boldstarks

[boldstarks]

Show Me Your World - (Edge of Desire Special Chapter)

summary | Glimpses of your ever blossoming marriage with Aemond, through the eyes of people around you.

pairing | aemond targaryen x niece!reader

tags | teeth rotting fluff! ooc aemond, mentions of oral (f), ooc criston lol, alicole tease idc sue me, third pov (?), pure marital bliss

song rec | My Kind of Woman - Mac Demarco

wordcount | 3.8k

note | surprise! this is my lil thank you gift for 2k hehe this isn't necessarily a pt 2, but Edge of Desire has received soo much love and i want to try and give even just a little bit back!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

There was no doubt that the marriage of princess Rhaenyra’s only daughter to the king’s second son caused much worry from the court. The strife between the Hightowers and the Targaryens was no secret, festering into a nasty, outward conflict that ended in a boy maimed, and a family divided by sea. Viserys the Peaceful, ever faithful to his name, sought to mend this rift. 

In the moons following their marriage, it was plain to see the princess and the one-eyed prince rarely agreed with each other. A womb bearing no fruit, eyes rarely meeting, and twin frowns often decorating their features. The concerns aptly only grew. But then, something had shifted in the air.

The princess grew to be exuberant, practically glowing as her belly swelled with child. There was rarely a moment the prince was not found by her side, save for when he was training in the Keep’s yard, and even then, his ladywife was sure to be found on the castle’s balcony with a pleased smile on her face. Whispers of concern soon turned into that of courtly gossip, nobles and staff alike most eager to discover the secret in the couple’s newfound bliss. Many strained their neck to catch a glimpse of the two royals at court, keeping a close eye to notice any indication of a display of affection, though none of them ever did. The prince stood as stoic as ever, while you took your place beside him, hands clasped over your growing bump. Save for the communicative looks you exchanged now and then, the signs of a budding romance between the two of you were sparse. 

It was rather odd. Such whispers from the servants would make it seem that the prince had somehow taken on a persona straight from their mother’s tales about love, like a dashing knight head over heels for his princess, but none of them ever caught such a glimpse. All except for one. 

Sera was no significant person among the residents of the Red Keep. She was a servant, tasked with changing linens, emptying chamber pots, and seeing that the more valued inhabitants of the castle were satisfied. Any ounce of value in her low rank only came when she was made handmaiden to the princess. Stepping up to her new position, she would admit that she was quite curious. What she heard about your marriage piqued her interest, even more so when she began to step into the space that separated the royals from the lowborns. 

In your private marital chambers, the whispers began to take form, proving themselves to be true. It became customary for her to hear the rhythmic thump, thump, thump coming from your bedchamber while she set up your morning meals in the solar. High-pitched moans would penetrate through the red brick, bringing about a hot flush in the young woman’s cheeks as she hastened to lay down the cutlery before scurrying off. Sera remained invisible, merely a shadow that passed through your life, invisible hands that aided in your day. She knew her place, especially when prince Aemond was in the room while she assisted the princess. 

Once the copper tub was filled for your bath, she must make her leave in haste with one flick of the prince’s wrist.

When your husband started to approach your seated form upon the vanity as you readied for the day, Sera knew better and would step away so the one-eyed prince may inhabit your space, no matter the intricacy of the braids she was twisting your hair into. Averting her eyes, the servant could only listen to your dreamy sighs as your husband peppered kisses onto every bit of skin his lips could find.

Did it make her work lighter? Perhaps. It helped to serve two royals who wanted little but each other, who were never cruel or harsh with their tongue. It was odd to say such sentiments for what the court knew as the cold, rigid one-eyed prince, but marriage had changed much of him.

He was always handsome, despite the scar and the menacing glint in his good eye. The fearful aura he exuded in his stride made any good woman weak in the knees, coupled with that sleek, soft hair the shade of moonlight, and his lithe, tall form. Prince Aemond was far more fancied by the young maidens that served as the keep’s staff, Sera included. 

It was a particularly beautiful morn when she realized this. The spring breeze brought about a lightness through the castle, while the early morning sun beamed with hope for warmth after winter’s end. Sera made her way through Maegor’s Holdfast, her feet taking a mind of its own as it led her to your chambers. She had been at your service for a few moons at this point, a routine suitably established with time and experience. 

As she was granted entry by the White Cloak at your door, she made quick work to draw every curtain open, before making her way to the bedchamber. You must be awakened soon, and with a light knock, Sera was answered with a sleepy hum that indicated your rise.

However, such disruptions to one’s routine should always be expected. When she turned the doorknob with a soft greeting on her lips, Sera was taken aback by the sight that met her. You were, indeed, freshly awake, eyes half-lidded and hair aptly messed from the sheets, but with the addition of your husband’s kneeling form in between your thighs. His silver hair was loose, draped over his sculpted back as you gripped them in between your fingers. Neither of you seemed to notice the intruder, clearly lost in the dizzy haze of your pleasure as your hips continued to cant against Aemond’s face. It was her stunned gasp that made Sera’s presence known. For the first time, she had gotten too close, had touched the bubble that encased the couple in their marital bliss, and now it had burst. 

Both royals snapped their heads towards the door, but it was prince Aemond that made her heart beat erratically in her chest. He was without his eyepatch, nor his clean updo that kept his mane out of his face, nor a tunic or any clothing for that matter. The dazzling sapphire glinted in the morning sun, drawing her into its tantalizing spell. It was a good thing her eyes stayed there, never drifting downward to the other treasure in between his legs for the scowl on Aemond’s face made his displeasure known.

“Out,” was all he said, sending poor Sera scurrying out of the room. You would apologize to her later in the day, giving her clammy hand a soft squeeze with nothing but gentleness in your face. 

“Whatever happened to you?” Elara had asked her upon her return to the servant’s wing. The younger girl’s brows furrowed in confusion and slight worry at the beet-red flush on Sera’s face. Unlike her acquaintance, Elara’s experience with serving prince Aegon was nothing short of harrowing, and such a reaction on Sera was enough to have her assuming the worst. “Were you harmed?”

“No, no! Hells, I–” Sera stammered. When did she begin to perspire so much? Her nape was damp with flustered sweat from the aftermath of such embarrassment. Detailing the moments of her eventful morning was a struggle, even more so when Elara burst out giggling in her face. Sera slapped her hands over her face, groaning. “The prince wasn’t supposed to be there so late. He would be off to the yard with Ser Cole at this hour!”

The young blonde shook her head in amusement, hands still busy with folding linens. “Gods, the princess is a lucky one, isn’t she? Prince Aemond seems like a total dreamboat compared to his brother.” She leaned closer to Sera, whispering. “Did you see his—?” 

“His what?” she replied, not fully understanding the cryptic tilt of her head and the smirk on her face.

“Well, you know… his High Tower!”

Both girls erupted into a fit of laughter, though old Hilda wasn’t too happy with their slacking off. 

The second time Sera had found herself bestowed another close glimpse of the couple was during the hour of the owl. You were only a few days away from term, and the maester had you isolated for the rites of seclusion prior to your labors. Aemond, in an isolated state of his own, was forbidden to visit you even in daylight for propriety’s sake. Your marital chambers never felt so empty, with your absence ridding it of any life that came with your mere presence.

It was a miserable affair, both for you and your husband. Sera had seen how the separation was affecting her princess. You were lonely, weary from the aches of your belly, and losing your appetite from the desolate state of your chambers. It had her worried, even more so when word of your husband’s anxious state reached her ears. She ought to do something, but she had little power over the order of the maesters, even more so when it was approved by the queen herself. 

Perhaps it was by fate when one night, she… forgot to close the door firmly behind her when she was granted her leave for the evening. It granted the prince entry, after many nights of pacing through the halls for any chance to slip into his wife’s chambers without being detected. She stayed in the shadows of an alcove, counting the minutes until she heard the familiar gait of the one-eyed prince taking the path she had just passed. 

She couldn’t help herself. With featherlight steps, Sera tiptoed back to your door, peeking through the slight crack left ajar. What she saw almost had her thinking it was a repeat of that one morning, but it was something far more intimate.

There he was, the one-eyed prince Aemond, kneeling before your seated form like a devotee. His face was nuzzled into your lap, his arms wrapped around the swollen bump that housed your offspring. Your hands rubbed down his back soothingly, while your cheeks glistened under the dim light of your chambers. Tears of happiness, Sera realized. Like always, your husband peppered kisses all over— your hands, your belly, even on the swell of your bosom that threatened to spill from your garments.

It was nothing debauched, nor depraved, but filled with far more passion than she had ever seen in her young life. She had never seen two souls so profoundly intertwined, deep into the throes of your love in a way that seemed unfathomable in this cruel life. It was no fairytale, but very much real. 

He looked unrecognizable like this, with a face so peaceful and a touch so gentle. His thin lips moved with words inaudible to Sera’s ears, but the way your face glowed brighter than it had been for these past days made the young girl’s chest swell with a yearning for something of her own. She could only pray that her princess would only find happiness in her marriage, and that the gods would grant herself a love that could be half as full as yours.

Prince Aemond was no man of big gestures. He was not one to scream his love from the rooftops, nor wear his heart on his sleeve, but with his forehead pressed into your bump, Sera learned that whispers of a true love were far greater than proclamations of folly.

Criston Cole did not believe in love. It was a fool’s wish. The only time he had gotten close to dabbling into the idea of it had left him broken, honor sullied for a princess who returned little of what he had given. Rhaenyra was a thorn in his past, and her bastards were a blatant reminder of his divulgence into her trap. Hence, his apprehension upon the news of the marriage of the heir’s only daughter to Alicent’s thirdborn. 

What was he to say? To do? Nothing. Criston had overstepped his bounds once and it had ended with his white cloak dirtied and his sanity balanced on the tip of his sword. This match was doomed to fail, he had no doubt of it, but he kept his mouth shut. The Dornishman was quite famed for his good swordsmanship, and his humble beginnings, but especially more so of his handsome looks. Olive skin, luscious dark locks, and wide brown orbs that glimmered like topaz under the southern sun. Those eyes held less composure than the rest of his face. They were a window of his thoughts, and they spoke of the words his tongue held back. Cole’s contempt for Rhaenyra’s blood was ever evident in the sharp gaze he threw your way. You were of your mother’s sin, yet you walked in these halls as if though you were anything but a blaring reminder of it. 

Criston knew of Aemond’s nature. He had spent many hours honing the young prince’s skills with a sword, had taken him and his mother to the Sept for their prayers. Cole had even held him while he writhed in pain when the maester took out the stitches of his slashed eye. The second prince shared his disdain for Rhaenyra and her brood, perhaps even more so than the knight himself. And so, he was well aware that Aemond found no positives in his marriage. 

For a while, the knight believed the younger to share such sentiments, but the stories of your blossoming marriage had filtered through the Keep, inevitably reaching the ears of the White Sword Tower. His response was nothing but a scoff. Criston did not consider himself a believer of such change, but when he began to see it for himself, his views faltered. 

Namedays of the royal family were always celebrated with grandeur and splendor. Helaena’s twins had just turned five, and the court had taken to the Kingswood for the royal hunt. It was a splendid affair, the young babes garnering much attention from the guests. Aegon, surprisingly enough, was enthusiastically present for his children. The elder held much love for his children, and it made for an endearing sight to see. This had lightened the attention on prince Aemond and his ladywife, who were bound to be parents of their own.

The news of your pregnancy had garnered much praise and well wishes from the court, and before you even began to grow round with child, all eyes were constantly on you and Aemond. Though that night, you had been granted reprieve. 

Cole stood beside the queen Alicent as she sat, ever faithfully upholding his duty. It was customary for him to scan the room constantly, keeping himself aware of any potential threat to his queen. There he found prince Aemond and his ladywife, secluded in their own little corner of the royal tent.

You had whispered something into Aemond’s ear with a cherubic smile, before covering your mouth with a ringed hand as giggles spilled from your lips. The knight fought back the urge to roll his dark, chocolate orbs at such a display, knowing the second prince well enough that such behavior did not bode well with him. 

Yet, he found himself mistaken. In the dim amber glow of the royal pavilion, it was easy to overlook the way Aemond’s silver tresses swayed as his head bowed followed by the most peculiar sight. The leather of his doublet moved up and down as his shoulders shook. Criston may have been granted only the sight of the prince’s back, but it was plain enough to see.

He was laughing. 

In all his years serving the Hightowers, the most he had ever seen from Aemond was a smirk, or a dark chuckle when he bested his mentor while they trained. Cole believed his eyes to be deceiving him, but the pleased look on your face and the bubbling laughter that echoed through the night was testament enough that you had the power to loosen the prince’s otherwise rigid grip on his composure. You were stuck to his side, heads huddled together as you whispered about gods know what. It might have been the wine or the warmth exuded by the torches littered about, but your cheeks were flushed like a rose. 

Beyond his conscience, the sight had pulled a smile of his own. Something akin to elation sweltered in the knight’s chest. It pleased him to see the prince so relaxed, free from the tension he always carried. Criston would have you to thank for it. 

Beside him, Alicent was looking at him as though he had grown a second head. Her sworn shield seldom found things that amused him, and even then, it was rather disturbing to her. “What amuses you, good ser?” she asked, taking Criston by surprise. His cheeks quickly dropped to his usual formal state, throat clearing to regain his composure. The queen, ever observant followed where his eyes had flickered to. Across from where she sat, her second son held an arm around his wife’s waist, whispering into each other’s ear while sharing a cup of wine. Wide smiles mirrored each other, their gazes focused on no one else but them. The sight made the queen’s cheeks dimple into a small smile, a warmth in her motherly heart filling her with hope. It had been many years ago when Alicent deemed herself cursed by the gods, given a fate so cruel. It had shaken her faith, even more so when it appeared to have trickled down to her children. Aemond had the worst of it— a dragon egg turned to stone, an eye cruelly taken, and a ghost of a father. She feared for what may become of him, with his wrath and fury that seemed to guide his aspirations. Yet now, as she watched her favored son let his wife take his cheek into her hand so publicly, Alicent prayed that the tides were turning for him. Perhaps you might change his fate. Perhaps he might be spared yet. “He’s been quite happy as of late,” Alicent mentioned, turning to Criston. A look filled with mirth equaled that of the Dornishman before her, who nodded in agreement.

“He has, my queen. It pleases me greatly to see the prince so content. The princess brings out the best in him,” Cole replied. They shared smiles of their own, and the knight felt emboldened by the glee they shared. He shuffled ever so closely to her seat, the warmth exuding from her pale flesh emanating through the cold steel of his armor. As they both watched you take Aemond’s hand to lead him out of the pavilion, Criston willed himself to keep his composure as Alicent ever so subtly leaned against his arm.

Criston was present in much of what happens in the royal family. He was there for every nameday, every birth, and every milestone that Alicent’s children had. Albeit, he was in the background, but he was there. It did not change when they became parents themselves, with Helaena and Aegon having three babes, while Aemond and his ladywife were now about to have a child of their own.

Aemond had been an anxious mess all morning. Your labors had begun just as dawn broke, and pursued well through noon. Queen Alicent made her way to your chambers to check on your well-being as soon as the council dispersed, with Cole naturally in tow. Your husband had to be pushed back by several knights as the grand maester forbade him to enter the birthing chamber, fighting to be by your side. Your wails and cries had him distressed, even more so when he could clearly hear you call for him. It was only when his mother arrived did Aemond settle, uneasily staying in the common room as she was permitted to see you in his stead.  “This is her fight, Aemond. You must let them do their work,” Alicent said, planting a soothing kiss on her son’s cheek before entering the birthing chamber. 

His mother’s presence did little to quench his worries, and the one-eyed prince had settled to lean on the windowsill, fists clenched on the stone as his head bowed. From his place by the door, Cole approached him with quiet steps, settling beside his tense form. “She will be alright,” he said. “The princess is strong. A dragon in her own right.” He was responded by only a grunt from the younger, who kept his good eye closed as he steadied his breathing.

It was quiet between the two, just as it always was with Aemond. The only sound in the room was your outcries of pain that only seemed to grow louder by the minute. With a heavy sigh, Aemond spoke. “What did she thank you for?”

“My prince?” Criston asked, confused.

“My wife. When she first arrived from Dragonstone, I heard her whisper her thanks to you, and her apology for having done so too late. What did she have to thank you for?”

Cole huffed a small chuckle at the memory. It was many, many years ago when you were merely a girl. You used to play with Helaena in the gardens so often, especially during the spring afternoons when the butterflies danced above the bushels of flowers. Alicent would find time to watch over the young princesses, with her sworn shield following their tail through the royal gardens.

One afternoon, both girls had been so enthusiastic with the amount of colorful butterflies that flittered about. Helaena had her eyes set on a pretty blue one, crossing the wooden footbridge over the small pond in the middle of the greenery. 

The pair made haste to follow the girls, but you came running back, with a quivering frown. You had clutched onto Criston’s cloak, refusing to cross over the small, wooden bridge. It was littered with frogs from the pond. The tiny green things gave you a fright, and Criston had to carry you in his arms over to where Helaena played in the grass. Your excitement had quickly been restored once your fear was gone, short legs quickly wriggling out of the knight’s grip to rejoin your aunt.

A decade later, you voiced your regrets over your rudeness and thanked Criston for his help on that day.

“It was for something so little that did not require such importance, but the princess was gracious to remember so,” Cole smiled. Aemond’s lips had lifted into a smile of his own at the thought of you, slim cheeks dimpling. 

“She is full of nothing but kindness,” the prince said fondly, straightening his posture with more ease. “I am rather undeserving of it.” Aemond’s response made Cole frown, the elder knight clasping the prince’s shoulder in a fatherly squeeze. 

“The gods have deemed you most deserving of it, Aemond. You were fated for each other. I have witnessed no other pair to have been more well suited in this lifetime, believe me.” Such words were so foreign to leave Cole’s lips, but they held no lie. A shrill cry had then pierced through the air, and Alicent had opened the door with a wide smile on her face. ‘Tis a girl! was her exclaim, and Aemond had rushed off from Criston’s side to see his wife. 

Pleased, the knight stayed in his place, off to the side as the royals celebrated yet a new beginning in their lives.

Criston may not believe in love, nor has he felt it, but he has seen it. 

It could be quite beautiful, he realized. 

[boldstarks]

aemond, knight x princess AU! happy ending and no angst please 🎀✨️

──𝑎.𝑡. ┆ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡'𝑠 𝑜𝑎𝑡ℎ. ♡ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi .. ♡ i hope this lil fic brings y'all some comfort and love ⸝⸝ pls enjoy some steamy knight!aemond 𝑥 princess!reader ݁𓂃 ☽︎ they're the it couple, heheh .. ꒰ᐢ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ᐢ꒱ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ MDNI, 18+ wc: 5.6k.

⟢ ─ 𝑖.

you first meet him when you are no more than eight summers old. your mother introduces him in the echoing stone courtyard, her voice sharp and cold as the wind that snaps the banners above the keep. "this is ser aemond targaryen," she says, her tone clipped—absolute. "he will be your sworn shield from this day forward, you will not go anywhere without him."

you remember blinking up at him, your fingers clutching your long, flowing skirts, the pale gold silk of your dress pooling like spilled sunlight around your small feet. he was taller than the other knights, leaner, his silver hair bound at the nape of his neck in a thick black ribbon, his face hard and angular like a sculpture cut from frost.

and his eye—only one. the other was hidden behind a black leather patch. the remaining one was sharp, the color of a frozen lake just before it cracks. he knelt before you, the steel of his armor clinking softly, and said, "i swear to shield you from all harm, princess. with my life, if need be."

you flinched when he bowed low to kiss the back of your hand, his gauntlet cold against your soft, unblemished skin. you were too shy to speak, too afraid you'd say the wrong thing and embarrass yourself. but even then, you felt it. a pull, a heavy weight that settled into your bones like a prophecy.

years pass.

as you grow, he watches.

at fifteen, your lady maid brushes your hair each morning while you sit at your vanity, dreaming of poetry and summer and the soft, foolish love you read about in the courtly romances you secretly keep tucked beneath your mattress.

ser aemond waits outside your chamber door like a shadow carved from steel. he never speaks unless spoken to, never removes his armor, and never breaks his vigil.

yet his presence coils around your life like smoke—silent and inescapable.

when you descend the tower stairs each morning, his eye follows every movement you make, observing you like a hunter who watches its prey. you feel the weight of his gaze on your back like fingers brushing against skin. it does not frighten you, it only unsettles something deeper.

by sixteen, you begin to wonder what he dreams about.

you dare not ask. but sometimes, when you're feeling braver than usual, you sneak glances at him beneath your lashes as you ride through the woods together. you watch the way his jaw tenses when you laugh too freely at the jests of your cousin. you feel the air grow colder when any man dares look at you too long.

you begin to understand that you are not just his responsibility, but also his obsession.

and you... you are beginning to wonder if you want to be.

one night, the court holds a feast. you are forced into a gown you hate—tight across the bosom, your breasts pushed high, your throat bare. you catch his gaze from across the great hall, and your breath stutters.

he's not looking at your face.

when your mother forces you to dance with the infamous heir of house tyrell, you feel aemond's fury like a storm gathering in the corner of the room.

later, when you sneak away into the gardens for air, he follows. you don't hear him approach, but you feel him—like a shadow stretching over your skin.

"you shouldn't be out here alone," he says, voice low, graveled by something dark and unspoken.

"i'm never alone," you whisper, looking up at him with your doe eyes. "not with you always near."

his jaw flexes. "you should not say such things, princess."

"but i think them. always." you swallow. "don't you?"

silence. so long you think he might walk away.

but instead, he steps closer. close enough for you to smell the leather and steel and smoke that clings to him like a second skin, close enough that his breath warms your cheek in the cold.

"i think things i shouldn't," he murmurs, so quiet it almost doesn't reach you. "i dream of things that would damn my soul."

you shiver, not from fear, but from hope. it only grows darker from there. you are seventeen when you see him kill a man with his bare hands.

the court says it was in your defense, that the lordling had dared to speak ill of your virtue, that ser aemond acted with honor, with dignity.

you know better.

the man was drunk. foolish, yes. but harmless.

you saw the look in aemond's eye as he struck, again and again, even after the body stopped moving.

it wasn't about your safety. it was about possession, and the part of you that should have been horrified, that should have feared him—was not.

on your eighteenth nameday, he brings you a gift. it is not jewels or silks. it is a dagger, its hilt carved with your house sigil, and its blade wickedly sharp.

you hesitate when you unwrap it. "why?" you ask, your soft-spoken voice trembling.

he leans close, his eye gleaming with a feverish gleam you've come to recognize in your dreams. "because i would burn the world to ashes for you, princess," he whispers, his voice calm and low. "but one day, if i lose myself... you'll need a way to stop me."

you stare down at the blade, then back up at him, eyes wide and full of innocent curiosity. then you wrap your dainty fingers around the hilt, the weight of it strangely comforting in your small palm.

you do not speak of it again. it is a long, slow spiral after that. a descent into something maddening, something forbidden.

every touch lasts too long, and every glance carries too much hidden meaning. he stops pretending to be unaffected, and you stop pretending that you don't want it—him.

but you do not speak of love, not yet. that would break whatever fragile veil exists between duty and desire.

instead, you circle each other like stars destined to collide. each time your fingers brush together, your skin burns with a heat so fierce that it overwhelms you, and each time he lays your cloak over your shoulders, your breath catches, belly swarming with thousands of butterflies.

and when you dream—oh, when you dream—it is always of his large hands wrapped around your delicate throat like they belong there, his mouth at your ear, whispering oaths he should not make.

you often wake with an aching cunt and trembling lips, always alone. but you know, and so does he. it happens on a storm-soaked night. the keep is asleep. the rain lashes the windows. lightning fractures the sky.

you cannot sleep. you wander the halls barefoot, your nightgown damp from your sweat and dreams. and you find him—at the window of the armory, bathed in moonlight, his armor half removed, his silver hair loose and damp.

you don't speak, and neither does he.

but when you step toward him, he moves like a man possessed. he doesn't kiss you, he devours you. rough hands, desperate mouth, breath ragged as he lifts you onto the table, tears your nightgown like paper. he presses his forehead to yours, his eye burning into your soul.

"you don't know what i am," he rasps, shaking. "what i've done. what i would do for you."

"i do," you whisper before kissing him passionately, like a girl who has been starved too long for affection.

because you're starved for him, yearning for him. and when he takes you that night, it is not gentle. it is worship and madness and something darker. you do not cry out. you sink your manicured nails into his back and pull him deeper. because you are no longer a silly little child, you are his.

and he has always—always—been yours.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖.

the morning after, you expect him to disappear. to flee into the fog of duty and guilt, hide behind his oath again, pretending it didn't happen.

but he doesn't.

you wake to find him seated by the fire in your chamber, still dressed in his blood-dark tunic from the night before, his hair loose and wild. he's watching you sleep like he's afraid you'll vanish, like you're a fever dream he isn't ready to wake from.

he remains silent, simply taking your hand beneath the silken coverlet and pressing his lips to your inner wrist, over your pulse point. as though it's a sacred thing, as though you are. after that night, he changes.

not in ways the court can see—he's still your quiet, deadly shadow, still the sword at your back and the ghost at your heel. but you feel it, all the ways he frays inside.

he doesn't let you out of his sight. he trails closer now, too close, every time you walk the halls. when other men speak to you, he tenses so violently it looks like he's in pain—agonizing pain. his hand will find the hilt of his sword as if drawn by instinct, ready to attack should he ever need to.

at night, he comes to you in secret—always late, always silent—and never speaks when he enters your chambers. he simply falls to his knees before you, as if in prayer, and worships you with mouth and hands and whispered madness.

and in the quiet moments between, he confesses the truths that no one else hears—the rot of his soul.

the way he dreams of killing every man who looks at you. the hunger he has for you that no battle, no war, no bloodshed could ever quench. "i am not a man anymore, princess," he tells you one night, voice low and hoarse, his forehead resting against your bare thigh. "i am yours. only yours. you've hollowed me out."

you should be afraid, yet you feel invincible.

the court begins to whisper. not because they see—but because they sense. the way your eyes always find his in a room. the way he stands just a little closer than is considered proper. the way no man dares touch you now.

a bold young lord tries, once, during a banquet, offering you his arm to walk you to your seat.

he doesn't make it out of the hall with all his fingers.

you remember the crunch of bone, the way the blood spilled down aemond's knuckles. you remember how he turned to you afterward, eye wild and breathless like a man drunk on ruin and sin.

and how you stood. how you stepped up into him, cupped his face in your hands, and kissed him for all the court to see. it was madness; it was love. it was already too late for either of you to turn back.

you whisper about marriage only once. it's after the second time he almost kills a man for daring to speak your name too sweetly.

you lie tangled in furs in the abandoned tower chamber where you meet in secret. his head rests on your chest, nuzzling your breasts with fervent kisses. one of your hands is buried in his silky hair, while the other traces the harsh ridges of his scar.

you speak without thinking, in the quiet hush between breaths. "would you marry me, if you could?"

he stills, then rises slowly, like a beast uncoiling. his gaze pinning you to the mattress. "i would burn every sept in the realm to marry you."

you laugh, startled. "that's not very romantic," you pout.

"it's the only vow i know how to make," he growls. "to destroy everything that keeps you from me." his hand wraps around your throat. not tightly—but enough for you to feel the threat beneath the tenderness.

you shouldn't be thrilled by it.

but gods, you are.

"what if i asked it of you?" you whisper. "a secret union. just us. no court. no king. only vows spoken in darkness."

his mouth crashes into yours, and the kiss is a promise—vicious, claiming, eternal. "i would slit the throat of any man who tries to call you his before me."

you believe him, you love him.

you begin to plan in secret. it's childish, foolish—romantic.

a stolen ceremony in the woods. a ribbon from your hair to bind your hands. his blood on your lips, your blood on his blade, sealed in silence and shadow.

you write your vows in your journal, and he carves his into the hilt of his favored valyrian dagger.

you kiss beneath moonlight and swear yourselves to each other without a sept, without a priest, without permission. and still, it feels more sacred than anything you've ever known.

but the world will not let you have him—not quietly, not cleanly.

you are a princess. promised to another. a pawn amongst the board that's been played since long before you were born.

and aemond—aemond is just a sword.

a mad, beautiful, broken sword that would kill for you. that has killed for you, and will again.

one night, you find him pacing your chambers, his armor half-on, eye wild with some thought he cannot hold inside. he turns to you as if he's made a decision that might destroy the world. "we leave tomorrow," he says. "no more hiding. mo more courts. i'll take you to the end of the realm if i have to."

you rise from your seat slowly, heartbeat rising like a tide. "aemond, my love−"

"they'll never stop," he hisses, fury gleaming in his eye. "they'll marry you off to some fat old lord in the north and chain me for treason. i'll kill them all before i ever let that happen."

you step to him, press your palm to his chest, feel the hammering of his heart beneath. "then take me," you whisper. "run with me. marry me truly in fire and ruin if you must."

he kisses you like a man falling into the abyss.

and you fall with him.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

the storm outside is so loud it swallows the sound of your breath. wind shrieks through the castle like a dying woman, rain lashes the stone walls, thunder splits the sky over and over again—but none of it touches you. not here, not in this room where everything is suddenly, terrifyingly quiet.

because aemond has locked the door behind him. and he's looking at you like a man starved. not hungry, no—that's far too gentle.

famished.

like your body is the last thing left in this world he wants to ruin and worship in equal measure. you rise from the chair near the hearth without a word. the fire throws gold and shadow over the curve of your breast, the line of your throat, the hem of your silk nightgown fluttering against your thighs.

you see the way his jaw clenches. "you said we'd leave at dawn," you whisper.

he hums, "we will."

"then this is the last night i'll ever be a princess."

his eye darkens. you step toward him slowly, barefoot on the cold stone. "and tomorrow, i'll be your true wife."

a muscle ticks in his cheek. "and tonight?" he rasps.

you smile, soft and sweet and lethal. "tonight, i want to be yours. however you want me."

he doesn't move, he just sinks to his knees, right there on the floor. the sound of his dark armor shifting, falling away, echoes like a funeral dirge as he drops his sword, tears away his gauntlets, and presses his forehead to your stomach.

you feel the heat of his breath through the delicate silk.

"say it again," he whispers, pleading.

"that i'm yours?"

"no," he growls, lips dragging down over your navel. "say you want me on my knees." your breath catches, heart fluttering beneath your ribcage. "i want you on your knees, ser."

his moan is something broken. and then his hands are curling around your thighs, spreading them, lifting the silk nightgown up over your hips—and he stares at you like a man witnessing the divine. no underclothes. no modesty. just you, bare and trembling and wicked with want.

"fuck," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "you're so fucking perfect, little dove. look at you..."

you lean back against the table as his mouth lowers. and when his tongue finds you, there's no grace to it. no knightly control.

it's feral.

he eats your sweet cunt like a man possessed, like a man whose only salvation is in the slick heat between your thighs, licking and groaning and burying his face so deep it makes you cry out his name.

your fingers tangle in his silver hair, pulling hard, and he moans a pained moan like it's the sweetest thing he's ever felt. he grips your hips so tightly you know he'll leave bruises in the shape of his hands, precious and possessive.

you arch against him, shaking. "you're going to ruin me," you mewl softly, dazed.

he pulls back just enough to look up at you—lips glistening with your cunny's tears, cheeks flushed, hair wild. "no," he breathes, voice trembling. "you destroyed me the moment i met you; this is merely my atonement, princess."

then he dives back in, and this time it's worse—better—his tongue working in slow, brutal circles, flicking, tasting, devouring. he slips one long, scarred finger into you, then another, curling just right until you sob so beautifully for him.

"that's it, little wife," he growls into you, smirking wickedly, flicking the tip of his tongue over your swollen clit obsessively. "let them hear you scream for your knight. let them know you were always mine."

you shatter for him, right there. right over his mouth. and he doesn't stop. not until you're whimpering and twitching and begging with soft, needy little whines.

when he rises, his lips are wet with you, his eye is wild, and his cock—thick, flushed, aching—is already out, gripped tight in his fist as he slowly pumps himself.

he doesn't ask, he simply lifts you onto the table, shoves everything off it—books, scrolls, silver goblets crashing to the stone like thunder—and presses your knees apart.

then he slides into you in one brutal thrust, groaning as your cunt immediately squeezes his poor, aching cock.

you cry out, clawing at his shoulders. "aemond−"

he wraps a hand around your throat and growls into your mouth as he starts to fuck you, slow and punishing, every thrust grinding deep. "say it," he demands, grunting. "say who you belong to."

"y-you," you gasp, whining.

he tightens his hand around your throat just slightly. "louder, princess."

"you, aemond. f-fuck, i belong to you!" you squeal, feeling your tender walls spasm around his thick girth.

his rhythm falters—just a heartbeat—then returns harder. desperate. his mouth finds your collarbone, your jaw, your lips, biting, marking, worshiping. "tomorrow, we leave," he pants, dripping with sweat from his exertions. "tomorrow, we vanish. but tonight, i put my name on your cunt, your heart, your soul."

"yes," you sob. "g-gods, yes!"

"i'll kill anyone who touches you."

you kiss him, biting his lip until you taste blood. he shoves your thighs up higher, hitting deeper now, harder, growling curses and praise in high valyrian between each thrust like a man unraveling at the altar of his own obsession.

and when you both fall apart, it's not soft—it's violent.

you come around him with a scream. he follows with a snarl, spilling his seed inside you, biting down on your shoulder like he wants to leave teeth marks. you collapse together, shaking and soaked in sweat and sin.

for a long time, neither of you speak. only breathing, only clutching. only the sound of the storm beyond the keep, and the even louder storm inside your chest.

morning will come, and with it—escape.

a wedding. a crown of blood and ruin. a husband who belongs to no one but you.

and a knight who's never getting off his knees again.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑣.

you do not sleep.

not after what he did to you on the table, on the floor, against the stone wall of your chambers with your nightgown half torn and his armor still on. not after what you whispered in the dark between kisses and bitten moans.

that you'd be his. that you'd leave everything behind. that you'd marry him in secret, truly—even if it meant the world turned to ash.

you sit by the window, wrapped in your cloak, listening to the keep breathe its last few hours of silence. your hands shake. not with fear, with knowing. because when the sun rises, you will no longer be a princess—you will be his wife.

he finds you in the dark, silent as death, dressed in black from throat to toe. even his sword is bound in shadow—wrapped in leather and cloth, no sigil, no silver, nothing that might trace him back to house targaryen.

he is not a prince, he never was. he is only yours, and tonight, he looks it.

he doesn't speak at first. just kneels again, hands at your ankles, eyes up, and presses his lips to the soft silk of your flowing skirts—a vow without words.

you place your hand on his cheek. "take me," you whisper. "before they can stop us." you leave through the catacombs beneath the keep—dark tunnels carved long ago, when kings feared assassins and queens feared their husbands.

aemond knows every passage. he drew you a map once, long ago, with blood on the edge of the parchment. you pass the tombs of old kings, the bones of long-dead dragons.

and then, at the mouth of a ruined sept buried in ivy and shadow, you marry him once more. it is not holy. there is no septon, no rings, and no witnesses.

just a dagger—your dagger, the one he gifted you on your eighteenth nameday.

he slits his palm without hesitation, blood dripping slow and thick between his fingers. you tremble when he hands it to you, but you do the same. you press your bleeding hand to his, and when your blood mingles with his, he kisses you like it's the only vow he needs.

"i name you mine," he whispers against your lips, his voice low and trembling. "before gods and ghosts. before steel and fire. you are my wife now, princess. my only one."

tears prick your lashes. "i name you mine," you mewl, breath hitching in the back of your throat. "and i will never belong to anyone else. i will burn before i let them take me from you."

aemond presses his forehead to yours. "then let the realm chase us," he says. "i'll kill the gods before i ever give you up." you flee on horseback before dawn, cloaked and hooded, leaving behind only silence and bloodstained vows.

the wind bites at your cheeks, and the forest is thick with fog. your pulse is a war drum in your throat, beating with the adrenaline of freedom, of everlasting love.

aemond rides ahead, his sword drawn, every muscle coiled for violence. he lacks trust in the road, lacks faith in the quiet, and he's correct in his doubts.

because before you've made it past the borderlands, the hunt begins. they've discovered your escape. the bells toll behind you like mourning songs.

you hear the thunder of hooves, feel the echo of danger in your spine. but aemond only turns to you, eye gleaming in the dark. "they'll try to take you," he says, his eye gleaming dangerously. "let them come. i'll stack their bodies at your feet as a wedding gift, my love."

you believe him, you always have. because he was never just your knight—he was your sword, your fury, your fire.

and now, your husband.

you gallop fiercely into the twilight, heading for a battered fortress on the precipice, where no throne can reach you, where no deity dares gaze, here he'll claim you anew—this time openly, as his sweet little wife.

and when the night comes, and the fires are lit, and his mouth finds the mark he left on your throat the night before, he says it again: "you're mine now, little dove."

and you smile through the ache in your thighs and the bruises on your hips. "i always was."

⟢ ─ 𝑣.

the tempest has long gone, but your body still quakes as if the heavens are ready to shatter again, for you are no longer a princess—you are now a wife, his wife.

the stone chamber in the old keep is lit only by firelight, with shadows dancing on the walls as wind howls outside the crumbling tower, but you don't hear it—not really.

you can only hear the quiet sound of aemond unfastening his sword. he places it at the foot of the bed, like an offering, like a signal. as if to suggest: i remain a weapon. yet now, i obey no one except you.

you're already in your shift, nothing beneath it, the thin silk clinging to your thighs from where he kissed you against the cold stone wall after you sealed your marriage with blood and breathless gasps.

he turns to face you now. one eye, all hunger. one hand, already undoing the ties at his collar. "i've taken you before, sweetheart," he says softly, stepping closer. "but never like this."

your throat tightens. "no more secrets," you whisper.

"no more lies," he agrees.

you reach for him, but he grabs your wrists, gently, and shakes his head with a soft smirk on his lips. "lie back, little wife," he says, voice low and fraying at the edges. "let your husband worship you."

your heart falters. you recline, and aemond drops to his knees. once more, forever, solely for you.

he slides your shift up your thighs, exposing your soft skin inch by inch, kissing each part of you like a blessing and a curse. when he gets to the place between your legs, he groans like a dying man. "gods," he mutters, inhaling your sweet scent. "you're already so wet for me."

"of course i am," you whisper, voice shaking. "i've been waiting for this since i was fifteen."

he growls—an actual growl—and then he devours you. there's no tenderness at first. not from aemond, not tonight. it's hunger, madness, years of longing and rage and sacred love turned into something filthy.

his tongue works you open slowly, greedily. possessively, his hands pin your thighs wide and trembling, licking up your slick like it's holy wine, like it's his right.

he moans into your cunt like a man breaking at the altar. "say it," he rasps. "say you're mine now. my wife."

you can barely speak, but you choke it out through the heat climbing your spine: "i-i'm your wife. yours, aemond. f-forever−"

he growls again and suckles your clit until you sob his name and come with a sharp cry, legs shaking violently around his head. but he doesn't stop. not when you beg, not when you tremble, not when you writhe beneath him.

"give me another," he says, voice gone hoarse, dragging two fingers through your soaked folds. "come on, little dove. you're mine now—i get everything." he works his fingers deep inside you, curling and thrusting lazily, and you're already close again, hips lifting off the mattress. "look at me," he snarls, and when your eyes meet his, that single violet eye burns through you. "come while i'm watching."

you climax hard, eyes wide and locked with his, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he whispers your name like a prayer and fucks you through every wave of it. when he finally rises, his mouth is slick, his jaw tight, his cock heavy and flushed and angry where it juts out from his unbuttoned breeches.

"you want your husband's cock, princess?" he asks, voice dark and mocking.

you nod, dazed and dreamy. "y-yes. gods, yes−"

he slaps the head of his cock against your clit, chuckling softly when you jerk beneath him, your pretty clit always too sensitive from his touch. he smirks, "beg for it then, sweet girl."

you whine. "please. p-please, aemond, my love. f-fuck me, claim me. i-i want to feel you—i need−"

he shoves inside in one brutal thrust and you scream, nails digging into his back. "so fucking tight," he snarls into your neck, thrusting slow and punishing. "so wet. gods, you were made for me… you're fucking dripping for me, clenching around me so hard, it's like you never want me to pull out."

you sob under him as he splits you open, every inch dragging slow and deep. "you are mine," he pants, picking up speed, hitting so deep you feel it in your womb. "say it. say it again."

"yours!" you shriek, sobbing from the overwhelming pleasure . "i'm yours, aemond! only yours!" he fucks you through it—grinding hard against your clit with every thrust, hitting your cervix with every pump of his hips, pushing your knees up to your chest, making you feel every inch of him as he molds you to his liking.

"look at this sweet little cunt," he groans. "taking your husband's cock like a good little wife."

you're gasping, begging, trembling.

he wraps a hand to your throat and pounds into you, over and over and over, until your voice breaks from moaning. and when he knows you're about to come again, he spits down where you're joined, watching it drip and mix with your slick, and that—that is what makes you snap.

you come so hard you see bright moons and constellations behind your eyelids, crying his name again and again, and only then does he lose it too—hips jerking, cock twitching so deep inside you as he fills you with hot, heavy ropes of his seed.

he doesn't pull out, not for a long, long time. he collapses on top of you, still buried deep, nestled in the warmth of your cunt, breath ragged against your throat.

his lips move against your skin. "mine," he whispers. "my wife, my soul, my ruin." and you whisper it back, lips against his hair. "always."

⟢ ─ 𝑣𝑖, epilogue.

it's late. the fire has burned low, embers crackling in the hearth, and the storm outside has turned to gentle rain—more like a lullaby than a threat.

you lie curled in the massive bed, limbs tangled with his, both of you warm and bare beneath the plush furs. his hand rests on your belly, the very place that once swelled with new life just mere weeks ago. "she has your nose," you murmur softly, your voice dreamy, reaching back to brush your fingers along his sharp jaw.

aemond smirks faintly, sleepy and content. "she has your pretty doe eyes, that's what ruins me." you smile and turn toward him, tracing the pale skin of his chest, the scars there. the old ones, the ones he wore like armor, and the new ones—earned in the name of keeping you and your precious daughter safe.

"she'll be a warrior," he murmurs, voice low and gravel-soft in the dark. "i'll teach her to wield a blade before she walks." you giggle under your breath, tucking your face against his neck. "she can barely hold her rattle, my love."

"she'll learn," he mutters, pouting. "and no lord will ever touch her, not while i still breathe."

"no one will need to fight her battles," you coo, smiling. "because she'll never know a world that cruel."

he's quiet at that. then his hand rises to your cheek, cupping it gently, reverently. "i used to dream of burning the world down," he says, his voice hoarse from emotion. "but now... i only want to watch her grow, and to watch her beautiful mother smile."

instantly, your eyes fill with tears. "don't cry, little dove," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you've given me everything."

a soft coo breaks the intimate silence—high pitched and sweet—followed by a rustling sound from the crib in the corner. "she's awake," you whisper. "she knows her father is talking about her," he says, voice smug, already rising from the bed, pulling on his loose shirt and moving barefoot across the stone floor.

you watch him from the warmth of the bed—your husband, your knight, the most feared blade in the realm, now bent over the crib with the gentlest hands. "she's not even crying," you call softly, suppressing a smile. "she just wants to see me," he replies, lifting her easily into his arms.

and she does. that tiny little girl, wrapped in a quilt of soft pink and dragon-stitched threads, blinks up at him with your eyes—wide and innocent, the color of dusk skies and sweet summer rain.

she reaches up and grabs a lock of his silver hair in her tiny fist, making aemond smile—and gods, it's real.

"little beast," he coos, nuzzling her forehead. "you already own me, don't you?" she gurgles in agreement.

he takes her to the bed, positioning himself next to you, allowing her to curl up between you both. your daughter sighs and nestles against your breasts, similar to how her father frequently enjoys.

"she's going to be spoiled," you whisper, lips brushing his. "she's a princess," aemond replies. "and my only heir, she deserves the world." you press your forehead to his. "she deserves a father like you." and for once, he doesn't argue.

later, long after the baby has drifted to sleep between you both, you lie awake and listen to the rain. aemond's hand finds yours beneath the furs, linking your fingers together.

and you realize—for the first time in your life—there is nothing left to fear. the war is over, the blood is washed from your hands. and in its place—firelight, soft kisses, a child breathing slow and safe beside you.

aemond shifts in the shadows, placing one last kiss to your bare shoulder, his tone heavy with a sense of tranquility. "sleep now, my love. i'll keep you safe."

and he always will, until the end of the world.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.

[boldstarks]

A Tale Of Two Dragons

Summary: After suffering a head injury, Princess Y/N forgets the past two years of her life, including her marriage to Aegon. Who will do anything to win her back.

18+ ONLY MDNI Targcest, Smut, Cheesy, Medieval Romcom

Y/N wakes terribly hot, her head throbs and there is something wrapped round her waist. She peels open her eyes…an arm. She flicks it away.

“What is the matter, my dearest love?” A voice grumbles, from behind her. “The maester says you should remain abed for several days.

“Why?” The word is past her lips before she can stop it.

“You hit your head.”

Y/N reaches up toward her throbbing temple, scraping against the forming scab beneath the bandage. Her fingers come away wet.

“You mustn’t touch,” Aegon chides, “let me see.”

Aegon?

Y/N screams at the top of her lungs, rolling onto the floor.

“What is the matter?” Aegon peers over the edge of the mattress. “Does your head hurt?” He springs from the bed, grabbing a cup off the bedside table. “Here, milk of the poppy.” He attempts to bring the chalice to her lips.

Y/N slaps his hand away, the glass shattering over the floor. “Surely poison.”

“What?” Aegon breathes. “Why in the seven hells would it be poison, my heart?”

“Do not call me that.” Y/N snaps, feeling almost sorry for it as his face falls.

“Look at me,” he crouches down to her, cowering in the corner. “What’s happened?”

“I should be asking you! Why are you being kind to me? Why are you sleeping in my bed? Plotting to kill me?”

“I don’t want to kill you.” He huffs a laugh. Back are the sad, crestfallen eyes.

Y/N forces down the urge to punch him. “Why were you in my bed?”

“To be clear,” Aegon says, motioning behind him, “this is my bedchamber.”

Y/N searches the space behind him, he speaks true. This is not her room. “Why would I be in your bedchamber?”

Aegon’s upper lip twitches, “because you are my wife.”

Y/N laughs, “I am your wife.”

Aegon joins in, anxiously.

“You jest.” She wags a finger at him, “that is the Aegon I know. You have outdone yourself this time.”

Aegon’s eyes search hers for a moment more before he hollers, “guards!”

The doors fly open, “your grace?”

“We must have the grand maester.”

Y/N’s eyes track his movements. Pacing and pacing until the maester appears.

“Is your head troubling you, your grace?” He kneels before her. “I left you with milk of the poppy.”

“She needs more.” Aegon insists.

“She can have no more until the morrow.”

“She did not drink it.” Aegon shouts, “she tossed it away because she thought it poisoned.”

“I would never harm you, your grace. Surely you know that.” The maester addresses the princess directly.

“Not you, me.” Aegon throws up a hand. “She does not know who I am.”

“I know who you are and I do not like you.” Y/N argues.

“That is worse.” Aegon laments, “she does not remember our marriage or our-”

“Your grace,” the maester stops him. “Your lady wife has suffered an injury. It is best not to push the recollection of years past.”

“She will heal then?”

“I cannot say, the mind is unpredictable.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at the maester, “am I truly married to Aegon?”

“Yes, princess. For some two years now.”

“Nearly three,” Aegon corrects him, with a hand to his head.

Y/N’s breathing picks up, unable to calm herself.

“Princess, you must breathe slowly now.”

“I want my mother,” Y/N chokes out.

“I will get your mother,” Aegon offers, “just breathe.”

His command is foreign to her. That he would care. The maester fusses about her as they wait. “All is well, your grace, all is well.”

“I may faint.” She warns.

The maester begins fanning her with his hands.

Rhaenyra appears moments later, with Aegon hot on her heels. “What’s happened, my darling?”

“Mother,” Y/N reaches for her, sobbing against her shoulder.

“Hush now.” Rhaenyra cradles the back of her head, smoothing down her hair.

“I do not know how such a thing could h-happen.”

“What?” Rhaenyra begins swaying her like a babe.

“I woke up beside my sworn enemy, claiming to be my husband.” Y/N tells her, “and worst of all, everyone insists that it’s true. Am I truly married?”

“Yes.”

“To Aegon.”

“Yes.”

“And I am happy about it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Rhaenyra smiles. “You are quite taken with him.”

“To what degree is he hung?” Y/N scoffs. He must be-

Rhaenyra throws her head back with laughter, “I would not know, sweet girl.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, “he speaks true then?”

Rhaenyra nods.

“And we are in…” Y/N forces out the word, “love?”

“Very much so.”

Without warning, the princess faints in her mother’s arms.

————————————————————————

“And though all the realm wished for the princess to deliver a son, she blessed the prince with two daughters.”

Y/N comes to, blinking up at the ceiling. Pleased to find that she is in her own bed this time. She nearly finds herself comforted by the voice beside her, before looking over to realize it is Aegon. Seated in the arm chair with a brown leather book in his lap. She sits up, staring him down.

“Don’t,” he slowly closes the book, holding up both hands, “don’t scream.”

“What do you want?” Y/N groans. “I’ve already told you I don’t remember.”

“I’d like to court you.” His lips twitch, nervously.

“Really?” She huffs a laugh. “You, Aegon Targaryen, would rather court me than go find another well suited lady, of high status, to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me?”

“Very much so.”

“More than anyone else?”

Aegon twists his wedding band around his finger. “Yes, more than anyone.”

“Well…what would we do together?” She crosses both arms over her chest, “I can’t imagine we have much in common.”

“Talk, stroll the gardens, fly together on dragon back, whatever you’d like.”

“You told me this morning, I am to remain abed for several days.”

“That’s why I’ve brought this,” he waves the book at her, “thought it might keep you occupied. That or I could dance for you.”

“How well do you dance?”

“Not very,” Aegon admits, “that’s what makes it entertaining.”

Y/N leans up, trying to catch a glimpse of the book’s title. “What book is that?”

“A tale of two dragons.” Aegon pulls it away, “do you want to hear the story or not?”

“I suppose,” Y/N sighs, sinking back into the pillows. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

————————————————————————

For four days he reads to her from that silly book. With each day that passes Y/N finds herself more invested.

“But if a son is expected of the prince, why does he not want for a son?”

Aegon smiles as he closes the book. “That’s all for today, you must rest.”

“I am not tired,” Y/N argues.

“Your eyes tell a different story.”

“Truly, I’m not tired.” She tells him, toying with her marriage ring. “My head hurts is all.”

“Might I try something?”

Y/N scowls, reluctantly closing the distance between them.

His hands cup her face, moving up to her throbbing skull, running his fingertips over her scalp.

It feels nice, though Y/N will never admit it.

“It will help if you stop making such sour faces, Y/N.” Aegon remarks, smoothing his thumb over the furrow between her brows. “My head aches just watching you.”

“You might wear a similar expression after being dealt my hand.” It is odd, her name on his lips. As though he rarely speaks it, save for when he’s angry with her.

“Yes, how devastating it must be; doted on by the man who loves you.” Aegon muses.

“You used to call me a bastard at family gatherings.” Y/N remembers that clearly.

“I used to do a great many things I am not proud of.” Aegon admits. “But the man I am now, the man I am with you…I take great pride in.”

“It will take time, if I’m to trust you again.”

“I have time.” Aegon assures her, “though at present, there is somewhere else I need be.” He presses his lips to her forehead in parting. “Good night.”

Y/N cups his wrist, at the side of her face, for just a moment. “Good night.”

————————————————————————

On the fifth day, the grand maester allows Y/N to leave her apartments, and by the tenth day, she is cleared to fly. Being amongst the clouds always helps clear her mind, mayhaps she will recall something.

“Good morrow, your grace.” Marcello, the dragon keeper greets her.

“Good morrow,” Y/N smiles. “Might you saddle Stormborn for me?”

“At once, Princess. I’m glad you are well.”

Marcello returns a few moments later with the lilac dragon, whining as she nuzzles into Y/N’s hands.

“Issi ao daor biare naejot ūndegon issa, uēpa raqiros?” Are you not happy to see me, old friend? Has something happened between them that she’s forgotten?

Stormborn hums, nudging at Y/N with her head.

“What is the matter with her?” Y/N turns to Marcello.

The dragon keeper lowers his eyes, “she wants for Sunfyre, your grace.”

“She wants-” Y/N breaks off, clunking a fist to her head, “she wants Aegon’s dragon?”

“They are quite close these days.” The man in question says, stalking up behind her. “I heard you were flying out. I thought I might join you.” Aegon explains his presence.

“This is preposterous.” Y/N scoffs, “you mean to tell me we have become so deeply entwined that even our dragons cannot be parted?”

Aegon’s lips turn downward as his brows rise, “yes.”

“What can be done about it?”

“You loved me once, my hope is, you will love me again.” Aegon brushes past her, resting a hand on her dragon’s snout. “There’s naught to be done about it.”

To add further insult, Stormborn leans into his touch, cooing happily.

“I suppose I should pet your dragon.” It’s meant to be a threat, a means to get even.

“Go on,” Aegon encourages, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sunfyre?”

The golden boy begins to serenade her with a low melody. Y/N rests her temple against his head, glaring at Aegon. It is not the dragon’s fault.

“Your dragon understands English?”

“As does yours.” Aegon informs her, “they are highly intelligent creatures.”

“Pōnta issi mēre rūsīr īlva.” They are one with us.

Aegon smiles, “indeed.”

“Do you not speak-”

“Nyke kostagon emagon naejot…vestragon mirrī.” I can have to…say a little.

Y/N bites back a grin, “I could teach you.”

He starts to say something else, but she covers his mouth with her hand.

“Later,” she leans in, pressing a kiss to the back of her own hand. Had it not been there…it would’ve been his lips. Which means nothing, muscle memory, surely. “I’m sorry.”

He catches her wrist, bringing her hand away.“Don’t be.”

————————————————————————-

Y/N enjoys evening strolls with Aegon in the garden, but on occasion she walks alone, outside the walls, wandering near the woods.

“Wait!”

Y/N whips her head around to see Aegon charging at her, knocking her backwards before the steel trap snaps closed near their feet. Two rows of long, jagged teeth, meant to catch animals. She stares at him, in disbelief.

“They doubled the number of traps round the castle in these past years. I did not know if you’d recall.” Aegon explains, still holding her in the safety of his arms.

“You…imbecile!” Y/N returns the awkward embrace.

“Please, call me husband.” Aegon smirks.

“You could’ve been maimed.”

“Better me than you.”

Y/N groans in frustration, “quit doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Charming me.” She pulls away enough to see him.

No, not the sad eyes.

“I should like to know you better first.” Imbecile, she curses herself.

“What do you say we go back to your rooms and I will read to you?” Aegon suggests, “I’ll even bring cake.”

There it is, that tugging in her chest. “I do love cake.”

“When you were-” Aegon trails off, “there was a time all you would eat was cake.”

Y/N presses a hand to her head, “when I was what?”

“In due time, my dearest love.” Aegon smiles, sadly. “The grand maester says we mustn’t push, you’ve made great progress already.”

————————————————————————

She recalls a great many things over the next weeks. Trying and failing to teach Aegon High Valryian, eating cake with him and laughing until their sides ache. But there are a number of things she cannot recall.

“Where is it you go?” She wonders, “when you are not with me? You said,” Y/N closes her eyes until the words come to her, “you said you want always to be with me.”

Aegon’s eyes widen, “yes, I did say that. You remember?”

“Not nearly enough, just silly things.” Y/N admits, “sometimes…I think I might’ve been with child.”

Oh.

“That’s it, isn’t it? We’ve a child.”

“Two actually, daughters.”

“One after another like clockwork, then?” She arches a brow, resting a hand over her empty womb, “you’re late.”

Aegon grins, “both at once.”

“Efficient.”

“Well, we are nothing if not thorough.”

“With the way you look at me, I’m surprised there are only two children.”

“The birthing bed was not kind to you. I would love any child of ours, but I would not inflict such suffering upon you again.”

Y/N sighs, “you are so in love. I wish desperately to remember.”

“You could love me again.”

“What if it is different than what we shared? What if it does not please you as much?”

Aegon shakes his head, “then it will be different and I will be glad for it all the same.”

“Might I come with you to see them?” Y/N asks, wringing her hands.

“They should like that very much, they’ve been asking for you.”

“What are their names?”

“Dahlia and Visera.” Aegon tells her, “it might be difficult for you to tell them apart at first.”

“Dahlia is a Strong name.” Y/N whispers.

“And Visera was named for Viserys. If we would’ve had a son, we might’ve named him-”

“Laenor.” She breathes, recalling the smile on Aegon’s face as they’d discussed it, over the prominent swell of her belly. Subsequently leading his kisses to trail lower…her cheeks heats up.

“Yes,” Aegon swallows. Mayhaps he is recalling the same conversation.

The twins are playing happily on the floor, with their maids when Y/N enters the room behind Aegon.

“Papa!” They race to him, waiting to be taken into his arms.

“Hello, my darlings.” He holds one in each arm, kissing their little silver heads.

The child on the left sees Y/N first, blinking at her twice, to be sure. “Mama.”

The little girl on the right follows her gaze. “Mama!”

Y/N reaches for them out of instinct, hugging them to her as they are transferred into her arms from Aegon’s. “My girls.”

————————————————————————

Time passes, Aegon and Y/N have long since accepted she will never remember everything. What they share now is different, but wonderful, nonetheless.

Aegon and their children fill Y/N’s days with joy, though she still feels a bit guilty for the life she forgot.

She and her husband sneak out of their daughters’ rooms once they’ve found sleep. Walking back towards Y/N’s apartments with their arms linked.

Aegon bids her good night at the door, with a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Stay,” Y/N insists, turning her face enough to catch his lips.

“What are you-” Aegon smiles against her mouth.

“It hurts to look at you and not touch you.” Y/N murmurs, reeling him back in and burying her hands in his hair. “If you mean what you say, and you will be happy with me even if I am different, I want to be happy with you.”

“It pleases me to hear you say this, my darling. But are you certain?”

“I want you in my bed, always,” Y/N whispers. “Or to lie with you in yours. To wake with you each morning and spend each night at your side. Though right now there is nothing I want more than your cock in me. Is that certain enough for you?”

Aegon chuckles into her mouth, “that’ll do it.” He pushes open the door, leading her deep into her rooms, until they reach her bed chamber. He unlaces her gown with practiced hands. “Gevie.”Beautiful.

She works him out of his robes, kissing the underside of his jaw. “Gevie.”

He smirks, moving her to the bed. Positioning her sweet head against the pillows, stroking wayward hair from her face. Taking a long moment to look upon her, their gazes locked. Aegon kisses the tip of her nose. “Let us see if you remember this, shall we?”

His lips trail down her neck, across her collarbones to her breasts. Licking and suckling at the entirety of them before bringing a sensitive peak into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Y/N holds him to her.

“Mmm,” he hums, in approval as her hips buck up against his. “Anything coming to mind?”

“I’m afraid not, husband.” Y/N whines as he pulls away, “you’ll need to keep going.”

“Of course,” Aegon latches happily to the opposite nipple, flicking the first between his fingers. Lower and lower his mouth goes, swirling her navel, skating over the skin of her sex.

Y/N nearly faints as he parts her with his thumbs, exposing her pearl to his starved tongue. “Oh!” Her memory of this particular act, does it no justice.

He sighs against her, as though he’s waited the whole of his life to be in this moment with her.

She does not know how to be loved that way, or to give such love in return. But she wants to learn.

Aegon coaxes her through one peak to the next, relishing her breathless giggles as she shoves at his head.

“Enough,” she covers her face with both hands, “enough.”

Aegon chuckles, pressing a feather light kiss to her cunt before retreating, back up to her face. Caging her head between his elbows, hovering over her. “Still nothing?”

“Not a thing, perhaps if you continue.” Y/N reaches between them, taking his cock in hand and stroking, lightly.

Aegon shakes his head, “of course.”

She positions him at her entrance, feeling him slide into her with ease. As though he belongs there. Her hands find his face, stroking his cheeks, reeling him in for sweet kisses or to pant against his mouth. Committing him to memory.

“I love you,” he says, pressing kisses to her fingers, “we’re going to make new memories together, you and I.”

“I love you.” The words fall from her lips, without hesitation. “I love you.”

“I have gone too long without your touch, I will not last.” He warns.

“That’s alright.” Y/N assures him, “I’m nearly there.” Still sensitive from his tongue.

It’s all he can do to hold off until he feels her walls pulse around him, “good girl.” He groans, emptying his spend.

Y/N nuzzles her nose against his. “Aegon?”

“Hmm?”

“Happy anniversary, my love.”

His eyes open wide, meeting her gaze. “You remember?

Y/N nods, feeling tears prickle at the back of her eyes. “I am so sorry, I’ve no idea how I could forget you…us, our daughters, this life together is the world to me.”

“It was not by choice.” He rests his forehead against hers. “If I ever sustain a head injury, I’ll expect you to court me in return.”

“Mayhaps I will court you now, just because.” Y/N wants nothing more than to shower him with affection. “That story you read to me was ours, how did you get it?”

“I wrote it.” Aegon tells her, “to share one day with our children and their children’s children, their children’s children after that.”

Taglist: @21-princess @ladyriverasafepace @oh-you-mean-me @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @donalesaa @cookiesnfeesh @barnes70stark

[boldstarks]

[boldstarks]

Go little guy, go!🎵

[boldstarks]

so starved for content I might go to the real hellsite (wattpad)

[boldstarks]

I’ve been thinking of Cregan who’s been away for a long time and he’s missed his wife so much that when they finally get back together he lasts maybe two thrusts before he comes embarrassingly quickly <3

He loves his wife so much and he’s not had anything other than his hand for months and now he’s finally got her in his bed again and it’s so good it’s almost it too much x

...

"Fuck," he groaned. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he panted as he cupped her head against his shoulder.

Cregan had been away for months. Winterfell had been quiet and cold in his absence. But the Wall demanded him, and duty was what kept Cregan alive.

So, upon his return, he immediately ravished his wife, taking her in his arms and shutting the door to their chamber.

But he had only lasted a few thrusts, prompting him to apologize profusely.

She hummed and buried her fingers in his hair. "'s alright."

"No," he says with his nose against her neck. "You've just drove me wild. My mind has been on you since I left." She shifts, stretching her shoulders. He lightly kisses against her neck. "Let me make it up to you?"

"mhm."

He smiles at her lack of words. His hands slid down her body and he kisses his way alongside them. As he kisses at her lower stomach, his hands pull her legs up firmly, revealing her to him.

And he revels in the gasp she lets out when his mouth finds her clit and his fingers push into her pussy, his cum leaking out onto the furs of their bed.

He'd been dreaming of her taste on his tongue for months. He felt himself get hard again.

It was going to be a long night.

...

[boldstarks]

❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: eldest daughter of otto hightower, ser harwin strong is your sworn shield — but what happens when talk of betrothals evokes longstanding sentiments from your protector?

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: harwin strong x fem!hightower!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 12.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), canon-typical misogyny, threats of violence, loss of virginity, inexperienced reader, religious guilt, forbidden romance / relationship, ungodly levels of pining, a hint of dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, size kink / size difference, making out, begging, fingering (fem!rec), excessive use of princess as a title, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink if you squint, soft ending + aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for harwin so please be gentle 🫶 I tried to give him more of his own personality since we don’t get to see much of it but BOY did I have so much fun writing this !! I hope you all love it too!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐧, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. 𝐆𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐰, 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞.

Within the blossoming, emerald grove of the Kingswood, the celebratory nature of the encampment seemed alight with glee. Having traveled at the first light of dawn to make it here, your bones still groaned with the breath of slumber.

It was Prince Aegon II’s second name day, the noble caravan buzzing with delight in regards to your pale-headed nephew. Excitement permeated the air, but it was your concern for Alicent that triumphed above all else.

The unorthodox union between your younger sister and King Viserys was something that had torn a rift through your family, sowing seeds of bitter resentment towards your father, Otto Hightower. His continuous grasp at power at the expense of your kin had made you full of a constant anguish.

With little desire to engage with your father on any political matter, you had distanced yourself from the current feast, sitting soundly along the fringes of the forest. A whistling wind blanketed your tepid features, undeniably stuffy within the confines of your olive-hued gown.

A twinge of campfire smoke fell upon the breeze, accompanied by a delectable myriad of foodstuffs — cooked venison, seared elk, a variety of spices. A gurgle lurched within your stomach, the stirring of hunger biting at you.

As your gaze fell upon Alicent, belly swollen with her second child, Aegon squirming within her grasp, you knew that your time was running short. There were whispers, rumors that you were condemned to the life of a spinster if you were to continue to remain unmarried.

The sister of a Queen, of the Queen, a princess — proposals had made their way to Otto Hightower’s desk, scion of the Hand of the King. Advantageous matches were sure to follow, and you grew despondent at the thought of being shackled to some pompous nobleman.

Marrying for love was always something you sought, the desire to have such affections blossom, to be courted — not thrust into something unwanted. Nevertheless, you resigned yourself to such a miserable existence, counting down the days until your father would break the news to you.

“Sullenness does not suit you, Princess.”

The bemused cadence of Harwin Strong shattered your forlorn contemplation, his timbre disarmingly gentle as he stood a few feet away. One palm rests atop the pommel of his shortsword, clad in lighter armor, tabard bearing the sigil of House Strong.

Becoming your sworn shield was a great honor for his House — his father served as Master of Laws for King Viserys, and he was assigned to safeguard the Hand’s eldest daughter. Harwin had proved a spot of light within the dull, cloudy haze of your life, something that you were grateful for.

Only four name-days your senior, Harwin had become something of a friend, if such bonds were even considered appropriate. Nearly a year had passed since this assignment, and you couldn’t have been any more grateful.

Harwin was incredibly resilient, a man of honor and a Knight of the realm with a sensible streak of humor. He also proved to be a talented listener; you were lucky in that regard. It wasn’t often that one could confide in their protection.

He lacked his usual coat of arms, dressed for the tepid weather, broad shoulders concealed with an azure cloak. The Knight’s mane of brunette curls had been pulled into a half-bun, visage shrouded by a rugged beard.

His gaze followed yours, drawn to the woodlands, a sea of trees with pale bark and lush leaves, stricken by the first lick of autumn. Despondency weighed heavy within your shoulders, a position indicative of self-imposed loneliness.

“It does not,” In agreement, you canted your head, squinting at the angle of sunlight that pooled upon your visage. “Do you intend to join the hunt, Ser Harwin?” You inquired, cupping one hand around your brow.

“Aye, Princess. My father requested my presence, I should do well to heed his wishes,” Harwin stepped closer, coming to stand beside you, staring into the forest you seemed so enamored with. “I should not be gone for very long.”

With a lazy shrug of your shoulders, you idly twisted at a stray thread that hung from your sleeve, tresses roused by the passing gale. “The thought of slaying a helpless animal does not exactly fill me with joy,” You sighed. “Ladies are not permitted to join, as it stands.”

Harwin bristled, jaw tensing for a fraction of a second. It was your heart that had beguiled him so, one of tenderness, innocence; a penchant for kindness to all things, even lowly creatures. With your station, you were often bound to duty, to the whims of those greater than yourself.

As your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, you envisioned laying within sun-warmed meadows, cushioned by verdant grass, surrounded by wildflowers. One could smell the petrichor, the thick scent of a waning midsummer.

“It is tradition, Princess — I take no pleasure in claiming a life, I assure you,” Harwin reassured, broad shoulders heaving with a steady exhale. Breakbones; aptly named for a man of his herculean stature. “Do you not wish to join your Father?”

Mere mention of your callous patriarch had set your nerves ablaze with a flurry of anger, brows furrowing together as you shook your head. “I do not,” Mustering up a threadbare smile, your gaze drifted to your stalwart protector. “He has Alicent and his grandchild to keep him company.”

Otto Hightower was a complicated man — calculating, cunning, and enigmatic. Some time ago, your relationship hadn’t been so horribly frayed; now, it seemed lost forever.

The ruthless desire for power he often exuded had never sat well with you, especially as you blossomed into womanhood. His manipulation of Alicent, constant scheming, the cold shroud he wrapped himself in after your mother’s passing.

Harwin was privy to some of the more intimate details between yourself and Otto — it made him fester with some lingering distaste for the elder Hightower. Nevertheless, it was not his place to interfere in such business, but he knew enough.

“You’ve yet to eat,” A chiding lilt permeated his soothing baritone, palm rolling over the pommel, blade snug within its scabbard. “Must I forcibly escort you to the feast?” His question was indiscernible, dancing between humor and stoicism.

“I am not hungry,” Your protest was noticeably weak, betraying your true nature. Harwin’s gaze narrowed as he jerked his head back in the direction of the numerous tables, piled with heapings of foodstuffs. “Must we?”

“I will shield you from your Father if it means you sate your hunger, my Lady.” Humor tugged at his voice as he extended one hand to you, politely helping you from the stone you perched upon. As you stood, he had allowed his touch to linger, longer than propriety permitted.

Something stirred within your heart; calloused, sword-worn palms handled you with a disarming tenderness. For a moment, you nearly envisioned yourself with Harwin, beyond mere bond of a sworn protector and their charge.

It was abhorrently sinful, you knew this — and yet, you could not help but allow the fantasy to gallop within your mind’s eye, even for a second. Harwin was one of the few constants within your existence, one that did not seek to bring you misery.

Once you stood upright, you nearly tore your hand away as if you’d been kissed by fire. Harwin pretended not to notice your sharp recoil, dark brows furrowing together as he moved to follow at your side, keeping a comfortable distance.

Part of him detested this arrangement for one single-minded reason — he was unable to be with you.

If he were not sworn to your side, perhaps he would be one of the eligible courtiers stacked upon Otto Hightower’s desk. Honor demanded that he keep his head about him, treat you with a stoic amicability, but you made it so difficult.

The more he grew to know you, your heart, the harder it became to execute such restraint, to become an observer to the inevitable match your father would find. Harwin prayed to the merciful Gods that this affection would fade with the passage of time.

So far, he was exceedingly unlucky.

Touched by a forlornly disposition that betrayed your jubilant nature, Harwin loathed seeing you this way, your wings clipped. As you walked beside him toward the nearest table, he could feel the hawkish glower of Otto Hightower from across the way.

Lord Lucan Mullendore had attended the nameday festivities with the intention to propose a marriage pact between his House and yours, and if you were not careful, he would get his wish.

Harwin found the elder Lord to be somewhat reprehensible — withered and dull. He was not a foul man, but what young maiden desired a marriage with someone nearly thrice their age? He could not think of one.

It was the opposite of what you deserved, and he knew that he had no say in the matter. Lowering yourself onto the wooden bench, back turned to your Father, Harwin sat across from you, keeping a vigilant watch of your surroundings.

Retrieving a silver platter, you ensured to heap it full with basted chicken and helpings of fruit, plucking a grape into your mouth. “You needn’t spend all of your time with me, Ser Harwin. Your family is in attendance, too.”

A scoff escaped him, lips flashing with a brief grin as he took a swig of frothy ale. “My brother is as grim as he is odd,” He uttered, shoulders rolling in a brief shrug. “Trust me, I would rather remain by your side. You are cheerful company.”

“You called me sullen some time ago,” Unable to withhold a smile, the remark brought a brief laugh to your lips, and Harwin appeared triumphant. “You’ve changed your mind rather swiftly on the matter.”

Tucking one hand beneath your chin, you seemed far more relaxed than you had when he found you ruminating. “I changed yours.” He countered, earning a laugh from the both of you as you continued to eat.

The gnaw of hunger began to dissipate, warmed beneath the midsummer’s sun. It was not a horribly hot day, temperate enough to allow for some reprieve from the heat. The rich, juniper velvet of your gown did little to ease the weather’s sting, however.

“How fares your father, Ser Harwin? I’ve heard that he has excelled as Master of Laws,” Ser Lyonel was a good man, one that seemed to curry favor amongst the Small Council. “My Father speaks highly of his integrity.”

Harwin chortled, halfway through a hearty helping of chicken, eyes shimmering with amusement. “I did not know your Father spoke highly of anyone at all,” He mused, and decided to correct himself. “My apologies, Princess — that was untoward.”

Dismissive of his jab, you seemed to find some humor in it, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth. “It is exceedingly rare that he does,” You admitted, twirling your fork betwixt your fingers. “Do not apologize, Ser Harwin.”

With a mere nod, the Knight continued, allowing a bout of silence to linger. Hues of aegean fluttered toward your lips, in the midst of biting into a grape, a droplet of juice tumbling down your chin.

It was wildly crass of him to be watching you this way, in all of your resplendence; besmirching your honor through gaze alone. Harwin was often vexed by your beauty and subdued charm, fixated upon you as you continued to feast, his ogling going blissfully unnoticed.

If it weren’t for the locale, he might’ve permitted himself to admire your features for a moment longer. Prying his eyes away, he cleared his throat, a grunt stirring within his chest.

“What will you do while we hunt?” It was an innocuous question, meant to distract himself from the maelstrom of thoughts that raged within his head. He suspected that you would remain by your sister’s side, if allowed.

From over your shoulder, Harwin’s gaze fell across the misshapen form of Lord Mullendore and the taller shape of Lord Wylde, brows creasing together. Both of them were whispering in your father’s ear, conspiring — it was easy to discern what exactly they spoke about.

“Entertain my nephew, if my sister is agreeable to it,” Handling children amidst this setting was likely grueling, especially if handmaidens weren’t available. “If not that, I would like to walk — I so adore nature, and this is an ample opportunity to be amongst it.”

Between your sweet cadence and the conniving Lords, Harwin’s attention centered itself upon you once more. The irritation, however, was not as easy to conceal as he thought. “I can escort you once the hunt has concluded.” He did not fully enjoy the thought of you alone in a forest.

A polite giggle slipped from your mouth, nose beginning to wrinkle with wry amusement. “I do not need your assistance to pick wildflowers, Ser Harwin.” You mused, gaze picking apart his dour countenance, wondering what had angered him.

Adjusting his position, the wood of the bench groaned beneath his weight. The Knight remained eerily quiet for a few beats, allowing himself a threadbare smile to placate your curiosity. “You do not, but the woods are not safe alone.”

“You look agitated,” The soft hush of your voice had barely registered with Harwin, who had busied himself with picking apart the pair of older men from afar. “Whatever is the matter?” As the inquiry fell from your lips, your head began to crane, chasing after his stare.

The sight of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde hovering around your father made your stomach plunge, exhale trembling as you turned back around. Harwin took note of your glaring discontent, seemingly sympathetic of your predicament.

A sigh of dismay tore past your parted lips, and you attempted to focus on cleaning your plate, belly screaming with anxiousness. “I prayed to the Seven that he would let this matter rest for today.” Your utterance seemed wrought with discouragement.

Before he could interject with a kind, comforting word, a guard bearing the Targaryen crest approached your table. “The Lord-Hand requests your presence, Princess.” He huffed, shrinking beneath the pointed stare of Ser Strong.

“Of course, Ser — thank you.” Swallowing the bile that began to stir within your throat, you gathered your skirts, skittering from the bench. Your gaze shifted towards Harwin, silently pleading for him to come with you.

As Breakbones began to rise from his seat, wiping his hands against a dirtied handkerchief, the guard abruptly cleared his throat. “Just the Princess, Ser.” He uttered, somewhat fearful of upsetting the hulking Knight.

“Your Lord-Hand can tell me himself.” Harwin grunted, moving to push past the courier with a brief scowl. Caring little for whatever consequences it wrought, he made sure to escort you the few feet it took to make it to the royal table.

Ensuring that his disdainful visage remained hidden, he straightened up, more concerned for you and how you would fare amongst the vultures. Any intelligent man might’ve not gotten so attached to their charge — Harwin did not always consider himself sharp.

The pace of both yourself and Harwin were intentionally sluggish, crawling at a snail’s pace as the two of you made your way toward the King’s table. He stole a glance at you, and he wished to steal you away at that moment.

“Ser Harwin, you needn’t draw the ire of my father,” Beneath your breath, your utterance felt light, somewhat conspiratorial. “Do not get yourself into trouble on my behalf.”

“Isn’t that what I’m best at, Princess?” Harwin remarked, suppressing the urge to grin, lips quirking into the ghost of a smirk. “You cannot dissuade me now — we are nearly there.” He murmured, shifting to stand a pace behind you, casting you in the shadow of his silhouette.

As you stopped before the sprawling table, adorned in a pale cloth and surrounded by members of the Small Council, your eyes found your Father’s staunch expression. “Father.” You greeted, dipping into a curtsy.

The Hand appeared perplexed by Harwin’s presence, lofting a brow at the unexpected intrusion. “You may leave us, Ser Harwin.” Otto uttered, preferring this conversation occur without the additional ears of your sworn shield.

Harwin’s feet felt like weighty stone, anchored to his place beside you, grip upon his pommel becoming unnaturally snug. He did not like leaving you this way, but it was his own Father’s sharp cough that drew him away.

“As you wish, Lord-Hand.”

As Harwin took his leave, you nearly wanted to crawl away with him, flesh yielding to the hawkish glares of Lord Mullendore and Lord Wylde. Both men were twice your age, Lord Mullendore nearly thrice, making your stomach turn with contempt.

“This is my daughter.” Otto presented you with a wave of his hand, and you forced yourself to look elsewhere — at Alicent. The shrewd gaze of your younger sister seemed to hold a sliver of pity, of understanding.

Lord Wylde surged forth first, taking ahold of your hand as he pressed a kiss upon your knuckles. The gesture might’ve been amiable if it weren’t for the lecherous stare he gave you. “Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord of the Rain House.”

“An honor, my Lord.” Unwilling to forget your manners, you decided to placate your Father with pleasantries, bowing before him. You did not say much else, save for one crucial inquiry. “Will you be joining the King’s Hunt this afternoon?”

From a nearby table, Harwin observed with a thinly-veiled agitation, jaw tense as he attempted to bottle his anguish. It would’ve been questionable to many had he allowed himself to be temperamental regarding your situation.

“Of course. It will be a thrilling hunt, that much is for certain,” Lord Wylde mused, straightening his overcoat with a huff. “May the King’s aim be true — slaying a stag isn’t easy work.”

“I am deeply sorry to hear of your third wife’s passing, Lord Wylde — please accept my condolences. I understand she meant a great deal to you.” Made to be some subtle stab towards the Stormlander, you gained some satisfaction in watching him become rather flustered.

Three wives and twenty-five children — Lord Wylde was full of a darkened lust, one that chafed at you the more you glanced at him. It was pitiful, and you did not make an attempt to speak again, hands briefly fisting themselves into your velveteen skirts.

Lord Mullendore stepped forth into the fray, seizing the opportunity to bow before you, attempting to grab your hand. You nimbly evaded the gesture by sidestepping to make way for a servant, carrying hearty pitchers of Arbor Red.

“Lord Lucan Mullendore — a pleasure, Princess.” Amusingly enough, you would’ve rather taken Lord Mullendore over Lord Wylde. The elder man seemed more akin to a kindly grandsire than true a deviant — but the competition was horrid.

“Likewise, my Lord.” With another courteous curtsy, you felt the penetrating glower of your Father pierce through you, brows furrowed together. It was difficult to discern if he was angry or simply indifferent to all of this frivolity.

“The hunt is soon to begin — we should prepare to caravan with the King,” Otto intercepted, knowing that you had played nice for him — for now. Disdain often shimmered within your eyes whenever you looked at him. Perhaps one day, you would shed your naivety. “Daughter.”

As the men rallied the horses and their tracking hounds, you felt your Father’s hand brush over your shoulder in a brief pat. It was rare, the gesture — and you thought little of it.

Lord Wylde and Lord Mullendore reconvened with their respective houses, mounting up to join the King’s hunting party. A semblance of relief rippled through you, knowing that you’d be free of those men for the foreseeable future.

In the midst of the clamor and excitement, Harwin had found you, saddling his horse, a gelding that was of a black coat, dappled with flecks of gray along his muzzle. He had made himself scarce once the Lords departed.

He loathed the scene of Jasper Wylde’s lips against your flesh — unworthy, uncouth. Harwin envisioned knocking the man’s teeth in, not wanting to imagine what he thought of, being in such close proximity to you. His blood ran hot in the aftermath, and this proved to be a worthy distraction.

“Ser Harwin,” Akin to a bird’s song, your soft cadence derailed his current string of thoughts. He turned, a semblance of relief flooding through him, knowing that you didn’t seem too put-off by your former company. “Must you go?”

If it weren’t for the demand of his Father and the upkeep of appearances, he would’ve gladly stayed by your side, content to stroll with you through the wilderness. “I shall return soon enough, Princess. You’ll have to thank me later — you might not see Lord Wylde again.”

A gasp escaped your parted lips, one of obvious shock. “You wouldn’t dare,” You nearly thought he was serious, the way his gaze had narrowed when the word Wylde left his mouth. Harwin chuckled, a grin spreading across his grizzled features. “You should not jest about such things!”

“A man of his inexperience might tumble from his horse, or trip over the undergrowth,” Continuing to tease with thinly-veiled threats, Harwin had half a mind to act; men stumbled often, all he needed to do was push. “I apologize, Princess.”

As a soft huff rippled through your diaphragm, you couldn’t help but let your amusement show. Harwin was notorious for his strength — indomitable, a fury that put others to shame. You did not want to imagine what it would be like if he chose to act upon such urges.

“If those are my choices, I might be better suited for Lord Mullendore.” Despite the lilt of humor that sank into your words, your tone still carried a sense of despondency, of frustration. A disparaging sigh unfurled from you, then.

Harwin bristled, brows drawing together as he sensed your melancholy. He wished that he could rip it all away if he could. The Knight turned fully to you, visibly empathetic towards your plight. “If I may speak plainly, Princess, neither are deserving of you. You deserve someone better.”

Some strange stirring gripped your heart, a surge of elation that you hadn’t quite experienced before. It made your nerves burn, belly churning with a tumultuous fire. Gooseflesh began to crawl along your spine like creeping ivy.

It was the way he looked at you — protective, reassuring, as if you were the sun itself.

No man had gazed upon you with such fierce intensity, and Harwin exuded overprotection, as if he were a stone wall, made to safeguard you from the outside world. As he spoke of you deserving someone better, your mind had leapt to him — Ser Harwin Strong, your sworn protector.

Inklings of sin blossomed within your heart, knowing how wrong it was of you to want him, to desire his company in a way that transcended dignified honor. A peculiar heat slithered over your body like a tepid haze, threatening to smother you from within.

“You have my gratitude, Ser Harwin. I should hope that such a man exists for me — though I fear if he does, it may be too late,” With a wisp of a smile, you folded your hands together. “I am resigned to this fate — it seems futile to flee.”

Gods, he burned for you — the air within his lungs stung, his body incinerated by a fever beset by you, tender hues drawing themselves toward the ground. Harwin dared not touch you, grip ironclad upon his pommel to keep from cupping your chin.

“It is not yet set in stone, Princess.” Despite his insistence and reassurance, you had started to lose faith in it, but you appreciated his attempts, nonetheless. Silence drifted between you both, your countenance one of a subdued sadness.

As the horns of the hunting party began to split the skies, he sighed, a heavy noise that carried more than just concern. Averting your gaze, you peered toward the royal tent, unable to find your sister amongst the group seeing the men off.

“Do not let me keep you, Ser Harwin. I should hope that the hunt proves fruitful for you and the King.” Stepping aside, you kept a comfortable berth as he walked his horse from the makeshift stables, wishing that you could come with him.

With a kindly smile, Harwin nodded, wondering if there was more he could’ve done to comfort you. “You have my thanks,” His chest heaved with a hearty sigh, brows drawing together. “Once I return, we can take a turn about the Kingswood.”

That seemed to make you happy, the promise of a woodland stroll. With a jubilant nod, you watched as he mounted his horse, giving the steed a swift nudge to its flank. As Harwin joined the hunting party, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight of him riding alongside Lord Wylde.

At the conclusion of the hunt, the caravan had at-last found their prey — at the expense of the day, however. It had taken them some time to track down their pale stag, a beast of fur as white as winter’s snow that seemed to evade them at every turn. Instead, they settled for a fawn-colored buck.

Much of your late afternoon was spent alongside your sister and nephew, a welcome respite from the peacocking lords you’d met earlier in the day. It simultaneously kept you from the ire of your father, even moreso.

The woodland promenade that Harwin had offered was no longer a viable option. Upon their return, a bleeding sun painted the horizon in rays of a vibrant orange with twilight encroaching, signaling an end to the festivities.

Returning to King’s Landing alongside your father had proven a strenuous task, with much of your carriage ride spent in a heated spat in regards to being wed. In the end, you resigned yourself to embittered silence.

“You must perform your duty to our House, as your sister has. I will expect your answer in a sennight — should you refuse, the choice will be made for you.”

Otto’s words continued to worm their way into your mind, with a scathing cadence and scornful glare that had made you feel so incredibly small. You should’ve been thankful, with the option of Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore available to you.

Instead, you were left anguished and bitter by the end of the evening, storming to your chambers without so much as a single utterance. Harwin had been with his Father — he hadn’t seen you since the hunt’s conclusion, save for a brief smile in-passing.

As dusk blanketed the skies above King’s Landing, the glow of the heavens concealed beneath wisps of veiled cloud, you stood beside your window, curtains drawn apart. Anger rippled through you in hot waves, as if you’d been kissed by the fire of some inexhaustible wrath.

Harwin dutifully returned to his station, posted in the corridor that stretched toward the chambers of other nobles, including some of the Small Council. Tucked within the chainmail beneath his breastplate, a clutch of wildflowers resided there, ones he’d picked for you.

Oftentimes, you would greet him each morning and bid him farewell with the approach of dusk, but not this time. It was unusual for him not to see you, and concern began to blister through him. He wondered if it had anything to do with the predicament from earlier in the day.

It would’ve been inappropriate for him to intrude upon your business, but the longer he waited within the eerie silence of the corridor, the more his heart began to lurch. Braziers flickered throughout ornate hallways, dancing shadows falling across his armored frame.

The Knight nearly leaped when the door had opened, accompanied by an unsightly groan that reverberated throughout the corridor. There you stood, fresh-faced and clad in a nightgown of a rich, violet velvet. Your eyes swam with crimson, as if you’d spent ample time sobbing.

Harwin steeled himself, grizzled jaw beginning to tighten at the sight of you, the very picture of such breathtaking beauty. He was reduced to boyish nerves in your presence. His grip upon the pommel of his shortsword became snug, leather grinding against the hilt.

“Princess,” He greeted, baritone smooth and disarmingly gentle, tone betraying his intimidating appearance. “Is something the matter?” From a mere glimpse, Harwin could detect that you were distraught, dismay scrawled into your features.

Words turned to ash upon your tongue, like some weight that prevented you from speaking. Tears began to glitter within your gaze, disdainful and forlorn as you shook your head.

“Nothing is the matter, Ser Harwin. I only wished to bid you goodnight before retiring.” With a trembling exhale, you swiftly rid yourself of the tears that lingered upon the fringes of your eyes. As you attempted to compose yourself, Harwin remained unconvinced.

“You’re a rather poor liar, my Lady.” Harwin rumbled, brows furrowing together as you let out a mirthless laugh. His thick mane of curls tumbled toward his shoulders, unbound from the bun he’d had it in earlier that afternoon, armor glinting through the brazier’s haze.

“I do not wish to spill my woes onto you,” Admittedly, you wanted to forget about it all for the time being, if you could. “Though I do wish for company, at the very least.” It was an invitation you posed, for Harwin to speak with you in the sanctity of your chambers.

A sliver of him felt it wrong, untoward to join you in your quarters, even if it was merely conversation. He knew what burned within his heart, what arduous flame had seared his bones. His sentiments for you were overwhelmingly powerful, like a maelstrom coming to swallow him whole.

It was the hour of the bat, well into the night; stealing a glance, he found his surroundings to be devoid of any onlookers.

“As you wish, Princess.” Maintaining a courtly demeanor, you stepped aside, allowing him to cross the threshold into your chambers. It all felt so vastly daunting, his feelings suffocating him the closer he was to you, the proximity growing slim.

Harwin had been inside numerous times before, but never to this degree, harboring such a strong adoration for you. The Knight appeared somewhat rigid, gaze trailing after you as you moved to sit atop a velvet-laden settee.

“I have one week to deliver my choice of husband to my Father,” Speaking plainly, your sudden confession seemed to ensnare his attention, and yet he masked his anger well. “Lord Wylde or Lord Mullendore — at least he offered me a choice instead of stripping it from me.”

The thought of you wed to some lecherous slime or a boring elder made Harwin’s blood boil for reasons both wretched and divine. Jealousy gnawed at him with such ugliness, and yet he wondered if this was for the best — not having you.

It would cause a scandal, if he were to act upon his feelings — a besmirch upon your honor. That was something that Harwin couldn’t bear, as you had been defiled enough already, being offered to two men completely unworthy of you.

Gritting his teeth together, he bit his tongue, electing to merely move the conversation along. “I apologize, Princess — you have my sympathies.” It was all he could muster without becoming unhinged, or worse, letting his confession spill from his lips.

It was uncharacteristic of Harwin to be so aloof, standing with such rigidity before your door, hand clenched at his side. A wave of discontent gripped you then, as if something was amiss.

Harwin’s cadence held an unexpected bite, as if each syllable was uttered through gritted teeth. His countenance bristled with a thinly-veiled frustration, as if he did very little to mask his true demeanor. A steady exhale escaped him as he attempted to stave his fury away.

“You seem angry,” A part of you assumed that it was merely concern, born from that of a stalwart Knight; the other sliver detected disdain from that of a trusted friend. “This is the hand that I was dealt — I suppose my only choice is to bend to it.”

Knowing that even you could see through his threadbare facade, Harwin’s head hung, thick curls framing his visage. He didn’t want you to pry or ask questions, but he wasn’t exactly making this easy on himself whatsoever.

As you spoke of simply bending to the whims of your father, the Knight nearly protested, but instead, he remained trapped within a reluctant silence. Harwin grappled with his feelings for you, wrestling with them in all his ferocity, wishing to bury them as deep as he could.

It simply wasn’t possible.

In a valiant attempt to change the subject, he reached into his tabard, removing the now-disheveled bouquet of wildflowers he had smuggled away for you. “I wanted to ensure that you still obtained a fragment of nature from the day.”

Presenting you with a handful of vibrant blossoms, your heart violently lurched at the kind gesture. If it weren’t for his station, you would’ve nearly considered it an action taken in courtship — and then, your gaze flickered to his.

Smoldering, intimate, wanting; something lingered there, a tension that had grown into a flickering fire, soon to rage. Harwin gazed at you as if you had moved mountains, pulled the stars from the heavens, and then you came to the sudden realization.

It was an anger born of jealousy.

As your fingers closed around the stems, you were barely able to express your gratitude, involuntarily stepping closer to him of your own accord. The Knight’s breath hitched, praying to whatever Gods that would listen for you to move away.

“Ser Harwin …” With his name rolling from your tongue with such reverence, such exhilaration, Harwin felt his barrier begin to crumble away. Doe-eyed hues shifted to hold his gaze, one that made your belly swirl with a tide of molten heat.

“I do not want you to marry some old Lord,” A husky rasp clung to his tone, as if he said it through sealed lips. Once the confession floated into the slim space between you, he knew that he had reached the point of no return. “The thought alone fills me with such immeasurable fury.”

Breakbones spoke through him, the avatar of his wrath, his ire, his strength — he imagined knocking in Lord Wylde’s teeth numerous times throughout the afternoon. Yet, he clung to honor, even still.

Bewilderment consumed you, accompanied with that of yearning, a want so brazenly powerful that it threatened to swallow you whole. All bonds of propriety were on the precipice of destruction, and yet you openly entertained it with a subdued enthusiasm.

You wanted Harwin Strong.

Desire seemed so unorthodox, a sin that tarnished anyone who dared seek it for themselves, and yet, it was not only desire you sought. His heart was the greatest thing of all, and you realized that you wanted him in all ways — love, above all.

Silence festered between you, and Harwin immediately realized the gravity of his words, the grave error he’d made. His eyes fluttered shut, accompanied by a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, Princess — I should return to my post.”

Before he could flee from his place, he felt your hand seize his forearm, as if quietly demanding that he stay. “What do you mean?” The heaviness of your inquiry could not be mistaken — you wished to know the true meaning of his words, why it filled him with such contempt.

Slightly pained, Harwin feared making his sentiments known, afraid to startle you or worse, turn you away from him. “It is untoward for me to discuss these things with you, my Lady. I should not have spoken of it.” He murmured, but his answer proved to be unsatisfactory.

“What if I told you that I did not want to marry some old Lord either, and that …” A brief pause; gooseflesh flourished along your spine. “That I wanted you?” As the breathy confession slipped from your mouth, Harwin felt the ground beneath him shift.

“Princess …” He began, knowing that all of this seemed completely wrong. If anyone were to know of this, he would be put to the executioner’s block, and you would be disavowed from your House. “I wouldn’t dare besmirch your honor, that I promise.” Harwin murmured.

“I wish for transparency — I wish to know how you truly feel, damn honor. I beg of you, Ser Harwin.” Gods, the temptation — Harwin could no longer resist, his resilience thin in the wake of your words, turning him to nothing more than ash. As you inched closer, the distance between bodies became dangerously slim.

Steeling himself, Harwin felt what resolve he had disappear entirely, nonexistent as he peered down at you, doe-eyed and wanting. The Knight tentatively reached to cup your cheek, brows furrowing together as he spoke with such conviction.

“What I truly feel is not enough,” He murmured, thumb gently tracing circles near your jaw. “I’ve burned for you, wanted you — everything you are captivates me, Princess. Were I not sworn to you, I would’ve asked for your hand.” Harwin uttered, able to hear the hitch in your breath.

Keening into his embrace, your delicate fingers folded over his armored wrist, drawing him closer, closer still until your lips met his own. The kiss was a tentative one, more exploratory in-nature given your own inexperience.

Harwin dared not coerce you into anything, allowing you to withdraw whenever you pleased. The sweetness of your mouth was something he’d unknowingly craved, heat simmering beneath his flesh as he fought against baser instincts. He would not lose himself — not with you.

“I would ask for your hand, even still.” He uttered, watching in silent rapture as you moved to press against him, bosom brushing against his chest. If it weren’t for the layers of armor, he might’ve been driven to the brink of madness.

“I am yours,” You were toying with fire, letting such a declaration out into the open, but you were entirely genuine. “You’ve no idea how much you mean to me, how long I’ve toiled in fantasy, imagining what this might be like, to belong to you.”

Through a tensed jaw, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you again until your lips were swollen, but he ensured restraint, allowing himself to drape an arm around your hips. The leather of his gauntlet gently caressed into your waist, sweeping over the thin fabric of your shift.

At last, you permitted yourself to touch him, palms tentatively coming to perch atop his chest, fingertips tracing idle circles into his tabard. Harwin inhaled your scent, freshened and crisp like that of jasmine and honey, a sweetness that he had grown accustomed to.

The Knight planted a kiss against your crown, cupping your cheek as he sought your gaze. “You are safe with me, I promise you that. Do not feel as if we must act on our desires.” He assured, though your longing stare said otherwise.

“Have you laid with someone before?” The innocuous tone of your question came across as naive, but you knew enough of what went into consummation. You still retained your maidenhead, willing to relinquish it to Harwin, if he chose.

Harwin did not want to lie to you, though the inquiry itself had surprised him. “I have,” Hoping that it wouldn’t ruin things, you seemed perplexed, features warming from embarrassment. “It is not as daunting as it seems.”

Without hesitation, you replied, “I want to try — with you,” As you spoke, his countenance appeared more bewildered and concerned than anything else. He did not want you to feel obligated; your virtue was in his hands, and it was something precious to him. “Is that alright?”

“Princess,” For a moment, you feared you’d offended him, his tone seemingly one of uncertainty. “Are you certain?” For his own sake, he desired your consent thrice over, if necessary. Harwin did not want to seem like some lecher.

A pang of anxiousness settled into your stomach, evoking butterflies from within as you nodded. It was intimidating, the idea of the act itself — yet, you knew that he would take care of you. “More certain than I’ve ever been before.” With a hushed whisper, you gazed at him, stars in your eyes.

Despite your piety, Harwin found himself crumbling in the wake of your stare, as if he’d been scorched by the heat of a thousand suns. His lips parted briefly, gingerly caressing your cheek before he bent to kiss you, ensuring that he was gentle with you.

Mouths tangled in a tender dance, your sheepishness bleeding through, an initial hesitation blossoming into enthusiasm. He cradled you as if you were forged of precious jewels, armored physique pressed snug to yours.

Finding your purchase against his chest, your digits lightly curled into his tabard, stomach churning with a volatile heat. Harwin’s palm idly caressed circles against the small of your back, sending shockwaves throughout your spine. He was endlessly warm, lips coming to claim yours with a disarming gentleness.

The hearth provided a soothing ambiance, crackling in the background, accompanied by the hum of dusk. Moonlight poured in through your scaling window, curtains drawn to reveal pooling silver, gathering across your chamber floor.

As Harwin withdrew, he allowed himself to abandon his guilt, even if it continued to gnaw away at him. “Should you wish to stop, merely tell me.” He murmured, watching as your head bobbed in agreement. Your hands fluttered to his gauntlets, preparing to assist in their removal.

Leather buckles and fastened straps proved to be something of an obstacle as you went about removing it all with his assistance. Slipping his tabard off, you happened to let your gaze linger, flustered when he’d caught you ogling him.

“You are wonderfully handsome, Ser Harwin,” The sweetness of your cadence was unmatched, earning you a genuine smile as the Knight chuckled. “What is it?”

“We do not need to use formalities here — no more ‘Ser’,” It dissolved a bit of your nervousness, tendrils of anxiousness unfurling from your frame. Lifting his breastplate off, he placed the growing pile of armor atop a spacious table. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon, as is your heart.”

The warm husk of his voice made you shiver with delight, feeling his calloused palm slip beneath your jaw once more, splayed aside your throat. Harwin kissed you with a fervent passion this time, still clad in his chainmail as he let his arms cage you in against him.

A breathy exhale tore past your lips, blinded by the heated kiss, allowing your entanglement to grow in intensity. Clamoring hands found his broad shoulders, able to feel the muscle that rest beneath, nearly rocking up upon your toes to reach him.

It was then that he picked you up, your dress proving to be more of a hindrance than he thought possible. Nevertheless, he used one arm to support you, the other pressed into the small of your back as he traversed your chambers, making for your bed.

The structure itself was grandeur, four columns of rich mahogany, draped in tapestries of gossamer and thick, verdant velvet. Harwin stopped at the mattress’s edge, your back kissing the sheet-clad feathers as he let you stand.

Mouths continued to dance, deepening your entanglement, heat festering like a sweltering wave between bodies. With haste, your palms had relocated from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers threading within the curls there.

His stature engulfed you — large, imposing, and endlessly warm. Harwin’s presence blanketed you, able to feel the sharp cracks of desire as they wafted from him. Calloused hands kneaded into your curves, molding themselves to your form.

Lips parted, a shaky sigh tumbling from your mouth as you attempted to regain even a shred of your composure. Harwin pressed a kiss to your jaw, still hovering around you, a salacious inquiry dancing upon the tip of his tongue.

“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” His husky, coarse lull made your belly surge with butterflies, thighs absentmindedly shifting together. A coil of tension slowly began to form within you, pulled taut with a deep-seated repression.

Embarrassed, you gave a shrug of your shoulders, smitten beneath his incendiary gaze. “Somewhat,” You always thought it to be sinful, as if the eyes of the Seven were boring down upon you. “Gods, you must think me to be some prude.”

With a gentle shake of his head, Harwin cupped your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw. “I do not,” He replied, reassuring as ever as he pressed a kiss against your brow. “May I remove this?” He questioned, giving your gown a gentle tug.

A brief hitch inhabited your throat, lips parting enough to make way for a subtle gasp. Instead of answering verbally, you nodded, hands untangling themselves from his nape. Sluggishly, you turned around, facing the bed as his deft, calloused digits found the numerous laces along your spine.

Unraveling you from such tight fabric, a brief exhale tore past your lips, gown beginning to loosen. The velvet-and-silk sagged upon your form, leaving you in naught but a simple shift, tantalizingly transparent. Stepping from your nightgown, you shivered as Harwin’s palm graced your hip.

Slowly, he planted a kiss atop your shoulder, the scratch of his beard a most pleasant sensation. A charged silence loomed between you both, the only ambience that of the smoldering hearth, a wisp of wind passing by your window.

Each breath he took seemed taut with heaviness, an exhilaration that you shared in. Showering your flesh in kisses, he continued along the hollow between throat and shoulder, fingers flexing against the ties of your silken shift.

“Harwin,” A tremulous exhale slipped past your lips, reveling in the feeling of his mouth peppering against you. His other arm slipped around you, his large palm coming to cup one of your breasts, kneading into the soft, pliant mount. “Gods.” You gasped.

It was a sound that he had dreamt of for so long — your voice, charmed and wanton beneath his kiss, within his grasp. Harwin felt you lean against his sturdy musculature, even if the chainmail happened to chafe against your back. As his name fell from your tongue, he was beguiled.

Desiring to see him fully, you sluggishly turned within his embrace, digits toying with the remnants of his armor. Wordlessly, your hands drifted to the remaining straps and buckles, wishing to peel it from him, see him completely.

As his chainmail loosened, vambraces and leather tunic following suit, he deposited all somewhere by the wayside.

Bare above his waist, you marveled at the sight of him — taut muscle, as thick as tree trunks, chest covered in a light layer of brunette hair. His flesh was sunkissed, a scar or two embedded into his skin.

Bluish hues bored into you, gentle yet instilled with the flame of ardor, large hands moving to smooth over your hips. Silent, he bent to kiss you, able to hear the brief tremble of your exhale, your hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, you felt the stirring of something wicked between your legs, arousal beginning to coalesce as his kisses deepened. Mouths clamored for one another, each kiss charged with a longing, nearly stealing every wisp of air from your lungs.

Harwin’s throat reverberated with a low growl, beard scratching against your silken flesh with every fervent clash of lips. One hand dared to explore, caressing over your hip and derrière, until he gathered the hem of your shift within his fist.

An excitable shiver slithered over your spine, able to feel the slight draft dance across your thighs, fabric being eased up; further, and further still. It was then that you felt his hand beneath the silk, traveling further until he found the warmth lingering between your legs.

Nails dug crescents into his thick biceps, a stutter forming as you parted, foreheads still flush together, hot sighs passing through. Harwin’s calloused digits sluggishly glided over your slick petals, searching for any signs of discomfort that might’ve appeared.

“H—Harwin …” A stifled whimper tore past your mouth, now parted completely as you pressed yourself against him. Perched atop the mattress’s edge, it allowed him to stand between, spreading your legs apart with his physique.

“Hm,” He rumbled, pressing kisses along the side of your face, over the curve of your jaw. “Is that pleasurable, Princess?” Gods, his voice — it was deliciously husky, his timbre akin to the gentle shaking of thunder before an encroaching tempest.

His usage of your title made your stomach contort, that coil of heat now pulled as tight as a bowstring. With a soft moan, your hips lurched forward, seeking the friction of his practiced digits. With a twinge of vigor, he began to let his fingers stroke along your cunt.

“Yes — Gods, yes,” A wanton sigh fluttered into the air, a breathy incantation that filled your mind with some lovestruck haze. “Do not stop.” His lips continued to press a trail of kisses along your throat and what flesh of your collar was exposed.

Reverence seeped into each ministration, each touch echoing with devotion. Harwin’s gaze glittered with a thinly-veiled adoration, covetousness stirring within his heart. As his fingers found a rather pleasing rhythm, he shuddered at the sound of your numerous moans.

With gentle coaxing, you clamored for his mouth once more, lips melding together in a furious passion. Moans escaped you, dancing between heated kisses and wanton sighs, your countenance contorting into an expression of bliss.

Hips surged forward with incessant want, rocking into his hand to gain any scrap of friction. He provided it to you freely, his willingness to please a trait that you were wholly unaccustomed to. His name emerged as an affectionate sigh from your mouth.

“I wish — I wish to touch you,” The hushed cadence of your plea had made Harwin shudder, bones screaming for you in every way imaginable. He had little desire to seek his own pleasure in this matter, preferring his concentration to rest on you. “Please, Harwin.”

Lips ghosted above one another, connecting once more in a fusion of heat, a passion so blistering that it consumed him just as it did you. Harwin grunted into your mouth, clashing again and again, your mouth parting to make way for a thinly-veiled moan.

A sliver of hesitance passed through him, teeth briefly grazing your lower lip, the gesture sudden enough to make you whine. His kiss had evoked such yearning from within, sentiments long suppressed in the wake of your faith, freed from the shackles of sin.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle the pearl of your cunt. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, visage displaying complete and utter bliss as a shockwave of pleasure stabbed at your nethers.

Harwin’s husked voice echoed your name, hot breath fanning beside your ear as he kissed the flesh beneath it. “Where do you need me, Princess?” He murmured, low and lascivious, cadence alone enough to make your thighs shift together to alleviate some tension.

“There,” Accompanied by another flick of his thumb over your pearl, your head jostled in a hasty nod, teeth briefly sinking into your bottom lip. “Gods, Harwin, please!” Desperate pleas escaped into the tenuous heat between you, foreheads nestled together as he toyed with your clit.

The sound of his name upon your tongue was a maddening noise, each syllable drawn-out with ardor. Harwin felt his cock throb incessantly within his trousers, straining with desperation against the leather, begging to be inside of you.

As your countenance unfurled with a carnal delight, he nearly thought of tasting you — throwing himself onto his knees and pleasuring you upon his tongue. As much as he craved it, he did not want to overwhelm you with it all this evening, intending to propose a future opportunity.

A grunt stirred from his chest, noses grazing over one another, kisses of heat peppering flesh as he held you flush against him. Lips clawed for one another, an entanglement charged with a vein of desperation. Hands clasped against his nape, silken fingers carding through thick curls.

It was then that his digits gingerly prodded against your entrance, feeling your breath halt, hips stuttering in surprise. Through a prurient gaze, enraptured, Harwin carefully surveyed your visage for any inkling of discomfort, pressing a kiss against your jaw.

“Ha—Harwin.” With a startled croak, a churning of anxiety swarmed your belly, and yet he soothed you, mouth smoothing over your temples. Wordlessly, he did not continue further until you did, rutting your hips against his hand as if to cement your answer.

“I have you, Princess.” Through a tender baritone, you allowed yourself to relax, trusting in his proficiency. At a snail’s pace, two digits sank forward, invading your cunt with a disarming gentleness, allowing you to grow accustomed to the foreign sensation.

Gripping him with an ironclad hold, you gasped, nails digging crescents into the flesh of his neck, teeth piercing your bottom lip. It was unusual, but certainly not unwelcome — instead, he began a rather lackadaisical rhythm, accompanied by the roll of his thumb over your pearl.

If it weren’t for his arm keeping you aloft, you might’ve collapsed beneath his touch, melting away into wisps of ash. Each sigh was rapturous, wanton moans inhabiting the space between bodies, a feverish warmth crawling over your spine.

This all felt like some distant dream, a mere fantasy that had dug its talons into his mind, now made into blissful reality; he could scarcely believe it. Harwin did not want to forget this moment, lamenting over your flesh, silk and satin beneath his calloused palms.

Halcyon hues surveyed your countenance, enthralled by the delight that had washed over your features, contorted into an expression of ecstasy. Arousal gnawed at his bones, visceral and raw as he urged his digits into your cunt, easing them backward in rhythmic strokes.

His name spilled from your lips with such glee, doing little to veil your pleasure, wanting to sob from it all. You had not yet experienced a release in all of its blistering ferocity, somewhat unfamiliar with your own body; Harwin desired to study it as he would a map, committing all of you to memory.

Mouths seamlessly mold together, as if intended to fit, destined; his frame serves as a warm pillar, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, his alone. Each kiss is instilled with a fierce vigor, a brand scorched upon your swollen lips, and yet, you starve even still.

Through tortuous strokes of his fingers, heat unfurls from within your belly, a sudden and volatile thing, enough for you to nearly pierce his lip with your teeth. Harwin huffs; a low, triumphant sound, tinged with a silent elation as he brings about your undoing, thumb circling your pearl.

A shudder passes through you, tangling like ivy as it creeps up your spine before bliss pools forth, a slick nectar coalescing between your legs. Stifled moans are consumed by his mouth, kisses crawling to lingering bouts of passion, careworn palm soothingly tracing over your thigh.

Again, his name flutters from your maw, an enchanting sound that bewitches Harwin like that of a siren’s lull, coaxing him into deep waters. For you, he would’ve drowned a thousand times over — filled his lungs with saltwater to merely glimpse upon your visage.

Clawing for him as if you were being torn asunder, your muscles twitch and spasm in the aftermath, ecstasy oozing from every pore. Shallow breaths burn with wanton desire, hoarse yet exhilarated, gazes interlocking as he inspects you carefully.

“Are you well?” Innocuous, Harwin finds the sheen of perspiration that clings to your flesh to be tantalizing, irises akin to that of a doe’s. Warm and composing yourself, limbs begin to fall slack, head bobbing in a sluggish nod.

“I am,” Your answer is marked by a girlish giddiness, basking within a blissful afterglow as you trace your fingertips across his rugged jaw. The Knight smiles; summertime awakens within your bones, and you feel his grin as you would a kiss. “I am perfectly happy.”

Breakbones, they whisper; and yet, your beloved shield is as gentle as the first breath of spring, as tender as a consoling hand. An ebullient giggle tumbles from your lips, as if incredulity is beginning to truly sink in — Harwin cradles your heart within his palm.

It is the first inkling of joy you’ve felt in some time, misery’s dour haze beginning to dissipate, pierced by this spear of ardor that he wields so passionately. Mouths gingerly press against one another, feeling a low rumble stir within his diaphragm, a noise of elation.

“I’ve dreamt of this, against my better judgment,” Harwin’s softened baritone ushers against your lips in a warm wisp, beard causing ripe friction against satiny flesh. “My heart calls your name.”

A dazzling awe paints your features, blossoming with a girlish glee as you continue to brush your fingertips over his visage, dipping toward his throat. Dying embers blanket Harwin in their resplendence, his breath catching within his throat as your digits card through his curls.

“Where is your judgment presently, Harwin?” The inquiry is genuine, steeped in a dreamlike lament as you cradle his visage within one palm. It is a hunger revealing itself within you, one you thought incapable of feeling; you wonder if he feels it too, in all of its rawness.

Regret does not tarry within his heart as it should’ve — instead, he feels joy, bones resolute with protectiveness, the desire to tether himself to your ribs. “That I belong to you, Princess,” No other would dare tempt his heart in the way that you had. “I would refuse to know another.”

Your throat, thick with a swell of vivification, words melting upon your tongue; you feel the very same. “As I am yours.” It is a hushed sigh, pluming over his shoulder as you plant a kiss over corded muscle.

Burly arms cage you against his chest, the plane of a warm musculature that blankets you with a sense of comfort, gently depositing you onto your mattress fully. Reluctant to slip from his hold, you do not expect to abandon it for long.

With your weight redistributed atop cushions of sheet-swathed feathers and silken duvets, your fingers thread through the laces that hold your shift together. Harwin stands with bated breath, gaze incendiary as his silhouette swallows you whole, eyes ardently drinking you in.

In hasty tugs of his digits, the Knight unburdens himself of his tassets, freeing himself from the tedious confines of armor. He prefers it, but not now, not while you lay atop emerald satin, bare flesh akin to a diamond amongst the rubble.

Sheepishness becomes you, feathering over your features as you shyly sink into the pillows, gaze roving over Harwin as he continues to disrobe. To your carnal delight, his body is the very same, muscle upon muscle, sunkissed and labored, effortlessly handsome.

Stepping forth, the Knight joins you within your bed, an act that, if unraveled, would cost him his head — he cares very little for it. Even when stripped from his garb, he is impressively statuesque, dwarfing you in stature as he makes residence between your legs, the strain slight.

His cock intimidates you instantaneously, a tide of anxiety surging within your belly as it strains against your thigh. Swallowing fear, palms grace taut forearms, dancing upward until you trace his biceps, searching his gaze for any inkling of uncertainty; and there is none, save for devotion.

Careworn fingers languidly drag over your leg, from the crook of your knee to your thigh, thumb rubbing circles against your flesh. It is soothing, intended to alleviate the constant ache of nerves that bloom within your stomach, but it does little to ease your racing thoughts.

“I wouldn’t dare hurt you,” Lips seal themselves to your temples, an oath whispered from the Knight’s own mouth, warm breath billowing over your countenance. Leather and steel cling to him, an amalgamation of scents that burn themselves into your senses. “I promise.”

Pain is to be expected from salacious acts, you know this; and yet it doesn’t sting any less. His indomitable physique settles betwixt your thighs, keeping you spread apart without an ounce of force, knees brushing across his hips.

Embers quiet, glow dimming throughout your chambers, guided only by moonlight which pools through drawn curtains. Holding himself aloft, his hands root themselves by either side of your head, shoulders furled with a tension that screams for some sliver of relief.

Harwin’s head descends, mouth planting several kisses along your throat, gliding over satiny flesh beneath, as saccharine as a honeyed stout. He is deliberate, passion oozing forth as he attempts to quell the nervousness that still dances within your eyes, kneading into your haunch.

“I trust you, Harwin,” Words flutter forth with such tenderness, a solemn vow from you, knowing that he would not impose upon your comfort. A low hum emerges, body rumbling beneath your palms as you hold him close, moaning as he kisses the pulse point of your jaw. “Completely.”

Afforded an honor that few possessed, he took your words to heart, cherishing them with such sacredness, lips stilling along your cheek. Foreheads ghosted against the other, tepid sighs inhabiting the thin space between bodies, soul bared to soul; your fingertips traced his jaw.

Adjusting his body against yours, limbs tangled and muscles taut with excitement. A gasp ripped through your diaphragm, his cock gingerly pressing flush to slick petals, teeth daring to pierce the inside of your cheek.

Eyes seek another, his own pupils eclipsed by desire, a loyalty shown through lips. He envelopes you entirely, so large, so perfect; you tremble beneath him, an involuntary tick marked by your own mounting arousal.

Wordlessly, your Knight begins to shift, ensuring that you are equally as comfortable, length incessantly nudging against your nethers, eliciting a wanton whine from your mouth. Hearts beat in-tandem, a furious pace that looses a grunt from him, gazing down upon you.

“Gently then, Princess.” Harwin rumbles, his own restraint rather threadbare, but he maintains propriety for your sake, intending to take your maidenhead with gentleness. He does just that, hips sluggishly urging forward, cock beginning to sheathe inside of you, inch by inch.

Gooseflesh ices your spine, coupled with a feverish heat that turns your bones to ash, nails digging crescents into his biceps. The stretch is bewildering, and you wonder how this all intends to fit, and yet it does.

Flickers of pain furrow over brow, visage contorting with intermingled bliss and discomfort.

Hips still, allowing you ample time to acclimate yourself to him, and yet you seem eager to continue, back arching into his embrace. His name unfurls from your tongue, a kiss of warmth murmured against his countenance as he caresses along your thigh.

His concern for you is thinly-veiled, worn upon his features through a creased brow, and yet you coax him to continue. “Do not stop, Harwin.” Breathy pleas tumble from your parted lips and he is lost, succumbing to a shred of baser instincts, continuing to urge forward once more.

A choked whimper erupts from your throat, clinging to him as if you were swept away in some tidal surge, visage pressed near his shoulder. A low, thunderous grunt shakes his frame, reveling in the sensation of your cunt tightening around him, taking him so very well.

As your maidenhead breaks upon his cock, he is exceedingly tender, handling you with such fidelity, ensuring that he does not cause you agony. Bliss blossoms over your countenance, flesh screaming with an arduous heat, belly nothing more than molten liquid.

Ceaseless, Harwin heeds your command, cock continuing to sink into you, a blade within its scabbard, sheathing himself until there is nowhere left for him to go. A delighted moan plumes from your mouth, babbling his praises, hitching one leg around his hips.

Furthering the friction, this newfound angle evokes a yearning from him, cock twitching within you. With a brief huff, Harwin knows he treads on unsteady ground, wanting to move with such force, yet he continues to walk the line of restraint.

“Gods, look at you,” Harwin’s voice clouds your mind, like warm tendrils entangling themselves into every thought. The rougher cadence of his tone sends shockwaves through your belly, heat pooling between your thighs. “You are doing well, Princess.”

Such heady praise looses a moan from your lips, bristling with warmth beneath his incendiary words, a fire igniting within you. A shiver courses through your spine, a tremor that snakes over your body, prompting you to clutch him closer.

Bodies urge against one another, friction a delicious feeling, one that yielded to the fervor of the moment. The pebbled peaks of your breasts brush over his muscled chest, hand tangled at his nape, the other digging into his shoulder as his thrusts begin to truly take shape.

Maintaining this element of gallantry, he is gentle still, actions that of lovemaking over entertaining any rougher pursuits. Pleasure unfurls from within you, consuming every fiber of your being, simmering within your blood.

Mouths clamor for one another, lips colliding in a fervent kiss, passion unbridled as he rolls his hips forward, creating a steady rhythm that does not seek to overwhelm you. Harwin savors every shred of heat, every whimper and moan that besmirches your lips, each look of ardor.

Love is unmistakable, the sentiment as crystalline as a midsummer’s sky, hanging heavy within your doe-like stare, hearts grasping; intertwined.

Each thrust is born of urgency as you begin to feel yourself stretched further, his cock gently burying itself into the warmth of your cunt. His muscle becomes your anchor, a hardened plane to sink your fingers into, hold vicelike.

Whimpers emerge, choked from your throat as tongues and teeth dance, cock gently battering away at your nethers, belly pulled taut like a bowstring. Perspiration glitters upon his brow, even if this exertion is fleeting, nonexistent for him.

“Harwin,” Laced with the rasp of desire, his name falls ardently from your lips, body succumbing to ecstasy, arched against him. “Pl—Please, do not stop!” It is nothing more than a mewl, wantonly echoing within his ear as his ministrations become a touch invigorated.

Surrounded by him on all sides, all-encapsulating, your legs begin to squeeze and tighten around his hips, rough hand kneading into your thigh. He fists at the sheets beside your crown, held aloft by an arm furled with rippling muscle.

Beneath you, the bedframe groaned in protest, ancient wood becoming malleable, rattled by the weight of joined bodies. Harwin’s rumbling grunts resonated beside your ear, groans akin to the deep lull of thunder, beard ghosting across silken flesh as you clung to him.

Arousal mounted within him like an encroaching tide, preparing to shatter upon the rock, cock throbbing within you. Ripples of bliss flooded your insides in a rabid heat, the tip of his length kissing your womb, frame shuddering within your grasp.

Pearlescent teeth scraped over the flesh beneath your ear, hot huffs of wanton breaths pluming over your features, prompting you to crane forward. Flush, flesh upon flesh, your body took him well, intended for another, nails crawling past his shoulder.

Even still, his pace did not waver, melding into something vigorous, maintaining every shred of adoration he had for you, poured into each thrust. Friction continued to smolder, a fire growing to immeasurable heights, causing you to let out a strangled moan.

He met every brush of your hips with a bruising thrust, urging forward, allowing you to feel it all, everything; Harwin’s mouth fell into the hollow between throat and collar, kisses warped with lascivious intent. “My Lady.” A low, baritone purr lavished your skin.

With restraint dissolving to naught but ash, the Knight grunted once more, hips rolling forward as he sought to spill his seed, weight bearing down upon you. Greedily, you welcomed it with unrestrained need, encouraging him with babbled pleas of desire.

Harwin’s fantasy had floated through then and there, envisioning his seed taking root within you, giving you every ounce of him. Perhaps then, you would be wed, hands bound, hearts rooted together like ancient trees within a forest.

“Stay,” A whimper tore past your throat, beseeching him to remain sheathed within you, and that was enough for Harwin Strong to crumble. Caging him in against you with vicelike legs, the Knight’s groan sent shivers through you. “Gods, Harwin.”

Gazes interlocked fleetingly, and he succumbed to you, cock battering away within your cunt a moment longer, spilling himself within you. With a spasmodic shudder, his hips urged forward with a sense of finality, warm spent painted your insides, evoking a soft gasp from your lips.

A stickiness clung to your nethers, a foreign sensation that had made you flush, a peculiar heat permeating your features. Harwin’s chest reverberated with a soft huff, stilling within you as he soothingly stroked your thigh.

Muscles burned with the sting of exertion, ragged breathing climbing down from such a pinnacle, heartbeat beginning to steady. A gentle hush filled your chambers, limbs intertwined, his weight no longer blanketing you as it had before.

The pad of his thumb traced your temples, where disheveled tresses kissed warm flesh, caressing over your cheekbone. He dipped forward, planting a disarmingly tender kiss to your mouth, beard prickling your lips as your palm kneaded into his shoulder.

It was then that he pulled himself from you, calmly retreating from your bed to clamor about your chambers, retrieving a cloth from your vanity. Dying embers painted him in such beauty, appearing as some mesomorphic god, tousled curls framing his handsome visage.

Adjusting yourself, you knew that he could not stay — not in the way you wanted him to. Despite this ungodly hour, prying eyes would be waiting in the shadows, knowing that the Knight could not leave your chambers unguarded until dawn.

Returning to you, Harwin did not hesitate to draw you close, desiring to hold you, even if it would not be for very long. “You are so beautiful,” He murmured, brows knitting together as he regarded you with such amity, caressing along your ribcage. “I wish that I could stay.”

“I understand,” A singular digit danced across his collar, neatly smoothing toward his chest. “I … I hope that this is not the end for us, Harwin.” Worry festered within your belly, a growing ache that he would let things die hereafter.

A glint of amusement settled within halcyon hues, his large hand cupping your chin, cradling your countenance within a calloused palm. “Did you think I would act on such desires if I only wanted one night with you, Princess?” His thumb traced your lower lip.

No longer did you feel shackled to sin, but you knew what path you now tread would be fraught with danger, a slope of secrecy. “I do not want you to be my secret,” If it were of your own choosing, you would’ve chosen Harwin. “I want you here, always.” Careening into his embrace, you planted a kiss to his thumb.

Harwin found your sentiment to be heartwarming, and he knew your intentions were entirely pious. As much as he desired to be with you freely, he had already trudged upon innumerable boundaries, propriety withered away to nothing.

“I will never be very far,” Solemn, the Knight nearly shivered as silken digits encircled his wrist, gliding along his forearm. Bodies became flush, distance dissolved, allowing a saccharine heat to blossom forth. “I meant what I said — I belong to you.” For an eternity, if that was what you wanted.

“My heart is yours.” It always would be — from this day, until your last day. “Stay a moment longer.” Through a whispered plea, you beseeched Harwin to linger beside you, desiring his warmth, his heart. With a kiss, you felt him smile against your mouth, drawing you to his chest as he reclined into your pillows.

“As you wish, Princess.”

[boldstarks]

Cat Burglar!

My submission to the USUAL SUSPECTS riso show at Around Gallery, available on my print shop.

[boldstarks]

Sandor x Reader breeding kink pretty please~ 😋🎀

YES 🫵🏻 YES 👏🏻 (why haven’t more ppl asked for this ?? HE HAS SUCH A BREEDING KINK.)

[ p.s if you are who i’m thinking of, i love your edits sm <3 😭 ]

cw; pure filth, porn without plot, breeding kink, rough sex, strong language, creampie, he’s literally fucked you senseless, you’re just his little cumtoy honestly. this is so rushed but i was desperate to write it :(( 18+ !!

got mlist | blog graphics | asks are open

you’re not sure when exactly he sunk his cock into you. hours ago, surely. words are no longer conceivable. your back aches and so does your cunt, but it’s a bloody good pain, and your jaws remain stretched into a silent scream.

his cock has spent more time inside of you than it has in his briefs since your bedding ceremony, and you don’t remember a time in the past hours when you weren’t getting fucked up the mattress.

you choke on a moan, the most noise you’ve managed in a good while, and allow your head to thud back onto the pillow — neck too weak to withstand the weight of it.

the cum he plugged you full of on your wedding night still weeps out around his width, his cock ramming it back into you, mingling with the recent batch he’s not long poured into you.

“good girl.” he grunts into your ear, teeth nipping at its lobe. all you can do is gulp on a staggered breath, your breasts swelling against his chest as you do. he angles your arse flush against the tops of his thighs, thick bush scratching at your slick deliciously. it enables him to spear into you deeper, reaching depths you thought he’d already explored. studying your insides to the utmost — malleable and welcoming — like he intends to memorise every inch that’ll accommodate him. mold you to him, sheath his cock as he does his sword.

your spine arches with a mind of its own and you gargle on a whine, strangled and broken. his hips slam into the undersides of your reddened thighs, jerking your body beneath him. so pliable in his hold. his eyes are glued to your stomach and the little bulge that probes at the flesh below you bellybutton with each thrust, envisioning the ropes of thick white that surely paint your walls. a low growl rumbles from his chest and he fucks into you harder, heavy balls smacking your arse whilst his pelvic bone collides with the rim of your gaping cunt. a milky ring wraps around his base, a lewd sheen coating the length that disappears into you over and over and over again. a mixture of your previous climaxes and his dripping sweat collect in his wiry hairs and they kiss your clit just as hard as his cockhead kisses the gummy roof of your cervix.

it’s all very intoxicating. the sensation of his firm muscles crashing against your smaller self, the way he penetrates you to the hilt, the way his veins palpitate and tendons ripple. you feel him everywhere. in your tummy, in your chest, in your fucking toes. he hikes your legs up to cross around his waist, upping his pace. it’s a torturous rhythm — unforgiving and unrelenting.

every nerve in your body goes numb as your band tightens for what feels like the hundredth time today, ready to snap and unleash another climactic release. once so limp and yielding in his large hands, so lenient and compliant, you stiffen up into his pistoning cock with a broken sob.

“c’mon, that’s it.” he rises on his haunches, yanking your lower-half up with him so he can drill down into your fucked-out hole. you claw for him but can’t reach, opting to stuff one fist into your mouth while the other grapples for the damp sheets — which’ll need burning; no amount of scrubbing will return them to cleanliness.

“squeeze it all out of me.” his teeth are clenched, neck strained and chest heaving. you feel him start to pulsate within you, cockhead starting to leak into your womb — already claimed by the seed you’ve been draining from him since your inebriated mind can recall. “take it all.” he hisses, rutting into you at an animalistic speed with no consistency or control. “fucking take all of it.” he gives your hips a squeeze, punctuating his words with five particularly harsh and arduous pumps.

you’re sure you lose consciousness for a moment, thrashing in his grip like a rag doll as you’re hit like a war-hammer by an almost painful surge of ecstasy. you clamp around him, forcing him to lurch onto his hands and knees, dropping you so his cock is all that unites your bodies, and lazily fucks through his own climax.

the familiar warmth of him emptying his load into your cunt soothes you slightly, and he stills his entirety within you whilst he waits for his balls to secrete everything they have into your well-bred hole. you gasp when he applies pressure to your naval, and feel a stirring where he pushes his fingers.

so fucking full.

“please. . .” you whisper, unable to go beyond anything more. “no more.”

you’re a mess, twinging and throbbing. his softening cock twitches inside of you, refusing to pull out. “need to make sure it takes.” he grunts, massaging gentle circles over your stomach.

“it surely has.” you try to roll over but he pins you in place.

“we’ll see.” he rasps, retracting himself only slightly to scoop a trickle of cum back into you.

[boldstarks]

Aegon Drabble

Word Count: 501

22. “Mark me. Mark me so everyone knows who I belong to.”

10. “Ah, fuck.”

From this prompt list. Requests from this prompt list are open!

The sounds echoing through the hidden corridor connecting your rooms were obscene. If any servant or spy were to stumble through these halls, they’d know to turn back around before even seeing you two. Skin slapping against skin, the sound of his cock driving into your wet pussy and the best prostitute-like moans falling from your lips. Aegon just knew how to pull these sounds out of you with barely any effort, his member pressing against your spot with every fast and hard thrust. 

Gods, if your husband saw you right now, your nightgown hiked up to your hips, the front unbuttoned to show off your tits bouncing with each thrust from the prince. Tyland was no faithful man, but he was possessive and greedy. Despite this, he seemed to have some sort of suspicion over your rendezvous. The only reason you can think why he hasn’t confronted you is due to the position of being his whore grants the Lannister’s some sort of privilege. 

It’s as if he knows your mind has wandered, one hand leaving your hips to begin rubbing tight circles over your clit. The actions cause your walls to flutter, and your legs to tighten around his hips. 

“Ah, fuck.” The words tumble from your lips as he somehow fucks you even rougher. His brows furrowed together, white curls clinging to his sweaty forehead. “Ae-Aegon!” 

He grunts at your words, head falling onto your shoulder. His lips, swollen from your kisses, begin to kiss your neck lazily. His tongue laps at your skin, groaning at the salty taste. “Need you to come, little lion.” 

Teeth graze your neck at his words, causing a shiver to run up your spine. With a lust-driven mind, the words fall from your lips with little thought behind them. “Mark me. Mark me, so everyone knows who I belong to.”

Without a single word of protest, his teeth bite down on a part of your neck that he knows drives you mad. With his teeth clamping down on that sensitive spot, the tightening within your stomach snaps, and you feel the world vanish before you. With a final snap of his hips, he follows soon after, coming inside your tight walls as your head falls back against the cold stone. 

Your nails dig into his bare shoulders, loudly moaning through your orgasm as he lazily rubs your clit through it. As you come down from your high, he slowly stops his ministrations, tongue lapping at the bruise forming on your neck. 

“Aegon,” you weakly moan out, the feel of his tongue causing your stomach to flutter once more. Gods, he’s insatiable. 

“I want him to know just who you belong to. I’m done hiding this,” he grunts out before beginning once more. 

Gods, by morning you’ll no doubt be riddled with bruises and bites from him. Somehow that thought only spurs the both of you on, though. 

[boldstarks]

Can we please talk about the glitching in this app is making it extremely unpleasant to read fanfiction. Anytime I switch to a different app it exits out of the post or if I stay in the app too long the back arrow disappears.

[boldstarks]

Mickey 17: I love Nasha...shes my Queen and I bow down to her majesty

Mickey 18:

[boldstarks]

Tear Down My Reason - Masterlist

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Niece!reader Warnings: Arranged marriage, smut (individual warnings will be applied to each chapter)

Summary: Aemond exacts cruel revenge upon his niece for the loss of his eye at the hands of her younger brother. Shortly after, a bloody war ensues, that neither expects to survive. Left as all that remains of House Targaryen, the pair are forced to come together as King and Queen of Westeros. However, forced into a marriage that neither of them want, they soon learn that not all battles are fought with Valyrian steel and dragonfire - manipulation and cruel words wound just as deeply within the confines of a marital chamber.

Author's note: No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Chapter one: I Can Tell You About Pain

Chapter two: A Single Tear

Chapter three: Blood Moon

Chapter four: Fault and Fracture

Chapter five: Sadness Comes Home

Chapter six: The Dusk in Us

Read on AO3

More Aemond fics

[boldstarks]

Some of us are perverts that don’t liked to be touched. Leave me be

why is there so much smut on the platform? sometimes i just want to read some fluff or angsty fanfic to pass the time and all i find is a bunch of posts full of dicks and pussies everywhere. fuck, not everything is about fucking is okay

[boldstarks]

What He Likes

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Summary: When five daughters of Great Houses arrive on Giedi Prime, Feyd is meant to select one as a wife. But out of all of the foreigners on his territory, it is the Princess of Kaitain’s handmaid that catches his eye.

Notes/Warnings: Feyd is possessive as usual.

Words: 3100

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen likes what he likes. There’s no complexity to it. No hidden criteria. What he likes is decided in a straightforward manner based solely on gut instinct, and questions of whether or not it is wise to like what he likes do not follow. He simply sees a thing, enjoys how it looks, and therefore, likes it.  

When the eligible women of five Great Houses stand before him in a neat little row, he likes none of them. Four Ladies and a Princess, all of whom do not hit him in the gut with that feeling, and all of whom have flaws fatal to the name of House Harkonnen. 

Atreides—a lame attempt at a peace offering. Fenring—a Bene Gesserit witch. Corrino—a spoiled, royal brat existing under the shadow of her eldest sister. And the other two, Kenric and Wallach, have faces he cannot be expected to look upon for the rest of his life. 

Not one brushes the cusp of satisfactory. Not one is good enough to take for a bride. But then, as he dismisses them so they may return to their quarters before the evening meal, Feyd spots a thing he likes. 

The Princess’s handmaid. A woman who pays him not a lick of attention as she trails the royal out the door. A woman who forces the pace of his heartbeats to thump twice as fast.

Perfect, he thinks. Stunning.

And without hesitation, Feyd selects his wife. 

—

Reader POV

“The na-Baron has sent a guard to collect you,” Fenring’s handmaid informs you as she comes back into the room, tying a robe around her waist and plopping down on her assigned bed beside Wallach. 

A lump settles in your stomach. The na-Baron—the man who has encouraged your future demise at the hands of the Great Ladies due to the attention he has neglected to provide them in favor of keeping his eyes on you. 

Over seven days, they’ve been ignored entirely, as has his sense of propriety. He has invited you to dine beside him, filling your plate before bothering to notice if the women of high status have had their plates filled. He has asked you questions and listened attentively to the answers you’ve felt obligated to provide. He has ensured you’ve had a seat of phenomenal vantage to witness his arena duels, seeking you out and smirking at you as lifeless bodies slide off of his blade. 

For every new morning there comes a new method of making fools out of the women who could have your neck sliced open should they so choose. And now, so it seems, he intends to bring that trouble into your nights.

“Why?” you ask, trying to cast aside the painfully obvious. You would be thrilled if one of the other handmaids could chime in with something unexpected, something not nearly as vulgar as what you’re imagining he wants from you. 

Wallach and Fenring shoot you a look that suggests you can’t possibly be so ignorant. 

“Why do you think?” Atredies says. “I’m surprised it took him this long.” She swipes a comb through her long locks before pointing the end of the tool at you. “You need to find a way to end whatever this is before it gets you executed. Our Ladies are just as irate over the situation as the Princess.”

Irate—a gentle word. Requests from the Princess have been trivial to a degree you’ve never before dealt with in her servitude. She has snatched any opportunity to humiliate you, degrade you. It is a burden you have shouldered with grace, but so long as the na-Baron refuses to find enjoyment in your torture, your unprotested compliance will continue to mean nothing to the Princess. 

You wish he would laugh with her, just once. It would do you a world of good. But he’s not required to amuse the Princess. He does not have to bow to anyone since the Harkonnen’s growth in power shifted the hierarchy of the Houses. 

“What do you propose I do?” you ask. 

“Let him have you,” Kenric says. “Let him get you out of his system. If he’s no longer infatuated with you, he will finally choose a bride.”

You blanche but you do not immediately dismiss her suggestion. Kenric’s handmaid is older than you by at least a decade, and when she speaks, the rest of you listen. She has watched handmaids come and go from the mistakes they have made. She has seen how replaceable a young woman of humble birth with a limited skill set is. She knows the fights worth fighting and the fights worth surrendering, and there is much to be learned from her experience. 

“That simple?” you say. 

“If you make it that simple,” she replies with a nod. Then she grabs you by your shoulders and spins you around, lightly shoving you toward the door. “It’s for your own good. So go.”

Your heart batters your ribcage as you recover from a stumble. Your first steps are hesitant, unsure if you’re doing the right thing. But you collect yourself, and without looking back, you continue onward, coming face-to-face with a towering figure; pale, a ghost stark against the shadowed hallway. 

“Do not lag behind,” is all he says before he turns on his heel.

You follow him through darkness, past door after door, rounding corner after corner until he finally halts and gestures for you to enter a room. Knowing it isn’t a choice, you step inside. 

You’re relieved to find the space decently lit from the glowing orb of white light hovering near a desk. You scan the area. His bedroom, each inch of it covered top to bottom in black. Painted walls, marble floors, drawn curtains, furniture—all a shade so deep that if you peer too long at any given section, your mind will begin to play tricks on your vision. 

“What’s your name?” suddenly greets your ear in a gravelly voice. Your body flinches and your head whips in the direction of the sound. Somehow, you hadn’t noticed him leaning on the wall with his arms crossed, his brow low, his chin tilted toward his chest. 

He stares at you. Intensely. Unceasingly. A gaze that reaches past what you’ve witnessed in your lifetime. You’ve seen a lover’s stare between couples, but this is different, and it’s clear you’ve lived naive to how deeply a man can look at a woman. 

Heat blooms on your face. “My name?” You hadn’t noticed that he’d yet to ask. To be fair, though, no one ever asks for your name. Perhaps he understands the danger of doing so in front of others. 

“You have one, I assume,” he says. “Or do I need to give you one?”

You frown. “I’m not a slave.”

The na-Baron’s lips twitch in a smirk. His chin lifts and you get a full view of his face. The angles of his cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The edge of his jaw, sharp from the shadows butting up against his illuminated alabaster skin.

He’s beautiful—you can’t pretend otherwise. A rare kind of beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes no sense. Strange, alien beauty that wreaks havoc on your heart rate. 

You haven’t let yourself appreciate just how beautiful he is prior to now, always making an effort to look downward in his presence. And thank goodness you had enough sense. Had you taken a moment to truly observe him, you might not have been able to resist admiring. 

“Then tell me your name,” he says, and gulping down the knot in your throat, you do as he asks. He tests the word on his tongue. He nods. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I like it,” he tells you. “Which means I don’t have to change it.”

You tamp down your offense, steeling your face as you remind yourself of how little control you have. A handmaid versus the na-Baron of Giedi Prime. Your odds are poor. 

“With all due respect, my Lord, what is it I can do for you?”

His eyes continue to be invasive, hungry, like the lions you used to read about in your spare time. Practically uncanny. The na-Baron captures the predatory glare of the beast so well that they could stand side-by-side and you would not be able to decide which of the two is more menacing.

Pushing off the wall, he slowly closes in on you until he’s a single pace away from colliding with your body. His smirk drops, then he says, “How would you like to be my wife?”

Your lungs seize. Death flashes before your eyes, a scene more horrific than what you’ve been conjuring over the last handful of days. Instead of the Princess’s hand around your neck, all of Kaitain will be chanting for your head on a spike. If they hear of the handmaid who went to Giedi Prime as a servant only to attempt stealing from the Princess, they’ll drag you to public slaughter. The handmaid who overstepped her bounds—let us make an example of her betrayal. 

“I asked you a question,” he continues, yanking you from your thoughts. 

You take a breath. “My Lord, I am not the offering from Kaitain. I am the Princess’s handmaid.”

Blue orbs lazily rake up and down your figure. You contain a shiver. “Yes, I have eyes.”

“Then you know she is the one for you to choose.”

“The Princess does not suit my taste,” he admits shamelessly, unbothered. His gaze falls to your lips, neediness passing between you as if he’s desperate to claim them with his own. It quickly fades, and he meets your eyes again. His voice is soft when he says, “The Emperor should not have sent you with his daughter. He knows what you look like. It is not my problem if he is foolish enough to tempt me with something better than what he views as his best.”

The dangerous flattery makes your stomach flutter, but then it flips unpleasantly. “There is no better choice than the Prin–”

“That was not a statement up for debate.”

Your teeth pierce the delicate flesh of your inner cheek. “You have many other options,” you say.

“And I have decided you are one of them.”

At your lack of retort, the corner of his lips quirk. He’s dead set, and you’re not sure you have the manipulative abilities to change his mind. Still, you try.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the blood for it, as you know,” you say in a final attempt. “Noble blood mixes with that of its status.”

“Noble blood does what it wants. That’s why we have all that we have, wouldn’t you agree?” he says, and you do agree. You have to. Noble blood knows only how to take. “There is no logic to me selecting the Princess. Should I marry her, you will be brought along as her handmaid, and she will find herself alone in a cold bed while I will be keeping you warm in mine. Is that the kind of marriage you think she envisions?”

He allows the question to hang in the air, and in that time, you imagine what he’s suggesting. You imagine the Princess shunned to another room. You imagine his body on top of yours in the bed that stands behind him, his mouth attached to your neck, sucking in time with the thrusts of his cock. Against your will, you imagine how he would feel, the pleasure he would grant you over and over, and you shake your head to banish the thoughts. 

It can never happen. You know what the Princess wants. Should she become the na-Baronness, she will want him as her husband in more than name alone, alliances solidified through multiple heirs, the power dynamic rebalanced. For that to occur, his affection and a willingness to sacrifice his dominance is required. And you cannot be the thing to throw that plan into a state of turmoil. 

“If I give myself to you now, will you be satisfied?” you ask. 

His brow pinches, the expression on his face nestling somewhere between irritation and confusion. “For tonight,” he says. “But what of tomorrow night, and the night after? Am I expected to have you once and never again?”

“Anything more will put my life at risk upon my return to Kaitain. If the Emperor learns of it, it will be an embarrassment, and regardless of whether or not you choose the Princess as your wife, he will have me killed for daring to be a threat to your union,” you tell him. “And if you do choose her and I return here as her handmaid—though I suspect she will be selecting a replacement soon enough—she will kill me the second she sees anything other than disgust on your face when you look at me.”

A beat passes. The na-Baron hums. He reaches up and takes a lock of your hair, rubbing the strands together and curling them around his finger. A wave of goosebumps makes its way up your arms. 

“Then I suppose you should not return to Kaitain,” he says. 

Your head jerks back. The hair falls from his grasp. “What?”

“If your life is at risk, then you will not leave Giedi Prime. The Princess can go, but not you. The Ladies, the other handmaids, I will send them back tomorrow,” he says. He leans down, his nose mere inches from yours. His breath blankets your skin. “But not you.”

“You can’t just do that,” you whisper, but you know they’re wasted words. There’s already an overarching sense of loss on your side of the room. 

His hand returns to your face and a gasp catches in your throat as his knuckle grazes down your cheek. 

“Of course, I can,” he says. “The Houses bend to Harkonnen will. I can do whatever I want; have whatever I like.” He cups your chin and runs his thumb over your mouth, pulling down on your bottom lip before releasing it. “And what I want is you. So I will have you.”

Your pulse thrums, ears ringing. “Solely for the sake of sating carnal desire. Being your wife is not nec–”

“Carnal desire is a present concern,” he says. “But I will not have another claiming you after I have done so. What’s mine is mine. You will be my wife, and in time, we will know one another in all ways.”

The uproar. News will spread like wildfire, and you are unlikely to survive its rage. The other Great Houses will do nothing, you know, as they do not have the means or might to push against the Harkonnens, but Corrino? The Emperor? 

Surely the na-Baron is aware of the intellect of Kaitain’s leaders. He must understand that the snubbing of the Princess will undoubtedly incite retaliation from the Emperor. And you’re fairly certain in which form that retaliation will come. Where the Sardaukar's strength would fail against Harkonnen forces, their assassins’ infiltration would not.

“I’ll protect you,” he says. “If they dare, I’ll protect you.” 

You could scoff. 

Protect you. Why bother?

Surely, he doesn't want you enough to go to those lengths. You aren’t import–

Suddenly, his hand is sliding around to the back of your neck, and your face is involuntarily heating, and he's muttering a faint “come here” as he quickly draws you into a kiss.

There’s a softness to it that offsets his hardness. A gentleness in the caress. But he has caught you unprepared, cut you off at your thoughts, and the shock has you planting your palms on his chest and shoving.

His lips are parted, his chest expanding and deflating with heavy inhales and exhales. He says nothing as unexpected regret sinks into you—regret that isn’t there simply because he is the na-Baron and you are a servant who shouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt him as he’s doing as he pleases, but regret rather because for that brief moment he felt…good, and you’re overwhelmed by the sense that you’ve cheated yourself. 

You want to try it again, just to see, just to test the feeling, just to understand why you crave more. So you let the tenseness in your shoulder muscles relax. Your heavy lungs release a long-held huff of air. He watches your guard collapse at your feet. 

Slowly, he reaches for you again, but he pauses just as you are ready to feel his touch as if expecting you to flinch, to run, to hide. You do none of those things, so his fingers knit into your hair and he guides your lips back to his. 

Soft still—gentle—but then it changes to passion and greediness, and like the strike of a match, every inch of you is consumed by a flushing fire. Your heart races. Your brain fuzzes. Appendages tremble until the pleasant pressure of his lips on yours settles into your bones. 

His tongue seeks entrance and you willingly open for him. When your tastes blend, his arm sneaks past yours to lock around your waist and he jerks you forward, welding your chest to his. 

The Princess slices through the haziness in your head and you feel the intrusive instinct to end what is happening, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. The capability is just out of reach, and it floats further and further away with each second of him kissing you; kissing you as if trying to prove to you how right this is. And you suppose he is succeeding because the thought of stopping makes your gut twist in protest. 

Then he groans—a sound that reverberates throughout your entire body, that makes your veins pulsate and your nerves tingle—and any lingering fear of the repercussions of betrayal dissipates to a barely detectable twinge; enough to permit the removal of your restraints. 

With newfound freedom, you grip his shoulders and attempt to bring him closer than physical bounds will allow. You let your tongue play with his. You nip at his lips. You think you’ve lost your mind, maybe slipped to an alternate universe where this makes sense, but his arm clutches you tighter, anchoring you to reality. 

Well before you’re ready, he breaks apart from you, and with great difficulty, you keep yourself from chasing after his lips like a magnet drawn to its other half. 

He grins at your obvious struggle. 

“You’ll do just fine as my wife,” he says, his hand coming around to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes back and forth along your cheekbone. Another peck lands on your lips. “You might even find yourself enjoying the position…and everything I intend to offer you.”

[boldstarks]

Here I am high as fuck, consuming two forms of smut at once