly finding their way into the wisps of hair that begin at the nape of your neck. its then that maekar will hear a gasp fall from your sweet, swollen lips and his gaze will snap to your face, openly admiring you in a way that he would never admit to out loud. but he does all the same, purplish silver eyes becoming molten as they trace the ridge of your cheek, the line of your jaw, the line that had formed between your pinched eyebrows, the remnants of him glistening on your lips. he doesn't even notice how tight his grip around your throat had become until he becomes suddenly and acutely aware of the way your breathing has gone ragged, hands (hands that are so much smaller than his own) wrapping around his wrist and forearm, a physical plea. 

and in the beginning those moments would send a flood of guilt rushing through him with such violence he thinks it could rival the very rapids of the white knife in the north, cold and brutal and entirely unyielding. 

but that's not what gets him going. its not the hurting you. its not the thought of the pain your feeling at his hands. because that has him absolutely devastated, his chest seemingly cracking open at the thought. no. 

its the way you respond that has him on his metaphorical knees before you, that sends his head spinning with pleasure, that awakens that animal that lingers deep inside him, the unkind thing that wants. that hungers. 

its the way that he feels your cunt flutter around him, becoming impossibly tight and infinitely more wet, when he brings his hand down to the curve of your ass. and again when he tugs at the flesh of your hips with a little too much force, the crest of the iliac of your hips rising sharp and fast to meet his hand. its the way you whimper when he tangles a hand in your hair at the back of your neck and tugs. its the way your hands wrap around his wrist—not to pull him off, but to have something ground you to him, to the man above you, to your husband, to the man who you know loves you so dearly, whose heart practically beats for you, as his fingertips press unforgivingly into that spot below your jaw where your pulse flutters beneath his touch as the world becomes that much more lucid and the pleasure that much more intense as a result. 

so no, its not the fact that he can hurt you, that he does, that pain inevitably works its way in because maekar is first and foremost a weapon. no its the fact that beneath all of it. its acceptance. it is not pain for pain's sake. it is acceptance of who he is, at a fundamental level. it is the fact that you love him enough to derive pleasure from both man and weapon. it is the way you've learned to not only love the man he is, but to take pleasure from the edge of the knife, from the heaviness of the mace, from the sheer power of the sword. 

you love it. you accept it. and you give it back. 

it will never cease to amaze maekar how quickly you can unravel him, how easily you tease that animal out of the cave in his chest and make it your friend. and the fact that it usually comes hand-in-gratuitous-hand in the form of marking alters something in him entirely. 

a bruise kissed to the skin of his neck, somewhere between the ridge of jaw and hollow of throat and swell of the shell of his ear. the scratch marks that cover the expanse of his freckled back and muscled abdomen from where you cling to him as though he is the singularity to which you gravitate, the center of your world and the sole focus of your heart. the angry, raised half-moon-shaped marks your teeth leave in pliant flesh, decorating his shoulders, his bicep and—on the rare occasion that he takes you from behind, baring all of that muscled weight down onto you, pinning you between the mattress and the ruthless pace of his hips–even the forearm he wrapped around your throat before rearranging your insides to match the shape of him. 

so yes. he is a little bit of a masochist, and maybe so are you. but it comes from a place of deep understanding and a deep appreciation of the fact that maekar may be harsh and prickly and as sharp as whetted valyrian steel, but he is your weapon above all else. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖X—X-Ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

maekar may not be the longest in the seven kingdoms, by any stretch of the imagination. but he is still of substantial length and girth that, when he's buried himself in you—shoulders tucked into the bend of your knee, hands holding your hips as if you are the only thing grounding him to this very earth, panting heavy praises in your ear, wrecked from the pleasure he finds with every stroke of his heavy cock—you can feel the air heaving from your lungs with every stroke, every fervored press of the large head to your cervix. he is dense as well, so much so that even when painfully and entirely hard, there is a substantial hang to him—solely from how much blood it takes to send his cock aching with want. he will bury himself so deep you can practically feel him rearranging your insides to match his shape. there is a large vein that travels down the underside of his cock from base to frenulum, and if you drag your tongue along it enough, sensual and teasing, he will absolutely come otherwise untouched the first few ten times. his balls are heavy and perpetually full, the balls of a man who fills you entirely, as if he knows it will take and it likely already did. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Y—Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

if maekar had his choice of it, he would take you away from court and the wanting eyes of the realm that measure you like a thing it can sink its teeth into and tear. he would take you some place quiet—hide you away from the realm, abandon his duties at court. the heat of summerhall, maybe, with its gardens and afternoon storms, and whichever fresh fruits you fancied (it'll taste better than the seven heavens on your tongue anyway), and its pressing heat. he would give you plenty of dresses made from the finest dornish silks, and he would hide you away like the most coveted jewel in all the land, peeling the silk from your sunkissed skin only to replace it with his lips a mere breath of a moment later. 

or maybe he'd take you to dragonstone, where he could dress you in wool and furs that would shield you against the chilling sea spray and howling, seafaring winds. he would light a fire in the hearth and gather you in his arms and hold you there under the guise of 'protecting you from the ocean's chill'. you always teased him that he the blood of the dragon truly did run through his veins, heating him from the inside out as if he were your personal, portable hearth anyway. you were correct. why not prove your point?

but regardless of where, maekar targaryen knows one thing for certain: that he would take you, in every way, in every room and on every surface possible. he would claim any seat in all the realm, claim it as his own and name you its lady. he would do it in a beat of his thunderous heart, before you could even spare a breath, before you could even ask. and he would pull you into every alcove, behind every heavy, iron-ladden, wooden door, and take you until he had you crying from pleasure. and soon the halls of whichever castle you called home would be filled with children—children who had those purple eyes of his and likely his targaryen silver hair, but which would have your smile, your demeanor, who would take after you as if you hung the very stars in their skies and lit every corner of their very existence. you had a nasty habit of doing so. he above any else in the realm should know. 

it is a thing he thinks about daily: taking you away. making you entirely his own. finally surrendering as entirely yours. being yours. without restraint. without the poison of a thousand vipers and blackfyre sympathizers pouring into his ear. without the weight crown and sword weighing him down, without the burden of conditional expectation wearing him thin when it should've been you instead, taking from him what was already yours to claim. 

so yes, maekar yearns. silently. with a furrow in his white eyebrows and the deepening wrinkle between them and a clenched fist. but no one could say he loved you—his woman, his wife—any less. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖Z—Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep after)

in the beginning it is very difficult for him to fall asleep afterwards, all of the 'what ifs' and insecurities and worries beginning to creep in as he lays on his back beside you, allowing you to come down from your high without the burden of him pressing in close (he is oblivious to the fact that you want nothing more for him to do exactly that). 

what if he didn't bring you pleasure? what if he hurt you? what if you faked it? what if he you didn't even want him, and this was all some sick ode to duty and honor, to what was expected of you? what if, after all, he still wasn't good enough for you? 

that all melts away the moment your hand finds his jaw, thumb skimming his scarred cheek and the high arch of his cheekbones, fingers losing themselves in the soft silver scruff there. it takes all he has to not lean into it with the full force of himself and each inch of warrior he harbored within himself. each movement is addled with the fatigue that lingers at the edges of your consciousness, settling into your bones with a certain hazy warmth that he put there. you tug him closer, crowding his space and leaving none for the thoughts you can see behind those lilac irises and the heavy set of his brows. you press a gentle kiss over the poxmarks decorating his cheek, to that pinch between his brows, the strong arch of his nose, the flush of embarassment that begins to surface, the corner of his mouth that slowly begins to quirk upward, imperceptible to anyone but you.

'you were perfect, my love,' you would murmur, words like honey as they dripped from swollen lips into ears that wanted nothing more than to hear your high, breathy moans for the rest of their days. its then that you would scoot closer to him and tuck yourself into his side while his arm hesitantly comes around your waist, as if he could crush you by wanting too much, by taking more than he should've been allowed—his heart a soldier's through and through. your head would come to rest against his broad muscular shoulder, your fingers drifting into the silver hair that seemed to burn iridescent in the candlelight, swirling over the muscled plane of his chest. in the last hazy moments of conscious you could cling to, your hand would settle over the plate of bone protecting his heart from beating out of his chest to get to you. 

'so so good,' is the last slurred whisper he hears before you slip into a pleasure-induced slumber, finally giving way to that fatigue he practically bullied into your core with every thrust of his heavy cock.

your breaths will even out, deepening as your naked form lays so comfortably against his own. as if you had every right to be there. 

when you wake briefly in the late hour of the night, you can feel the weight of his wide palm atop your own smaller one, still over his chest, over a heartbeat that is still growing accustomed to the softness you placed there, of the shape of you that it is beginning to take hold there, vulnerable and soft, in his chest. you can feel the subtle press of the tip of his nose into the hair that you are sure has curled wildly as a result of the night's escapade, each breath of his washing over you like the waves lap steadily at the sands after a storm. and you know then that he has found peace, thrown precaution and pretense and propriety and ego to the wind—all for the pleasure of being yours, even if it is behind closed doors. 

from that night on, sleep comes to him easier when you are there beside him—in whatever form that may take. he will always ensure you get to sleep before himself, but he will be closely and blissfully behind you. 

©𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐑𝐒2026— do not steal, copy, repost or expand upon my works without my explicit permission. i do not give permission for any of my works to be fed to any sort of ai generator or otherwise. the things i write are my own and do not use ai generation.

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[targlocket]

I AM IN LOVE !! the amount of EXTENSIVE CHARACTERIZATION HERE? PHENOMENAL!!!!

[ratgirl300]

wait hear me out.. maekar feeling insecure for a moment + mirror sex to cheer him up YUPPP

A Vision in the Mirror

18+ MDNI

Maekar Targaryen x f!Reader

Summary: After a less than satisfactory hunt, Maekar needs his sweet wife to cheer him up.

AN: Is anyone else wet in here? Foaming at the mouth at this idea y'all know I love making him insecure lol. Hope you enjoy it! <3

Warnings: Smut, hunting, insecurity, some violence, fem reader

4.4k Words

Maekar should have known a hunt was a bad idea.

None of his boys were really any good at the sport. Daeron prone to slipping from his horse, Aerion all talk and no brain, and Aegon bringing up the rear, stopping to sniff flowers and chase rabbits. The older Prince already felt a headache coming on, the children’s squabbling bringing a grimace to his face. 

All day it had been a back and forth between the sons; who should ride in front, who was the better shot. At one point Aerion tried to knock his youngest brother from his horse, causing the party to stop temporarily for a good long lecture about Targaryen propriety. Maekar rubbed a hand down his face as a light rain pattered around them. He reminisced on the years where a hunt would have been nothing but a chance to show off. Young and strapping, he’d ride ahead, taking down his prey with the same ruthless efficiency he used on the battlefield. It had brung him great pleasure to win; the victory being a chance to prove himself to the older boys around him. 

Nowadays, the ache in his back after a long day sitting at council, the crick in his neck if he slept strangely, his knee acting up when the air drew cold, were stark reminders of skills lost to time. Sure he was still a formidable fighter, besting squires and knights alike in the training yard and swinging a mace with the power of a man far younger, but he felt the edges of himself soften. His body, once hard and rippling with muscle, had eased some over the years. He was not as quick as he once was, nor did he have the same all-consuming drive to violence he now saw in none but his second son.   

Maekar knew you liked the gentler side of him. 

The bit of his heart that deep down yearned for the comfort of your arms. Which needed so badly to have you pressed against him, lips on your skin and hands in his hair. He’d fought against you, tooth and nail, for so long when you first wed. keeping you at arms length and refusing to take you to his bed. Certainly a lovely young lady like you wasn't

 interested in an aging prince, why force you to participate in what was surely a slight on your honor? 

As time passed, you’d wiggled your way into his heart, weaved yourself into his and his children’s lives until he could not remember why he’d been against the marriage in the first place. 

He thought of you as he rode behind his sons, absentmindedly picturing the lovely gown you were probably wearing, and the way said glow clung to your figure. He’d taken the boys out before dawn, leaving you reluctantly in bed with a kiss pressed to your brow and a promise of a swift return. So far there'd been nothing to show for it but damp cloaks and a poor attitudes.  

Maekar pictured you at the gates when they returned. You certainly had better things to do than wait around for your husband, but it eased him a little to think that you might miss him when he was gone. He planned to jump from his horse, take you in his arms, and kiss you there on the steps of Summerhall, decorum be damned. He almost smiled at the look of confusion and disgust that would surely grace the faces of his children at their father’s blatant affections. Perhaps he would even have a kill to present to you. Something with a lovely pelt you could fashion for the coming winter. A chance to prove himself, to provide for you, had him sitting up straighter in his saddle and casting his eyes across the gloomy forest. He could take down a stag or a boar, something hearty and impressive, it certainly would show he’d not lost his touch. 

Maekar had all but decided that he’d ride ahead like he did in his youth when a shout rang out in the wood.

“Come now, I have done it!” 

It was Aerion’s voice, sharp and clear. The older Prince scowled as he spurred his horse forward, joining the group surrounding the victor. 

Aerion was on the ground now, proudly standing above a fallen elk. The beast was enormous, a deep brown coat and arching antlers distinguishing the creature. A strange feeling overtook Maekar at the sight of his son- and the rather impressive kill. For the first time in a long time, the boy’s smile held no sign of smugness or cruelty, only the unbridled joy of someone who wanted to impress their father. 

Maekar tried to hide his grimace as he dismounted, awkwardly patting his son on the shoulder as he took in the fallen animal. He had to admit, it was a perfect shot. The arrow had pierced the elk through the eye, so quick he certainly hadn’t felt the pain. 

“Good, it’s- it's good.” 

He wasn’t sure what to say, but he was sure it wasn’t that. Aerion nodded, so gleeful he hadn’t quite caught on to the older Prince’s words. 

“Soon I’ll be beating you in the yard as well, father.” 

The words were, for once, meant to be harmless. An admission of a dream from a boy who looked up to him. Maekar’s eyes widened, giving a jerking nod before calling for men to prepare the elk for travel.

The hunt was over. 

The ride back to Summerhall had been uncomfortable for everyone- except maybe Aerion, still riding the high of his victory. 

Maekar took up the rear of the party, insisting he was only keeping an eye on his children. In reality, the gloominess surrounding him seeped into the other boys; Daeron was halfway to a drunken stupor, and poor Egg could do nothing but sit quietly and try to avoid conversation. 

How could he have let an elk, an animal of no small size, slip from his sight before he could take it down? He stewed in his anger, the mere thought of losing the edge he’d spent so long sharpening made the grip on his reins turn white. How foolish it was, to be upset at a son accomplishing something most grown men could not. He should have felt proud- and he did, truely- but there was also the creeping hand of jealousy, climbing up the Anvil’s spine. He was impressed. Aerion clearly listened and learned from the extensive lessons he’d tried to bestow on all of his children, and now it meant that he was no longer the only powerful blonde in the family.   

As the party cleared the gates, Maekar saw what he’d been dreaming of since leaving so early that morning. You were there on the steps, a soft gown of pinkish red flowing around your legs and a smile so bright it almost made up for the rainy afternoon. He dismounted in the courtyard, and watched as you quickly moved down to join them. You lifted your skirts as you descended the stairs, and Maekar had to look away at the glimpse of your ankles. Fiddling with his bridle, he did not turn as you approached. He felt you before he saw you, soft fingers running across the tips of his hair.

“Dear husband, tell me, how was your sport? You’re looking a little damp.” 

He could hear the jest in your voice, and any other day, his lip may have quirked up at the sound, but now he could only look down his long nose at you with a barely restrained glower. Your eyes widened at the expression, confusion evident on your lovely features. 

Maekar’s head snapped away from you when he felt a tug on the reins. A stableboy, not much older than Aegon, was attempting to guide the warhorse out of the courtyard- much to the chagrin of both the horse and her rider. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Commotion stopped as the Prince’s voice rang out, hard and rough. The boy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else at the moment. He dropped the reins, falling into a deep bow. 

“Forgive me, my Prince. I was- well I was trying to- begging your pardon-” His small voice wavered under Maekar’s harsh glare. The older man was breathing heavily, chest heaving under his leather and fists clenched. You stepped in, a hand on your husband’s shoulder and a soft smile for the boy. 

“It is alright, he meant no slight by it, only doing what he’s told.” 

Instantly, Maekar felt slightly calmer at the sound of your voice. He let the leather fall from his grip, though his glare did not waver as the small boy led the beast away as quickly as he could. You were already looking at him when he turned back to you, a grin on your face as you moved closer, raising up on your toes and bracing your hands on his chest for the kiss you he was hoping for. 

Maekar leaned forward, tension seeping from his body with the promise of your lips, when he was interrupted again.

“My dearest stepmother, look at what I’ve brought for you.” Aerion’s voice cut the Prince like a knife. He looked so pleased as he presented for you, bowing low and showing off the remarkable feat. You politely applauded him, complimenting his skill and thanking him for his gesture. It took everything in Maekar not to grab his boy by the collar and ask him just what he thought he was doing. He knew Aerion was only proud of himself, just as he knew, as the younger Prince did, that you would give him the praise he wished for. 

How could I, Maekar thought, in the midst of my son’s first victory in the hunt, want my wife’s kindness to myself? He’d convinced himself he’d failed Daeron, allowing him to spiral so far into drink and sorrow. This could be a step in the right direction for all his sons, so why did he still feel so blind with rage? Why could he not pat his boy on the back and tell him he was proud, that it was good of him to treat his stepmother so kindly? 

Aegon had now joined them, the youngest recounting the shot in dramatic detail, Aerion butting in to give his own commentary. Maekar felt a pang in his heart at the sight; his boys, surrounding the woman he loved, his own little family. Why could he not join them? Egg held tight to your hand as he tried to pull your attention from his older brother, the two of them beginning to bicker at the inconsistency of the stories. You calmly stepped in, attempting to bring them both down but only adding another voice to the argument. 

Maekar’s head was swimming, a ringing in his ears that made him feel like the courtyard was spinning. It was almost too much to bear.

“Enough, all of you, silence.” He all but shouted. The three of you stopped, turning to him as the breath left his body in short bursts. Immediately, regret set in deep. Aerion’s face fell, in the way of a child so desperately clinging for a parent’s attention. Aegon’s lip wobbled, face scrunched at his father’s scolding. Your brows drew together, a hand rubbing the youngest boy’s back as you glared up at your husband. Maekar felt the heat climbing up his neck, burning his ears and flaming his cheeks. 

Briskly, the older Prince turned on his heel, storming away before he caused any more grief to his family. 

 The door swinging open did not surprise Maekar in the least. He’d known, from the second he’d fled, that you would soon follow, determined to get to the bottom of his immature behavior. He turned from the fire and braced himself for the words he knew were coming. 

“Would you like to explain why you’re acting like a child?” 

Maekar sighed, how could he tell you how embarrassed he was? You gestured for him to talk, bringing your hands up in question and tilting your head. “It was… a difficult morning.” He finally replied. 

“A difficult morning, that’s all you have to say for yourself?” 

“And what am I supposed to say?” Maekar bit out, “That I was outperformed by a teenager? That my own son bested me in a sport I taught him?” 

You stepped closer to him, a hand on his shoulder. It grounded him, just a little, as you thought of what to say.

“Maekar, my love, you cannot think Aerion taking down that elk was anything but a compliment to you, and all the hard work you’ve put into training that boy. He looks up to you, I think you upset him.” Your voice was a little softer now, squeezing his shoulder and looking up at him in a way that made Maekar’s heart break. He was fully aware that you were correct, that he should be proud of the young man his son was becoming. He squeezed his eyes tightly and shook his head. 

“I did not mean to slight him.” 

“I’m sure not, but the hurt is still there.”  

Maekar nodded, taking your hands in his and bringing your knuckles to his lips. 

“You will apologize to him, then?” You asked softly.

Your Prince nodded slowly.

“I will tell him he performed well.” 

“You will tell him how proud he’s made you today.” 

Maekar grunted, a grumbled hum leaving his mouth. You smiled softly.

“Darling, you are proud of him, I can see it on your face.” 

“Very well then, woman.” 

You pressed up on your toes, kissing his jaw softly before taking his face in your hands. 

“Why are you fighting, my love? What is troubling you? Tell me, please.” 

“It is nothing.” He cut in, answering quickly. 

You gave him a look.

“Maekar, I can see something hurting you, let me help.” 

“Aren’t you disappointed you’ve been given to a man who’s gone soft?” 

You laughed, almost in disbelief, before realizing he was being serious. 

“I certainly wouldn’t call you soft, husband. Where would you even get that notion?” 

He turned his head from you, fingers brushing against your hips as he struggled with how to answer. 

“There was a time no man in the Realm could best me.”

Oh. 

Realization began to dawn on your features. Maekar continued, voice low. 

“I was never the clever brother, or the one who could charm a room full of noblemen. I certainly wasn’t the one maidens fawned over.” The grip on your hips tightened, “But once, with a spear in my hand, I was second to none.” 

Your face softened at his admission. You rubbed a hand over his chest, pressing your fingertips over his heart and feeling the rapid beat, betraying his hardened demeanor. 

“My love, you and I both know you are more than capable of the same power you had in your youth. I have seen it, you have nothing to fret over.” 

He shook his head.

“You weren’t there today. I should’ve seen it, the man I once was would never have let a kill escape. I have weakened, my dear girl, grown soft.” He pressed his forehead against yours, “It is my duty to keep you safe, to keep our children safe. How can you accept me as a husband worthy of you, worthy of protecting our family, if I cannot succeed in a fucking hunt? What if something happened, if someone tried to hurt you?”

Maekar spat the last words out, gritting his teeth like the very thought pained him. You thought for a moment, contemplating his words before you pressed a kiss to his chin. 

“Come here, husband.” 

You stepped back, taking his hand in yours and slowly pulling him deeper into the room. He followed you, he would always follow you, as you stopped before the great, bronze-cast mirror. 

“What are you-” 

“Hush now, dearest.” Lavender eyes followed you as you reached up and unclipped his cloak. The thick velvet fell to the floor, and was soon preceded by his leather doublet. He took your hands, stilling your movement. 

“You do not need to try and ease my spirits, woman.” 

“I only wish for you to see you as I do, the man I love.” 

A shiver cut through him as you freed your hands, tugging his linen shirt out from his trousers and running your nails up though the hair in his stomach. The fabric came up over his head, baring his chest to the mirror. 

You bit your lip, eying him up and down and rubbing your hands up his chest. He scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. 

“You look ridiculous, little lady, mooning over an old man.” 

The words were sharp, but the deep red around his neck and over his ears betrayed his true feelings. You gripped his hips, pressing kisses between his pecs and rubbing your nose against the silver hair. 

“You’re so big, so strong. Know, my dearest, that I always feel safe with you near.” 

A low groan escaped him as you grabbed the front of his trousers. You looked up at him expectantly. 

“I don’t deserve you, my darling wife.” Maekar grumbled, stroking your cheek with his fingertips. You kept your eyes on his as you unlaced him. Suddenly, he was naked before you, scarred and pale, reflecting back at him. He turned his head away. You walked around him, pressing yourself to his back and sliding your arms around his thick waist. You were warm against him, a lifeline in his troubled mind. 

“I want you to watch, handsome man, look at yourself as I touch you.” Your voice was soft as you mumbled against his spine, kissing up the flesh of his back. Maekar reluctantly listened, forcing his eyes back to the vision before him. His cock was ridged, angry and hot against his stomach. A shudder ripped through him as your hands slid down his front, pressing fingers into the soft flesh before you wrapped a fist around the base of his length. 

“Fuck, woman.” He groaned out, hands clenched at his sides. You stroked down the length of him agonizingly slow, squeezing the girth and rubbing a thumb across the dribbling tip. Your other hand gripped his hip, keeping him flush against you. 

“You’re so good to me, husband. Always thinking of me. My strong man.” 

He moaned at the praise, a whimper leaving his lips at your sweet words. The softness of your palm caressed him, a firm grip pulling him towards the edge. A guttural sound fell from his mouth when your free hand came down to cup his sac, gently fondling him. 

“Look at you, so lovely.” 

Maekar’s flesh was flushed rosy, a sheen of sweat glistening in the candlelight. Muscles taught, shoulders broad and square, no longer the angry boy of his youth, but a man grown. His stomach clenched, nearing the overwhelming precipice as you touched him. 

 And then your hands stilled. 

The Prince growled:

“Have you lost yourself?” 

He felt you giggling against his back. “I’m not done with you yet, old man.” 

Your teeth bit into him playfully, scraping at the muscles of his back before you walked around to stand before him again. His brows furrowed, cheeks red and chest heaving. The smirk you gave him made his cock throb. 

“Help me out of this, then.” You said, turning your back to him and gesturing to the laces of your gown. Immediately, Maekar surged forward, lips pressed to your hair as he tugged on your ties. You laughed softly as he dragged the fabric from your body, letting it fall alongside his own clothing before gripping the neckline of your shift. The cotton tore like tissue, splitting down the middle as he ripped it from your body. A gasp left you. “Maekar, I liked that!” 

“I thought you liked me strong?” He grumbled, pressing kisses against the side of your head before continuing down your neck. His hands reached around you; gripping your breasts, sliding over the curve of your stomach, pulling your hips against him. 

You wiggled around, turning back to him and pulling his face down to kiss him proper. Arms came round his shoulders, gripping the muscles to bring him closer. He held you firmly to his chest, an arm banded around your back as he fondled your bottom with his other hand. 

“Mmm darling, you’re so hard for me. big, hard man.” You teased against his lips. He growled, slipping his tongue into your mouth when it opened. Quickly, you pulled away from him again, kissing down his neck and chest before stepping out of his arms. 

Maekar tried to pull you back, chasing your lips to kiss you again. 

You grinned at him, grabbing his shoulders and pressing downward.

“No husband, on your knees now.” 

The Prince’s breath caught in his throat. 

Slowly, he sank down, knees hitting the scattering of clothing before the mirror. Your hands found his hair, scratching his head and running your fingers through his beard. He gripped your hips, turning his head to kiss against your palm and wrist. You joined him on the ground, a quick peck to his mouth before you spoke:

“I want you to watch how well you please me.” 

Maekar heard the waver in your voice as you turned, hands bracing on the floor in front of you as you leaned forward and presented yourself to him. 

You were wet.

Slickness coated the insides of your thighs, gooey heat glistening on your folds. Had the sight of him in the mirror brought you to this? He groaned at the sight of you giving yourself to him. Large hands found your bottom, squeezing the flesh and gripping your hips. He ran his knuckles up your spine, gently stroking your hair and pulling it away to expose your back. 

You shivered.

“Maekar, please. Take me, I’m yours.” 

Who was he to say no to his lady love?

Maekar took himself in hand, rubbing the achy tip of his cock through your wetness. You let out a choked groan as he lubed himself on your own arousal. 

“Gods woman, how good you feel.”

The thick of him notched at your opening. You met his lavender eyes in the mirror as you pressed your pelvis back against him, sheathing his cock in your core. He moaned, grabbing at your hips and pulling you until he was fully inside. His eyes cut down to where you joined, your puffy cunt stretched tight around him. 

A roll of his hips had your back arching, a shout leaving you. It was all the encouragement he needed, pulling out to the tip before thrusting back flush against your ass. His eyes rolled back at the sight of your flesh jiggling at the force. He set a hard pace, holding you firmly as he bullied his cock into your cunt. 

Your eyes were blown wide, mouth open as he pounded you. Maekar slid an arm around your waist, pulling you up against his chest to expose you fully. The new angle made you shout his name, hand grabbing at the back of his neck to steady yourself. 

“My lovely girl. My beautiful, beautiful girl.” He groaned against the shell of your ear as he kissed at your neck. Your knees shook, and you leaned against him as your strength weaned. His hand gripped one of your bouncing breasts, squeezing the flesh and rubbing your nipple. You whined for him, begging nonsense. 

A vision, you were, reflected in the mirror. He couldn’t deny he felt powerful; pleasing his wife, holding you close as he fucked himself into you. His arms flexed, keeping you up with your back to him. 

Maekar felt himself reaching his peak again, but grit his teeth at the thought of leaving you unsatisfied. His hand on your stomach slid further down, finding your clit and teasing at the nub. You writhed against him, arching your back as your cunt clenched around him. 

“Fuck, you take me so well. Made for me, sweet girl.” 

His voice was rough, hoarse from groaning your name against your neck. Your walls fluttered around him.  

“Give it to me, my love. Watch yourself fill your wife.” 

Maekar’s hips stuttered at the whine in your voice. His fingers moved faster, circling your sensitive clit. He’d be damned if you didn’t come on his cock. 

You quickly began clenching around him, a vicelike grip sucking him in as he pushed you over the edge. Your orgasam came with a cry. Tears peaked at the corners of your eyes as the overwhelming feeling of him, wrapped around you and buried inside. He very quickly followed, the feeling of you finishing because of him stunning his senses. Hot come splattered inside you, filling you as he continued shallowly thrusting. You sagged against his chest, pelvis wiggling at the overstimulation. He slowed his fingers, pressing against your clit as he came down from his high. 

A quiet sob left your lips, your hands grabbing at his arms to keep him close. 

“Shhh, I have you now, sweetling.” He mumbled, wet kisses pressed against your cheek. A small part of him was extremely pleased at the state you were in; hair wild, sweat-slick, a ring of sticky white spend where the two of you were joined. You were gorgeous, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. 

And then you smiled at him. 

A small one, a sweet grin that had him giving you one last thrust at the sight. You let out a broken shout. 

Maekar reluctantly pulled himself from you, a wet noise ringing out in the quiet room. He collapsed back, pulling you into his lap. You let him pull your spent body against him, arms coming around his neck lazily as you tucked your head against his chest. 

“You’ll come to me next time, when you feel this way, won’t you? Instead of snapping at stableboys.” 

Your voice was soft and breathy, but Maekar snorted at your ability to tease him in your current state. He pressed a kiss to your brow, before tilting your chin up to kiss your lips. 

“If this is how you’ll ease my mind, I’ll do whatever you ask.” 

It was your turn to laugh, kissing him back and biting at his bottom lip. You stroked a hand down his chest, scratching softly at the silver hair.

“I’m glad to hear how simple it is to turn your mood. You think you can go again, old man?” 

Maekar was certain he could find the strength for you.

[spiderbela]

Over the Horizon

Chapter IIX. - Fall In Love

Maekar Targaryen x Widowed! Reader

Song sake - Fall in Love by Phantogram

Chapter VI | Chapter VII | Chapter IX

General CW! mild angst | mentions pregnancy & miscarriage | cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, praise, slightly public sex, handjob, partial degrading, missionary, cream pie, kinda rough sex and very slight overstimulation | as always lmk if I missed a tag

Word Count : 23.9k

Notes : the very anticipated chapter is here guys finally omg!! I was soo burnt out on writing, it actually hurt because this story is my baby - BUT I finally finished this chapter ugh

Side Notes : please be very aware of the fact that this chapter is incredibly long and scene/dialogue loaded! I would recommend getting comfortable because it's a LOT. also I really hope I got all of the editing correct because whew this is a lot of words.. my laptop is deadass lagging as I'm copying this over.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The month that followed Maekar’s return was a strange one; strange in that the days were lighter than you expected them to be. This was because Maekar did not ask any questions, nor did he speak of anything besides awkward small talk, the majority of your time together was spent very quietly. 

You found that you enjoyed the silence, but it was who it was spent with that frustrated you the most. You were struggling to acclimate to it - to him. Maekar was less.. Maekar. He was still himself of course, but there was a difference to him that you found you did not like.

The letter you’d found was still hidden in your vanity, tucked away alongside the book you’d lifted from his study. You had attempted to put it back, but your efforts were consistently foiled by either narrowly escaping getting caught, or having Maekar constantly around you. The surveillance was stifling, and it gave you every reason to think he may have known about your knowledge of the letters.

To be blunt, he hovered. It frustrated you greater than anything, his presence always near no matter the hour. You had realized quickly that it was a symptom of his guilt, his shame of being absent from Summerhall in your time of need. That was something you could be okay with, him trying to make it up to you that was. 

You found a selfish delight in his stubborn groveling, the shower of attention and gifts almost enough to absolve him of his wrongdoings. Almost. 

He’d not exaggerated when he said he was bringing you home gifts, a plethora of things at your disposal simply because he thought it would make you happy. Men weren’t always the emotionally smarter species, were they? Even so, you could at least credit them for being somewhat good physically, and monetarily.

It was dawn, you could tell by the low blue light pouring in through the sheer curtains in front of the window. You lay awake in bed as anxiety and a frustration you’d gotten used to enveloped you, your body unmoving as you watched the dawn light coming in from outside shift the colors of the curtains.

You thought about the state of Summerhall as you lay there on your side, your mind running wild as it had been for at least an hour now. Egg and Ser Duncan were going to stay longer, and Maekar was home for good. He’d been back for well over a month now, and yet still it felt like the man you’d come to know in your nine months together was a complete stranger. Besides his overbearingness which aggravated you, it was the new knowledge that you had of him that was the worst. 

The words in the letters you had discovered remained in your mind like a never ending shriek of song. You could hardly go an hour anymore without it flaring up in your memories. And though you’d been diligent in keeping what you knew a secret from Maekar, you had the suspicion that he knew something was amiss. He stirred behind you as you thought, his strong arm flexing under your head. 

The affections inside and outside of bed had increased since his return home, and while the attention felt good outside of selfish desires, you were scared he knew. You were scared of him knowing what you’d found. You had after all stumbled upon those letters by going through his things, and if you knew one thing about your husband, it was that he preferred his private thoughts and belongings to stay hidden from even you. 

You chewed your lip as you stared ahead at the window, your brows twitching as you pressed your fingers firmer against what your hand was resting against. The feel of the hairs on Maekar’s forearm were soft as you shifted your hand over it, the feel of the rough skin of scars stirring a recollection in your brain. 

Baelor had had many scars all over his body, a thing he paid no real mind to; you’d liked that about him. Maekar was different though, he preferred his scars to not be paid much attention to, but it was unfortunate for him that it was what drew your ire often.

The arm he had thrown over your waist tensed for a moment as he stirred again, his head shifting and his nose pressing against the crown of your head. You’d never had any idea that Maekar could enjoy things like this - the embracing that was. You had assumed that kind of thing didn’t exist in the planes of his mind. Yet he lay behind you with his chest to your back, his arm around your waist, and his bicep tucked under your head. 

It was comforting, but at the same time it put you on edge. It did not help that you felt somewhat exposed, your robe somewhere on the right corner of the bed.

Maekar gave a deep sigh in his sleep, his breath brushing over the tips of your ears as you shifted against him. The arm that lay under your head tensed as you got comfortable again, his loose hand in front of your face twitching as his fingers furled into a fist. 

You reached up before you could think about it, your fingers gently stroking his inner wrist until he opened his hand. His palms were rough of course, a given with the many years he spent working with them, the stiffness very great as you ran your pointer over his palm lines. 

He was tougher in ways you couldn’t see - just as you were different in ways he didn’t know yet. 

It was a simple symptom of marriage you supposed, or perhaps a condition of not knowing someone as well as you thought you did. Whatever it was, you found it best not to dwell on it. 

You sighed to yourself as you paused in touching his palm, a callus on his ring and pointer finger  drawing your attention. The archers calluses; you knew Maekar was fond of shooting when there was little to do, your thumb stroking the thick skin slowly. 

You wished you could ask him about the letters without being so afraid.. but you did not know how he would react. Those were the kind of thoughts you could’ve confided in Baelor about, those exactly, but Baelor was not here anymore and you would just have to deal with the outcome of Maekar instead. You pursed your lips at the imagination of it, lacing your fingers in his before you could become distracted, the cool metal of his wedding ring warming under your touch. 

“What are you doing?” A thicker warble sounded out. You startled hearing it, your body flinching when he shifted against you, his arm tightening around your waist, and his hand closing around yours. 

Maekar tucked his nose against your exposed shoulder, and you tensed when he pressed his lips against your skin. His beard needled against your skin, and you shivered when he gave a tired groan.

“Nothing.” You spoke quickly, a lilt of nervousness and faux stoicism present in your voice. 

For a moment he did not speak, his breathing finding an awake pattern. Was he thinking? Was he simply taking what you said in stride? You knew he knew something was amiss, but whether or not he could dictate what exactly it was, was still the larger question.

“It’s early.” Maekar said simply,  “Have you been awake long?” 

You felt his body press closer to yours, his arm shifting over your waist as he tucked his forearm under your breasts. Baelor liked to hold you like this. The thought of him now was a painful one. How could he have gone so many years with you while withholding that information from you?

“No.” The response came low, barely above a whisper. 

He went still against your back for a while, the only sound between you being your breathing, and a mourning dove whistling the song of dawn. You were almost convinced he’d gone back to sleep, but his body was too stiff for it to feel natural. Maekar was usually quite relaxed in the morning, which was saying something considering he was always so stressed. 

“Mm.. look at me.” Maekar murmured as he pulled his face away from your shoulder, his body shifting slightly away from yours.

You’d not realized how much you’d been bracing against him in your position, your body moving automatically in the direction he was pulling away in. You righted yourself when you realized it, moving your hips to center your gravity on yourself again.

“Why?” You questioned as you removed your hand from where it had been against his forearm, grabbing the duvet at your hips to pull it over your body. 

He huffed through his nose, your minute combativeness having driven him nuts since your faked happiness of his arrival fell away within his first week home. He knew you held some ill feelings towards him, but he would’ve preferred it to not to intrude on your intimate life.. again.

“Look at me.” Maekar said again, his free hand slipping up to your shoulder.

The request was halfway a demand, his throat bobbing as you shifted your head and glanced at him through the corner of your eye. His hair was mussed how you liked it, his brows creased and lips drawn in almost petulant manner. His peevish nature could be both endearing and troublesome, the easy to unleash irritability often landing the both of you in more quarrels than any.

“I’m not decent.” You sighed, turning back towards the window as he grumbled under his breath.

In truth you were not decent at all, purpled bruises littering your collarbone and neck in various areas where Maekar had sucked them. You didn’t like it when he did that; though your preferred low neckline often did not give him room to put them anywhere else. And you were aware that your expression would still be disheveled no matter if you hadn’t even had sex.

That was another issue between you both, the sex, or rather the lack of it. You hadn’t meant to imply that you were completely denying him of any sex at all.. but he took it that way anyway.

In truth, when he’d first made it clear that he wanted to have you the second night he was home, you panicked. You panicked because you were still processing the letters you found, and the overwhelming knowledge of them had driven you to push him away when he was halfway through sheathing himself inside of you. 

That of course, on top of his usual stresses, made him as pent up as a dog unable to play. But you at least allowed him the privileges of kissing you, on top of the specially occasional fondling.

“You think I care, woman?” Maekar puffed again, his lip tightening, “I want to see my wife, is that so much to ask?”

You could feel your face begin to pinken, the heat of your embarrassment catching like a flame to kindle. He could be convincing at times, couldn’t he?

You were slow to roll over, your mouth fixed in a light frown as you shifted onto your back. He was staring at you head on now, his arm still under your head while his hand moved to rest on your stomach. 

“Now you see me. What else?” You spoke with a sharp tongue, a shadow pooling behind his lilac eyes. 

Part of you expected him to huff and lie back down, but he sighed instead and stroked his palm over your belly. Your muscles tensed at the gentle touch, butterflies swirling in your stomach as he caressed your torso. 

“You’re very beautiful,” He hummed as your eyes returned to him after glancing down at his exploring hand, “Do you know that?” 

Now you must’ve gone fully pink, your cheeks ablaze as you looked away from him. That was another thing that became a constant in his time home - the praise. You enjoyed it to an extent, his impromptu compliments often catching you off guard.

“You told me so last night.” You replied quietly, your lashes fluttering as he brushed the tip of his nose against yours. 

“Aye’ and I thought I’d say it again.” He said simply.

You were waiting for him to kiss you after he said that, your eyes closing when his face drew even nearer. But you listened to him hum a small laugh instead as he pulled away, his hand moving to bring yours up to his lips, a kiss pressed to your knuckles. 

The frown that formed on your face was immediate, your brows furrowing and your lips twisting. He looked completely amused, his eyes light again as he ran his thumb over the back of your hand.

“You’re teasing me.” You huffed, your legs shifting under the blankets as he stared at you.

“Am I?” Maekar said, his brow raising slightly.

You disliked it when he turned his satirical comedies onto you, your other hand finding his wrist as you glared at him. He found it amusing - you did not. 

Maekar didn’t let go of you when you tried to tug your hand away, his grip not painful, but tight enough that you struggled. It was not a matter of fueling his amusement anymore, it was about saving your face and dignity. But your husband only quirked what looked like a smile, his body shifting as he let go of your hand and planted his forearm beside your head.

He was almost completely on top of you, his bottom half remaining beside your body as he covered your top half with his. You found the position stifling, your hands clasped together over your ribs as you looked at him. You found that you wished the hammering in your heart was a genuine gesture of affection for him, the heat and adrenaline pumping through you only a consequence of wanting him to selfishly fulfill your desires - but you could not break, not even now.

You were almost certainly not sure that you could ever love him the way he must’ve craved you to. 

“It’s still early.” You said quietly between you two - like the time of day had anything to do with when your cravings were active. 

“It is still early.” He repeated back to you, his eyes boring into yours, the intimacy of how he was shielding you almost enough to sway you. 

You didn’t say anything after that, simply raising your hands from your ribs and cupping Maekar’s face gently in your palms. He shifted to meet you, as he always did, your lips pressing together as one. The act of kissing was less intimate to you than it must’ve been to other couples, the action coming to you almost mechanically when you felt the need to assure him. 

It was not like that with Baelor. You kissed Baelor in a way that was different to the way you kissed Maekar, in that it was always more passionate, even without the addition of tongue or sex. You could make eye contact with Baelor and you would gravitate towards him like the Moon to the Earth, and you would share a prolonged but chaste kiss that would be enough to communicate your love. 

With Maekar it was almost always an act of requesting something, or as a way to quiet the other one when a quarrel was on its way. And that was often. It was often enough that it was almost a routine; a small spiteful expression here, a barbed comment there, and then suddenly you were exchanging heated words before one or both of you decided to shut the other one up with the smack of teeth and lip. 

Your skin prickled just thinking about it, a quivered breath escaping you as you slid your arms around Maekar’s neck. He was almost leaning on you now, his hand curling into the mattress as you opened your mouth for him. He taste like the mint paste he’d brushed his teeth with the night before, and an undertone of saliva, his tongue swirling against yours as you toyed with the hair at his nape.

He was due for a haircut, you could tell by the length of it at his neck, the ends flaring like the tail of a dragon. You quite liked it when he let it grow out, the untidiness of it so different from how he liked to keep himself. But you would rather die than admit that to him, especially when he so silently looked for your approval after his valet gave him his tri-weekly grooming session. 

Maekar breathed a little harder when your kiss broke, the both of you slightly dazed as you looked at one another. It was rare that you two caught each other off guard, a simpered smile forming on your lips as you moved your arms from around his neck so you could hold his face in your hands again. He liked your ‘affection’ much more than he would admit, his brows raising in silent question as you ran your thumbs against his beard. 

You didn’t need to respond for him to understand, his body shifting again as you met in a flurry of kisses. Each was longer than the last until you were back at square one, having kissed each other raw by the time it ended. Your lips had their own kind of ache, your body relaxing as he lay down on his back beside you. 

“Should we get up and see if the children are awake?” You hummed when he pulled your leg over his hips, your body snug on its side against him. 

“For what? We have an entire day to see them.” Maekar answered back gruffly, his arm wrapped around your back. 

It was nice to see that his stresses regarding the children were at least one of the more normal things that remained within him. Not that you would take it for granted - you often found yourself at your wits end with them all.. especially now that you could add Egg and Ser Duncan into the mix. 

“I guess you’re right.” You replied lazily, your arm slung over his chest as you tucked yourself tighter against him.“Aye’.” He replied simply as he shifted his hand down your back, the simplicity of his answer earned a half annoyed breath from you as you glanced up at him, a rare musing glimmer in his as you blinked at him.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The more playful side of Maekar was something you found hard to believe he had in him, the development of the attitude in private being what bewildered you the most. You were used to his typical attitudes, the brooding, the quick anger and irritation, even the insecurity. This was new however. 

There had been a few times when he could be playful before he had left for Kingslanding, but they all consisted of moments in bed. These new instances took place in areas you wouldn’t even think of - like the very public sitting room, or in the gazebo in the gardens. 

You thought he was crazy for it, but Maekar simply learned not to care.

“We have guests.” You murmured as you fought back a smile, a quiet huff escaping your chest as you glanced around the very limited sight of the library.

The bumping into each other had been accidental; you’d been looking for a children’s book to give to Duncan, and Maekar had been fetching an old history book of the Stormlands for a very interested Daella.

It was somewhere between the fourth and fifth row of the books that you’d run into one another, the surprise across your faces almost funny. You’d last seen Maekar after he’d slunk out of bed that morning, a blur of white across the haze of tired eyes as he came back to press a kiss pressed to your temple. 

Thinking about it now, you’d rather have the temple kissing than this. 

Your books were forgotten on the small study table you were leaning against, the scuffing sound of shoes on the floor being the only thing besides your hushed voices that you could focus on. You couldn’t exactly remember how it started, the biting comments being the only thing on your mind as you tried to recall what had happened. Part of you was almost sure you had called him an idiot, which wasn’t too far off from what you thought of him. 

Moron, would probably be more fitting.

“Be quiet, woman.” Maekar murmured against your skin after you gasped too loudly.

It would’ve been easier to count blades of grass than be silent in this situation. You were after all leaning your ass against the edge of a table as he stood between your legs and attacked your neck. And by attacking your neck, it was almost literal.

“I can’t if you keep nipping me.” You hissed back at him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you adjusted your arms. It could’ve been quite the comfortable position if he weren’t nibbling your neck, the heat of his body keeping you warm as you held him close to you.

It was raining outside, the clouds in the sky outside the window were almost as dark as night, the rain pelting the glass like rocks. The wind blew hard, the howl of it loud enough to make your muscles jump. It was times like this that made you glad that Duncan and Egg were staying in Summerhall for a while longer. 

You shuddered before you could finish the thought, the drag of Maekar’s facial hair against your throat making your skin prickle. The feeling drew an airy giggle from you, the ticklish sensation giving way as he pressed his lips over your jaw. Gods were you happy he hadn’t groomed his hair yet. 

“I hate when you do that.” He said when he pulled away from kissing your cheek, his brows half set as he adjusted his palms on the table.

His complaint was obvious enough, his hair mussed from where your fingers had explored his scalp. He looked positively like a ruffled cockatoo, a light frown on his lips as you smiled slyly. 

“It looks good on you.” You replied, the compliment gliding off your tongue as easy as honey. Maekar liked it when you had good words for him, the slight raise of his brows concrete proof of that. You of course didn’t entirely mean your words of encouragement towards him, the engagement more in your favor than his; so you said. 

Maekar was easy to please if you knew how to do it, which was the same for all men, but especially true for him - and you’d become very good at it. From words to affections, you knew what he liked. Though, you could not say the same for his emotional needs. 

His woes in trying to communicate his love towards you were.. not a successful effort. You could have solved that by acknowledging his letters out loud, but in doing that you would be exposing yourself in your secrecy of the knowledge, and you’d be damned if you were the one saying anything. So you played along.

You embraced him when he needed embracing, you kissed him when he needed kissing, and you acknowledged him when he needed acknowledging. To you, the efforts on your end were quite generous. It wasn’t exactly like someone else was going to do it, your position as his lady wife made him your priority, and that was the part you despised. 

Before he’d gone to Kingslanding you both had had only a few small spats about meaningless things. Nowadays, there were rare spats, and when they did happen, they were dull. 

“Aren’t you supposed to have a meeting today with Ser Duncan?” You questioned when he lifted his hands away from the desk and placed them on your hips. The comment almost immediately broke his train of thought, his brows pinching as he focused his eyes on yours. 

You knew the mention of the hedge knight was enough to stew irritation in him on any regular basis, but to mention it especially now was like a warrant for anger. It wasn’t like the anger was completely misdirected either, the squire and knight beneath your roof were like two raccoons brought in from the wild. For that, Maekar was almost always on his last straw in the past three weeks. 

“Must you remind me?” He sneered, his thumbs pressing into your skin as his palms trailed down to the outsides of your thighs. 

You had to bite back an ill timed smile as he scowled at you, the amusement however present in your eyes. There was a kind of joy in pushing him to his already strained limits, especially when you were already ready to pick a fight with him. 

“I didn’t think you remembered.” You said with a short shrug, your eyes flicking away from him as he pursed his lips. 

He wasn’t cross with you, exactly. It was more so the burden of the weight of Summerhall returning to his shoulders now that he was home. 

Maekar had many appointments scheduled with the people living in estates or settlements near and around Summerhall - Ser Duncan included. Although the knight’s appointment had nothing to do with pesky things like waste management or livestock farming, your husband still considered the young man’s detailed inquiries a hassle.

“Ugh.. this is what I get for allowing my son to tag along with that fucking hedge knight.” Maekar grumbled as he leant away from you, straightening his back as tipped his back to look at the ceiling.

You found the entire ordeal quite funny in a way, his agitation almost comical in the way he griped about it before even hearing any of his appointments out. 

“I think you’re overreacting.” You tutted as you slid your hands away from his back.

Maekar made a face at the comment, his brooding like a cloud over his head as you fixed the front of his surcoat. The silk under your fingertips was soft as you fixed the folds, the dark pattern catching in the low light of the wall torches. He stood still as you adjusted the pendant over his heart, the Valyrian steel cold even under your warm touch. 

“Will you come to my office after I have my appointment?” Maekar murmured as he reached up to cover your hand with his.

Your heart palpitated as you stared ahead at his chest, your fingers curling around the pendant under your hand instinctively. Did he know? He hadn’t given any signs that he knew, but Maekar had always been good at masking his complex feelings. 

“Of course, but, your meeting is after supper.. why not come to our chambers?” You said as you glanced up at him through your lashes. 

He wore a gentler expression that frightened you, his eyes soft and his lips set in a way so different from their usual frown. Your stomach churned seeing it, your heart pumping quickly as his other hand shifted to cup the side of your face. 

“I’ll be finishing up some paperwork then.” He replied simply, his head tipping down again. 

You nearly flinched when your foreheads touched, your lashes fluttering as you sucked in your breath. You thought perhaps you may faint from how fast your heart was pounding, your pulse racing as Maekar closed the gap between your mouths.

His eyes closed as he kissed you, and while he meant it to be loving, you could not bask in its affectionate expression. You instead were slow to reciprocate the action, your mouth shifting against his as your eyes remained open. 

It was like a barrier of glass between the two of you - a fine line between real and imaginary intimacy that either of you sat upon. 

Maekar loved you, and you knew it. You knew it well enough now to know he had loved you for far longer than you’d been his, and while any other woman not in your shoes might have swooned at the prospect, you did not. You did not feel what he felt for you. You were not moved the way he wanted you to be moved, nor were you inclined to him the way he was inclined to you. 

The only thing you felt towards Maekar when you were alone together, was the overwhelming want for him to tend to your desires. He was an object of lust and amusement to you, not love.

When the time for dinner came, you were still mulling over the idea in your mind. Love Maekar? It was possibly the worst idea to ever graze your brain.

You were picking at your food as you thought it over again, the vegetables in the soup set before you almost completely mush as you pressed your spoon into them. Aerella was chattering in her seat to your right, her small body shifting in her chair as she asked Egg different questions about his travels. 

“We were invited to the Water Gardens, you know.” Egg chirped as he set his goblet of apple cider down.

Maekar looked up from his bowl when his youngest son spoke, his eyes catching yours as you glanced across the table. You smiled instinctively, a warmth to your face as he returned your affectionate look.

“Did you visit them?” Maekar asked as he picked up his wine goblet. 

There was a kinder look in your husband’s eyes as he looked at Egg, a ghost of a smile on his face as his youngest son turned his attention towards him. He could be gentle when the time called for it, and you assumed that the time spent apart had made Maekar look inside of himself when it came to being a father. 

“I did, but Ser Duncan stayed behind.” Egg hummed as he glanced at the knight beside him.

Ser Duncan was eating, his eyes flicking up when Egg mentioned his name, a twinge of pink over his ears as he realized everyone at the table was looking at him. A month and a half at Summerhall, and the knight still felt like a giant elephant standing in the room.

“It’s a shame you could not visit the Water Gardens, Ser.” You spoke up from your end of the table, the attention shifting as you saved Ser Duncan from being put on the spot. 

“Aye’..” He responded to you quietly before looking back down at his bowl.

In all of the time the knight had spent in Summerhall, you still felt as though you hardly knew him. You were partly to blame for that you supposed, being more inclined to spend your time and attention on Maekar and the children, which was a given seeing that you were Lady of Summerhall. You did not mind your duties though, the efforts paid off by the peace that fell over the estate.

By the end of dinner things had softened into a lighthearted fun, the table breaking into its groups of girls and boys as the dishes from dinner were carted away. You watched them as they chattered together, filing off into the parlor as you waited for Maekar to meet you at the door.

His gait was slow when he approached you, a relaxed look on his face as he extended his arm for you. You took his arm naturally, tucking against him as you exited the Great Hall and began towards the staircase. Maekar was much more insistent about seeing you to and from areas in the estate when he was free, and while it would’ve aggravated you prior to this morning, the action was slightly endearing.

“What do you think of the hedge knight?” Maekar asked as he walked you down the second floor hallway towards your bed chambers, his bicep flexing under your cheek when you rested your head against it. 

“I think he’s quite the character, but Aegon seems to look up to him so I try not to judge any further.” You responded coolly, glancing up at Maekar as he squinted silently.

It was no secret that Maekar did not particularly like Duncan, and though you often tried to mediate when Maekar got angry with the knight, their relationship did not progress past a stiff tolerance. You found it somewhat amusing to a point, the constant moods you would find Maekar in being surprising each time it happened.

“I feel as though I should’ve tried harder to find Aegon a better knight to squire for.” Maekar grumbled as you approached the doors to your chambers, his free arm extending to push one of the wood doors open. 

“Perhaps.” You sighed, your grip on his forearm loosening as you stepped into your chambers. “But things are done now Maekar, there’s no point in ripping the boy away from his companion.”

Maekar did not respond after you said that, his brows pinching as you let go of his arm, his hand finding the small of your back as you walked in the direction of the bath chamber. You could smell the oils that were usually used in your bath water, the thought of a relaxing soak before seeing Maekar later being a nice one.

“I guess you’re right.” He huffed as you paused before the open bath door.

“Am I ever wrong?” You jested as you turned your head towards him, a coy smile on your lips as his hand shifted over your hip. 

“No.” Maekar murmured as he dipped his head towards you. 

He pressed a lingering kiss pressed against your lips when you did not respond, your head tipping back for the ease of the affectionate exchange, your heart thrumming when his hand slid up to your waist. Maekar held you there for a moment before he let you go, his face relaxed as you gave him a gentle smile.

As he left you stood there for a moment, your hands twitching at your sides as you watched his broad shoulders and white hair disappear beyond the door. Perhaps there was something in him that you could find some joy in, your stomach shifting as you turned back towards the bath door. 

You felt strange as his face lingered in your mind, your feet moving as you entered the bath chamber and began discarding your clothes. Did he always smell so nice? Was there always a tiny scar under his right eye? 

It was such a silly thing to ponder about, your face hot as you got into the bath, a frustration bubbling in your chest alongside a feeling you were afraid to acknowledge. If you went to Maekar about these thoughts, you were sure he might be able to sniff out the fact that you knew about letters, why else would you suddenly be reciprocating his affections?

The idea stewed in your head as you began scrubbing your body with the sponge and soap, your movements slow as you stared ahead at the other end of the tub. Maekar had given you a long embrace before breakfast earlier that morning, and while you thought you hadn’t wanted it then the thought of it now ignited something within you.

His touch was something you were used to by now, the embraces when in private, the kisses when neither of you wished to speak, even the teasing pinches were a delight amongst themselves. You wanted him in ways you were afraid to want, the very thought of expressing these things making you nervous. 

Maekar was your husband by right, and you were almost convinced that what you were feeling was a product of bewitching. There was no natural explanation for why you felt comfortable with him now, the underlying fear of being found with the letters being the only thing rationalizing anything. You were simply being familiar with him so that way you could preserve your image, it was the only way anything made sense. 

You sat in the bath until the water cooled, your skin prickling as you stood up out of the bath. He wanted you to see him in his study before bed, the fear you’d harbored since earlier that day suddenly upon you like the chill of Winter.

He’d not made any sign that he knew about your knowledge of the letters, and yet you feared the conversation you were going to have anyway. Maekar was always so observant, far more observant than you gave him credit for.

You dressed slowly just thinking about it, your hands paced like a sloth’s as you smoothed balm over your stomach. It had been almost five months since the break between you and Maekar had occurred, and while you two never spoke about what had happened that night, you were unsure was going to keep quiet about it forever.

You sighed heavily once you were done dressing, your nightgown cool against your skin as you tied the silk tie of your robe. Perhaps just to save your skin you would cave to your baser desires and express a want for him, a surefire way to distract him if he began a bit about you or the letters. You would handle the blow to your pride if it meant being able to buy yourself time from his great confrontation - which sounded almost childish if it wasn’t true. 

When you emerged from your bed chambers the rest of the estate seemed to be asleep, the halls quiet and the torches dimmed. You were almost nervous walking through the hall, your hands clammy as you head down in the direction of Maekar’s study, your footsteps labored as you looked between the walls and the floor.

What exactly did he want with you? Did he wish to simply see your face? Or was he just trying to get you alone so he could spring something on you? 

Maekar wasn’t usually the type to be sneaky about many things, but when he was you found it difficult to catch on in time. 

A heavy thump came to your heart as you came to a stop before the door to Maekar’s study, the wood an intimidating dark stain. You were almost fearful of what you would find in the study, so much so that you had gooseskin all over your arms, but you pushed it open anyways.

He was sitting at his desk, slouched over a piece of paper with his quill held loosely in his hand. His hand was planted over his forehead, his elbow resting on the surface of the desk as he glared down at the paper. He seemed stressed and frustrated, and it made you strangely sad. 

“You look as though someone’s kicked you down.” You said from the door, announcing your presence as you began towards him. 

Maekar looked up instantly, his always tired eyes following you as you rounded his desk and stood beside his chair. You cared for him enough to be worried about him, but it was nothing compared to what you often felt for Baelor. 

“I feel as though that may be the case, my love.” Maekar sighed, his body somewhat relaxing as he set his quill aside and leant back against the spine of his chair.

He cracked a smile as he looked up at you, your hand extending instinctively when he raised his. Maekar’s hand was rough though warm when he took yours into his, his thumb stroking over your knuckles as he breathed out a deep breath. You wished you could take his stresses away, then maybe things would be easier between the two of you.

“You should come to bed.” You said without much thought, your hand squeezing his as you stepped closer to his chair.

“I know but I should finish this.” Maekar breathed out, his brows furrowing for a moment as he titled his head back against the head of the chair.

The fire in the hearth was burning strongly despite how warm the night air had gotten as the year progressed into Spring, your goose flesh almost all gone as your body acclimated to the temperature within the study. It was a nice inviting warmth, one you often found radiating off of Maekar’s body when you sidled up against him in bed. 

Would he be quicker to come to bed if you expressed a desire to lie with him? You felt almost like a girl child again, daydreaming about the handsome stable boy whom you longed to snuggle with in the grass. 

“You need a break.” You continued, frowning down at him as you shifted your feet.

You didn’t know what you were doing when you got in front of him, your body between his legs as he looked up at you. The tiredness in his eyes must’ve compelled your pity, or why else would you be sliding your hands over his shoulders attempting to help him decompress? He was your husband, and his stresses very easily became yours if they were not quelled, and you did not want that. 

“Why not save the rest of it for tomorrow?” You asked as he let his head fall forward against your chest.

The sensation of him against you was not a new one, but the feelings within you were. You knew what care and pity were, especially when it came to him, but this was a different monster of fragility. You felt a softness for him that you almost did not want to recognize, the feeling almost emulating the yearning you felt for Baelor. 

You tucked it away inside of you before you could think of it too hard, your focus diverted onto Maekar again as his arms wrapped around you. The half embrace was pitiful when you considered the fact that Maekar always presented himself through his strength and pride, his face tucked between your breasts instead of meeting yours with his usual gloom. 

“It needs to be done by tonight.” He said as he shifted his head, his voice quiet and muffled as he brought you closer to him. 

You almost liked the clinginess, his touch so needy yet stubborn. You were carding your fingers through his hair before you knew it, your body half bent to receive him. He was a picture of stress, his shoulders tense as you shifted your right hand down from his hair and over the space between his shoulder blades.

“You’ll work yourself to death.” You murmured as you dipped your head down and lightly kissed the crown of his head.

He smelt of soap, the pinewood one with hints of mint. The scent made you pause for a moment, your nose pressed against his soft white hair as you held him against you. You liked this kind of intimacy with him, the quiet affectionate kind that you’d grown so used to with Baelor, the one that made you feel safe and overjoyed, and though it was different in some ways with Maekar, the feeling felt all the same. It was that feeling with Maekar that you disliked.

“Hmm.. perhaps in death I’ll finally find some peace and quiet.” He sighed slowly against you, his face shifting as his nose buried itself deeper against your half exposed flesh. 

You almost wanted to thump him over the head for saying that, your fingers digging into his hair. There was a frown on your face when you pulled your head back to look at him, his tired expression focused on yours as he propped his chin between the valley of your breasts.

“Maekar,” you grumbled as you shifted your hand to pinch his cheek, “I hate it when you say things like that.”

It was true, you despised it when he would mention his hypothetical deaths so simply to you. It was as if he didn’t understand the gravity of what it meant to you. Of course, you did not love him the way he must have wanted you to, but the thought of being widowed twice over was too much to bear entertaining. 

“I know you do.” Maekar muttered back, his face twitching as he slipped his hand away from your back and grabbed your wrist. 

“Then why do you do it?” You persisted with a frown, your brows pinching as he sighed. 

Maekar did not respond for a minute, his eyes closing slowly as he shifted his face back against your chest. You understood it, his masked lessening of patience, that was. You were testing his limits with the nagging and the elusiveness, and though you wanted so badly to come out with it and settle the scores of your relationship.. you knew he could not handle the truth.

“I didn’t think about it. I’m sorry.” He responded just as you lifted your sight from the top of his head.

Your fingers paused in his silver hair, the purple of his eyes drawing you in as he apologized to you. His face was tired but serious, the solemnness of his expression making you pause again.

If this were a moment with Baelor, the silence between you two would not be silence. It would instead be quiet, quiet in a way that meant to cradle your moment instead of stifle it, your voices low as you murmured to one another. 

If he was Baelor, you would’ve told him you loved him as he held you - but it wasn’t. 

“There’s no need to apologize, my love.” You eventually sighed back, your arms moving slowly as you cupped the sides of his face.

You hadn’t meant for the slip of the tongue to happen. You hadn’t meant to say that at all. You had meant to say something sharp back at him and you hadn’t. You called him your love because the words that gathered on the tip of your tongue were worse. Even if you spoke the phrase for some peace of mind, you doubted it would actually bring any at all.

“Aye’ but there is.” Maekar spoke back to you, his hands finding your hips.

“Well I do not wish to hear of it now.” You said. There was a subtle quick pumping that began in your chest as he looked at you, his fingers twitching as he adjusted his grip. 

There was a quiet that fell over you both after you said that, your eyes locking as his expression shifted minutely. Of course you didn’t want to hear the many things he wanted to apologize for - not when he was so close to hearing you declare something for him. 

You could recognize the flicker of expectation and hope in his eyes, the purple of his irises shifting in the candlelight. He was quite handsome like this, even with his hair in need of a crop and his beard in need of a groom. 

The attention to his grooming made you think of Baelor,  who had been handsome in anything he styled his hair and beard in. However, it was Maekar that suited a certain type of look that you could not recall seeing on Baelor before. A gruff one that you had come to find quite pleasing on your fourth prince.

You would never deny your husband’s convincing appearance of course, but you usually went through great hoops in order to not speak aloud how you perceived him. He could never know how you truly thought of him, for you feared what consequences that may fall upon you if you did. 

What would he expect from you? What would you have to be open about? What would change?

You kissed Maekar before you could think of it again, his eyes closing gently as he reciprocated your kiss. It was slow but short, your eyes half open as you pulled away from him. You had meant to be gentle in the pursuit of the affections, but you felt as though it was un-achievable in every aspect of your marriage. 

“What is it?” You murmured as Maekar’s hands slipped from your hips over the sides of your thighs. 

His touch was soft, but there was a firmness to it that you could never tire of. You liked it more when he was too tired to fake out the patient and gentle parts of your intimate life, his touch serving better in being demanding and confident.

“Nothing.. just sit on the desk for me.” He said after a bout of silence, his hands paused behind your knees. 

It was easy to tell what he wanted now that you were quickly approaching the one year mark of your union together, the nine months spent together having taught you a few valuable lessons. One being that Maekar could be easily ordered around like a hunting dog, and the other being that he could be as stubborn as a bull when he wanted to be. 

His stubbornness had done well in matching yours in the four and a half weeks you’d been avoiding him, and now you were unsure if it was a game you wanted to keep playing. 

It was the denial of him out loud was the easy part, it was the denial of him internally that made the decision so much harder. The absence of sex was more of a consequence than anything now, your relationship shifted on a different axis now that it did not revolve around the frequency of the fucks you were giving to Maekar. As time had gone on though, the sparseness of any relationship stimulation had worn you down. 

You sighed back to him wordlessly, your stomach flipping as you withdrew from him and grabbed the hem of your nightgown, pulling it up to your knees as you pushed your rump against the edge of the desk. You listened as you heard the quill roll off the desk and hit the rug on the floor, the blank letter paper he’d been staring at floating to the floor slowly. 

You focused on the purple of his irises first, the sight of that familiar expression bringing a jump back to your heart, your legs shifting as you moved back on the desk, your feet barely grazing the floor with your tip toes. As much as you loathed to admit it, actions like this felt natural with Maekar, perhaps even more natural than it had been with Baelor. You hated that thought, your jaw tightening as you slowly spread your legs.

A barely there smile grazed Maekar’s face as he shifted towards you in his seat, the space between the chair and the desk close enough for him to have enough room. You watched him as he shrugged off his open surcoat, the heavy wool slipping back behind him as he spread his palms over your calves. 

“You’re quiet.” He hummed as his hands slid up your legs, the chiffon fabric catching on his fingers as he pushed the nightwear up to your mid thigh.

“Was I meant to be saying something?” You said in response, your hand finding his wrist as you took the bunched up fabric of your nightgown from his hand. 

Maekar’s face twitched at the slight sharpness of your tone, his brow raising as you pulled your nightgown the rest of the way up. He was avoiding looking down at the junction between your thighs, you could tell by the twinge in his brows. It was rather funny how easy it had become in telling what he was feeling, the once closed off and brooding man now a puddle of emotional turmoil in your hands. 

“You’re just usually more outspoken.” Maekar murmured as he pulled your thigh over his shoulder, the ball of your foot moving against his back as you got comfortable.

“There’s nothing much to talk about.” You reminded him. “Unless you want me to.. I can find something to speak about.” 

His face shifted at the offer, a flicker of amusement passed through his eyes, his expression relaxing as he pressed his cheek against the inside of your thigh. He could be endearing without much trying, something you enjoyed quietly about him, the gentleness of his face almost certainly made just for you. 

“That would be nice, I like hearing your voice.” He muttered back as he slipped his hand under the fabric of your nightgown.  

“Oh you do? I suppose yours is nice as well.” You chuckled as he brushed his thumb over your hip.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He replied in equal jest, his lips quirking up. 

You watched him as the smile fell away from his mouth, his eyes still holding onto it as he moved his neck and tucked his face against your cunt. Your muscles jumped when his beard scratched against your thighs, his strong hands holding your legs still as he got comfortable. 

“Maekar.” You whispered into a quiver as he dragged his tongue up your folds, your hand finding his soft white hair when he swirled the tip of it around your clit. 

He grunted against your cunt in response to his name, your body helplessly shuddering when the masculine sound rattled your insides. He was good at this especially, the pleasing without receiving. 

You could not hold back the quiet sounds bubbling in your throat, your fingers tightening in Maekar’s hair as he teased the entrance of your cunt with the pad of his thumb. When was the last time you allowed yourself to feel him? To really feel him? 

You could no longer keep count of the amount of times you lay together, but the amount of times you had been vulnerable with him? You scarcely knew. 

“I like it when you keep your hair like this.” You said as Maekar dipped his finger into your cunt, your walls fluttering around the digit as he turned his mouth’s focus onto your clit.

Maekar liked it when you spoke to him through things like this, your voice pleasing as he listened to the hitches and cracks in it as he danced you into a brilliant orgasm. You supposed it was due to his wanting for you to share your heart with him. However, no matter how hard he tried, the closest thing to it that he was able to get out of you were the affections that rolled easily off your tongue for him. 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you how nice you looked in your new surcoat today.” You whined as he teased another finger into you. “I mean.. you always look so striking to me.” 

You were well aware that you were distracting yourself while simultaneously being slowly pulled apart by the seams, the internal battle against accepting Maekar into your heart being an impossible one. He was good to you, despite all odds. You hadn’t expected the gentleness in which he treated you, though you thought that maybe the way you treated him at times warranted a bit of return. 

“You’re so handsome, my love. You’re always so handsome.” You said half breathless, your fingers carding through Maekar’s hair gently as he scissored his fingers inside of you. 

It hurt in a way to speak to him so softly, the action and words all so new to you yet natural in the way that they came. You’d never directly spoken to Baelor like that when he went down on you like this, the absence of words when he decided to put your needs before his almost perfect at the time. You realized now that how you treated Maekar was different to how you treated Baelor. 

There was no need for you to talk to Baelor like this, his attitude and feelings always so mature and sound even for his age. It was often you who required the attentiveness in your relationship with Baelor, and now that he was gone you were giving it to his brother. 

“Maekar.” You moaned quietly when he curled his fingers inside of you. “My Maekar.. you’re always so good to me.” 

He groaned against you as you spoke to him, your arm shaking as you braced your free hand against the edge of the desk. You were far different with him than you’d been with Baelor, the barbs of your anger towards Maekar oftentimes relaxing enough for you to be gentle and almost loving towards him in recent times. Love was a feeling you found yourself teetering dangerously close to when it came to Maekar, his actions almost fooling you enough to sink into him entirely. Almost.

Whatever it was that he was playing at in trying to make you love him, you would not let it stand. The pleasure and affection was one thing, but this was another. You would never love him the way you loved Baelor, even if you could find it in yourself to fall over the edge of love.

“What do I do to deserve you hmm?” You murmured into the air of the room when Maekar began slowly pumping his fingers into your cunt. 

“Is it simply because you are mine and I am yours?” It came from your mouth easily like a well oiled cog doing its job, your palm sliding over the crown of his head gently.

Maekar liked to remind you of your vows now that he was home, a notion you’d gotten used to hearing in between whispers in bed and breaths shared between kissing. You knew those vows well, the words often on the forefront of your mind since you had discovered that letter. 

You moaned louder when Maekar fixed his mouth to suck gently on the bud he’d been giving attention to, his fingers flexing against themselves as he began in an effort to coax more noise from you. It worked as well as he knew it would, your breaths shaky as you shifted your other leg onto his free shoulder. 

The wood beneath your hand was being subjected to the pressure of your nails, your fingers tight around the edge as you bit back a desperate whine. You could feel a heat pricking at the back of your eyes as you attempted to focus on not finishing too quickly, a brilliance building in your belly as your fingers tightened around tufts of his hair again. 

“You know me so well, Maekar, my love.” You whimpered softly when he pulled his fingers from your cunt and slipped his tongue down your folds again. 

He did know you quite well, a fact that began comforting you more than unsettling you in recent weeks. It was things that he did for you that you supposed made you soften for him even quicker, like his insistent morning kisses and his late night embraces. You liked him, in simpler words, a thing in which you found yourself denying more than accepting despite yourself. 

And though liking Maekar was a far cry from loving him, you found yourself unable to admit to either. 

“Just like that, my dear.” You shuddered as your muscles jumped beneath your skin, your belly tightening as your thighs began closing around his head. 

You moaned his name louder when he dipped his tongue into your cunt, your legs tightening against either side of his head. Your breaths quickened as you tip-toed around your orgasm, the shallowness of the air in your lungs almost certainly the cause of your lightheadedness. 

“Maekar.” You whispered as your hips shifted against his face, his aquiline nose brushing against your clit as his tongue swirled about your cunt. 

“Maekar I..” You said through a light breath, air sucking into your lungs as you squeezed your thighs against his ears. 

You couldn’t trust yourself not to say it, the old habit unable to die even when you so desperately needed it to. You could not do it, you could not profess a love you knew you did not have for him into the air around you, though the words still gathered on your tongue. 

Perhaps if you kept your thighs tight over his ears he wouldn’t hear you? You had little hope in that. Instead you bit down on your bottom lip when your orgasm rushed through you like a river, a strangled whimper reverberating in your throat as your hands tightened around the things they gripped. 

The end of your climax simmered down gently as Maekar licked away the excess from your cunt. It was an action done without hesitation, your hand softening against his head as you relaxed your legs and flowered them away from his ears. 

You were petting his head when he pulled away from you, his face flushed a fine red as his eyes found yours. He was a picture of humor, your lips curling up into a soft smile as you giggled. 

“Come here.” You hummed softly as you slid your palm down over his cheek. 

Maekar stood when you commanded it, his body rising easily between your legs as you leant back against your hand. His hair was ruffled from where you’d held onto it, the feeble attempt at smoothing it down doing nothing but slicking it in a crooked direction. 

“You look so lovely.” Maekar murmured when he leant into you, his arms wrapping around you as he brushed his nose against your temple.

“I should hope so.” You jested, your arms slipping under his as he pulled you closer.

“I would never lie to you, my love.” He said as his nose brushed against yours, your lashes fluttering as your hands gathered the fabric of his tunic. 

“Of course not.” You replied in a whisper, your heart straining into a hard thump as you looked at him.

Surely he had to have known you did not believe him, the smile you wore unconvincing to even you. Maekar lied to you everyday without even meaning to, the proof of it stashed away in the drawer of your vanity. 

You kissed Maekar before you could dwell on the fact that your entire marriage felt like a lie, your lips meshing against his as he embraced you tightly. He was lying to you in every way possible, and regardless of it, you wanted him even more than you wished you did.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

By the second week of the second month of Maekar’s return, you could tell he was about to burst at the seams. He was agitated, and though you tried to lend a listening ear when he came clean about his woes, it wasn’t enough to completely help him. 

Daella sprained her wrist on the day that Maekar agreed to allow Ser Duncan to take her and Egg to the market. Apparently the princess had taken a fall from her palfrey attempting to get down from it herself. It was an excuse neither you or Maekar believed, but you didn’t have the time to question them. 

“Why is it that every time I allow that idiot hedge knight to take my children away from Summerhall, one of them comes back with something broken?” Maekar ranted as he paced around your chambers.

The maester had already set Daella’s wrist and given it a brace, an order of milk of the poppy already being delivered to her chambers alongside a light meal. But that wasn’t what Maekar was stressed about. 

You two had a dinner to attend at a nearby estate where Maekar was to discuss a few deals with the Lord Dondarrion and a lesser lord of the marches. He was in no shape to discuss anything with how high strung he had been all day, yet you were to go anyway.. 

“I think you’re allowing yourself to think too much of it, Maekar” You spoke up from where you stood near your vanity, the cool metal of your wedding ring warming in your palm as you put on your jewelry. 

He looked up from where he had paused near a window, the noon light spilling over him, his hair almost glowing in the sun. He had cut his hair and trimmed his beard, a fact that you’d been slightly devastated to hear about yesterday morning. Your Maekar was handsome as always, yes, but there was something so alluring about the scruffiness that became of him in his gaps between his grooming weeks. 

“I guess you’re right.” He huffed from where he stood, his hand resting on his hip as he stared at you.

Your face warmed as you caught his eye, his expression both appreciative of your figure, and much too close to loving than you allowed yourself to accept from him. You looked away just as quickly as he began to walk towards you, your fingers trembling as you brought your earring up to your ear.

When Maekar reached you, you tensed up, your shoulders stiffening when he pressed his chest to your back. You could feel his breath on your neck as he tucked his face against the crook between your shoulder and jaw, his nose nudging against your skin as his beard tickled you. The shiver that rippled through you was too quick for you to stop it, your skin prickling and your heart swelling as your body relaxed against him.

“If you’re so tired, why not cancel the dinner?” You hummed softly as you gently shifted your head.

Maekar groaned tiredly against you at the thought, a petulant huff muffled as he exhaled against your neck. He brought his hands to your waist silently, his breathing calm and even despite the fact that he was most likely stringing himself thin. 

“I should.” He sighed as he finally lifted his face away from your shoulder, a frown painted on his face as he looked at you through the vanity mirror. 

You smiled at him without much thought, a genuine expression pulling on your lips as you leant back against him. You didn’t know what it was, or what had gotten into you, but you had hardly felt much agitation towards Maekar since the night in the study. Perhaps he had flipped a switch inside of you when pleasuring you? It had been so long that you had forgotten just how good he could make you feel.

“Then why don’t you?” You asked quietly, butterflies dancing pleasantly in your stomach as he shifted his hands and stroked his palms over your belly. Your mind wandered immediately, thoughts swirling up in an instant as he slid his hands back up your torso. 

Would your womb be flowering with a babe again soon or late? Would the way that Maekar touched you become more purposeful? Would he stand behind you as he did now and cup his hands under your soon to be swelling belly, vying to feel your child shift and kick within you? 

That idea excited you more than you would ever admit, the thumping in your heart racketeering as you flushed. You would be delighted to have another babe regardless of the fact that it would be Maekar siring it and not Baelor, the excitement of a new life adding onto the family you loved was almost unforgettable. 

You would love your baby without a doubt, even if you couldn't love its father. A child should not be held accountable for the wrongdoings of their parent, or rather the refusal of one parent’s love for the other. 

“I’ve already sent word this morning that we still planned to attend.” Maekar groaned softly, his voice breaking through your thoughts.

“Oh, my love.” You said with a sympathetic frown, your head turning again so you could look at him over your shoulder.

He looked even more pitiful face to face, your brows upturning as you tipped your head back. You could not love him, but the gloominess he felt still hurt your heart. 

You said nothing as you thought it, and you said nothing again when you pursed your lips softly in response to the thought, your lashes fluttering as you coaxed him into a kiss. He took it without hesitation of course, the press of his lips to yours making your body tingle. 

There were no words exchanged when he broke the kiss, a bashful smile passed between you both before Maekar tipped his head back down and resumed pressing his lips to yours. You did not know how many times he had kissed your lips before his affections wandered, a smile pulling on your face again when his lips pressed down your jaw and began on your throat. 

You loved this attention. You loved being wanted. You loved being loved. You loved him loving you. 

“Maekar.” You murmured when his hands began to skate over the outsides of your thighs, his fingers pressing into the soft skin through the fabrics of your dress. 

“You’re so beautiful, my love.” He spoke as he propped his chin on your shoulder, your skin flushing hotter and hotter as you looked at him. 

“Don’t divert the attention from me scolding you.” You laughed shyly, a smile stretching on your face almost uncontrollably. 

“Divert the attention from what?” Maekar hummed, his fingers tickling over your sides as you shuddered against him. Gods, you would let him do anything to you right now if he asked it of you.

“Maekar, our dinner.” You tutted, a smile cracking on your face as he gave a borderline pout to you. 

You loved it when he was funny. It made him endearing. It made him soft. It made you like him. It made you desire him.

“Alright then, I will do whatever my lady asks of me.” Maekar said lowly against your neck, a twitch of a smile playing on his mouth as you grinned wider. 

If he meant it, you were half tempted to ask him to fuck you silly. You wanted it. You wanted him. You wanted him to hold you and kiss you while he fucked you so hard you practically saw stars, the idea bringing a flutter to both your heart and loins.

He wouldn’t even question it either if you spoke the desire aloud, the picture of a joy crossing his face as he ripped your clothes off making you smile even harder. It was hard to resist what your body practically needed.

“You make it hard to be stern with you.” You chuckled sweetly as you turned against him, your arms slipping around him when you were face to face.

“Do I?” Maekar questioned with a smug expression, his tongue slipping out between his lips to wet them. 

“Don’t be a tease.” You giggled, your teeth pressing down against your bottom lip as your noses brushed. 

“I would rather breathe water.” He snickered softly, his beard scratching your chin when he pressed his mouth back against yours. 

You kissed him back with an equal fervor you would’ve scolded yourself for if you could see yourself now six months ago. It felt right to do it, yet it weighed on your subconscious the way pressure built in a corked bottle. Someway, somehow, you would end up exploding, and where you went from there you didn’t know. 

Instead, you chose to focus on the present, quickly brushing away the threats of the worst possible scenarios. You were living in the now, not the future nor the past, even if just for the few moments you were spending letting Maekar kiss you breathless.

He drew a whine from your throat when pinched your hip, your hands grabbing at the fabric of his wool surcoat, your mouth parted as you let him slide his tongue against yours. He tasted like strawberry wine and the fruit from breakfast that he’d picked at that morning, your tongue chasing after his when he swirled it around your mouth. 

You felt as though when you were with Maekar that you two emulated a young couple infatuated with one another, your hands sliding over each other as Maekar pulled away occasionally and whispered words to you in High Valyrian. No doubt compliments knowing him, but the aspect of not understanding him made it somehow joyfully fun.

“You’re so very pretty when you smile, you know?” Maekar hummed after a spout of Valyrian tongue, a shy smile dancing over your face instinctively.

“Oh, am I?” You giggled, your hands sliding up his back as his forehead bumped against yours. 

“You are.” He said back, a sly smile sitting on his face as he cupped the cusp of your ass. 

He could draw you in like no one else could, a shy nervousness fluttering through you as you stared at him. Baelor had his ways of making you nervous and giddy, yes, but he was always so gentle about it, and that made you comfortable with it.

Maekar was different, he was more extreme when it came to teasing you, and while you attempted to remain indifferent to him at times, you enjoyed his attention. You enjoyed every bit of affection that he showered you in, regardless of the fact that you were still attempting to hate him at times. 

You smiled at Maekar again before tipping your head up, kissing him one last time before you shooed him off of you. 

“Go and see if they’ve pulled the carriage around.” You said with a faux sternness, Maekar’s face dramatically deflating as he nodded. 

Part of you was glad he was your husband, another part of you wondered if you had knocked your head and were imagining the lovely moments between you two.

Whatever it was, you silently hoped it would never end.

You made your way downstairs after an hour had passed, your hairstyle changed when you realized that Maekar had left a reddening bruise on the space of your neck between your throat and nape. You didn’t mind the love bite marks he gave you occasionally, for you had been guilty of the same, there were a plethora of times when you had nipped him too hard and found a purple spot on his pale skin the next morning. 

A consequence of your physical attraction, you told yourself. Nothing more.

Maekar was a handsome man, if you could see past his frowns and pox scars, which you found you did quite naturally. You had after all, thought of him as a striking man even when you two had first met, though you tried to refrain from thinking about that memory for too long. If you were in Maekar’s position, you weren’t sure what kind of woman you would’ve become watching a man you loved marry someone else. 

Part of you was certain that you wouldn’t have allowed that to happen, but Maekar wasn’t the best at communicating his feelings, much less when it came to love. 

“Just the one?” You hummed when you made it outside, the sky shifting into a deeper blue as the afternoon waned upon you. It would be dark by the time you returned from dinner, which meant everyone would be asleep. 

Perhaps this would be the day you finally caved into your baser desires? If that were true, you would need to settle your mind, who knew what you may say or do if you allowed your thoughts to be clouded. 

You could not slip up and let Maekar be convinced in the idea of your heart being his. Your heart was Baelor’s, and though there were parts of you that enjoyed Maekar’s presence and affection, it was not love. It would never be love. 

Maekar looked up from where he was speaking to the stage coach, his brows flexing as he frowned and looked back down at the smaller man. You forgot just how easy it was for Maekar’s temper to spoil, the privileges of speaking to him freely without consequence being a luxury only you owned.

You approached nonetheless, your hands clasped in front of your hips as the stage coach scurried away with Maekar’s dismissal, your husband’s twisted countenance turning towards you. He looked frustrated rather than angry, his brows pinching as he straightened his back and closed the few paces between you two. 

“Sometimes I wish I had a competent son to attend these dinners for me.” He grumbled as he shifted past you, his hand bracing on the door of the carriage as he gestured for you to get in.

“Maekar..” You sighed as you got into the carriage, your body against the side wall as he climbed in after you, the latch sliding into place easily before he sat down beside you.

“What?” Maekar huffed, his large hand coming to rest on your knee as he slouched against the cushioned seats.

“You shouldn’t speak so ill of your sons, they’re doing the best they can.” You murmured, your hand stretching over his as you glanced at him.

The words felt wrong in your mouth, and you were certain that even Maekar knew you were wrong about what you had said. He and his son, Daeron, hadn’t been on the best terms for a while, perhaps long before you ever even married into the Targaryen family originally. This was something you simply learned to ignore, the issue of his eldest son’s drinking and whoring being an issue you knew you had no grounds to speak on.

Perhaps it was because you hardly knew the man, or because your judgement was naive due to being around Baelor and his perfect sons for too long. 

That was a sore subject for Maekar, and while you would never outright admit to holding your new husband and his family to a higher standard because of what you’d experienced with Baelor, it was true. 

“If the best he can do is the failure that he is now, I’m afraid to find out what his worst is.” Maekar sighed, his head shaking lightly as he leant against you.

You remained silent after that, a soft breath escaping your throat as you got comfortable against Maekar. You could feel his muscles flex and relax as you leant your cheek against his shoulder, a smile pulling on your lips as you tucked against him. 

Maekar was yours. He was yours, and you could do whatever you wanted with him and to him.

That was a fact of life you had struggled to grasp since you had found it out. How on earth were you meant to live with that? How could you continue to live a lie that was your marriage - that was both of your marriages?

Baelor was perfect to you, yes, and the life he had given to you was extraordinary, but he had lied to you all the same. You found it difficult to leave him without fault, but to place blame on him hurt you more. It was why you had found it difficult to give in fully to Maekar’s love, his constant affections leaving you more skeptical than comforted when your days came to their close.

You knew you had been difficult, but if he loved you like he had told Baelor so, then why hadn’t he said anything in the beginning? Why hadn’t he been gentler? Why hadn’t he allowed you to sit with the information coming from him, and not a paper hidden in secret?

You knew you violated his privacy, and yet you were the one being violated in truth. Both of your husbands had kept these secrets from you amongst themselves, and you felt a certain sense of betrayal and anger that you knew you could not voice. 

Maekar sighed beside you, his body relaxing against yours as your brows pinched and you turned your face towards the barred carriage window. You could’ve shoved him off of you. You could’ve decided to drop what you knew on him now as you headed to a political dinner, leaving him unable to truly release all of his feelings. But you didn’t. 

He shifted his temple against the crown of your head, and the scent of his soap and cologne hit your nose like a gentle comfort. You tucked yourself against him slowly as his opposite arm shifted over your lap, a silent moment falling over the both of you as the carriage bumbled down the road. 

By the time you arrived at the estate the sky had begun to dim, an orange hue spilling over the tops of the darkening clouds. It was going to rain, you could smell the petrichor in the air. 

“Did a bird catch your eye?” Maekar asked beside you as he stepped out of the carriage, his eyelids low as he glanced up at the sky.

You could hear the exhaustion in his voice, his face droll as you glanced at him. You pitied him, which was a generous feeling when you considered how angry the former you would’ve been with him. 

Perhaps you were finally worn down. Or maybe you had no more great anger left in you since your loss. You didn’t know exactly, but you seldom wished to figure it out.

“Mm yes, there are swans.” You replied as you looked back at the sky, a family of trumpeter swans soaring over you like flower petals in the sky.

Maekar wrapped his arm around you as you looked at the sky, your body jumping minutely as he pulled you against his side, his nose pressing against your hair as you turned your cheek against his chest. He was very warm, his skin still cooling off in the fresh evening air. 

You had embraced him an extraordinary number of times within the past few weeks he’d been home, the familiarity of his arms around you and yours around him like a habit to you now. He was like a cat almost, drawing you in with his gruff and brooding face, and surprising you with his gentle and cuddly nature. You liked it. You liked him.

“Let’s hope this dinner won’t last too long, I’d much rather sleep in my own bed tonight than in some stranger's home.” Maekar murmured as you returned his half embrace, your eyes feeling heavy as you relaxed. 

“Let’s hope.” You replied quietly, nodding your head gently against his chest.

You both stood there for a while until the valet came to fetch you, the plump red faced middle aged man staring down at the ground as he welcomed you to the Blackberry Estate. The name almost drew a childish giggle out of you, Maekar’s hand squeezing your bicep gently reminding you to keep a straight face - though you were sure he had found it a bit amusing as well. 

“Right this way, your Graces.” The valet spoke, leading you both into the first hall of the estate.

It was grand in its own way, almost similar to Summerhall in its architecture, which made sense considering the climate. The limewash hue drew your eyes as you continued further into the estate, the furniture mostly wood and seldom decorated extravagantly. This made sense when you considered that the handful of the estates and castles built around the river that ran through your properties were mostly secondary living spaces.

For a moment you wondered how this resonated with Maekar, your eyes flicking towards him as he walked beside you. 

Summerhall was a tertiary area for the Crown, given to Maekar for his own household when his other brothers proved to be more comfortable at court. You knew in a way it stung him, though the castle you resided in was more than generous in its gift. 

Thoughts like that often reminded you that Maekar was still struggling with his insecurities - the feelings of being last. 

You knew his pride had been wounded when he hadn’t been chosen for Hand of the King, and even now the sights of the estate seemed to rile him up again. It was a natural emotion for him, you had learned this through the time you had spent with him.

Baelor could get angry too, you had seen it a handful of times in your marriage to him, but it was nothing compared to the way Maekar got angry. Maekar got angry in ways far more aggressive than you had seen Baelor get. 

You would not deny the fact that Baelor likely hid his intense bouts of anger away from you, for he had not earned the nickname of ‘The Hammer’ for nothing. You knew the kind of man he was - gentle and patient until the time called for him not to be. Of course that was the side of him you knew best, his caring and kind nature that had shaped his children and the royal court massively. However, as all couples did, you had spats, and while you had faced some of Baelor’s frustrated temper, you had never fully seen his real anger. 

It was different with Maekar, as all things were, especially his temper. He had mellowed out in his time home from Kingslanding, which you knew by the fact that his affection and minor happiness had increased with you, but it was not total. He still got angry, and though you had yet to be on the complete receiving end of it, you had witnessed it enough to be timid of it. 

Daeron was one of the main examples of Maekar’s explosive nature that you had witnessed before, the times the boy got in trouble being enough to make you a bit scared of your own husband. Even if you didn’t add in the times you knew Maekar had come to bed late from giving his son a footwhipping, his words were enough to give you the memo.

“Does he ever stop fucking talking?” Maekar grumbled into your ear when he pushed your chair in at the long table set up in the Grand Hall.

You two were in the middle of your tour of the estate when a servant had arrived to inform the valet that the Lord of the estate was ready to entertain you two, and since then, there had yet to be any silence. 

“So I said to him, are you sure you were not trying the wrong hole?” Lord Bayard said from the end of the table, grinning wide as the duck grease smeared across his lips gleamed in the candlelight.

He was trying to make Maekar laugh, you could tell from the way he was looking at him, an expectant and hard trying look in his eye. It was a look you were used to seeing by now from all your time spent amongst the royal family. People had scarcely ceased in attempting to be on the good side of your husbands - even you were not spared from the second hand embarrassment of people trying too hard at being your familiar.

“Hmm, I guess in the dark those crevices can feel eerily similar.” Maekar replied dryly, his brow raised slightly as you cast him a disapproving look.

Sex jokes at the dinner table - it was both not unfamiliar to you, and yet surprising to hear coming from your husband’s lips. 

Baelor never entertained any lewd jokes when you were in his presence, though you wouldn’t be surprised if he participated in them when in the company of his brothers or friends. He found it distasteful and insulting on your behalf, and while you were always flattered at that fact, it was not a feeling you had felt in a long time. 

Maekar had done many things for you, yes, but you hadn’t felt flattered by him truly. You often felt like that was your fault for not accepting him wholly. He was after all an extremely hard man to accept plainly in all of his insecurities and feelings, and you felt awful for it as you spent more time with him. 

“You know I should like to be the first to tell you that the whole of the realm has had an eye on our castles here in the Marches.” Lord Bayard hummed as the conversation died down, his puffy face and beady eyes focusing on you as you swallowed down a spoonful of the potato mash that was sitting on your plate.

Your body flushed a warm wave as you looked up at the plump lord sitting at the end of the table, his red cheeks shifting as he grinned at you. An uncanny feeling shuddered through your chest as you stared at him, your eyes flicking away towards the closest thing available, his young wife who looked upon you with an expression torn between both envy and sadness. 

“May I ask why that is?” You coughed after an awkward silence, your face shifting as you looked back at Lord Bayard.

He was an ugly man, you could say this with certainty for he was almost completely bald and was constantly slick with sweat like he’d been out in the sun for hours at a time. His face was not complimentary either, with his cheeks a bright red and his face scarred by boils that Maekar’s pox scars paled in comparison to. 

However, Lady Bayard was stark in her contrast to her husband, she was fair and her beauty was delicate, her hair a deep brown and her eyes a soft blue grey. Her face and waist were slim, and her bust was small, though the corset she wore was laced so tight and padded so much that you were sure the style of it was no doubt a reflection of what her pig of a husband wanted and not her. The poor girl. She couldn’t have been any older than twenty-two. 

“Well the entirety of the realm suspects that a new Targaryen babe may be conceived now that the Prince of Summerhall has returned to his household.” Lord Bayard said loudly with a laugh and a smile.

Your stomach soured when he said it, and your face fell flat as you looked down at your food again. You could hear Maekar’s breathing sharpen and his chair creak as he sat up straighter, and though you were afraid of looking up to meet his eyes, you could tell that he was most likely frowning. 

You two hadn’t truly spoken about the baby or the pregnancy since he’d returned from Kingslanding, the subject having taken up a place on the shelf of the things you two refused to acknowledge. You decided internally that you two hadn’t spoken about it because the terms and circumstances of the conception, the pregnancy, the baby, and the miscarriage were all plain in their facts. 

Maekar had gotten you pregnant and you had been unknowingly carrying his baby until you miscarried - it was simple in understanding, and you were okay with that. 

“Thank you for the useless and unnecessary information Lord Bayard, is that all you have called us here to say? Or do you mean to inform me about what frivolous things you’ve asked me here for?” Maekar spoke up when you remained silent, his voice carrying across the table sternly. 

You looked up when he spoke, watching his eyebrows crease as he stared at Lord Bayard, his lips flat in a line as he set his fists upon the table. He was upset. He was angry. He was mad, for you. He looked like he wanted to wring Lord Bayard’s neck, and you liked it. 

You liked him. 

Lord Bayard stuttered and fumbled over his words as he looked between you and Maekar, his face reddening again as sweat built upon his brow. If this was all that he summoned you here for, you were sure that Maekar was going to have a few more choice words with him before you left.

Your eyes found Lady Bayard’s again as her husband explained in haste the issues with thieves along the trade routes between Westoros and Dorne, her eyes trained on yours already. She looked like she wanted to laugh, a sparkling humor behind her calm and youthful eyes as she quirked a tiny smile at you.  

You wanted to say something. You wanted to tell her that all she had to do was wait her fat old husband out, and then she would be free once he died. You wanted to tell her all of those things, and yet all you did was exchange her a smile. 

It was raining by the time your visit concluded, the sky dark and the ground wet as water drizzled over the land. It wasn’t heavy enough to keep the carriage from returning home, thus you stood underneath the protection of an umbrella as the stable boys brought it around.

“Remind me to turn down the next invitation Lord Bayard sends me.” Maekar sighed beside you, his hand resting on your shoulder as you leant against his side. 

You giggled quietly in response, your body warm as he gave you a soft squeeze. He was avoiding mentioning what had happened at dinner, you could tell by the tone of his voice. He always got so quiet when the topic of the babe came up, and you couldn’t blame him for it.

“I shall.” You said softly, your legs shifting as you beckoned him to pull you closer.

The inside of the carriage was even warmer than Maekar’s body had been when it was finally brought around, though you still snuggled up beside him when you two got in. He was quiet and relaxed, a perfect combination for a soft man to rest against.

“I thought you were going to hit Lord Bayard at dinner.” You hummed fifteen minutes into the carriage ride, the silence having gone on long enough before you were ready to speak again.

Maekar stiffened up a little against you, his chest heaving as he looked out the window of the carriage. You couldn’t see his eyes from where you were, but you were certain they must’ve been hazy, his eyes often turning to fog when his emotions swelled into something fragile. 

“I wanted to.” He said after a while, his hands curling into fists upon his thighs as he sighed out harshly. 

“Maekar.” You whispered as you propped your cheek against his shoulder, his bicep flexing as you reached up to stroke it. 

You wanted to hold him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to love him the way you had loved Baelor, and you hated yourself for wanting it all.

“Look at me.” You said when he looked down at his lap, your hand lifting away from his arm to touch his chin, your finger hooking under his jaw as you tipped his face towards you.

He was even more handsome in the low light of the moon, and the quick way the rain pelted against the carriage window felt almost akin to the way your heart was beating. He was already yours and yet you wanted him to so badly be yours in a way you couldn’t explain.

“He shouldn’t have said anything.” Maekar grumbled, his hand coming up to your wrist as he shifted his face to press your palm to his cheek.

“I know, my love, but what’s said is said.” You said softly as you looked at him, your eyes following his lips as he kissed your hand.

Maekar was so effortlessly romantic sometimes, and you so badly wanted to embrace it entirely, but something held you back from it. Something held you back from loving him, and you weren’t yet sure if you could confront it yet. 

“You’re so very brave.” You laughed as he pressed his lips to the tips of your fingers.

“Am I?” He asked back, his lips curling up into a smile. 

“Very much so.” You replied, your lashes fluttering as he tipped his head down wordlessly. 

Maekar kissed you without much concern for preparing you for it, your surprise palpable as you reciprocated it gently. Did he always kiss this way? He had practically kissed your lips off hours before and yet it felt different now. It felt sweeter and more pleasant than all the times before, which was saying a lot considering you always enjoyed his affections.

Perhaps it was the air surrounding you both that made you feel as though the affection was more tender, or maybe it was the way he hadn’t yet let go of your hand, you weren’t entirely sure, but it scared you.

You were scared of giving in. You were scared of loving him, and for that you knew you must’ve been selfish. 

Maekar didn’t budge when your free hand drifted across his lap while you kissed him back, his mouth moving firm against yours when you made the initiative to nip at his lip. He could be playful when the time called for it, but that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted him to give into you before you gave into him, though you already knew he was yours, you wanted to hear it from his own lips. 

His body jumped under your hand when you palmed him through his breeches, a quiet groan reverberating in his throat as his cockstand strained against the fabrics of his clothes. It had been a while since you’d felt it let alone seen it, and while you had been depriving the both of you out of a petty act of revenge, you felt as though the childish get back was at its wits end. 

You wanted him just as he’d made it clear over the past few weeks that he’d wanted you, and for that you felt strangely triumphant and entitled. 

His cock came out easily from the prison of his breeches when you tugged them open, his skin searing hot against your hand as you gave him a firm tug. There was already precum dribbling down his shaft, which was unsurprising considering the fact that you two hadn’t really touched one another in five months. 

That fact was a miserable one, you realized that now as you dragged the pad of your thumb around the tip of Maekar’s cock, a guttural grunt rattling from his chest into your throat as his lips faltered against yours. 

You were jerking him off before either of you could process what exactly you wanted from this situation, your wrist moving effortlessly as Maekar moaned against your neck. It was strangely intimate now, his face tucked against your shoulder as you ghosted your fingertips up the backside of his cock. 

You tried not to think of Baelor as you breathed against Maekar’s ear, your lashes batting as you focused on the patterns of the fabric of Maekar’s surcoat. 

“Are you almost there, my love?” You whispered into his ear when his cock twitched in your hand, his breathing ragged as you adjusted the languid pace of your wrist to a more purposeful one. 

He didn’t respond through words, a series of hard breaths and a low groan being enough to tell you where he was - which was on the precipice of finishing. 

The orgasm he gave you was a swift one, which you understood to be a well deserved one when he moaned and cum spurt all over your palm in thick ropes. It was almost like he’d been depriving himself entirely. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Maekar said with a shudder when you finished jerking him, your hand wet and sticky as you pulled it away to observe under the soft light of the moon.

You wanted him. You wanted Maekar more than anything in the world, and yet you found it so hard to communicate it. 

“You’re so handsome, my dear.” Was the first thing you said when you looked at him, your eyes trained on his as you sat back and watched him tuck his cock back into his breeches.

Maekar did not respond, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips as he leant back against the cushioned spine of the bench. 

You’d forgotten just how much you enjoyed teasing Maekar this way, his expressions and gestures of gratitude and embarrassment almost enough to make you smile. Almost.

“Why did you do that?” Maekar asked when you began cleaning his release from your palm. 

The question made you pause for a second, your minuscule movements with the handkerchief in your other hand stopping. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just leave him alone? Why didn’t you just let him kiss you and let it be that? 

“Do I need to have a reason?” You hummed back as you glanced at him. 

There was an expectant gaze in his eye, one you’d grown accustomed to seeing since his return. An expression of love, longing, and loneliness, gone unfixed.

He wanted you to say something more. He wanted you to be the first to acknowledge the strange tension between the both of you.. and yet you refused to do so.

“Not necessarily.” He replied, a minute disappointment flickering across his face as he stared at you.

You didn’t say anything after that, your gaze falling back onto your hand as you slowly wiped his seed from your skin. What exactly were you meant to say? Were you meant to melt and cry and profess something you weren’t even sure of yourself? Couldn’t you just do things because you felt like it? Because you wanted to please him, and feel his skin shiver under your touch, and hear his breath shudder in his chest?

You wanted to explore him and learn every detail of him, but you didn’t know if you could do that without the constant pressures of his expectations - the constant pressures of his yearning for you to love him. 

“I wanted to take care of you, that’s not a crime, is it?” You finally spoke once your palm was clean, the soiled handkerchief heavy in your hand.

Maekar breathed out heavily like he’d been holding his breath, his body shifting beside you as he crept away. He was disappointed by your lack of affectionate aftercare and simultaneously frustrated by your inability to confront him - you could feel it. 

“No.” He said flatly.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Maekar shifted in the days following the encounter in the carriage. He was colder. He was meaner. You in fact could hardly believe his new attitude towards you. It was like he had snapped beneath the pressure of your unwillingness to bend over backwards for him, and for that you felt just as scorned.

It wasn’t like you wanted to feel this way towards him, but Maekar had always had his way of getting under your skin. It was like he knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes, and that thought scared you.

“You’re being unreasonable.” You exhaled as you rubbed your eye, the quiet sound of fabric rustling all around you filling your senses eagerly.

It was early, very very early, so early in fact, the sun had yet to rise over the sky, your entire quarters lit up by only the hearth and the faint blue light from outside the window. You didn’t have to be up for another two hours, and yet you were awake in bed as you listened to Maekar get dressed.

Neither of you had to be up this early, and yet he was insistent on getting up to get an early start on the paperwork in his office. You both knew the excuse was a lame one, and yet as you lifted your head you spotted him shrugging his tunic on. 

“Maekar.” You called from where you lay, your arms flopping on either side of your body. 

He’d been ignoring your voice for exactly ten minutes now, his back to you as he moved to grab his surcoat. He’d been acting like this for at least five days now - the cold shoulder, the silent treatment, the rolling his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking, the complete works. 

He was acting like you.

“Maekar.” You said louder, a frown pulling on your face as you pushed yourself up on your elbows.

Was he really still upset about what had happened in the carriage? For crying out loud, you quite literally pleasured him without even needing to be cued. You felt like you were going insane. Was this what the absence of sex and a lack of faked words of love did to a marriage? You could hardly believe that this was going to be the rest of your life.

“My love, please.” You huffed again, glaring at his back as he rolled his shoulders and fixed his cuffs. 

Were you going to have to seduce him to one up him? That truly felt like the only option you hadn’t exhausted yet, but you were too stubborn to give in yet. 

“It’s freezing, Maekar, can you please come back to bed?” You were on the borderline of whining now, your brows set as you stared ahead. 

“Lie closer to the hearth if it's that cold.” His voice was gruff with sleep still, his body unmoving as he spoke.

You absolutely wanted to throttle him now, his flat voice somehow more infuriating than his more purposeful aggressive one. How dare he speak to you that way. How dare he feel hurt because you refused to be soft for him. 

“That is not going to do anything to help.” You grumbled as you glanced at the dim fire, “Will you at least kiss me before you go?”

You were aware of the desperation in the request, but to be frank, you didn’t care much for propriety anymore. You wanted him to love you. You wanted him to adore you. You wanted him to do everything according to your whims - even if you could hardly bear to do the same for him.

Maekar glanced over his shoulder at your words immediately, and you felt your heart stutter as you gave him a meek smile. Even if you felt like you could slap him a thousand times, he still managed to make you quite nervous. When his body moved towards the bed, you thought you might evaporate, your uncanny confidence suddenly lost when he bent over the side of the featherbed. 

His figure was blocking the light from the hearth now, your view of the rest of the quarters now suddenly even dimmer as he leant down, a rigid look on his face as he stared at you. Was he waiting for you to say something? Was he waiting for you to kiss him first?

Maekar must not have known you that well if he thought he was going to force your hand that easily, a cheeky look blooming on your face as you outstretched your hands and cupped his face. His skin wasn’t completely smooth, which you had learned that you did not mind the feeling of over the past almost ten months. Maekar himself wasn't exactly a soft man, but he had his moments of weakness, and you knew you couldn’t afford to allow that to slip away from your fingers.

You smiled at him again, your expression sweet as you pulled his face closer to yours. Maekar made the initiative before you could, which was something you knew he couldn’t resist not doing when it came to affection between the two of you. His starvation of touch would be comical if it didn’t almost always backfire on you. You resisted a laugh at that as you reciprocated his kiss, your hands sliding over his shoulders as you pulled him as close as could be without raising his suspicions. 

Part of you was certain he had already caught on to your game with him, another part of you hoped he would remain oblivious. If he didn’t know about what you knew, then perhaps you could smooth over this bump in the road without much effort. If he did find out however, you feared that your relationship would come crashing down.

“I will see you later.” Maekar said with a grunt as he pulled away from you, his expression torn as he straightened up and stared down at where you lay.

You could only hope he would realize that what he was doing was idiotic, for you were unsure just how long you would hold out without snapping. 

The affection and attention was delightful afterall, and though you were sure that you did not love him, his love for you was too good of a thing to let go of now. 

“Likewise.” You said as Maekar turned his back to you, your eyes trained on his broad shoulders as he flexed them and gave a long monotone huff in response.

Would you really need to provoke him just to generate an outward response in him? You felt like a girl of eight and ten again just considering it, a kind of giddiness that you had not felt since you’d first wed Baelor filling you. 

You shuddered at the thought of being exhilarated about Maekar, your skin prickling with gooseflesh as you looked back up at the ceiling of your chambers. 

You could like him. You could like the softness of his hair and the imperfections of his skin. You could like the gruffness of his voice and maybe even the roughness of his words. You could like his face, everywhere from his ears to his nose. You could even like his attitude, regardless of the fact that it frustrated you more times than you found it endearing. 

But what you could not do, was love him, so you were content with liking him.​​

That thought remained within your mind as the minutes of the day swirled past you, your mind caught in a loop as your thoughts wandered over the ideas of Maekar.

“I think it’s you who is the stubborn one.” Mya chuckled over her cup of tea as you mulled over the letter you were writing.

You’d gotten as far as writing your name and beginning a sentence with ‘The’ before your ideas went completely blank. All you could truly think about was how you felt about Maekar, and it scared you just how fixated your mind seemed to be on him.

He was your husband, yes, but why would that give you cause to feel such a way about him? 

Maekar was simply a man you had married. You didn’t love him, and while you harbored some casual affections for him, you didn’t see why it stuck with you so much. 

“You always say that.” You grumbled back as you stuck your quill back into the ink pot.

Mya had it all wrong. Maekar was the one making things difficult, he was the one causing you to react this way. After all of the things he had put you through, you thought that you at least deserved to be angry with him. 

“Because it’s true. Why are you being so combative anyways, you and I both know that man loves you.” Mya sighed as she set her teacup down, her face scrunching up when you kicked her foot beneath the table.

You’d told her about the letters, obviously, and you realized now that that was one of the worst decisions you had ever made. 

“You shouldn’t say that so loud.” You hissed back at her, your brows furrowing as you glanced around the otherwise empty parlour. “Besides, just because he thinks he loves me, doesn’t mean I have to reciprocate it.”

Mya gave you a flat look when you said that, the knowing glint in her eye almost entirely intimidating. You hated it when it seemed like she knew more about yourself than you did. It was like you were being dissected without having given the consent to. 

“What?” You huffed at her, your lips pulled into a frown as you sat back in your chair.

“Nothing, I just think it’s a little pathetic that you won’t admit how you feel about him.” Mya tsked, her head tilting in a soft shake as your face flushed.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about, I don’t feel any way about him.” You retorted as your face went hot, your body alight with a nervous warmth. “He’s my husband and I care about him on the level I’m expected to and that's all.”

Your companion grinned in your face as you sputtered, your heart racing in your chest as you looked out at the window. The day was rolling into dusk now, the hues in the sky a romantic purple that was almost akin to the shade of Maekar’s eyes. Damn him and his Targaryen traits, it was hard to escape anything that vaguely reminded you of him.

“If you don’t stop overcompensating you’re going to end up actually hating each other you know.” Mya continued as you stared out the window. 

She wasn’t entirely wrong, you knew you would end up ruining what little there was between you two if you didn’t put an end to your so-called spat. However, you would rather it be Maekar that admitted he was wrong before you ever admitted to having fault in your petty conflict.

“How do you know that’s not exactly what I want?” You huffed after a while, your gaze shifting back onto Mya as she finished off the last of her tea.

“Because I know you well enough to know that’s exactly what you don’t want.” Mya finished, her brows raising towards you before she stood up from her chair and began piling your dishes onto the silver platter. 

You did not respond to her observation at all, your body half-frozen as you watched her tidy up and then walk away, your body still running a mile a minute in the efforts to catch up to your mind. You didn’t love Maekar, no, but you liked him enough to consider that what she had said was partially true. 

The idea stewed within you as you got dressed for supper later that night, your feet moving at a snail’s pace as you trudged down the steps of the second floor. You were partially hoping you would suddenly feel too sick to join the table for dinner, but as you reached the first floor, the only thing reacting within you was the nervousness of seeing Maekar’s face.

You’d not seen him at all since that morning, his excuse of needing to focus on his work within his study having obviously taken up all of the time in his day. This was something you should’ve been at least happy about being able to throw back at Maekar’s face, but you were too afraid to even think about him now. 

You were too afraid to imagine what may happen once you returned to your chambers together. Would you both explode and tear each other to shreds in anger? Or would you both take some kind of silent resignation towards the arrangement between you both?

Part you hoped that Maekar would at least try for you, as his cues and efforts to reignite the sexual and romantic flame between the both of you had failed with your unwillingness to try. 

Could you really afford to live the rest of your days out with a man whom you turned away in the efforts of preserving the memories of another? 

No.

“I’ve never actually seen a beaver dam up close before.” Ser Duncan chirped enthusiastically towards the rest of the table, a kind smile on his face as he recounted the exploration that he and Egg took up the nearby river earlier that day. 

“It was amazing.” Egg added on, a bright look in his eyes as he glanced around.  

Rhae, Aerella, and Daella had taken to enjoying their dinner in the parlour room where they could discuss Daella’s betrothal to the son of Lord Tarth, so the table seemed so much emptier than you had expected it to be. Daeron was picking at his food quietly, Egg and Dunk were recounting the things they had seen, and you and Maekar were avoiding eye contact with each other. 

“It sounds like quite the sight.” You breathed out as you fidgeted with the handle of your fork. 

“It was.” Ser Dunk hummed back, his tanned cheeks pink as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Did you know, muña, that beavers have to be very careful about how they build their dams?” Egg said, his mouth halfway full of mashed potatoes as he diverted his attention from his plate to you. “If they don’t do things correctly then the whole dam could burst and flood the river entirely.”

You could do nothing but smile and nod at that fact, your eyes drifting over Maekar’s figure as he stabbed at his steak. He’d at least eaten half of it, or else you would’ve worried that he somehow got sick in the hours you were apart.

“What do you think, kepa? Would you like us to show you the dam?” Egg asked after swallowing his portion of mashed potatoes. 

“It sounds interesting, but perhaps tomorrow, I’m going to retire to my chambers.” Maekar replied monotonously and thought out, which was unlike him, his expression hidden as he set his napkin onto the table and rose from his seat.

You watched him in complete astonishment as he exited the Great Hall with a slump to his shoulders, his fists wound as he disappeared beyond the threshold of the door. 

“I suppose that means I will retire as well.” You spoke up once you looked away from the doorway, your hands already moving to set your napkin on the table. “Good night, please don’t leave each other at the table alone.”

You were already scuttling up the stairs by the time you heard the doors to your chambers slam shut, the echo carrying down the hall as you paused at the top of the steps. Was he angry? You knew your chamber doors were heavy and made a noise when closing, but the sound of it seemed like they had been slammed shut. Your heart was thumping as you continued down the hall, your heartbeat sounding in your ears as you wiped your clammy hands down the fabrics of your skirts.

He was angry about something, you could practically feel it as you stood outside the doors of your own chambers. 

Mya had given you the unsolicited advice at tea time of attempting to mend things sensually, and while that idea sounded somewhat believable at the time that it had been given, you now felt as though it were the worst thing you could do. He was very obviously upset with you, or else he would’ve voiced something at dinner, and you were almost petrified of confronting him.

Had he found his things? Had someone eavesdropped and told him what you and Mya were discussing? The list could go on forever, but you settled on assuming that he was angry about the drama between the both of you and you pushed open the doors to your chamber without a second thought. 

“Maekar?” Your voice echoed out as you stepped into the threshold of your chambers, your shoes making a dull sound on the carpet runner in front of the doors. 

Whoever had tidied up your chambers had lit jasmine incense, you could smell it with every breath you took, your heart thrumming as you glanced around the room. You could practically see the tension rolling off Maekar in waves when you spotted him near his writing desk, his body half hunched over as he leant forward with his hands on the surface of the table.

“Is there something wrong, my love? Are you unwell?” You stuttered out as you walked towards him, your figure pausing some steps away from him as he adjusted his posture to his full height.

“I’m fine.” Maekar said to you stiffly, his voice rough around the edges as he continued to stare down at his desk.

Was it something to do with his paperwork? Did something come up that would require the both of you to appear somewhere? Was there something concerning you that was bothering him?

You decided not to test the limit, your mouth remaining shut as you glanced at the open door to the bath chambers. Mya must have drawn you up a bath before retiring from her duties. 

“Alright then. I’m going to bathe, then maybe you can tell me what's wrong when I get out, hm?” You tried to sound lighthearted, but you were aware of the guilt that sounded within your throat, as you backed away and began towards the bath chamber.

Maybe this would be the night that you confessed what you knew. Maybe you would end up screaming at him until you couldn’t take it anymore. Or maybe he was simply ruffled about something, and you were overthinking it all.

You definitely didn't feel like you were overthinking it, your heart thumping so hardly in your chest that you were almost convinced that it was causing ripples in the bath water you were sitting in. If it were you then what could you have possibly done to provoke him this bad? If it weren’t, then what could anyone besides you have done? 

You felt like you might just lose it, your hands shifting as you scrubbed yourself down with an exfoliating soap, the smells of citrus and vanilla hitting your nose quite pleasantly. It would have calmed you down if it weren’t for the fact that you could hear Maekar pacing in the chambers, his footsteps hitting the ground rhythmically as he paused in intervals to shed his outer layers. 

Solve things sensually? You highly doubted it would work, but you didn’t know if your heart could take it if you didn’t resolve this somehow. 

Mya obviously planned everything for you anyways you realized, your eyes panning around the bath chamber where you spotted your change of clothes and your toiletries neatly placed on a nearby table. The nightgown she had pulled for you was silk, which was quite uncommon from the linen ones you had been wearing as of late, its lace barely visible in the folds that you could see. 

The lotions she had chosen were all ones you used on special occasions as well, an overwhelming embarrassment and anxiety filling you as you stared at their containers. Did she really know the both of you the way she thought she did?

You finished your bath at a leisure pace, your body reluctant to exit the warm water as you stood up and grabbed your towel, your limbs moving slowly as you got out of the bathtub and dried off. You could always forget the lotions and wrap yourself up tightly in your concealing robe? But as always, according to Mya’s flawless plan, it was completely absent. The sigh that escaped your throat was a long one, your eyes rolling as you grabbed the folded nightgown from off the table and pulled it on. 

The silk was cool of course, and your skin prickled as your body adjusted to its temperature, your muscles giving a natural shiver as you smoothed out the fabric that draped down your body. The delicate lace that decorated the hems of the nightgown swirled in smooth patterns, and you gently traced your finger down the lace decorating the low cut of the night wear. This nightgown must have been crafted by the same person who crafted the nightgown you wore on your wedding night with Maekar, the craftsmanship very familiar in its precision and detailing. 

Just how on earth did Mya get a hold of one of these? Had your cousin gifted you a sister piece to the original nightgown without you ever realizing it? You wouldn’t put it past yourself for being unable to remember such a detail right now, because your mind and heart were racing a mile a minute.

You supposed if you were going down with Maekar on this rapidly sinking ship of your relationship, you had better do it with grace. 

You fixed your hair and balmed your body with the lotions set out for you before standing before the closed door of the bath chamber, your heart ricocheting off the crevices of your chest. This was your husband, and you felt as nervous as a leaf shaking in the torrents of wind. 

Swallowing back your ideas of somehow getting through the grated window of the bath chamber, you opened the door, your footsteps light as you walked out into the dim light of your bed chambers. Maekar was standing in front of the window near the bookcases, his right hand planted on his hip as he stared out into the vast darkness of night. It was a new moon, and while the stars in the sky helped provide light to the window, the candles and hearth did a better job of painting Maekar in a foreboding sense. 

Was he still angry? You couldn’t tell from such a distance, which is why you began closing it slowly, your slippered feet moving across the wood of the floor as discretely as you could. The last thing you needed was for him to scold you about keeping a distance. 

When you were close enough, you cleared your throat softly, your arms shifting nervously as you struggled to find something to do with them. Were you to cross your arms? You already felt so exposed in this nightgown with a low cut and a low back, would moving so much be an issue? 

“Do you wish to talk about it?” You hummed at first, your hands finding purchase on the loose fabrics of your nightgown, your fingers rubbing the smooth materials gently. 

“I don’t know, do you?” Maekar replied sharply, his body unmoving as he breathed in. 

Your heart shot down through your body immediately, and you went rigid for a moment. Did he know? Had he found something that incriminated you? You had been so careful about not letting anything slip.

“I don’t understand what you mean.” You replied carefully, your hands stretching out to smooth over Maekar’s back.

You knew you couldn’t deny not knowing anything, you could at least pretend to not know what exactly Maekar meant. That would help you. Hopefully.

“I think you know exactly what I mean.” Maekar said again, only more gruff than before, his body stiff under your touch as you inched close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of his body. 

“I really don’t, Maekar.” You said gently as you stroked his sides, your forehead pressing against the space between his shoulder blades. “All I want to do is help you, but I can’t do that if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

He gave a miniscule softened sigh at that claim, his body relaxing to a short degree as he continued to stare out at the night environment. Was he waiting for you to crack under pressure?

“Can you at least show me what’s the issue?” You murmured just loud enough for him to hear, his muscles flexing again as he tensed up. 

“I guess that would be easier.” Maekar retorted, his body turning slow enough to give you room to back off. He looked angry. He had the typical set to his brows and sneer of his lips as he looked at you, his eyes tracing over your every detail. 

“Maekar..” You exhaled slowly, your voice slightly dejected as he scowled at you. 

Did you really want to deal with this for the rest of your life? Absolutely not. You would rather convince yourselves both of a lie than continue in this way. 

“My love, please,” You sighed, your hands finding the plains of his stomach through the thin linen fabric of his tunic. “I would rather have one uncomfortable conversation with you than endure a lifetime of them.”

His face twisted up further, your hands skating up to his chest in the efforts to perform some damage control. Maekar was a hard man to please, and you knew that if you could not quell whatever this was now, then you may fail in whatever would happen later on.

You managed to cup the sides of Maekar’s face without being pushed away, your fingers stroking his sideburns as he grabbed your wrists. There was a torn look within his eyes, a wavering submission hidden behind the pools of his purple eyes. 

“I only want to make you happy, Maekar.” You murmured, your nose brushing his as he inched closer towards you.

Maekar could be quite the man when he was angry, yes, but you had to remember who he was beneath all of that.

“I find that hard to believe.” Maekar grumbled as his hands fell away from your wrists and onto your sides, his thumbs brushing over the area of your ribs as your hands slipped to his shoulders.

“It’s true.” You retorted, your face scrunching for a moment as you stared at him. “I.. care for you.”

You swore you could've seen his eyes come alive with more expectation than those words, his face relaxing as he cradled your hips. Was this gentler approach going to be more effective than the other one? You weren’t entirely convinced yet.

“How am I supposed to believe in that? You’ve made it clear that our union is entirely political.” Maekar murmured back to you bitterly, his brows flexing as he squeezed your hips. Was this what nearly six months apart did to the both of you? Caused you two a life of melancholy?

“I hardly consider what we’ve done is political.” You snipped back at him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic. 

“You’re an insufferable woman, do you know that?” Maekar replied with a glare, his fingers pressing into the fat of your hips as you sucked in a heavy breath.

“I hardly consider you a prize either.” You said with a sneer, your brows furrowing as you pulled your hands away from his shoulders and shoved at his chest.

Maekar didn’t budge with the force of your push, his body barely swaying as he set his expression into a deep scowl. This was the Maekar you’d married, this prickly ill-mannered man who you knew regardless of the fact that he was emotionally confused right now would gladly fuck you until you saw stars.

You slapped his hands away and stepped back, a half scowl on your face as you stared at him. You could recognize a playfulness in his eyes, your skin prickling as your breathing picked up. It was a shame you two weren’t going to get to do much of the running and chasing you wanted to do.

You spun around on your heel and made it about a quarter of the way towards the door before you felt his weight against your back, an airy gasp pushed from your chest as you were whipped back in the direction of your bed. 

“You could drive a man insane.” Maekar growled against your ear as he pressed his concealed cockstand against the cusp of your ass, his hands squeezing as he slid them up your waist.

The shudder that rippled through you was strong, your body pushing back against his as you preened to the sound of his voice. 

“You repulse me, do you know that?” You retorted as you pressed your ass back against his pelvis, a shallow whine warbling through your chest as he fondled your breast.

Maekar laughed at your comment as he thrust his hips against yours, moving you towards the bed slowly as he brought his teeth down on your throat. You squeaked when he bit you, your body squirming as he slipped his hand between the apex of your thighs.

“You’re an awful man.” You continued as he slid his fingers through the slick of your cunt, his fingertips catching the heat of your entrance before he teased them in.

You thought you may just die from the overwhelming tease of it all, a shy whimper dancing through your throat as he curled his fingers inside of you. Was he trying to kill you by doing it slowly? You could feel his tongue press flat against your throat as you approached the end of the bed, your hand bracing against the wood of the bed frame as Maekar allowed his hands to slip away from you. 

“I should send you away.” Maekar grumbled as he wrapped his arms around you, his pelvis tight against your ass again as he brought his lips down on your nape.

“You wouldn’t dare,” You replied in a heave, your fingernails digging into the wood of the bed frame as you jerked your hips back against Maekar’s. “You would miss me too much.”

Maekar laughed against your skin at your retort, his body easing away from yours slowly as he kissed your neck. You felt like you may just shine with how brilliant you felt now, your body glittering with an invisible exhilaration as you glanced at your husband over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself, my dear.” Maekar sighed as he gave you a final once over, the palm of his hand meeting your rear as he gestured for you to get on the bed. 

You got on the feather bed without a fuss, your limbs shifting as you lay down on your belly in the middle, your knees barely braced as you got into prone and awaited what you’d been deprived of for almost half a year. Your skin jumped a little when you felt the weight of the bed dip, and you sucked in a deep half-excited and impatient breath as Maekar knelt behind you. 

“On your back, woman, I want to see your face clearly.” Maekar growled out behind you, your skin prickling as you slowly glanced back and found him glaring down at your body.

You moved almost immediately, though slowly, turning onto your back and positioning your feet flat against the bed. Maekar could do the work of undressing you, his deep eyes meeting yours as he slid his palms up the sides of your calves and slowly spread your knees apart. 

You barely hid your shy expression when he began pulling your gown off, his hands gathering the fabric from the bottom hem and sliding it up your body as he slowly leant closer and closer to you. Did he always have that birthmark on his chin? You were staring at him closely now, your hands pressing at his sides as he tossed your nightgown aside and refocused his gaze onto you, your legs twitching as slowly positioned them on either side of his hips.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” Maekar murmured as his left hand skated down your belly, his right forearm propped beside your head as you slid your hands over Maekar’s chest.

“You give me a vague understanding.” You hummed with a teasing smile, your eyes catching the flex of Maekar’s muscles and veins in his forearm beside you.

Maekar made an expression for a moment before he returned to his task, his hand slipping between your bodies to guide his cockhead up and down the slit of your cunt as he peppered his lips against yours. It was romantic in the best way, Maekar’s lips pressing to yours in a firmer kiss as he slid his cock into you inch by inch. 

You gave a soft moan when the hilt of him pressed against you, his hips shifting in slow gyrating intervals to at least make the adjustment pleasurable. It had been a while, a long while, and you breathed hard as you got comfortable, your thighs pressing against Maekar’s hips as he kissed along your cheek. The calm before the storm you considered it, your body basking in the gentle affection before you jerked your hips against his.

Maekar caught the cue immediately, his face pulling away from yours as he leant back to steady on his knees, his hips shifting backwards for a split moment before he thrust them back against yours. The sharp movement gave your body a jolt, and you gasped aloud before craning your back up, your hips tilting to receive him as he began rolling his hips against yours. 

The bed frame creaked as Maekar got into the rhythm of things, his strong and steady thrusts making both your body and the wood work thrum and tingle. 

You were being loud, you knew this because you could hear yourself as Maekar fucked you, your deep moans, shallow whimpers, and panted breaths filling the room like a one woman choir. Certainly Maekar was enjoying it, his pinkening cheeks pulled into an expression of mild amusement when his face wasn't scrunched up as he moaned out loud himself. 

“Fuck I should’ve done this sooner.” Maekar grunted as he planted both his forearms beside your head, his hands balling the sheets up in his fists as he focused the angle of his cockhead on a sensitive spongy spot inside of you. 

You didn’t respond with wit like you normally would have, your face shifting as your jaw slackened and a pathetic breathy warble of his name echoed out into the walls of your chambers. Were you this deprived? You would’ve felt shame if it weren’t for the fact that you could hardly think straight, each of Maekar’s thrusts fucking more and more thoughts of him into your head. 

Could a man really make a woman love him by working this hard for it? You were starting to believe it could be true.

Maekar cursed again and again as he shifted his hips, his cock suddenly driving further into you as tears bubbled in the corners of your eyes. Would you really be a weak woman if you allowed this man to fuck you into love with him? His name rattling around the room as you babbled it in a beg to be fucked harder. 

You could hardly believe the things you were saying, your voice a far thing out of your control as your heart pumped faster inside of you.

“I’m going to make you happy.” Maekar grunted as he grabbed your hand from where it was glued against his shoulder, his lips brushing over your knuckles as you used your other hand to claw at his back. “You’re going to be so happy, I swear it.”

You could feel cold tears dribble down the sides of your face as you gave Maekar a shallow nod, your hand gripping his back as you squeezed your legs around his hips. You thought you just might die fulfilled if you went now, your stomach tightening as you crossed your ankles behind Maekar’s back.

He was going to leave you numb if he continued like this, his cock pounding into you like the way a hammer hit the steel of a sword on an anvil. You whimpered when his pace managed to pick up even more, the slap of his sack against your perineum almost unforgiving as he pressed your hand back onto the bed.  

You laced your fingers with his without much thinking, your body shifting to pull him closer as his pace faltered. Maekar’s expression shifted when you held his hand, his brows furrowing as he dug his knees into the bed for better leverage, his nose brushing yours as you spread your free hand out over his back. You did it for the same reasons that his pace was getting sloppy, your breaths shaky as you craned your neck and kissed him briefly, his body impossibly close to yours as he returned your series of desperate kisses. 

His unhidden desperation was the one thing you liked the most about Maekar. 

You moaned girlishly when you orgasmed, your sound swallowed up by Maekar as he cursed and came abruptly after you. A poetic thing really, your legs trembling around Maekar’s hips as your body tensed and trembled, and Maekar’s hips stilling for a moment before slowly finishing off a sad series of short humps as he came. 

The warmth that followed Maekar finishing inside you was one that you realized you had missed, your limbs aching as you held your husband as close as you could. 

“Did I hurt you?” Maekar whispered as he lifted his head, his hair disheveled as you cupped his face with your free hand.

“No.” You spoke back quietly, a shy smile on your face as Maekar brought your interlocked hands to his lips, his beard tickling your skin as he kissed knuckles. 

You remained joined until the heat of the sex began to dissipate, Maekar’s movements slow as he pulled out of you and paused to watch his seed dribble out. You stared at him as he rose from the bed and fetched something to clean up, your body slick with sweat and still thrumming from adrenaline as you lay there half limp. Maybe you had misunderstood things. Maybe this was what needed to happen for you two to move forward.

That was a thing you thought about as Maekar returned and cleaned you up, your eyes following him as he moved your limbs gently and wiped them down with the warm towel before giving you a quick kiss. 

Maekar wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t so bad when he was being honest in his feelings. He wasn’t so bad when he treated you so kindly despite your prickly nature towards him. 

Maekar wasn’t bad at all.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked as you sat up slowly, your hands pulling the covers of the bed up over your naked chest as you stared at where Maekar sat on the side of the bed.

His back was to you, and he had been quiet for a while, the towel still in his hand. It should've alarmed you how far away he felt to you, but you were thinking less about the distance between you both and more about the way he made you feel. 

“Where we might be in ten years.” Maekar said with a shrug, his skin rippling when you pressed against it. 

You did not reply as you kissed Maekar’s shoulder, your arms slipping around him as you pressed your cheek to his back. He was soft when he wasn’t being so prickly, your hands gently gliding over the war scars on his stomach. 

“Old, and probably still at each other's throats.” You finally muttered, your eyes fluttering as you held him.

Maekar didn’t respond immediately, his hand coming to cover one of yours as he sighed and stared ahead at the window on your side of the room. You wanted to remain like this forever, your heart aflutter as you tried to imagine what he was imagining. 

Perhaps in ten years you would be happy, with your days filled with the joy of all of your children together, the sound of Maekar’s voice, and the laughter of a young child and babe you thought you may bear for him. 

“I’m tired.” Maekar sighed, his voice quiet and his body rigid. 

You didn’t think much as you opened your mouth to reply, your body tingling with the after effects of pleasure, and your chest alight with the what ifs of your life. Maekar wasn’t so bad, he made you feel like a girl with a young sweetheart again, your heart thumping as you squeezed him and closed your eyes.

“I love you.” You said.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Notes : I don’t have much to say by the end of this, only that I hope it was worth the prolonged wait! yk I always love your guys’ feedback, so please send it in!!

Side Notes : also, wifey cheesing imagining Maekar taking her to pound town before he even did so was my favorite part to write bcs.. lmao didn’t you just hate this man girl? but realistically, if that was me lol?

also also,, cliffhangerrr!! don't hate me for it guys but next chapter shit goes down.

[daenakills]

the bastard confusion

chapter 2

Looking upon my father, I realised that the journey from Oldtown was but the prologue to my infinite bitterness. My father would not cease his talk of politics in every tavern along the way, rail against King Daeron's weakness before the Blackfyres, and carp at how his heir looked an outsider, with his dark eyes and brown hair.

I would tug at his sleeve, begging him to hold his tongue, but the pride of a man who once wore a maester’s chain is hard to break. Watching his obsession taught me a golden rule: kings are perilous, and those who speak of them end up dead. By the time the Red Keep loomed upon the horizon, I was already weary of looking after a man who anxiously sought his own ruin.

On a certain day, we chanced to see Prince Baelor with his brother Maekar; my father made sure we all well knew that Baelor looked like just another commoner, handsome though he might be. It was there I beheld royalty for the first time.

Then fate, which possesses a rather twisted sense of humour, set me face-to-face with Aelor. With his white hair and his mismatched eyes, he looked more akin to how a prince ought to look.

We met in the market. He insisted that his blood was royal—the selfsame politics I so despised—yet he spoke it with an innocence so pure that I could not help but laugh. My father was already losing his wits out of hatred for the crown, and Aelor was losing his for love of a ghost lineage.

It proved easy for me to get close to Aelor; my father had never paid much heed to me since we arrived in King's Landing, so we were free to draw near to one another. My father wished for me to become a septa, but I could not. I did not believe in gods, for I never felt that any god protected me.

Not much time passed from the moment we arrived until they executed my father. And when things come to pass that one knows will happen, it is best to walk away.

The land I love was not here, and the person I loved was far away.

 

 

 

Today, when I woke, I felt as though I had died inside.

I should have liked to meet my dad again, and to get to know my mum better, for I am certain we should have made a spectacular duo; though I know we shall meet again, whether it be too late or too early, it will happen.

I do not wish to keep losing people in my life—my father, my mother, and now you, Aelor.

I remember everything, and I know not how to forget them. I know not what I am going to do, but I shall do it. And when I have you back, brother, we shall throw stones at the windows where we shall never get to live, and we shall smash every single window.

Thinking of you, father, I shall use what you taught me: the ink. I shall write a letter.

 

To Prince Baelor Targaryen, Lord of Dragonstone and Hand of the King.

I know full well that a crumpled piece of parchment from the alleyways does not deserve the Hand of the King’s time. However, I trust that the man they call 'Breakspear' possesses a more just ear than the crows nesting in his towers.

The lad your guards are holding is no dragon, neither black nor red; with any luck, he is a sewer lizard.

There is no treason in his veins, only cheap wine and the fantasies of an orphan who has nothing more than an unfortunate hair colour.

My father was executed for using the wrong words, and I know how quickly the Red Keep cuts off the tongues it does not understand. I beg you to intercede. I do not ask for free mercy. If you release my companion, I shall owe you a life. A maester's daughter knows how to listen where nobles are deaf, and look where knights cover their eyes. Put me to the test.

— The girl from the tavern.

 

 

Now, I had only to find a way to make it reach him.

It did not take me long to find a solution for that; a kitchen boy used to frequent the tavern, so I paid him to place the letter upon the desk of the Hand of the King. All that was left was to trust in luck. Because if it were about the gods, Aelor would already be dead. 

 

The tavern was now entirely empty, so I wiped down the tables, trying not to let the rage consume me. There was but a single customer left, and he had ordered nothing; he was merely sitting there. Did he not notice we were about to close? What a boor.

Then another arrived.

A man muffled in an expensive cloak sat in the darkest corner. I approached him to clean his table, intending to treat him ill enough to make him leave.

"Sir, do you desire something? For it is strange for you to just sit there with your cloak on, you know? We are about to close."

When he pulled down his hood, my heart stopped: it was Baelor himself.

His face was attractive for a man grown; he had dark, deep eyes and short brown hair. His nose was slightly crooked, whilst even with the cloak on, I could see that he had broad shoulders and impeccable posture.

A knot turned in my stomach, and a sudden heat rushed to my cheeks. I hated my own weakness at flushing before a man of the royalty.

"You are..." He interrupted me.

"Your logic is flawless, girl," he said, showing my letter. "My uncle Brynden sees traitors in every shadow, but I prefer facts. Tell me the truth about that lad, and I shall see what I can do."

 

[captainfern]

Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling

and you don’t need much convincing

18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)

he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.

the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.

maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daella’s hair with the other, whilst listening to aemon’s muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.

and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.

he’s not gentle.

it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.

maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.

he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.

you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.

“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”

he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.

“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”

you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.

maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.

“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”

“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.

“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”

you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.

maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”

he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.

but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.

maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.

he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.

he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.

“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.

“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.

maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.

“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”

you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.

———

me next

(woah who said that)

[svkahug]

✧ behind closed doors

summary: the hammer and the anvil behind closed doors (2.2k) tags: fluff, domesticity, 18+, somnophilia, brief injury

Baelor Targaryen | The Hammer

Baelor is a man of routine, forged through years of rising early for campaigns and requiring discipline through his duties. Even in marriage, there is an unspoken and silent rhythm that you two fall in. If he is the first one to retire, he will always send for you. Marriage has ensured he’s forgotten how to sleep alone, no matter how tired he is.

Undressing. Likes to send your servants and handmaids alone to do it himself. Views it as this intimate act. After a long day of being apart, of being pulled to duty and responsibility and reluctantly stamping out every need to be with his wife, he likes to savor the quiet moments. His hands deftly pulling the strings of your corset loose, layer by layer falling to the floor and pooling at your feet until you’re left in nothing. If he’s feeling particularly sweet, he will leave behind a trail of kisses at the slowly exposed skin. You lean back into him, sighing into his sickly sweet touch. Most of the time you will end up pushed into the nearest surface, propriety forgotten.

Talks in his sleep. Not the sweet, murmuring of a man half laden in dreams, but full on conversations that have you waking up abruptly and wondering if someone else is in the room. But no one is there, Baelor is talking about grains and ledgers in his sleep, full phrases and clear words. It frightens you at first, then it has you laughing and waking him. 

Nightmares. Of course he has them. Redgrass Field, or simply brought upon by the stresses of the day. He doesn’t wake you, but you always end up waking when you reach out and find a cold and empty spot on your bed. 

Duties. Prefers being in the same room as you but you’re doing separate things. You’re working over correspondence on the other side of the room, while he’s  pouring over grain counts, four different books open in front of him. He looks up just to gaze at you for a while, as if it fuels him. He sees your concentration, smiles to himself, and goes back to the task at hand.

Unwinding. The sweet version of it is you settling into bed, taking turns reading to each other every night. The other version is more restless as you find different ways every night to satiate your husband, to steal his thoughts away from mind numbing council chamber meetings, and back in your shared chambers where the fire in the hearth burns low and comfortable and the candles are dimming by the hour and his wife, his sweet, beautiful and diligent wife works above him. She is working a pace and he does not know where to look—at the way you work your hips over him, taking him over and over again, or at your teats, a golden sheen of sweat perspiring on the planes of her chest, her body, or should it be at her face, eyes closed in pleasure and brows knitted in reverent concentration. He chokes on his breath and moans multiple times, which only seems to spur you on further, a hand on his chest as you move impossibly quicker, and he has to close his eyes, to settle his thoughts because if he looks at you above him he’s not sure he will last. 

“Baelor,” a treacherous siren call. 

“Yes, my sweet?” He hums, hands sliding up and down your thighs as your movements slow.

You lean in close, the sweet scent of your oils enveloping him, and he can hear you catching your breath. A warm hand splays at your back. “I believe it is your turn to tire yourself.” He laughs at that, but indulges you, letting you settle back into the pillows as you allow him to take over. 

It is a cheap trick, but after your coupling, he is sure to not think of anything else, keeping you close and intertwining your breaths as he lets sleep come for him. This is the most relaxed he’s been all day.

Somnophilia. He will usually come in later, after you. Some nights you wait up for him, and he’ll be considerate enough to let you know when not to, when the call of duty lasts well into the night. He is quiet in the corner of the room, lethargic even as he peels off layers of clothing, gaze already fixed onto your sleeping form, so peaceful and sweet and beautiful. Your hair is splayed onto the pillow, and he can see the slow rise and fall of your form underneath the sheets. 

It starts with a kiss, innocent enough, pressed softly into your cheek and he has to fight back a groan as he remembers he is a man, after a long day. A man who has found his wife asleep in their shared chambers, in the dark. You let out a happy hum in your sleep, turning around to greet him with a kiss, chaste and quick, but he finds himself deepening it. You return it in earnest, despite your surprise.

“Aren’t you tired?” You rasp, voice laden with sleep and it does something to him he cannot name. 

“I’ve missed you.” He noses the line of your jaw, pressing little kisses there. 

“I’ve missed you, too.” You mumble, just as his hands trail treacherously lower.

“Baelor,” you laugh. 

“Would you like me to stop?”

“No.” You confess. “But I’m falling asleep.”

He suppresses a groan against your shoulder, and it tells you just how much he’s unraveled himself already. You did not even have to do anything. 

“You do not have to wake, just—” He is gentle as ever, but you can sense a growing urgency in his movement, in the way he moves above you, hands bunching your shift up your thighs. The realization dawns on you and your interest is piqued. 

“Rest, sweet girl. I’ll take care of you.” And of course you trust your lord husband so you let him work over you, as you drift in the space between sleep and waking. You wake and his head is in between your legs, doing something sinful with his mouth that has you arching off the bed, a broken moan on your lips before you’re drifting asleep again, chest heaving. You wake and he’s halfway inside you, and you shudder, letting him maneuver you as he pleases. My heart, he says against your lips as you drift off. The next time you wake you’re being brought to completion.

Thank you, he murmurs, gathering you in his arms and pressing a sweet kiss against your temple.

Maekar Targaryen | The Anvil

As a prince of the realm, he has routines of his own. Beyond that it’s a personal preference to keep busy and not be idle. He’s already fourth and spare, nothing is expected of him, and sometimes that seems to turn more into a curse than a blessing. So he trains in the yard in the mornings, does correspondence, attends to his princely duties. He dines with his wife and sees his children, watching over their studies. 

He is glad that there is always something to do, for this is how he appreciates when the day finally slows to a stop, when he enters your shared chambers and he feels as though he leaves everything on the stoop of the door. The fire burns in the hearth, a satisfying crackle and the room is a comfortable temperature. He finds you sitting by your vanity, elbows up and undoing your hair.

At first, he leaves you to your own devices, but you’re on his periphery as he undresses, his doublet, his riding gear, the weapons he keeps tucked on his person. 

A sigh. His gaze snaps to you as your arms fall to your sides in defeat, halfway through undoing whatever hairdo your maids have concocted. 

Silently, he crosses the room and takes over. You smile at him through the mirror, a wordless thanks. He’s thorough, and gentle as he can be. He takes the pins, unravels piece by piece. This is one of the ways he takes care of you. He loves your hair, loves playing with it. He will take it down, untangling it when he strips you down, considering it a part of undressing you. You ask him about his day then, and a back and forth begins, punctuated by comfortable silence.

Doesn’t like servants in the room, and you’ve known by now to excuse your handmaidens early on. Undressing you takes longer because he gets distracted and complains about how many layers you have on. An inconvenience, he calls it.

Maekar is a gossip in your shared chambers. You’ve once compared him to rival even the best of your ladies in this area. You’re busying yourself with correspondence when he enters the room, carelessly throwing his coat to a chair and kicking off his boots. Lord Peake is in a disarray today. That old bat. This is why his wife prefers separate chambers. That gets your attention, head snapping up at him, letters forgotten. Go on.

Upkeep. He’s taught you how to shave after he’s caught you staring at him through the mirror. More often, you find yourself sitting on his lap, or standing over him. More than once he uses this as an opportunity to get handsy. More than once you’ve threatened to shave him clean off. You know he grows it out to cover the pox marks on his skin, a memory of a childhood sickness. He finds your serious concentration amusing, and he loves the ritual of it, a certainty that he’d have you close for a few minutes.

You’ve nicked him once and he never lets you forget. A thin line on his cheekbone. He hisses, quite dramatically for someone you’ve seen knocked to the ground in the training yard that same day. You apologize, pressing a warm cloth there. Easy, woman. My neck is within your reach too. You roll your eyes. I would never, you say, pressing a kiss where the offense is, and pulling back with a slight shine of blood on your lips. He grabs your wrist holding the knife, maneuvering it away from the both of you as he closes the distance between you in a searing kiss. You taste the blood then and wonder if he does too. When you part, he has a wild look in his eyes, and all he says is, Bed. Now.

A light sleeper. He sits upright, thinking he’s somewhere else. You give him space, waiting until he reaches for you, breathing shakily against your skin, and that is when you comfort him, a hand on his chest, feeling the drum of his heart. 

In the beginning of your marriage, he was afraid of frightening you, or worse. He knows how he can jolt awake at the slightest disturbance. A cat had once gone into your chambers and knocked a candlestick onto the floor, and you’ve never witnessed a man go from sleeping to waking in a matter of seconds, feet on the floor and a sharp intake of breath as though he means to lunge at somebody. So he suggests separate quarters, even though he does not want it. It was a great relief when you refused, quite adamantly.  

Snores. Annoyingly loud snores that makes you wonder if he’s putting on a show and fucking with you. At first, you wake him kindly, poking him and he mumbles something close to an apology before gathering you in his arms. But then it just gets annoying and you find yourself slamming a pillow into his face to wake him, and it is more effective to get him to stop than anything else you’ve tried. You still won’t go to a separate chamber, though it seriously makes you consider.

Post-training yard. He’s sweaty and heaving, sunkissed. You find you like him like this, especially when he’s on top of you. You kissed him in the training yard once, hair falling in his face. The next moment you’re being swept away to your chambers and he’s kicking off his boots, ripping off whatever garb and armor he has on before he’s on you. Damn your attire, he curses. Worse than bloody armor. Secretly he likes it, likes taking his time peeling it off of you, slowly revealing more skin and seeing what you have underneath.

Will wake you up for a fuck. You’ve woken up on numerous occasions, a familiar head of white hair in between your legs. He’s impatient and just doesn’t care whether you’re waking or not, he will get what he wants. He also finds it amusing how long he can get away from doing something before you’re gasping awake, shaking and clutching at him. He’s not ashamed of this, he will rouse you for it, kissing your neck, your shoulder. You’ll wake up, and he’s already in the process of undressing, of slipping your shift down your shoulder, if he isn’t already impatiently ripping it at the seams. 

“I’m sleeping,” you mumble. You’ll protest for show, attempting to retreat to another corner of the bed before you’re inevitably pulled flush against him.

“I don’t care. Turn over.”

“No.” You respond petulantly, even as your hips subconsciously wriggle into him and you crane your neck to give him better access. “Wife.” His tone is sharp and you feel the point of his canines sink into your skin, deliciously taunting. “You know better than to tease.”

[behindfairytales]

Sam Spruell in A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (s1) as Prince Maekar "The Anvil" Targaryen

[samthegreenapologist]

Maekar Targaryen Masterlist

•A Second Wife & A First Love (Maekar Targaryen X F Wife reader, Daeron Targaryen X F Reader) (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

Maekar, who would have preferred not to marry for a second time finds himself warming to you as he sees you establish rapport with Daeron. He suggests you exploit Daeron’s interest in you to lead him down a more functional path. That exploration puts you in quite the difficult predicament as your feelings grow for both father and son.

•The Retreat (Modern Maekar X F sex worker)

Aerion is left in charge of arranging the entertainment section of the companies retreat so he sends sex workers to every hotel room… you find yourself in front of a unamused Maekar Targaryen.

•Visiting Hours (Modern Maekar x F reader)

When you get out of rehab you don’t have anywhere to go, or anybody who seems to care about what you do next. Maekar, despite his best attempts to ignore the girl he’s seen every week since his son had wound up in the same program, cannot just let you wander back into the world without any structure…so he takes you home.

•consequences (Modern Maekar X F girlfriend reader)

After ignoring Maekar’s calls, and accidentally missing a date with him. He finally gives you the attention, in the form of a firm hand, that you’ve been missing since being moved out of his apartment to accommodate his children returning home for the summer.

Cold Shoulder (Maekar X F Stark wife)

you’ve married Maekar but the only people who have really welcomed you to Summerhall are his youngest three children. When you risk your own life to protect them Maekar finally has to admit that you do have a place here!

✨if you’d like to be tagged in any future Maekar fics let me know and I’ll add you to the taglist✨

always accepting requests but never making promises for when they’ll be fulfilled

[ildico-the-golden]

hello! here with a request. i'd love to see something about overstimulating maekar if that's alright! like making him whimper and squirm and tear up. i just want to dom that big anvil lol

is it possible make an anvil yield?? let's find out (yo these requests are getting freakier by the minute and i LOVE it)

what breaks an anvil

Summary: you tie Maekar to the bedpost with silk and edge him until he is a whimpering mess before finally letting him come apart completely under your hand

Pairing: Maekar x sister-wife!reader

Warning(s): +18 MDNI, explicit sexual content, smut, bondage, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, hand job, praise kink, soft dom/sub dynamics, consensual kink, negotiated consent, established relationship, brief emotional vulnerability, dacryphilia (a little if you squint), reader insert (no use of y/n)

It had started as a negotiation, as most things with Maekar did.

"Do not touch me," you had said. "That is the only rule. Whatever I do — you will not reach for me."

He had looked at you with those violet eyes doing their assessment and said, with the particular flatness of a man delivering an honest appraisal: "I will not be able to do that."

"You could try."

"I am telling you in advance that I will fail." A pause. "I will reach for you. It is not a question of discipline. It is a question of—" he stopped, the honesty costing him slightly— "you. Specifically. I cannot keep my hands off you when you are doing—" he gestured, briefly, at the general situation— "anything."

You looked at him for a moment.

Then you reached for the box on the table beside the bed.

He watched you remove the silk — two pieces, the deep blue of the ones Baelor had used, and the specific recognition that moved through his expression at the sight of them was extraordinary. Not apprehension. Something considerably warmer than apprehension.

"Not the blindfold," you said. "I want you to see everything."

His throat moved.

"Agreed?" you said.

The word took a moment to arrive. "Agreed."

He held still while you tied his wrists — or held still in the way that Maekar held still, which was with the specific controlled quality of a large man exercising considerable discipline, every line of him radiating the effort of not simply taking over the proceedings. You tied the right wrist first, then the left, the silk making two soft loops around the bedpost that would hold without damaging, and you ran your thumb beneath each knot the way Baelor had shown you and watched Maekar watch your hands with those dark violet eyes.

When you finished you sat back and looked at him.

The sight of it — all that contained authority, the broad scarred chest, the white hair against the pillow, those eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that had not diminished one fraction for being tied to a bedpost — did something immediate to your composure that you declined to show.

"Pull against them," you said.

He did. The silk held. Something moved through his expression.

"Comfortable?"

"No," he said. Truthfully. "But not — no. It is fine."

"Tell me if it starts being too much."

"I will." A beat. "Are you going to do something, or are you going to sit there and—"

You put your hand on him.

The sentence ended.

You had not rushed to get here. You had taken your time with his throat and his chest and the old scars that mapped his history — tracing them with your fingers and your mouth while he breathed carefully above you and kept his hands precisely where they were and occasionally made sounds that suggested the keeping was not without cost. By the time your hand wrapped around his cock he was already hard and had been for some time, the evidence of it insistent against your thigh for the last several minutes.

You took your time with this too.

A slow stroke from base to tip — learning him, or performing learning him, because you knew this as well as you knew anything, but the relearning had its own value and you watched his face while you did it and collected every response. His jaw tightening. The slight lift of his hips that he suppressed immediately with the discipline of a soldier. The breath that left him at the twist of your wrist at the top of the stroke, where you knew — had always known — he was most sensitive.

"Look at me," you said.

He was already looking at you. He had not stopped looking at you.

"Good," you said, and tightened your grip slightly, and began to move in earnest.

The rhythm you set was not merciful. Not fast — that wasn't the point — but consistent, the steady purposeful pace of someone who knew exactly what they were doing and intended to do it for as long as it suited them. Your thumb tracing the underside on the upstroke, the pressure varying just enough to keep him from settling into the rhythm, to keep every stroke slightly surprising. His cock hot and heavy in your hand, the evidence of wanting him slick at the tip, and you used it, spreading it with your thumb in a way that made his head press back against the pillow and a sound leave him that had no composure in it.

"Tell me what you want," you said.

"You know what I—"

"Tell me."

His jaw worked. The flush was climbing his throat, his ears, the tips of them vivid. "Faster."

"Not yet."

A sound of frustration that was also, unmistakably, something else. His wrists pulling once against the silk — not to escape, you understood, but because he needed somewhere for it to go and had nothing else. "Then— harder—"

You loosened your grip slightly.

The sound he made was extraordinary.

"You were saying?" you said pleasantly.

"You are doing this deliberately."

"Yes." You restored the grip. Resumed the pace. His hips lifting toward your hand and you let them, let him have the friction of it without increasing anything, and watched his face — the specific agony of a controlled man losing his control by degrees, Maekar who held everything tightly finding that this particular grip was stronger than his. "You are doing beautifully," you said.

He made a sound at that — the praise landing somewhere it always landed with him, beneath the severity and the pride, in the place that didn't know what to do with being told he was doing well and wanted it anyway.

"More of that," he said, roughly. Not the physical. "Say — more of that."

"More of what?" you asked, as though you didn't know.

His eyes closed briefly. Opened. "You know what."

"Tell me."

"Tell me I'm — gods — tell me I'm—"

"You are perfect," you said, and tightened your grip, and felt him shudder. "You're doing exactly what I want. You look — Maekar, you have no idea how you look right now."

The sound he made resonated at the base of your spine.

You felt him approaching it the way you felt everything about him — in the specific tension that moved through his thighs, the slight change in his breathing, the way the sounds he was making had gone from frustrated to something with more urgency in them. Close. He was close. The rhythm of your hand and the heat of him and ten years of knowing exactly how to read him — close.

You stopped.

Not slowed. Stopped. Your hand going still, wrapped around him but motionless, and the sound he made at the cessation was nothing like dignified — a broken exhale that was almost a word and did not make it, his hips pushing forward into the grip of your hand and finding nothing moving.

"No—" The word dragged out. His wrists pulling hard against the silk. Those violet eyes finding yours with an expression of genuine anguish. "Don't—"

"Not yet," you said.

"I was almost—"

"I know."

"You knew and you stopped—"

"Yes." You loosened your grip entirely. Just held him, warm and present and entirely motionless, and watched him breathe through it — the particular suffering of a man pulled back from the edge and left there, the flush of him deepened to something that had reached his chest, his jaw set with the effort of not simply demanding.

"Please." The word arrived with difficulty. "Please, just—"

"Just what."

"Move."

"Say it properly."

The expression on his face — desire and frustration in equal devastating measure, the composure entirely gone, Maekar who held everything tightly reduced to this: tied to a bedpost and looking at you with violet eyes that had lost every pretence of management.

"Please move your hand," he said. Each word extracted. "Please. I need—"

You moved your hand. He made a sound that belonged to no public space, but to that chamber specifically.

You built him back up with the same consistency — the same pace, the same pressure, your thumb tracing the places you knew, watching him climb back toward it with the focused attention of someone conducting an experiment and noting the results. Faster this time, slightly, the rhythm more insistent, and his breathing came faster to match it and the sounds he was making had gone past language entirely, just Maekar, stripped of everything, reduced to wanting and the specific mercy of your hand.

Close again. Closer than before.

You stopped.

The sound he made this time was wrecked in a way the first hadn't been — something in it that was almost past frustration into something rawer, the specific quality of a man who has been brought to the edge twice and denied twice and is finding that the third time will be worse still.

"Please." Immediate. No preamble, no pride left to negotiate around. His wrists against the silk. His eyes on yours. "Please, I cannot — you have to — please—"

"Look at you," you said softly.

He looked at you. The expression — open, unguarded, the severity entirely absent, everything he kept managed and contained simply gone, violet eyes dark and wet at the edges with the sheer physical accumulation of it — made something in your chest ache with fondness so specific it had its own weight.

"You are so beautiful," you said. Meaning it completely. "Right now, like this — do you have any idea—"

"Please." Rougher. The word cracking slightly. "I am asking you. I am — please."

You wrapped your hand around him again.

"Alright," you said quietly. "I have you. Come on."

This time you did not stop.

The pace you set was different — faster, the grip firmer, your thumb at the head of his cock on every upstroke with the specific pressure that you knew and had been deliberately withholding and now gave him without reservation. Your other hand at his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the rapid certain thud of it. His hips moving with your hand now, the discipline entirely gone, just Maekar chasing the thing you were finally allowing him to chase.

"That's it," you said. Low. Watching his face. "Come on. I've got you — that's it — you're perfect, you're so—"

He came apart.

The sound he made was not triumphant. It was not the satisfied certainty of Maekar having won something. It was something with no victory in it at all — just release, just the specific devastating relief of a man who has been held at the edge three times and is finally, finally being allowed over it, his whole body shuddering with the force of it, his cock pulsing in your hand, his back arching off the bed as much as the silk would allow.

"Beautiful," you said, and meant it, watching him. "Look at you. You're beautiful — Maekar, look at me—"

He looked at you.

The tear was so quiet you almost missed it. A single line of it from the outer corner of his eye, tracking down his temple and into his hair — the accumulated frustration of three edges and however many days of being Maekar, of holding everything tightly, of being severe and controlled and the man who did not need things, finally finding its single outlet.

You leaned forward.

You pressed your lips to the subtle teary stream and licked it away — the salt of it, the specific tenderness of the gesture, your mouth gentle at his skin while he shuddered through the last of it beneath you.

He was very still when you drew back.

His breathing was uneven. The flush everywhere. Those violet eyes finding yours from close range with an expression that was the most naked thing you had ever seen on his face — exposed in a way that the crawling and the begging had not quite managed, because those had been theatrical, had had the structure of a scene, and this had been simply real. Simply him.

You reached up and worked the knots at his wrists. The silk fell away. You drew his arms down slowly and held his hands in yours and felt the slight tremor in them.

He looked at his own hands for a moment.

"That," he said. His voice had not recovered. "Was."

"Mm," you mumbled. A long silence.

"You licked—" he tried.

"Yes."

"I wasn't—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "I don't—"

"Don't worry, I know," you said.

Another silence. His hands turning in yours, his thumbs tracing across your knuckles in the slow absent way that meant he was processing something he didn't have immediate language for.

"The silk," he said finally.

"Mm?"

"Keep it," he said.

You looked at him with a funny, curious glare.

"Keep it," he said again, with the flat certainty of a man delivering a logistical instruction, and you understood that this was the closest he was going to get tonight to I would like to do that again, and you received it accordingly.

"I'll keep it," you said.

His hand tightened briefly on yours. The smallest thing. The whole of him in one gesture.

Outside, the castle moved through its evening. Inside, Maekar lay in the quiet with the silk warm on the pillow beside him and you holding his hands and the single track of salt already dried at his temple, and he said nothing further, and he did not need to.

You already knew.

P.S.: yeah, it is the same pieces of silk that Baelor used with you ˙ᵕ˙

Taglist: @qardasngan @nerdyinfluencertastemaker @princessphilly @shyravenns @loveslide @dulcebloodhnd @caitlynluna @mongrelcryptid @sacha1slytherin @faithfullyvigilantsliver @alternarabuda @jjubilee-fluff

Want to join the taglist? Leave a comment here!

[lostrealityr]

Maekar Targaryen Masterlist

A Tender Morning - Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

A Lesson in Combat - Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

Summerhall Nights - Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

The Flirting Game - Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

It is Love not Duty - Maekar Targaryen x Wife Reader

series

Spoiled Wife - Maekar Targaryen x Lannister Reader

✴︎ ✴︎ ✴︎

[eowyns-fantasy]

I am here to beg you (kindly, nicely and with a pretty bow on top) for some somno kink maekar and reader + morning sex? 👉👈 established consent ofc!!! Like him waking up with reader’s mouth on him 🙈

hypnos

Maekar x Wife!Reader drabble

Note: Modern era moodboard, but I'm vague enough that this could be in canon era. Also, I threw my self-imposed word limit to the wind for this one.

Tags/Warnings: Somnophilia (consent pre-established), Smut, 18+, Morning Sex, Blowjob

You woke when a plinth of light fell across your eyes. Squinting against the sunshine, you stretched slowly, your limbs protesting as they remembered the previous day’s exertions. 

A healthy flush stained your cheeks and your gaze fell to the side, where your husband was still fast asleep. His silver hair was tousled – the work of your own hands a few hours ago – and scratches and bruises lingered on his skin. Some of them yours, some his rowdy children, some his training’s.

Sometime during the night, he had wrestled himself from beneath the covers. Maekar always ran hot. As such, his nude form was laid bare as he rested on his back, arms tucked to the side. He sleeps like a dead man on his pyre, you thought. Quiet, breathy snores and the slow rise and fall of his broad chest assured you of the fact that he was very much alive.

Your eyes fell lower. You felt like some kind of cretin – leering at Maekar’s manhood as he slept, unaware. He was not even hard. His cock rested against his thigh, still impressive in size, despite being soft. 

When aroused, it sometimes looked angry, aggressive. Like this, there was something vulnerable to it – something you found irresistible.

You began ghosting your fingertips over your husband’s happy trail, following the blonde hairs like a map.

An exhale. You glanced at Maekar’s face sharply, but it remained slack, his frown lines smoothed out. He looked so peaceful like this, so handsome. Unburdened.

Your fingers continued their descent, and reached the thatch of hair at his base. You ran your digits through it lovingly, knowing how good it felt rubbing against you when you fucked each other. 

Beneath your hand, his cock jumped. Once, twice. Alarmed, you watched for other signs that Maekar was waking up, but nothing else about him changed. Not his breathing, nor the looseness of his body that was never present while he was conscious.

You knew that your husband would gladly entertain you should he wake, but you found that you did not want him to. The fragility of him as he slept was what you desired, what made your insides throb with need.

Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you swallowed, torturously aware of the rush of wetness between your thighs as you imagined your sleeping husband’s still mostly soft cock between your lips, the velvety texture of his skin, the give of his flesh before blood engorged his shaft. 

Maekar liked waking you by burying his head between your legs – and the only reason you had never done the same to him was that he was usually up and about when you were still bleary with sleep.

You leaned down and retraced your path with your lips, ephemeral kisses placed upon his pale skin. You quickly reached his length. 

Briefly, you simply nuzzled against it, relishing the soft texture brushing your cheek, your chin tapping against his sack. 

You did not tease yourself for long, drawing his rapidly thickening cock into your mouth, tongue running over his veiny, sensitive underside. 

Salt and bitter musk exploded on your senses, as well as a faint tang that you realised was what remained of your own juices. A stuttered breath later, you licked at his mushroom-shaped head, pointing the wet muscle of your tongue and flicking it along his weeping slit. 

Your cheeks hollowed as he slowly but surely filled out in the snug cavern of your mouth, your jaw working to accommodate his generous girth.

Eager to feel more of him, you bobbed your head, engulfing more of him, only stopping when his length threatened to choke you. Spit dribbled past your lips, down your chin and onto his twitching flesh as you kept your head right at that edge, your nose almost nestled against his groin. You held yourself there for a few heartbeats longer, then began exploring him further.

Like a woman possessed you kissed along his erection, licking and sucking on his ruddy head, lavishing it with attention as though he was the sweetest treat you had ever tasted. 

Eyes flickering up at his serene face, you shoved a hand between your legs, sliding easily through your own arousal as you began grinding on the heel of your palm.

Slick sounds echoed lewdly through the silence of your bedroom, and you moaned softly around Maekar’s rigid shaft, his hips instinctively rocking back into your mouth whenever you withdrew to breathe. 

A burst of flavour made you grin. Maekar’s cock was leaking across your tongue, his flesh hot and throbbing as you sucked harder. Your free hand pressed lightly on his hip to still him and give you control over the depth as your own hips rolled in time with the motion of your head in Maekar's lap.

By now, his breathing had started coming in quicker, along with your own, and you could not say that you were truly surprised when your husband’s large hand clumsily but firmly settled atop your crown, long fingers threading through your hair. A guiding, familiar weight – a gesture so possessive and comforting that a whine rose inside of you.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he mumbled drowsily, his baritone voice rumbling, rough with sleep, “you’re so good to me.”

He groaned, dislodging your loose grip on his hip effortlessly – probably entirely ignorant of the fact it had even been there, in the haze of his lust – and thrusting into you with abandon. Once, twice, three times. You whimpered, spluttering, fighting to stay relaxed as he tensed with a shudder, buried to the hilt.

Maekar came with a grunt, thick spurts of salty cum flooding your mouth, shooting down your throat as you desperately swallowed around his pulsating cock, trying to keep it all inside. A moment later, you fell apart on your own fingers, the muscles of your cunt fluttering and clenching around nothing. 

You kept your mouth around him until you were sure he was completely spent, then you withdrew slowly, licking your lips to catch a stray droplet trying to make an escape. 

“Seven Hells, woman, you’re insatiable. Did I not tire you out enough last night?” he groused, though his hand began cupping your cheek as you rested it against his belly, staring up at him with a lethargic smile. You hummed.

“You’re just too handsome,” you said hoarsely, blinking slowly and growing tired again in the aftermath of your own orgasm. “Like having you in my mouth.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a way to wake up.”

[captainfern]

Maekar seeing how well you do with his kids and wanting to add another Maekarling

and you don’t need much convincing

18+ (smut, breeding duhhh)

he watches you from across the courtyard where you sit on a low stone bench, surrounded by blooming spring flowers and a gaggle of excitable children that are not made of your blood. but someone of lesser understanding would not have known that.

the deep crimson of your skirts pool out around you, an unfurling magnolia with velvet petals, as you perch on the seat with rhae curled in your lap, head tucked beneath your chin. aemon sits beside you, his head on your shoulder as he reads softly aloud, and daella sits at your feet, fingers running up and down the smooth expanse of your skirts. aegon stands on his toes behind you, pushing yet another small flower into your hair.

maekar pauses in the doorway, leaning against the stone arch as he observes. his children speak kindly to you, and you speak to them much the same, and as you soothe rhae with one hand, pet daella’s hair with the other, whilst listening to aemon’s muttering and allowing aegon to turn your hair into a garden, maekar realises something. he realises he wants this life with you.

and when he corners you that evening, his children put to bed and tucked out of sight, he realises you want the same thing.

he’s not gentle.

it had started gentle, as it usually did, but after pulling you apart on the flat of his tongue, followed by the stretch of two thick fingers, he knew exactly what he wanted and how he was going to get it. good thing you liked it like that.

maekar curls you over the edge of the bed, your body completely bare as you bend and lay amongst the silks and furs. a strong, calloused hand holds the back of your neck, anchoring you to the feathered mattress as he stretches your pussy open around the thick of his cock.

he groans, feeling your pussy pull tight around him as he ruts in. silk walls draw inwards, heavy against the ridges along his shaft and the vein, pumping hot with blood, that runs along the underside. his other hand is a vice on your hip, dimpling the flesh as he forces you back onto him, the slapping sounds of skin-on-skin loud in the evening silence of your chambers.

you mewl into the sheets beneath you, a string of saliva already catching out the side of your mouth as your husband thrusts into you, the movements deep and far-reaching. heavy balls nudge against the swollen pearl of your clit, and you mewl again, startled, when the head of his cock punches up towards the plug of your cervix.

“don’t fuss,” maekar grumbles, rutting into you, eyes trailing down the line of your spine and over the curve of your arse as he holds you down by the nape. your pussy drools around him, his flushed shaft slick as he pulls out, then shoves back in. he groans, “fuck, you always take me so well, don’t you?”

he doesn’t really want a response when he questions you like this, cock splitting you open as he pins you to your shared bed. you gape, breathy moans falling free of your throat as your fingers tangle in the silken sheets and sweat builds tacky down your back and thighs. he listens to you gasp and mewl, a crooked smile on his face as he kneads the fat at your hip.

“how many times…” maekar begins, sentence breaking momentarily as the wet squelch of your cunt becomes audible in the flame-soaked silence, the open hearth flickering nearby. you whimper, and your husband groans. “will i have to spill in this tight cunt before you’re full, huh? how many times will she have to take me before you’re round with my child?”

you let out a pathetic sound, some mix of a gasp and a moan, the syllables showing some semblance of his name, but it’s lost in the heat of your pleasure. a third orgasm sparks at the ends of your nerves, flames flickering across the walls of your womb, deep in your pelvis.

maekar grunts, strands of white hair falling loose over his forehead, cheeks hued with pink beneath the candlelight. he palms the flesh of your arse now as the hand on your neck pushes you deeper against the bed.

“is that what you want, little dove?” he asks as his hips rock, the leaking head of his cock pushing right up against that perfect spot inside you. your back arches and you cry out his name, pussy fluttering as heat fills the base of your tummy. he grunts, continuing as you squirm. “you want me to fill you? spill deep inside this tight cunt ‘til she makes a right mess of herself, yeah?”

“maekar,” you manage out, and it’s low and tense and strung across a high-pitched moan. you fist the silks and furs for support as he rocks against you, bed creaking.

“i’m right here,” he whispers, barely audible over his hips slamming against your arse. the fingers on your neck give you a gentle squeeze, and you suck in a shallow breath. then, he groans, the thick of his cock sucked in tight as your pussy flutters around him. “oh, she wants it, little dove. wants me to fill her—wants me to make you a mother.”

you cry out at his words, your release strung taut across your sparking nerves. it’s right there, your entire body growing rigid beneath him as he spears you apart on his cock. you grow hot, and hotter still, tension deep through the lines of your pelvis as you angle your hips to meet his thrusts, heartbeat heavy in your clit.

maekar huffs and grunts behind you, his voice breaking across a poorly hidden whine. “fuck, fu-uh-ck, oh, little dove, here we go, here we go…”

he coaxes you through your orgasm as it ignites and overwhelms you. your body shakes, trembles like a picked flower, as heat bursts through your pelvis and the depths of your womb, your pussy squeezing tight around him. you moan, his name and his title up in the air around you, as stars burst behind your lowering lids and your legs threaten to give out.

but he’s not far behind you—as you come, he groans his praises, guiding you through the fissuring of pleasure with “that’s it, there we go” and “good girl, just like that” as he ruts his cock towards the base of your womb. with each thrust into you, slick dribbles out around his shaft, and he feels it along the seam of his balls as they draw up, visions of you fat with his child at the forefront of his mind.

maekar groans loudly. “gods, you’ll look perfect round with my child—fuck, i’ll be good to you, little dove, an’ i’ll keep you full all—the—fucking—time—” thrust, thrust, thrust, with each word, before he’s letting out a hoarse moan of your name and shoving himself to the hilt inside you.

he rolls his hips, sliding against you in lazy movements as he spills right against your cervix. still fizzling down from your own orgasm, you let out a shaky moan as he fills you, seed too warm in the base of your pelvis. his cock twitches, jerks inside you as your walls flutter, then pull him in even tighter as his seed fills you, fills you still, then settles.

he doesn’t pull out, but he collapses half way on top of you—the hand on your neck moving to bracket your head. you shift a little, panting as he plants a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth. you whine, turning your head to slide your lips to his. he grunts into your mouth as your tongues meet, and you taste yourself on him as your heart begins to slow beneath your ribs. he pulls away, resting his dewy forehead against your temple.

“it’ll take,” he says like he’s sure of it. like he knows it will.

“and if it doesn’t?” you counter through a mumble, limbs lax as you melt into the silks and furs, his body a firm press atop yours.

maekar chuckles. it’s a deep, low sound that vibrates through his chest, and it makes a little whine slip past your lips.

“then we keep trying,” he mutters, rolling his hips and nudging his cock deeper. you whimper, a shudder racking through you in response. he kisses your warm cheek. “i’ll fill you again and again, every fucking night, until you’re too full to even move… understood?”

you nod, words evading you as he noses your cheekbone, kissing you softly there too as his cock twitches where it sits deep, plugging you full of him.

———

me next

(woah who said that)

[beljude]

[disillusioned-phantasma]

Maekar Targaryen Rec Masterlist

⊶⊰ Navigation ⊱⊷

🀢 Foe to Many, Friend To None - ...except one, perhaps— though, Maekar would not describe themselves to be friends. The exception being, after all, his wife. 🀣 Dancing Deer - What's worse than one dancing Baratheon? One drunk, dancing Baratheon. What's worse than one drunk, dancing Baratheon? Two drunk, dancing Baratheon. 🀤 Life Goes On - Time away form your youngest, missing his adventures had proven harder than you’d expected it to be, but you lived for the moments he did return home.. and this time with a friend. and no hair? 🀥 Caribbean Blue - You and your brothers escape in the only way you know how. 🀢 Wearing a revealing nightgown after an argument/being apart 🀣 Another knight crowning you 🀤 Spice tolerance 🀥 The Farce - Ser Duncan only knows that you are Baelor’s daughter...

🀢 The Walls of Summerhall - The stormy marriage of Meakar Targaryen and his fiery wife, ignites a powder keg of desire, daily battles of words, wills and whimpers in the night. 🀣 Landslide - Out of your siblings, there was always the three of you, but as the years passed childhood play turned into feelings they competed over, all for your hand. 🀤 It All Comes Back to You - Things had proven tense in the family, you and your closest brothers at an odds and end with each other— fighting and bickering until only one thing brought you together, love. 🀥 Baelor and Maekar giving oral in tandem 🀢 Being walked in on with their s/o

🀢 Spinster - (II) - His pov - What if reader returned home before the scandal? - His pov - What if reader saved him instead? - Reader makes the first move - Jealous husband - Mornings in bed - Reader not realising she is being flirted with + defending husband - Reader is super competent and that really turns her husband on 🀣 I Can’t Help That I Need It All - (II) - Prince maekar targaryen’s younger wife is the feature of many a man’s fancy in the court, but more particularly her closest kin. 🀤 Shut Up, Sir - Only Teasing - Dunk meets what looks like Egg’s sister for the first time.

[slutdge]

"make an account to-"

[ildico-the-golden]

how to disarm a prince

The pair to Baelor's smutty fic is here!

Pairing: Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader

WC: 9.9k

Warning(s): +18 MDNI, Explicit sexual content, oral sex (giving and receiving), P in V sex, AFAB reader, power imbalance, touch-starved, mutual pining, argument to lovers, emotional vulnerability, size difference, praise kink (light, reader to character), rough sex (consensual, explicitly negotiated), scar worship, dirty talk (mild), male restraint / loss of control, confident reader, oblivious/avoidant pining, second person / reader insert (no use of y/n), no beta we die like Viserys

The hour had grown shamefully late by the time you decided you were done waiting.

Three weeks. Three weeks of turned backs and engineered absences and the particular cruelty of a man who could fill a room with his presence even while pretending to be entirely unreachable within it. Three weeks of watching Prince Maekar Targaryen look straight through you with those violet eyes and finding nothing in them that acknowledged what had been building between you for months.

You found him at dusk.

The armoury sat quiet at that hour, the training yard beyond it emptied of squires and knights alike, nothing remaining but the last copper light bleeding through narrow windows and the distant sounds of the castle settling into evening. Torches guttered softly along the walls, catching the dull gleam of hanging steel and leather.

Maekar stood at the far end with his back to the door, methodically checking the edge of a blade with the focused attention of a man determined to be unreachable.

He had been unreachable for weeks.

“You have been avoiding me,” you said. The words landed flat in the quiet. Maekar did not turn around.

“I have been occupied.”

“You walked out of a room yesterday because I entered it.”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“Maekar.” His name left you with enough weight that his shoulders stiffened visibly. “Look at me.”

He set the blade down with deliberate care and turned. His expression was exactly what you had expected — closed, guarded, wearing that particular blankness he deployed when he wanted to be mistaken for someone who did not feel things.

You knew better. You had always known better when it came to him.

“Whatever you believe you need to say,” he said flatly, “I would ask you to reconsider.”

“I have reconsidered for three weeks.” You closed the door and stepped further into the room. “I am done reconsidering.”

“Then be brief.”

“Why are you pulling away?”

“I am not pulling away. I am exactly where I have always been.”

“You are a liar.”

Something dangerous flickered in his violet eyes. “Mind yourself.”

“Or what?” You crossed your arms. “You will glare at me? You have been doing that for months and I am still here.”

“Clearly.” The word came out clipped, almost cruel. A deliberate blade.

You refused to flinch from it. “Something happened. Three weeks ago you were—” You stopped, steadied yourself. “And then suddenly you were gone. Present in body and completely absent in everything else. I want to know why.”

“Nothing happened.”

“You are lying again.”

“I am not accustomed,” he said with cold precision, “to being called a liar repeatedly.”

“And I am not accustomed to being deliberately shut out by someone who—” You stopped again.

Maekar’s eyes sharpened immediately. “Someone who what?”

The silence stretched taut between you.

“Someone who matters to me,” you finished quietly.

Something moved across his face so quickly you almost missed it. Pain, naked and immediate, there and gone before he could fully suppress it. His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.

“You should not say that.”

“Why not? It is true.”

“It is—” He stopped. Started again. “Unwise.”

“Unwise.” You stared at him. “That is what you have for me.”

“It is the honest answer.”

“No.” You took another step closer and watched him resist the instinct to step back. “It is the coward’s answer, and you are not a coward. Try again.”

Fury crossed his face instantly, the way it always did when he felt cornered. “You presume too much.”

“Then correct me.”

“I am correcting you by telling you this conversation is finished.”

“It is not finished.”

“I say it is.”

“And I say you are running away and dressing it up as dignity.” Your voice had risen now, heat climbing through your chest. “For weeks, Maekar. Weeks of barely a word, barely a look, and you cannot even give me the courtesy of an honest reason—”

“The honest reason,” he said sharply, “is that this—” his hand moved between you, a short furious gesture— “should not continue.”

“What should not continue? We have done nothing—”

“Exactly.” The word came out ragged at the edges. He turned away from you immediately, a hand pressed hard against the nearest table. “Exactly nothing. And it should remain that way.”

You stared at the rigid line of his back.

“Why?” you asked quietly.

“Because I am not—” He stopped.

“Say it.”

“Leave it alone.”

“Say it, Maekar.”

“Because I am not built for this.” The words came out low and furious and slightly broken at once. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I am the fourth son. I have been trained since birth to be useful, to be the sword, to stand behind better men and serve the family’s purpose. That is what I am for.” His shoulders had drawn up tight beneath his doublet. “Not—” A rough breath. “Not this.”

The silence that followed was enormous.

You stood inside it and felt something build in your chest that you did not immediately have a name for. Hot and painful and expanding outward until your hands had begun to shake with it.

“Not this,” you repeated softly.

“No.”

“You are not built for being cared for.”

“I am not built for—”

“You are not enough.” The words came out barely above a whisper. “That is what you mean. That is what you actually believe.”

Maekar said nothing. Which was its own answer.

And that was when it happened.

Something white and furious ignited behind your ribs entirely without permission. Not sadness. Not heartbreak. Pure blazing rage on his behalf, at every person who had ever let him believe that, at every comparison and every dismissal and every moment that had carved this particular damage so deep into him that he recited it now like scripture.

You crossed the distance between you before thought intervened.

Your hands hit his chest and pushed.

Maekar’s back met the stone wall with a dull impact, his eyes flying wide with pure shock — not at the force, though that seemed to surprise him too — but at you. At the fact that you had done it at all. That the person standing before him with their hands fisted in his doublet and fury written plainly across every feature was you, someone half his size, someone he could have moved aside with one arm—

He did not move at all.

“Do not,” you said. Your voice shook with it. “Don't you dare say that to me.”

“I—”

“No.” Your hands tightened against the fabric of his doublet, knuckles pressing hard against the solid warmth of his chest beneath it. “You do not get to stand there and tell me you are not enough. You do not get to decide that. You do not get to spend weeks pulling away from me because some ancient cruelty convinced you that you were made only for function and nothing else—”

“You do not understand—”

“I understand perfectly.” Your eyes were burning now. Furiously. “I have watched you for months. I have seen what you are when you stop performing severity for long enough to simply exist. And you are—” Your voice cracked slightly. You pushed through it. “Maekar, you are extraordinary. Not despite what you are. Not in comparison to anyone. Yourself. And the fact that you cannot see it—”

“Stop.” His voice had gone rough. Unsteady.

“The fact that you have been standing in this family your entire life believing yourself a sword and nothing more—”

“I said stop.” Rougher now.

“It makes me want to—”

“Stop.”

He kissed you.

Not gently. Nothing like gently. His hands came up and caught your face and his mouth found yours with the sudden desperate urgency of a man who had simply run out of other options — who had used every deflection available to him and found you still standing there, furious and certain and refusing to let him be small, and had no idea what to do with that except this.

It lasted one stunned breathless second.

Then he pulled back.

His hands still cradled your face. His breathing had gone ragged. Those violet eyes searched yours with something almost panicked in them — the expression of a man who had just done something irreversible and was only now calculating the consequences.

“I should not have—” he began roughly.

You kissed him back.

Not as apology. Not gently either. You pulled him down by the front of his doublet and kissed him with the full force of everything you had just said and everything you had been holding quietly for months and felt the exact moment the last resistance went out of him completely.

Maekar made a sound against your mouth that you felt in your spine.

His hands slid from your face into your hair, tilting your head back, and suddenly he was kissing you like a man discovering water after a drought — not with careful reverence but with something rawer and more desperate beneath it, like he could not quite believe this was allowed and intended to have all of it before someone told him otherwise.

He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, forehead dropping against yours. His hands were shaking. You could feel it where they cradled your head.

“I have been—” His voice was wrecked completely. “Gods. I have been trying—”

“I know,” you breathed.

“You should have let it be.”

“No.” Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the hard planes of him beneath the fabric, the rapid thumping of his heart betraying every bit of composure his expression had ever pretended to. “I should not and I will not.”

A rough sound escaped him.

His eyes searched your face in the torchlight — violet and open and utterly unguarded in a way you had never seen from him in any council chamber or training yard or castle corridor. The severity was gone. The careful blankness gone. Just a man, terrified and wanting and finally, catastrophically out of excuses.

“You mean this,” he said quietly. Not quite a question.

“I have meant it,” you said, “for a very long time.”

Something in his expression broke entirely open.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time, deeper — and gods, the difference of it. Still hungry but the panic beneath it easing now into something that felt dangerously close to wonder. His hands moved through your hair with a care that contradicted every rough and prickly thing he had ever said or done, like beneath all of it, beneath the sword and the severity and the practiced distance, there had always been this.

Someone who simply needed to be told he was allowed.

“Maekar,” you murmured against his mouth.

A shudder moved through him at his own name spoken like that.

“Gods help me,” he said roughly. “I do not know how to—” He stopped. The admission visibly cost him. “I do not know how to do this.”

Your heart turned over completely.

“Yes, you do,” you whispered. Your hands found his face, thumbs brushing the line of his beard, the old scars beneath it. He exhaled shakily at the contact, eyes falling briefly closed. “You already are.”

That alone seemed to cost him — you could feel it in the rigid tension held through his entire body, in the way his hands remained carefully at his sides where he had lowered them despite the kiss deepening between you. Like he had given himself permission for this much and was terrified of reaching for more in case it proved too much to ask.

So, you decided for him. You took his hands. He went completely still as you lifted them from his sides and placed them — slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze the entire time — against your waist.

Maekar stared at you like you had done something incomprehensible.

“You are allowed,” you assured quietly.

His throat moved. His fingers remained motionless against your waist for one suspended moment, barely making contact, as though the fabric between his hands and your skin was the only thing keeping him tethered to composure.

Then, haltingly, his grip tightened.

Just slightly. Just enough to feel the warmth and solidity of his hands spanning your waist, large enough that his fingers nearly met at the small of your back.

The breath that left him was unsteady.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his jaw. Felt the muscle there jump immediately beneath your lips. His hands tightened further at your waist, involuntary, like his body was responding entirely without his permission.

You kissed along the sharp line of his jaw toward his ear, unhurried, feeling the roughness of his beard against your lips and the warmth of his skin beneath it.

“You are—” His voice had dropped to almost nothing. “You should not—”

“Maekar.” You pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was flushed, violet eyes dark, every line of him radiating the strain of holding himself still. “Stop telling me what I should not do.”

His jaw tightened. But he said nothing.

You kissed his cheekbone. The high plane of it, just above the beard, where the old pox scars tracked faintly beneath your lips. He made a sound so quiet you almost missed it. Something helpless and involuntary swallowed almost before it could exist.

Your hands moved to the front of his doublet, working the fastenings with steady fingers while his breathing deepened above you. Each button gave way and Maekar stood and let it happen, stood and watched your face with those dark eyes like a man waiting for the dream to end.

You pushed the doublet from his shoulders. It fell in the narrow space between his back and the wall, behind him. Beneath it, linen stretched across broad shoulders and a chest that rose and fell with increasing unevenness. You spread your palms flat against it and felt his heart hammering beneath them, rapid and entirely beyond his control.

Something deeply fond moved through you at that.

“Still with me?” you murmured.

“I think so,” he said roughly.

You laughed softly and felt him exhale shakily in response, his hands sliding fractionally further around your waist like they were making decisions independently of him.

You kissed his throat then. Open mouthed, slow, just below his jaw where his pulse beat rapidly against your lips. Maekar’s head tipped back slightly, an involuntary concession, his fingers pressing harder against your waist.

You kissed lower. The rough scrape of his beard gave way to the warm skin of his neck, and you felt the shudder that moved through him at the contact, felt his grip on you tighten to something that was no longer gentle—

You bit him.

Not hard. Not cruelly. A deliberate scrape of teeth against the curve where his neck met his shoulder, your lips pressing warm against it immediately afterward.

The sound that left Maekar was nothing like anything you had heard from him before. Low and rough and dragged from somewhere entirely beyond his composure. His entire body went rigid for one suspended second—

Then it was like watching a dam break down.

His hands moved.

Suddenly, completely, with a decisiveness that stole the breath from your lungs. One arm swept around your waist and hauled you flush against him with a sureness that made the floor feel uncertain beneath your feet, the other hand sliding into your hair and tilting your head back, and then his mouth was on yours and gods—

Gods.

Nothing hesitant in it. Nothing careful. He kissed you like the last three weeks of distance had been a physical pressure he had been holding back with both hands and your teeth against his skin had finally, catastrophically, released it all at once.

You made a startled sound against his mouth. Maekar just swallowed it and kissed you harder.

He walked you backward through the armoury with complete certainty, steering you through the low torchlight without breaking the kiss, one hand spread wide and immovable at the small of your back and the other still tangled in your hair. The back of your thighs met the edge of the long wooden workbench, and he lifted you onto it without apparent effort — large hands spanning your waist and depositing you there like you weighed nothing of consequence — and stepped immediately between your knees.

The new height brought you almost level with him and he took immediate advantage, cupping your face in both hands and kissing you with a thoroughness that made rational thought extremely difficult.

“Maekar—” you managed between kisses.

“No.” The word came out low and absolute. “You had your turn to talk.”

You laughed and he caught the sound with his mouth and made a rough noise against your lips that sent heat rushing straight through you.

His hands left your face and began moving — not hesitantly now, not waiting for guidance. Large and warm and entirely purposeful, sliding from your jaw down your throat, tracing your collarbones with a focus that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and had decided to begin immediately.

When his fingers found the lacing at the back of your gown he paused for just a moment, just long enough to pull back and find your eyes. The question was there without words. Still him beneath the urgency. Still that fundamental core of a man who needed to know he was not taking something without being allowed to.

“Yes,” you said before he could ask it.

Something moved across his face. Raw and unguarded and painfully honest.

Then his hands resumed with steady, certain fingers, unlacing slowly at first, then faster as the fastenings gave way.

“You have no idea,” he said roughly against your temple, voice low enough to vibrate through you, “what you have done to me.”

“Tell me,” you breathed funnily.

His hands stilled briefly at your back. “Months.” The word came out almost pained. “I have spent months trying to—” He exhaled roughly. “And you simply—” A sound of frustration. “You walked into a room and I forgot how to be sensible.”

The confession hit somewhere directly behind your sternum.

“Good,” you whispered.

A rough laugh escaped him. Short and startled and entirely real. You felt it against your cheek and stored it somewhere permanent.

His hands resumed their work.

“You are,” he muttered, the lacing finally giving way entirely, “the most inconvenient thing that has ever happened to me.”

You pulled back to look at him. The torchlight caught the flush beneath his beard, the dark intensity of his eyes, the silver threaded through pale hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked thoroughly undone and absolutely furious about it and so devastatingly his that your chest ached with it.

“Likewise,” you said softly. The look he gave you afterward nearly stopped your heart.

Because beneath the urgency and the feral edge of finally having broken loose — there it was. What lived underneath all of it. What had been living underneath all of it for months in training yards and castle corridors and cold battlements at dusk.

Not just wanting. Something far more dangerous than that.

His forehead dropped against yours.

“I do not know,” he said quietly, the roughness in his voice now carrying something almost bewildered beneath it, “how to be careful with you.”

Your hands rose to his chest. “Then don’t be.”

The breath that left him was long and shaking.

“I may not be able to stop,” he warned lowly.

“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “Do not make me bite you again.”

He stared at you for one moment.

Then something shifted in his expression — the last fragment of restraint dissolving into something that was equal parts exasperated and consumed and desperately fond — and he kissed you again with the full and undivided attention of a man who had just been given permission to stop pretending he wanted anything else.

The lacing gave way beneath his hands with gratifying speed.

Maekar worked with focused single-mindedness, fingers steady now where they had mildly trembled earlier, the fabric loosening incrementally as the fastenings came undone. You sat on the edge of the workbench and let him, your hands resting against his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the linen still covering him and the rapid thumping of his heart beneath it.

The gown loosened around your torso.

Maekar’s hands moved to your shoulders, sliding beneath the fabric to push it downward, and then his patience — which had already survived considerably more than it was built for tonight — ran completely out.

The sound of tearing fabric split the quiet armoury like a small thunderclap.

Maekar went absolutely still.

You bit the inside of your cheek against the laugh trying to escape you.

A beat of silence.

“I—” he began.

“Don’t,” you said.

“The seam—”

“Maekar.”

He looked at you. The expression on his face was genuinely extraordinary — caught somewhere between mortification and the barely contained urgency of a man who had not actually stopped wanting what he had been reaching for, the two things warring openly across his features in the torchlight.

“I will have it mended,” he said roughly.

“I am sure you will,” you agreed pleasantly.

His eyes narrowed slightly at your tone. Then the fabric shifted and his gaze dropped and every coherent thought visibly left his head at once.

You were bare beneath it.

Completely. Deliberately. The torn gown pooled at your waist, the torchlight warm and gold across your skin, and there was absolutely no question that this had not been accidental.

Maekar stared. The silence stretched long enough to become something else entirely.

“You,” he said. His voice had dropped to something low and rough and barely functional. “You planned this.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you mean,” you said serenely.

His eyes dragged slowly back up to your face with an expression that suggested he was reconsidering everything he thought he knew about you and finding the revision both alarming and catastrophic in equal measure.

“You came here tonight,” he said slowly, “without—”

“Maekar.”

“Deliberately.”

“The armoury can get quite warm,” you offered.

Something shifted in his expression then. The mortification burned away entirely, replaced by something darker and more focused, and the look he gave you was nothing like anything you had seen from him before. Not the prickly severity. Not the careful blankness. Something that had been living underneath all of that for months, patient and hungry and entirely done waiting.

“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the absolute death of me.”

Then his hands were on you.

No hesitation this time. None. Large and warm and completely certain, sliding up from your waist and cupping your breasts with a directness that dragged a sharp breath from your throat. His thumbs moved and your head fell back immediately, a sound escaping you that echoed faintly off the stone walls.

Maekar made a low rough noise in response.

“Gods,” he breathed. The word came out reverent and wrecked at once, his eyes moving over you in the torchlight with an intensity that felt almost tangible. His hands moved with growing urgency, learning the weight and warmth of you, and you could feel in every touch the months of restraint finally broken loose — not gentle, not careful, just present and consuming and entirely focused on you.

His head bent.

His mouth found the curve of your breast and your fingers flew immediately into his hair, loosening whatever order remained in it and sending pale silver-threaded strands falling forward as he pressed an open mouthed kiss against your skin.

The groan that left you was embarrassingly immediate.

Maekar responded to it like a man receiving confirmation of something he had suspected and filed carefully away — his mouth moving with sudden purposefulness, tongue warm against your nipple while his hands held you steady against him.

Your grip tightened in his hair.

He groaned against your skin and the vibration of it shot straight through you.

“There,” he murmured roughly against your breast, the word low and satisfied in a way that was entirely new from him. Like he had discovered a language he had not known he spoke. “I want to hear that again.”

You gave him exactly what he asked for.

His mouth moved across your chest with growing confidence, learning what made you gasp and returning to it with focused intent, his large hands spanning your ribs and holding you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel impossibly, wonderfully small against him.

At some point his mouth travelled upward again, kissing the curve of your throat, the line of your jaw, finding your mouth with sudden renewed urgency while his hands remained occupied and his thumbs moved in ways that made coherent thought genuinely difficult.

You broke the kiss with a rough breath. His forehead dropped against yours, both of you breathing unevenly in the warm torchlit dark.

“The dress,” you managed. “You owe me a dress.”

A sound escaped him. Short and low and startled — that real unguarded laugh again, the one you had been collecting like something rare.

“Add it to my debts,” he said roughly against your mouth.

“Your debts are mounting, my prince.”

His right index and thumb pinched the sensible mount of your breast and stole whatever you had been planning to say next directly from your throat.

“Then,” he murmured, low and certain and devastating, “allow me to begin repaying them.”

Your hands found the hem of his linen shirt. Maekar pulled back slightly at the contact, just enough to look down at your hands, then back up at your face. Something flickered briefly in his expression — that old reflex, the instinct to stop this before it became something he did not know how to carry.

You held his gaze and pulled the shirt upward.

He let you. Lifted his arms without being asked, a concession so simple and so enormous from him that something ached sweetly in your chest at the sight of it. The linen cleared his head and you dropped it somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then you looked at him and forgot, momentarily, what you had been about to say.

The torchlight caught him gold and shadow — broad shoulders, the hard planes of a chest dusted with pale hair, the evidence of years of training written into every line of him. A scar crossed his left side, old and long-healed, another at his shoulder. Marks accumulated quietly over years, worn without comment, without complaint.

Your hands rose before thought intervened.

You pressed your palms flat against his chest the way you had through the fabric earlier, except now there was nothing between your skin and his and the warmth of him nearly stole your breath.

Maekar went very still beneath your hands. You felt his heartbeat. Rapid and entirely beyond his control, hammering against your palm with a candour the rest of him would never willingly allow.

“You are—” He stopped. Something worked in his jaw. “You should not look at me like that.”

You dragged your gaze up to his face. “Like what?”

“Like—” The words seemed to cost him. “Like you find something worth looking at.”

The ache behind your ribs sharpened immediately into something almost painful.

“Maekar.” Your hands slid slowly upward across his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid reality of all that restrained strength beneath your palms. “I have found something worth looking at since the first time you glared at me on a battlement.”

His throat moved.

“That was not—” He stopped again.

“You are breathtaking,” you said quietly, a faint smile accompanying your words.

Something shifted in his face. The vulnerability flickering through before the familiar impulse to suppress it could fully engage. Your fingers traced slowly across his shoulder, following the line of the old scar there with deliberate gentleness. Maekar’s breath caught.

“Does it bother you?” you asked softly. “When I touch them?”

A long pause.

“No,” he said roughly. Then, quieter, “That is the problem.”

Your heart turned completely over. You leaned forward and pressed your lips against the scar at his shoulder. Felt the sharp intake of breath above you, felt the hands at your waist tighten convulsively.

Then you kissed across his collarbone. His chest. The old, healed line at his ribs, your lips warm and unhurried against each mark while Maekar stood and endured it with the expression of a man being quietly and thoroughly dismantled and lacking any remaining means of defence.

“You are doing it again,” he said. Strained.

“What?”

“Being—” A rough exhale. “Kind. About things that do not require kindness.”

You looked up at him from where your lips rested against his ribs. “They require it from me.”

The flush that climbed his face was immediate and violent, spreading beneath his beard and straight to the tips of his ears. He looked furious about it in the way he always did when caught feeling something he had not prepared for.

You rose back up at the workbench’s edge and kissed the line of his jaw, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth.

His hands slid up your bare back, warm and spanning and pulling you closer against the heat of his chest, your skin against his now with nothing between you and the contact stole a soft sound from you both simultaneously.

Maekar pressed his mouth against your temple.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said quietly. Not an accusation. Something far more honest than that.

Your arms wound around his neck.

“I think I already did,” you murmured against his jaw. Then you found his throat again — the place you had bitten before, still faintly marked — and pressed your tongue there deliberately.

The sound that left him resonated through his entire chest as his arms tightened around you completely.

“Again,” he said. Low and immediate and entirely without shame this time. The commanding quality back in full force, the vulnerability of a moment ago folded back underneath it — except now you knew it was there, now you had seen it, and no amount of authority in his voice could fully conceal it from you anymore.

You smiled against his throat and obliged.

His hands had been moving through your hair, your mouth still warm against his throat, when you leaned back from him and slid slowly, deliberately, from the edge of the workbench.

You felt the exact moment he realised what you intended when he looked down and saw how your knees met the stone floor.

The expression that crossed his face was unlike anything you had ever seen from him. Not the flush of embarrassment. Not the guarded severity. Something rawer than open shock, moving through every feature while his hands remained suspended where they had been, hovering uselessly in the air where your hair had been a moment ago.

“What are you—” His voice came out entirely wrong. Rough and halting and stripped of every trace of the commanding certainty of moments ago. “You do not have to—”

“I know,” you said simply.

Your fingers found the laces of his trousers.

“I want to,” you added, and looked up at him while you said it, held those violet eyes deliberately while your fingers worked the fastenings loose, and watched the words land somewhere so deep inside him that his jaw tightened against whatever sound tried to escape.

“You—” He stopped. Tried again. Failed again.

The laces gave way.

Maekar inhaled sharply through his nose, a sound so controlled it betrayed exactly how much effort the control was costing him. His hands had found your shoulders now — not pushing, not guiding, simply resting there as though he needed something to hold onto and you were the only solid thing available.

You freed him slowly.

The rough sound that left him at that alone nearly undid you entirely.

He was already hard — he must have been for some time, you suspected, given the considerable evidence — and warm and heavy and when you wrapped your hand around him and simply held for a moment, looking up at his face, the expression you found there stopped your breath completely.

Wrecked did not cover it.

Maekar looked like a man who had been struck. Colour high beneath his beard, eyes dark and blown wide, chest heaving with the effort of breathing evenly. His hands on your shoulders had tightened to something that might leave marks and you found you did not mind that even slightly.

But beneath all of that — beneath the hunger and the shock and the barely contained urgency —

Something bewildered. Something terribly, painfully young. Like he was genuinely unable to comprehend that you were here, on your knees, looking up at him like this. Like the image of it did not fit inside any version of himself he had ever been allowed to imagine.

“You do not—” he tried again, jaw working. “I am not—”

“Maekar.” Your thumb moved over the tip of his cock and his entire sentence dissolved instantly. “Let me.”

A shaking breath left him.

You held his gaze one moment longer. Making sure he saw it — the intention in your eyes, the complete and utter absence of reluctance, the certainty that this was chosen and deliberate and wanted.

Then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was immediate and violent and nothing like anything that had left him all evening. His head fell back against the shelving behind him with a dull impact he seemed entirely unaware of, a rough broken noise tearing free from his chest as his hands flew from your shoulders into your hair — not gripping, not guiding, just holding, fingers tangled and shaking against your scalp like he needed the contact to confirm this was real.

You took your time. Deliberately. Thoroughly. The way you had kissed his scars earlier — with a focused attention that communicated unmistakably that this was not obligation, not performance. That you were here because you wanted to be here, on these cold stone floors, with this impossible prickly furious man coming completely apart above you.

“Gods—” The word came out shattered. “Gods—”

His hips shifted forward fractionally, involuntary, immediately arrested as though he had caught himself. Still trying to restrain even now. Still terrified of taking too much.

You took him deeper in direct response.

“Seven hells—” The curse left him in a rough exhale, every muscle in the hand tangled in your hair tensing simultaneously. “You— I cannot— gods, you have to—”

He did not finish the sentence. Could not, apparently. You looked up at him through your lashes and that was what finished it.

Meeting his eyes from where you knelt — watching the full devastating wreckage of his composure written openly across his face, the flush and the parted lips and the shaking jaw and the violet eyes looking down at you with an expression that contained hunger and wonder and something so much larger than either that it had no clean name—

Maekar made a sound that came from somewhere entirely beyond dignity.

“Please,” he said roughly. Barely audible. The word seemingly startling him as much as you, like it had escaped without permission — Prince Maekar Targaryen, the sword of the family, the prickly unmovable fourth son, pleading to the ceiling of an armoury with his hands shaking in your hair.

Something triumphant and tender and desperately fond moved through you simultaneously.

You gave him everything.

He lasted considerably less time than his pride would probably prefer, which you found entirely endearing. The hands in your hair tightened with sudden urgency, a rough warning that was also half a question, and you answered it by staying exactly where you were and he broke apart above you with your name leaving his mouth like something torn free from the centre of him.

Not gods. Not a curse. Not a prayer. Your name. Just your name, rough and wrecked and reverent all at once.

The silence that followed was enormous.

Maekar stood against the shelving breathing like he had run a considerable distance, chest heaving, one hand still tangled loosely in your hair and the other against the wall, almost as if he needed it to keep balance. You rose slowly from the floor, brushing stone dust from your knees with the composure of someone who had absolutely planned all of this, and looked up to find him staring at you.

The expression on his face nearly made your heart stop.

Not the satisfied blankness you might have expected. Not even the lingering hunger. Something bewildered and open and completely undefended, sitting raw across every feature in the torchlight. Like what had just happened had rearranged something fundamental inside him and he was still taking inventory of the damage.

His mouth opened. Closed.

“You,” he said finally. His voice was completely destroyed. “You are—” He stopped. Seemed to genuinely lose the words.

His hans moved to your face, slowly, cupping your jaw with fingers that still trembled slightly. His thumb traced once beneath your cheekbone.

“I did not know,” he said quietly, “that someone would—” He stopped again. Jaw tight. “That I could—”

“You can,” you said softly.

His eyes closed briefly. You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. Maekar exhaled shakily against your cheek.

Then his hands found your waist with renewed purpose and he walked you backward toward the workbench again. The look in his eyes when he pulled back to find yours was nothing like the bewildered wreckage of a moment ago.

Certain. Focused. Warm beneath the hunger in a way that was entirely new from him.

“Your turn,” he said quietly.

He lifted you back onto the workbench like you weighed nothing.

The ease of it still sent heat rushing through you — the casual certainty of those large hands spanning your waist, the complete absence of effort, the way he stepped immediately between your knees and looked at you in the torchlight with that focused unhurried attention that had migrated from training yards and council disputes and settled here, on you, with its full undivided weight.

“Maekar—”

“No,” he said. Quiet and absolute. “You had your turn.”

“You said that already.”

“And I meant it both times.”

His hands found the fabric pooled at your waist — the ruins of your gown, the torn seam still hanging where his impatience had destroyed it — and pushed it further down your hips with steady purposeful fingers. You lifted slightly to allow it and the fabric fell away entirely, leaving you in nothing but the torchlight and his gaze.

Maekar looked at you.

Slowly. Completely. With the focused thoroughness he gave everything — as though you were something that deserved to be properly examined before anything else could proceed.

The flush climbed your own face this time.

“You seem to be gaping, my prince,” you said conceitedly.

"Perhaps," he said lowering his mouth again to your sternum and upwards. "Or perhaps I am simply wondering how you manage to be so insufferably, distractingly beautiful," he murmured against your lips and closed the distance again.

His kisses were slower than before. Deeper. With the particular quality of a man who has just had something enormous confirmed and is no longer in any hurry to pretend otherwise. His hands moved across your bare skin with a thoroughness that suggested he intended to learn every inch of you and considered this a reasonable allocation of his evening.

His mouth left yours and travelled downward yet again.

Your throat. Your collarbone. The curve of your breast where he had been earlier, returning with renewed focus, and the sound you made when his mouth found your nipple again was immediate and entirely undignified.

Maekar made a low satisfied noise against your skin.

“There,” he murmured. The word vibrated warm against you. “I have been thinking about that sound.”

“You—” Coherence was becoming genuinely difficult. “You have?”

There was no response to your question, him being entirely focused on savouring your breasts to a point where you thought he would devour them entirely,

“Maekar—” you pressed whining.

“Mm.” Not really listening. Occupied.

His hands slid down your sides, your waist, the curve of your hips, with an attentiveness that made your skin feel oversensitive everywhere he had not touched yet. He took his time. Deliberately. Like he was paying something back with interest and intended to be thorough about it.

His mouth followed the same path downward, pressing open kisses across your stomach while you sat on the edge of the workbench and tried to remember how breathing worked.

When he lowered himself to his knees in front of you the sound that escaped you was involuntary and immediate.

Maekar looked up.

The sight of him there — this enormous severe prickly man, on his knees, violet eyes finding yours from below with an expression of complete and utter focus — nearly stopped your heart entirely.

“Consider it returned,” he said quietly.

Then he pulled your thighs over his shoulders and lowered his head to tour core, and every coherent thought you possessed simply ceased to exist.

He was not tentative. Not uncertain. Maekar approached this the way he approached everything — with complete commitment and zero interest in half measures — and the wet, filthy sounds filling the quiet armoury within moments were yours and entirely beyond your control.

His hands held your hips with firm certainty, keeping you exactly where he wanted you with an ease that made you feel helplessly, wonderfully at his mercy. His mouth and tongue moved with focused intent, learning what made your breath catch and returning to it immediately, cataloguing every reaction with the same attentiveness he gave a training yard or a tactical problem.

“Gods—” Your hands flew into his hair, fingers tangling in the pale silver-threaded strands. “Maekar—”

He made a sound against you that vibrated through your entire body. Your grip tightened. He did not seem to mind even slightly.

“Look at me,” he said against your inner thigh, pulling back just enough to speak. His voice had dropped to something rough and low that resonated somewhere in the base of your spine. “I want—” A brief pause. Something working in his jaw. “I want to see you.”

You looked down and found his eyes already waiting.

He held your gaze and resumed and the combination of it — those violet eyes watching your face with naked focused intensity while his mouth worked with devastating thoroughness — unravelled the last remnants of your composure completely.

The tension coiled so tight it became almost unbearable.

“Maekar—” His name came out broken. “Please—”

Something moved in his eyes at that.

He pressed closer, arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you against his mouth with sudden decisive urgency, and the tension snapped apart all at once. You came with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair and your entire body shaking with it, and Maekar held you through every tremor with steady certain hands like he had always been built for exactly this.

Like he had been built for you specifically and simply not known it yet.

The silence afterward was soft and golden and full of your uneven breathing. Maekar rose slowly from his knees.

He stood before you in the torchlight, flushed and thoroughly dishevelled, pale hair falling loose around his face, and looked at you with an expression so open and unguarded that it nearly made your eyes sting.

Not the bewilderment of earlier. Something that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more settled. Like a man who has just understood something he had been refusing to look at directly for a very long time.

You reached for him.

He came without hesitation — no flinching, no deflection — and let you pull him in until his forehead rested against yours and his hands settled at your waist and the warmth of him surrounded you entirely.

“Still think,” you murmured softly, “that you are not built for this?”

A long pause.

“No,” he said roughly. The word came out almost wondering. Like the answer had surprised him.

Your hands found his face. Thumbs tracing the line of his now wetted beard, the scars beneath it, the high flush still colouring his cheekbones. He closed his eyes briefly the way he always did when you touched him there.

“Good,” you whispered.

His hands tightened at your waist.

“We are not finished,” he said. Lower now. The commanding quality returning beneath the softness, threading through it rather than replacing it.

Heat rushed through you immediately.

“I thought so,” you agreed.

He pulled back to look at you, something certain and hungry and devastatingly focused sitting in those violet eyes. He had you on your back against the workbench before you had fully processed the movement.

One moment upright, the next flat against the worn wood with Maekar’s hands braced on either side of your head and the full commanding weight of his attention pinning you as effectively as anything physical could have managed.

The torchlight caught him from above — flushed, breathing hard, pale hair falling forward around his face, every trace of the prickly guarded prince burned away entirely — and gods, the sight of him like this did something catastrophic to your ability to think clearly.

His forehead dropped briefly against yours.

“I want—” He stopped. Something working visibly in his jaw. “I need you to tell me.” His voice came out rough and strained and carefully controlled. “If I—”

“Maekar.”

“I am not—” Another stop. The flush deepening. “I do not want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability beneath the urgency hit somewhere directly behind your sternum. You reached up and took his face in both hands.

“You will not hurt me,” you said clearly.

“You do not know that.” His eyes searched yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with that bedrock quality of him — the thing that made him reposition himself between danger and others without thinking, that made him remember injuries, that made him protect fiercely everything he considered his. “I am—” A rough exhale. “It has been some time. And I—” He stopped completely. The flush had reached his ears. “I do not do things gently when I—”

“Good,” you said. He blinked. “I do not want gentle,” you said. Plainly. Clearly. Holding his gaze so he could see every word landing true. “I want you. All of it.” Your thumb traced his jaw and felt the muscle jump beneath it. “Do you understand what I am telling you?”

Maekar stared at you.

“You are—” The words seemed to fail him entirely.

“I am certain,” you said. “I am telling you I want it rough. I am telling you I have been waiting weeks for this and I am done waiting.” A beat. “I am also telling you that I am considerably less fragile than you seem determined to believe.”

Something shifted in his expression so completely it was almost visible as a physical thing — the last protective restraint dissolving, replaced by something dark and focused and entirely done being reasonable.

“You are certain,” he repeated. Not a question this time.

“Maekar.” You held his gaze. “I came here tonight practically naked.”

A sound escaped him that was almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. Then his mouth found yours and whatever he had been about to say disappeared completely.

He kissed you with the full pent up force of weeks of deliberate distance, of every turned back and every carefully engineered absence and every moment he had spent convincing himself he was not allowed — and you felt every single day of it in the urgency behind it, in the hands sliding beneath your thighs and repositioning you against the edge of the workbench with sudden decisive purpose.

He settled between your thighs and you felt him — all of him — and the sharp breath that left you was immediate and involuntary.

Maekar stilled.

“Still—”

“Yes,” you said firmly.

His jaw tightened. His hands gripped your hips. And he pushed forward slowly, carefully despite everything, a concession to that bedrock protectiveness that apparently even weeks of pent up wanting could not fully override—

The sound you both made simultaneously when his cock went smoothly into your dripping cunt echoed off the stone walls.

“Gods,” he breathed. Barely audible. The word stripped of everything except pure involuntary honesty. His forehead dropped to your chest, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to anchor you both to reality, every muscle in his body held in rigid check while he gave you a moment to adjust.

You felt— full. Completely. Wonderfully overwhelmingly full, the stretch of him settling into something that sat on the precise edge between too much and exactly right.

“Maekar.” You wrapped your legs around him. “Move.”

Something in him simply let go.

He drew back and thrust forward and the workbench scraped against the stone floor with the force of it and you cried out into the quiet armoury with absolutely zero remaining concern for who might hear.

Maekar groaned low against your throat.

“Again,” you managed.

He obliged.

And again. And again. The careful deliberateness of moments ago burning away entirely as the rhythm built — deep and certain and relentless. The workbench protested steadily beneath you while his hands held your hips exactly where he wanted them with a grip that would leave the memory of his fingers on your skin for days and you found you wanted that. Wanted the evidence of it. Wanted to carry it back to Queen Myriah’s chambers tomorrow like a secret pressed beneath your skin.

Maekar was not quiet about it.

That surprised you — this man who guarded every reaction, who suppressed every sound, who had spent a lifetime performing composure — coming apart above you with rough broken noises pressed against your throat that he seemed entirely beyond managing. Low and urgent and devastatingly real, dragged free by every movement, every sound you made in response, every time your hands gripped the back of his neck and pulled him closer.

Like he had been holding all of it for so long that now the dam had broken there was simply nothing left to hold with.

“You feel—” His voice came out wrecked and wondering against your jaw. “Gods, you feel—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed.

A rough sound. “I could not.” Said with complete and utter certainty. “I physically could not.”

Your back arched off the workbench.

His hand slid beneath it immediately — that same instinct, even now, even like this — supporting you, keeping you from the hard edge of the wood while the other gripped your hip and his rhythm deepened into something that stole rational thought entirely.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You found his eyes.

Violet and dark and completely unguarded, holding yours with an intensity that had nowhere left to hide — every wall down, every practiced blankness burned away, just Maekar looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the room and he was holding on accordingly.

The expression on his face finished you.

Not the hunger, though that was there, overwhelming and undeniable. But underneath it — wonder. Still wonder. Even now. Like he still could not entirely believe this was real and had decided to look at you directly until it became impossible to doubt.

“I see you,” you whispered. His rhythm faltered for one broken moment.

Then his mouth found yours and he kissed you with everything he had left and the hand at your hip tightened, the workbench scraped and you stopped thinking in words entirely.

The tension had been coiling for weeks — through every turned back and every engineered absence and every moment of deliberate distance — and when it finally broke it broke completely, your whole body arching against him while his name tore free from your throat in a way that would absolutely echo and you found you did not care even slightly.

Maekar followed you over the edge moments later, his cock throbbing inside you and filling you up so deliciously.

Your name again. Just your name, the same as before — rough and broken and said like it was the only word he had ever been certain of.

The silence afterward was vast and golden and full of ragged breathing.

He did not move immediately. Simply rested his forehead against yours, both hands gentling from their grip to something that was almost cradling, chest heaving against yours while the torchlight flickered its slow indifferent commentary across the walls.

You lay on a workbench in an armoury with a discarded torn dress and a thoroughly dishevelled prince and the distant sounds of the castle carrying on entirely without you.

“Maekar,” you said eventually. Soft, nails gently caressing his scalp.

“Mm.” Not fully returned yet.

“The workbench survived.” A long pause.

Then that laugh. Low and startled and utterly real, resonating through his chest and into yours where you were still pressed together.

“Barely,” he said.

You smiled into his shoulder. "Think this thing is sturdy enough for a second assault?"

His laugh deepened against your throat where his face had finally landed. His arms tightened around you once — brief, fierce, communicating something he did not yet have words for — before he pulled back enough to look at your face with that new expression. The one that had moved past bewilderment into something quieter and more permanent.

“You are—” He stopped. Looked almost frustrated by his own inability to finish the sentence.

“I know,” you said gently.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“No,” he said quietly. “You do not.” His thumb traced once across your cheekbone. “But I find myself— wanting to explain it to you.” A pause in which he seemed to surprise himself. “Eventually.”

Your heart turned completely over.

“I am not going anywhere,” you said.

Something settled in his face at that. Deep and slow like a foundation finding solid ground.

“No,” he agreed. “You certainly are not.”

The next morning, you had managed the dress. Barely.

The torn seam had required creative pinning in places that would not have survived close examination, which meant you had changed entirely before dawn and disposed of the evidence with the focused efficiency of someone who had absolutely thought this through.

You had not, however, thought about what your face could tell.

Queen Myriah’s chambers sat warm and bright in the morning light, the fire already built up against the early chill, and her grace herself sat composed and unhurried before her mirror while you worked through the familiar ritual of her morning hair with hands that were almost entirely steady.

Almost.

You had been telling yourself for the better part of an hour that you were perfectly fine. That nothing in your bearing communicated anything unusual. That you were a consummate lady in waiting with complete command of your own expression and the events of last night were entirely invisible on your person.

You were doing very well at believing this.

Until the door opened and Maekar stepped into the room.

He had managed himself considerably better than you — composed, dressed, every trace of last night’s dishevelment erased, only the faintest shadow beneath his eyes suggesting the hour at which he had eventually sought his own chambers. His gaze found you immediately, the way it always did now, and something shifted briefly in his expression before the careful blankness reasserted itself.

Your hands stilled in Myriah’s hair for exactly one betraying second. Heat climbed your face with the subtlety of a siege engine.

You resumed immediately. Smoothly. Professionally.

In the mirror, Queen Myriah’s eyes moved from her son’s face to yours. Then back to her son’s. Then back to yours.

The silence lasted approximately four seconds.

“Maekar,” she said pleasantly. “How unexpected. You rarely visit before council.”

“I had correspondence to discuss.” His voice was admirably even. “If you have a moment.”

“Of course.” Myriah’s eyes returned to her own reflection, her expression settling into something that was almost serenity and was in fact the most dangerous thing you had ever seen on a human face. “Though you look tired, my son. Did you sleep poorly?”

A beat.

“I slept adequately.”

“Mm.” Her grace examined her reflection with great interest. “And you—” this to you, in the same pleasant tone— “you look rather flushed this morning. Are you well, my child?”

“Perfectly well, your grace,” you said. With tremendous composure. “The fire is just warm.”

“It is, isn’t it.” A pause. “Maekar, does she not look remarkably well this morning?”

The silence that followed was catastrophic.

You did not look up from her hair. You focused on it with the complete and total dedication of someone whose life depended on a particular arrangement of pins.

“She looks—” Maekar stopped. Cleared his throat. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Myriah repeated thoughtfully.

You could feel her smiling in the mirror without looking at it. The specific quality of it radiating outward like heat from a particularly self-satisfied fire.

“Your correspondence,” you said to her reflection. Firmly. “Shall I fetch it after I have finished your hair, your grace?”

“There is no hurry.” Her grace was the picture of morning leisure. “Maekar, sit. You are making the room feel crowded standing in the doorway like a man who wishes to be somewhere else.”

He sat. With the expression of someone accepting a siege they know they cannot win.

You finished the final pin with hands that were absolutely trying not to shake.

“There,” you said. “Your grace.”

Myriah examined her reflection. Turned her head slightly left. Then right. The gesture of a woman entirely satisfied with her hair and entirely unconcerned with that being the subject under discussion.

Then she looked at you directly in the mirror.

“You may take a moment as well,” she said pleasantly. “You have been standing since dawn.”

“I am perfectly—”

“It was not a suggestion, my dear girl.”

So you sat.

The three of you existed in the warm morning quiet of the solar for one extraordinary moment — Queen Myriah composed and radiant, you studying the middle distance with tremendous focus, and Maekar to your left apparently finding the grain of the table deeply fascinating.

“Well,” said Myriah eventually. In the tone of a woman setting down a winning hand at cards. “This is very pleasant, is it not?.”

Maekar’s ears went red. You became very interested in your own hands.

Her grace looked between you both with the expression of a woman who had navigated the politics of two great houses, raised four sons, and survived the court of King Daeron with her dignity entirely intact — a woman, in short, who had seen absolutely everything and could not currently be less surprised by any of it.

The smile she was not quite suppressing was the most Dornish thing you had ever witnessed.

“I always did think,” she said lightly, returning to her own reflection and touching one pin with a satisfied air, “that the armoury at dusk was terribly romantic.”

The silence that followed had texture.

“Mother—” Maekar began.

“The correspondence can wait,” said Myriah serenely, already rising from her seat and making for the door. “Enjoy your morning, children.”

I just had to make Maekar's version more reader-domineering, I could not resist myself. So, what are your thoughts on this one??

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[monaskydancer]

My latest edit 😂