Chapter Text
The Two Kings
Chapter One
Prince Baelor Targaryen,
The Prince of Dragonstone
209 AC
Flying…was a freedom that very few men could describe in any sort of detail that could do it true justice.
There was the feeling of the air on your skin. Truthfully, at tall heights: it is not so pleasant. Especially in foul weather. It pulls and rips at you, and flying in rain? Awful.
Maybe it is because he is getting too old.
Maekar did not disagree with him: it was why he let his beard grow longer, and why they adjusted the shape of the saddle to not just provide support to grab onto, but shield them when they lowered themselves into the saddle.
Still, the fluttering in your belly, the way it makes your blood sing: the closest Baelor can describe it too is when a man faces battle. Faces death, faces loss--
And triumphs every time.
Perhaps that was why his ancestors were so arrogant.
The skies over Blackwater Bay are clear, free of rain and the weather warm. Perfect riding weather. Below him, Beleris, larger than the size of an elephant, roars and twists, when Baelor twists the reigns just once more to revel in the feeling of the air on his body, the feeling of a great beast between his legs, and revels in the feeling of his Dragon beneath him.
Then he inhales deeply when Dragonstone becomes less and less of a speck, and more and more of a castle. It was built into the side of the volcano that made up the bulk of the island, and the black dragonglass that made up a majority of it’s inner mines was pretty much everywhere--the floors, the ceilings, carved into Dragons that roared over the edges of pillars, windows, and arches. More and more comes into perspective the closer Baelor grows to the island.
“Almost home, my boy,” he tells his dragon. Beleris roars and presses forward as Baelor lets out a quiet laugh.
They circle twice around the Dragonmont, before diving down into the opening of the dark cavern the Dragons slept in.
And he sighs loudly when Beleris lands, and he sees Aerion and Mya, trying to sneak away.
“You should be grateful it is me,” he calls out. Freshly four and ten Aerion and five and ten Mya freeze.
As if they aren’t in the middle of the giant bloody training grounds within the monstrous Mountain. Mya turns on her heel, and Baelor watches the girl with a raised brow.
More like Melody, than Myranda. But far wilder, so much so it was hard to see the similarities at all anymore.
And then his nephew turns slowly on his heal to face him, bold like Maekar, foul tempered like him too, but romantic like his mother.
“I was…going riding. Mya wanted to watch-”
Baelor’s brow raises higher.
Both children were willful. Very much in love with one another. And very much in denial.
“I was,” Mya says with a nervous grin, “Just going to watch-”
“So you were not going to try and go riding with him like last week?” He drawls out.
They had: and Nyssa had made it all the way to one of the small islands speckled around the keep before she became too tired and could not carry them back. And they’d been spotted by Daeron on their departure.
Maekar had to retrieve both of them, and was furious.
Myranda too, but for different reasons.
“No,” Mya lies.
Aerion just stares at him in silence, pleading with him not to ask him directly. Mya was bolder. Aerion was more of a soldier like Maekar was. And softer, with Myranda to keep him soft. But he was also not nearly as firm as Maekar and found himself easily bent by Myranda’s pretty, bold, and sharp-whitted sister.
“Aerion,” he begins, dismounting Beleris with a grunt. “Do not let me catch you here again with her without permission.”
His nephew grimaces and nods once, but Mya moves to argue. But he grabs her wrist and drags her.
Right past Maekar who stops dead and turns to watch his son drag his wife's sister faster to avoid his ire.
“Really?” He yells at his sons back.
“We have lessons to attend, father!” Aerion yells back.
Maekar turns to him and throws his hands out in frustration, but Baelor chuckles.
“Young love,” he says as he pats Beleris’s side. His dragon rumbles and shakes himself out, before trotting into the mountain to look for his brothers and sisters. “It has been decided: we are going to Ashford.” His younger brother groans and shuffles his feet, almost like Aegon, Shaena, and Aethan do when they do not get their way.
“And Mina will be staying?” He says with a groan.
“Her mother will likely be there,” Baelor says with a heavy sigh.
The woman had taken to writing one letter a month: demanding to know if she would be having anymore children. It started a year after Valaena and Daenora. After the second: Baelor had instructed the Maester to burn them.
“Fucking cunt,” Maekar mutters with a growl. “I do not think Aegon is ready, but neither can I leave him. He will be too much to handle without Myranda, you, or I to handle him.”
“Mother, Mina, and Matarys will stay here, with Daeron,” Baelor suggests carefully. “Surely they can?”
“He is my son,” Maekar mutters. “Not their responsibility.” Baelor nods and the brothers begin to walk the long path back to the castle.
Aegon was growing restless. But he was still a good boy: kind to his younger siblings, but he never stopped moving.
In a way the other brothers struggled to match. Not even Aerion. None but Shaena, could, really.
“What is bothering you?” Maekar asks, and Baelor sighs quietly.
Keen, his brother was, though gruff, no-nonsense, and prickly.
Space from court had softened him, so did his sweet, pretty wife, and their children together. But Maekar was not a man meant to be soft. He had learned that as a boy when his brother had fallen and broken his two front teeth and got so angry he beat on the ground so he would not cry in front of anyone. Even at four he hated showing his feelings to others.
“He is growing sickly.” He admits quietly. “Frail. So is Aerys, but that, Brynden says, is because he forgets to eat. He had to set up a schedule of meals to arrive three times a day just to get him to eat.”
Maekar raised a single brow at him.
“Oh?”
Maekar had little love left for their father.
No--that was not right. He had plenty of it. He simply had no more patience left in him to beg for it from their father.
“He is young still,” Maekar says gruffly after a moment. “You have time, brother.”
“We,” Baelor insists. “How are they?”
Maekar scoffs. “Val and Nora have not stopped chasing Aethan around since morning,” he says dryly. “They are demanding retribution for the loss of their doll--”
“It was an accident,” Baelor says with a sigh.
Maekar grunts. “They are four, Baelor. They cannot be reasoned with: only managed.”
“And who is managing them now?”
“My wife,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Both sets of twins and Aethan are clinging to her today: Mina would not allow them sweet cakes for breakfast so they decided on Myra today your wife is relishing in the silence.”
Baelor laughs, shaking his head, and as the giant Iron door of the castle came into sight, Joss grins as he opens the door.
“I see the Prince and Lady Royce were caught,” he says smugly. “Like father like son-”
“Fuck off,” Maekar grumbles. “You never even took us to the beach-”
“Oh no, but did I want to be selected? The Anvil courting his lovely bride with picnics that came with no packed lunches-”
Baelor laughs, shaking his head and Joss winks at him. Maekar and Myranda had been betrothed then though.
“We told you,” Baelor hears Myranda scold. “No more Dragonback until Nyssa is older--she is not large enough to saddle two and you two need an escort!”
“Why?” Mya argues. “He is like my brothter-”
“You are not my sister,” Aerion snaps irritably.
The two teenagers stand facing Myranda who has both sets of twins at her skirts, Val and Nora on one side who squeal the moment they see him, their dark hair flying behind when they lunge away from her to join him. On her other side was Baelon and Aella. Aethan was there too, but he was dragging along a wooden sword he was swinging back and forth in the air. All three of Maekar’s youngest children shared his hair color, though they all had their mother’s eyes.
Maekar’s wife stands with her arms over her chest, face set in irritation, and her hair looked tousled--running after five children four and under did that, though. Typically: Mina and Myranda were inseparable, especially with Melody and Nestor caught up with Maris and Matthos--the six month old babes had begun to teeth.
It had taken the two of them nearly four years to conceive them, but they had.
And Melody threatened to castrate him when she found out she was having twins again.
Myranda had muttered something about Godstrees and Baelor had politely walked away from that conversation.
His faith was still…a touchy subject. But he would admit one thing: the ten foot tall tree his brother had planted for her grew faster than any tree he knew of and it felt strange to sit in it’s presence knowing all he knew.
Nora gets to him first, the taller of his girls, with all of the poise of his mother. She smiles coyly and leans up.
“They snuck out again,” she whispers to him. He chuckles and pets her soft hair.
“And got caught,” Val whisper yells, her curly hair sticking out of her plaits. She looked the most like his wife: with her heart shaped freckled face. But she had his mis-matched eyes. Nora, her eyes were amber, like Mina’s.
“What idiots,” Nora giggles to Val, who grins back.
Four, he thinks, and more clever and sharper than tacks. His mother said with so many cousins around: they sucked in knowledge like sponges. And his brother’s sharpness.
“He is not your brother,” Myranda says sharply. “He is technically, not even related to you--”
“Six years I’ve spent living as his sis-”
“You are not my sister!” Aerion yells.
“Enough!” Maekar snaps sharply. “You two--go find somewhere to fucking be. Away from each other.”
Baelor grimaces, because Nora grins and giggles at the stomping Mya does at her good brother's order. Not that either of the older children notice.
“Fuck,” his youngest child says turning to Val who gasps, and then giggles. Maekar stills and grimaces, slowly turning to look at him while he levels his younger brother with a flat, irritated look.
But both of them do part--Mya stomping one way out of the room and Aerion the other.
“I’m going to kill her,” Myranda says sharply. “Three conversations-”
“Perhaps she does not feel for him-” Maekar suggests, grimacing.
His son, her sister--not a pleasant conversation to have and Baelor did not envy him.
“Dacey agrees with me. So does everyone,” Myranda says with a loud sigh. “Seriously--teenagers,” she growls out.
“Mama,” Baelon says with his little voice. “I will not do that when I am.”
Her eyes soften at her truly gentlest child and he reaches for her while she reaches for him. He tucks his head beneath her chin and she rubs her face back and forth along his soft hair.
Aella frowns at her father. “I want to go riding,” she says, voice high and demanding.
“How does it feel to want?” He bites back, and Aethan laughs.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Aella yells, turning on him.
“We went riding yesterday--every other day Papa and uncle say-”
“Enough,” Myranda says firmly. “Do you remember what I said?”
“If we argue,” Val says with a grin.
“We go back to the Septas,” Nora finishes.
Maekar’s children are not so easily silenced. Although his girls were more like Shaena: old enough to realize sometimes pretty smiles and compliance carried you further than arguments.
“Go,” Myranda says shortly, waving the children off. “I will meet you in the Gardens.”
His daughters give him sharp, wet kisses on his cheeks, replicating their mother--and then chase after their cousins.
Myranda sighs heavily as she turns to him. Her slender face is turned down into a frown and her brows furrowed.
“Her mother sent another letter. She got to it before the Maester burned it.”
And like that--all the humor and joy from his daughters is gone.
Mina, in many was: was a bit like Maekar.
Not in behavior or attitude: his wife was rather sweet, kind, and earnest in personality behind closed doors. To court: bold, clever, and coy.
She wore it like a mask. Both sides of her. Just for different reasons.
In truth: his wife was rather sensitive, insecure, and worried. Things heckled at her, picked her apart, and dragged her mood quite like Maekar’s anger tended to do with him.
Baelor was more than willing to spend a few rows out in the training fields to work him out, and he had heard Myranda do the same to him quite often. In a much less dangerous way than taking maces to the chest. Or his fists. A rather more enjoyable way of dealing with one’s anger actually.
His wife was…not so simple though.
But she was a woman: and women were creatures all on their own.
And many days he was not so sure how to soothe the wounds and lashings her mother had carved into his wife as a girl.
It had been five years since she last saw the woman and yet her claws had dug so deeply into her that even now her hold had not broken.
He hated the woman: truly. Whatever hatred she held for her husband, for her father and mother: it never should have bled over to her children for their choice in her foolish husband.
He finds her sitting quietly in their rooms, Selys and Telys near her feet while she works silently on an embroidery circle. He watched from the doorway as her nimble fingers worked the needle through adeptly, her face neutral and calm as she did so.
His wife was beautiful. With thick, curly black hair that fell tightly coiled in ringlets around her face, pale freckled skin, amber colored eyes: she was a sight to behold.
And yet the flat, neutral look on her face was miserable.
“Will you stand there much longer, or have you come to scold me for reading it?” She asks, voice flat.
Baelor sighs, letting his weight fall against the wall.
He had done lasting damage: all those years ago when he suggested she return to Highgarden until the babes were born, though they both knew he meant longer. It had not been intentional: but the panic of learning she was with child, the knowledge of the Dragons, and the news of the Blackyres: he had panicked. Truly, regrettably, terribly panicked.
She had…shut him out.
And even now, some days she still did.
Even after she had cried for him, when he had told her why. Even after he had told her of his secrets: she still hid hers.
“You look beautiful,” he says instead, watching as she stills for a moment, eyes flickering up.
She sets the circle down on her lap and tilts her chin up.
She was a Tyrell, despite her gentleness. And with the cruelty her mother shared: tended to view every word he said front to back before she believed him.
It was not so easy for her to be with him, as it was Myranda and Maekar. Nor was it so easy to speak to him as she seemed to find Myranda.
“I wanted to see if she had changed. But I do not think her capable.” She admits to him quietly, eyes flickering out of the windows.
“Neither is my father,” he says, pushing off of the wall.
She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, resuming her embroidery.
There had been a moment: a half a day, he recalls, where she seemed more than receptive to him, to his emotional advances.
And then the maester had declared twins.
She was a good mother: firm, gentle, sweet. She bathed them herself, read them stories, and joined Myranda in the gardens every lunch, well, nearly every lunch. Mina was kind, doting, ensured Nora’s crust was cut off, and Val’s jam pressed against every edge of her breakfast toast.
She ensured Valarr had his boots repaired, his armor cleaned and maintained more than his son did. Ensured Matarys had the books he liked most and more books like it.
She ensured all of Baelor’s buttons were properly affixed, his seams straight. She had…a very hard time caring for herself though.
Baelor joins her on the couch and hums.
They were very similar too: the two of them. Stuck in their minds so often sometimes it was hard to come out. Baelor buried where she wallowed, though.
“My dear,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. “It lies in her: not you.”
She snorts. “You sound so sure,” she says bitterly.
“I am,” he tells her. “You are kind, sweet, gentle, you dote and you care, you-”
“I do not want to speak of her.”
“I speak of you,” he says.
She sighs, harsh and loud. “She demands to know why I do not have a son. She wants to know-” Her voice halts, and she shudders out a breath. “Baelor,” she whispers. “I do not want to see her again. I do not want to go-”
“You will not be going to Ashford,” he says firmly.
“If the King demand-”
“Fuck the King,” he says shortly and she jerks to look at him. “Fuck the King, Mina. You are my wife. If you do not want to do something, you do not.”
Her mouth trembles and she looks away.
“She asked…”
“If it was because I am Dornish?” He asks dryly. “I know what her letters say-” Mina flinches and he sighs. “Mina-”
“She is vile,” Mina spits. “Cruel, evil-”
“And you are not,” he says, bringing his hand around her. She sinks into him with a shuddering breath.
“It is one thing to insult me,” she whispers. “But you and the boys--your family, the Queen-”
“She is a Grimm,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss against her curled hair. “They hate the Dornish nearly as much as-”
“You are my husband,” she says, voice high. “Father of my children: what does she say about them? The girls she has never come to see?”
“Mina-”
“You all have Dragons and she writes your wife letters like that? I-” He sighs, pressing a kiss against her hair. She lets out a low noise in the back of her throat, frustrated, irritated and sits back to look at him. “I responded.” Mina says, and Baelor stills.
“What?” Mina shoves his hands off of her and stands, turning to face him with her chin set. Her body faces the wall, but she looks down at him seriously.
“I told her that the words she spoke are very thinly veiled attempts at treason and if she ever wanted to be allowed to Court: she should learn to be a Good grandmother, like the Queen, and that she needs to learn her place.”
Baelor stares at her, at the furrow of her brow, the set of her mouth and the fierceness in her eyes. Mina breathes faster, but steady, anger clear on her face.
This may be the most beautiful he has ever seen her. “I will be the Queen one day, your Queen and if she thinks she can insult my husband, my step-children, my children, she is wrong.”
“Mina,” he says carefully. She shakes her head.
“You may believe it is wiser to air on the side of caution: but it has been three years. I am done.”
He inhales deeply and reaches for her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss against her knuckles. Her hand trembles and he reaches out to her with his other hand and pulls her to face him.
“And what kind of King will I be,” he says with a small smile. “If I did not listen to the council of my future Queen?”
Her shoulders slacken and she lets out a quiet sigh. His hands fall from hers and move to her hips, her hands coming to his shoulders as she allows herself the comfort.“I missed you,” she murmurs into the air.
“I was gone for two days.” He says with a small laugh.
“I will miss you more while you are gone.” He squints at her.
“And how do you know I am going?”
“You look guilty,” she says quietly, a small smile ticking on her pouty mouth. “And you said I would not go.”
“I have been caught,” he teases.
“You have.” She says, eyes soft on his face. She is so pretty: has always been. He rubs her hips gently, his hands straying farther and farther with every stroke and her dark brows narrow. “Would you like to go to our rooms?” She drawls out. “You are risking quite a bit here husband.” He laughs quietly.
She was not wrong: Val and Nora came and went as they pleased. For better and for worse. The younger ones tended ton follow them too in search of his wife.
“Aye,” he says quietly. “I would, but only if my future Queen consents.”
She smiles, eyes warming. “She does, my future King.”
And Mina steps back, eyes half-lidded as she he guides her with his hands as he stands above her and leads her through their rooms, past the hall, and into their dark chambers.
It almost makes him frown--how much darkness she keeps the room in when he is gone. When he returns, the already dark room is always pressed closed, curtains drawn, lamps off, and candles left unlit.
Safe and protected, she would say.
Hidden, he would.
His mouth meets hers, and her soft lips are plush and supple against his.
Baelor enjoyed taking his sweet, gentle, pliant wife.
Her breath shudders in his mouth and her fingers climb his arms, across his chest and begin to work on his buttons as their lips part and meet, her warm tongue coming to meet his.
She sighs, as she always does when he meets her and she arches herself into him as she whines as he strokes her tongue with his.
His hands find the laces of her dress along the sides, gently tugging as the soft fabric brushes and falls against his fingers, against his hands, and loosen the bodice of her dress.
When his doublet splits open she hums, reaching low to tug at the fabric of his tunic and rather than stripping him, her smooth fingers glide through the dark hair on his stomach, tracing the scars, the lines, and the skin there.
She breaks away first, breath fanning against his chest and he straightens, blinking away the distracting fog of want she has breathed into him.
“Baelor,” she murmurs, fingers skating across his skin, before she sets her nails flat and drags them back down, hooking her fingers on the edge of the tunic and lifting them up.
Baelor is caught between the sleeves of his doublet and the fabric of his tunic and he chuckles.
“Impatient, are we?” He asks as he sorts himself out. She lets off a little noise in the back of her throat, but does not respond.
Instead, Mina pulls at her bodice, tugging at the sides so the laces he loosened fall away from her corset.
His wife was petite, little, small chested, and slender bodied.
But her teats were bell-shaped, and decorated her chest nicely, the bottom swell heavy and soft. They fit into the palm of his hands and she quite enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her.
“Please,” she begs quietly.
“For you, my sweet girl?” He murmurs leaning low to catch her mouth. “Anything.”
His hands tug more firmly at the laces behind her, until her corset loosens and she moans in relief, nails scraping up his belly, over his chest and up and behind his neck.
“So pretty,” he tells her, mouth ghosting against hers before he tugs the corset up and off of her, and her little teats fall, pink nipples hard. His fingers ghost over them as her hands return to the back of his neck and she whines.
“Please,” she begs again, and his hands ghost over her back.
“Please, what Mina?” He murmurs against the skin of her cheek now. She whines and presses her teats into his ribs and he chuckles, eyes spanning over her shoulders down her smooth back and he works the laces there too.
Her nails drag down his back and he groans, flesh erupting into bumps. She pauses, panting into his skin before she does it again.
This time, he stops himself before she steals the noise from him.
“The bed,” he murmurs into her cheek as her skirts and small clothes fall next. “Get in the bed Mina.”
The bed with curtains drawn closed already.
She turns and follows his instructions, panting as she slips between the slip of curtains and Baelor frowns at them.
Hiding, he thinks again. Why does she always hide?
Her desire is real: he feels it.
Baelor could spend hours analyzing it: how his sweet, eager wife had closed her walls to him. And how he had let her, unable to meet whatever needs she had. And yet she took him eagerly still. Shared in his kisses, slept in their shared bed at night even when he was gone, and loved his boys like she loved his girls. She was good to him, sweet to him, and yet there were parts of her he could not touch. And he was unsure of how to do so without breaking her trust.
He was…not sure how to configure the confusion he felt down to his very bones.
He pushes the curtain open and finds her on her knees waiting for him, palms on her thighs as she pants, body flushed.
“I want to see my sweet girl,” he says slowly.
She nods, eyes flickering away for a moment, but she crawls up the bed and lowers herself onto her elbows and looks over to him, face flushed, eyes half-lidded, and panting faster.
“Please,” she begs. “I need you.”
He shoves the curtain open wider and climbs the bed behind her.
Her bottom jiggles when he takes her. A feat he could watch for hours, had watched for hours. She was freckled even here, and her cunt was covered in silky black curls too.
His fingers find the lips between her legs and he is relieved to find her sopping wet.
Keening, Mina pushes herself back into his hand, but hides her face in the bed, panting, gasping, and pleading.
“Please!” She begs again, voice strained.
He presses his purpled cock against her pink lips and watches as she yields as she spreads, lips grasping and climbing his cock as he sinks further and further in. Wet: she is so wet, so soft, and so, so warm. He is no small man: but she takes him like she always does. Pretty little cunt spread wide for him.
“Oh, you feel so good, sweet girl,” he moans. She whines, rocking back and forth against him.
He grips her hips to steady them and she hisses.
“Baelor,” she pants, lifting her head off the bed as her hands grip the mattress for purchase. “Please, I need more-”
“We will get there sweet girl,” he moans, rolling his hips slow and steady.
She moans into the bed and spreads her legs wider, back arching and Baelor almost smirks at her halted ruts back onto him. And then he watches with dark eyes as her arms stretch out and grip the mattress, head turning onto her outstretched arms.
“How does that feel, my girl?”
“So good,” she pants, clenching at him. “I want more.”
“And how do we ask for more?” He says, one of his hands sliding from her side to rub up her back.
“Please,” she whispers, toes curling and a low moan settling in her chest. “I need it so bad,” she pants, nails digging and then her fingers stretching to lay flat. “Need you so bad.”
He rolls his hips with more force and the slide of his cock into her is slick, wet-sounding, and the moan in her chest shifts deeper into a groan.
“Such a good girl,” he rumbles out as he settles into a pace that leaves her quieter, less keening and full of pleading desperation.
It is steady, unwavering, and he watches in fascination as her body reacts.
The way her hands shake, grip and release to grip the bed again. The way her toes curl and release, shins dragging across the mattress, and the way her ribs begin to fill with more and more air.
“Do you like that sweet girl?”
She cannot answer: only groans and grunts, panting wetly into her arm.
Mindless: he likes her mindless, body soft, pliant and twitching under him.
Her cunt sucks and pulls at him, clawing its way to keep him in her and she is so good, taking him so good.
There were nights he would drag her out like this for hours, until she was a whimpering, shuddering mess, face covered in tears as she babbled nonsense.
But it was the middle of the day, they had two young girls to look after, and duties to attend.
“Beg for more,” he tells her, “And I will give it to you.”
She sits up, turning to look over her shoulder and he enjoys the fire in her eyes.
She was like this in bed: yielded when he asked her too, so easily. Mina had learned quite quickly how he liked to take her and was more than enthusiastic about returning his needs with her obedience.
“Please my love,” she breathes out. “I need you so badly.”
He chuckles, his hands finding her bottom and massaging the soft flesh and her brows furrowed, a soft whining noise dragging from her mouth. “And how do you want it?”
Her eyes fall again, half-lidded with desire, the amber barely visible around her blown pupils. “On my back,” she whispers.
He withdraws with great reluctance, but sits back on his haunches. “All you need do is ask, my sweet girl,” he says and she scrambles onto her back. Her stomach is soft, skin scarred around the bottom of her belly with little pale lines of stretched skin. But she is beautiful: she always has been.
She presents herself to him with her knees and legs in the air, panting and he lets his eyes flicker to her red-fleshed cunt, wet, dripping and pulsing as she ached for him even when he was gone.
He shifts closer and she reaches for him, to pull him close.
“I want to kiss you,” she breathes, and he chuckles.
“Your wish, my sweet girl,” he murmurs as he lowers himself, his cock catching on her entrance and gently does he press into her, and then before he kisses her, “Is my command.”
She meets his mouth with force, kissing him with barely contained desire, nails scraping across his jaw, past his neck and down his back. He presses down on top of her slotting his mouth to meet hers without gaps, without any room between them.
Air pushes into his mouth as he sinks into her, the exhale from her mouth sharp and loud as he does so. And then her slender legs climb behind him, dragging him down onto her.
“You may cum when you wish, my sweet girl,” he tells her and she moans louder into him, legs unravelling, spreading, and planting themselves on the bed so she is spread wide open for him. So his ruts pressed directly into her clit.
“Fast,” she pleads quietly. “I need it fast.”
And what kind of man would he be, to deny a creature as beautiful as his wife?
His hands settle in her hair and he braces himself on his forearms before he sets a pace that leaves her spinning.
“Like that,” she cries out into his mouth, her hands flying to his jaw to hold him close. Or press him away, he is not so sure for she avoids his mouth when he leans to kiss her. He is not so sure if it is intentional the way her hands spasm and mouth shakes though. “Hah-hah-just like that Baelor!”
Her head twists back and forth and she moans out, back arching and voice turning high. And then the sounds begin to stutter and halt, but they do not stop. Instead they meet him with every rut forward and halt with every drag back.
Her cunt flutters around him and he chases the feeling, moving faster in her.
“That’s it sweet girl,” he breathes. “Let go, let me feel it-”
“M’close,” she mumbles, shifting and twisting under him as she begins to shake and twist from her head to her toes. Her head digs back with a groan she shakes away.
“What do you need?” He breathes into her ear.
“H-harder,” she begs, voice unsteady, unsure-
But his hips snap harder and she gasps, her body snapping like she has been struck by lightning.
It is…difficult to not fall into her sweet, silk-like, sucking cunt.
And Baelor is just a man.
“That’s it,” he growls in her ear. “You take me so good, so sweet, so tight my sweet girl.”
“Baelor,” she cries out, nails digging into his chin before they fly to his shoulders. “I’m so close-”
His hips snap harder and he feels a peak begin to draw very, very near.
“Let me feel it,” he demands, voice hard and drenched in fire.
Her hips shift and lift, and when his hips snap into hers she keens so loud his ears ring.
He does it again.
And again.
Again-
“There!” She cries out, “T-here-”
Her cunt convulses over his cock and he growls, hips dissolving into harsher ruts, until he sinks deep, stays there--and cums while he sweet cunt pulses, twitches, and milks him of his seed. He holds his breathe through the first and second rounds--but can no longer by the third.
“Fuck,” he moans out while the pulses slow around him, gasping, sucking in air like it is unfamiliar to her.
“Baelor,” she mewls out. “So good,” she praises, her shaking hands coming to his face. “Felt so good-”
He growls, turning his face over hers and chasing her mouth.
She meets his kiss with her plush, soft, pliant mouth. Her fingers find the back of his neck, soothing and soft.
He pulls back and the sound of their saliva is audible as his lips part from hers.
“When?” She murmurs.
“A week,” he says roughly. “Maekar, Myranda and I leave in a week.”
Her eyes open and her brow furrows. “Myra is going too?”
He nods, inhaling deeply. “I told father you would not: he said one of our wives had too and we had already discussed-”
“Who had already discussed?” She asks, voice tightening from the soft, pliant, and looseness of her peak, of their beddings. He clears his throat and retracts himself slightly back, feeling her ire grow just beneath him.
“I asked her, before I left-“ Her jaw sets and her face goes neutral. Shit. “I did not want to worry you and asked her not to say anything about it until we knew.”
“Ah.” She says, shoving him off of her. She slides right out of the gap of the curtains on their bed and begins gathering her clothes to dress.
“Mina—“
“Baelor.” She says flatly.
“You did not want to go-“
“I do not.” She agrees, slipping on her shift, then her chemise. Next her corset: methodical, quickly—
“Then why are you upset?” She is silent as she dressed. But she does so with precision, ease, and grace.
Her mask has returned.
“Mina-“
“She is my friend.” She bites back, turning to face him with fire. “Truly. Melody is loyal to me because she loves Myra. But Myra is my friend.”
He frowns at her, brows furrowing as he watches her face. “She is your sister-“
“She is not.” Mina says flatly. “She is more. She is the woman I have raised our girls with. We have chosen to be close. The one I spend my days with: the one I trust the most and you have asked her to lie to me.”
She is the one I trust the most.
Baelor stares at her, already nearly dressed, fixing her hair, hiding herself.
“Mina-“
“You wonder why? You wonder why I hide? Because you do this!” She turns, tears in her eyes. “When you tried to send me away to protect me. When you kept all of this a secret to protect me. When you lie to protect me. I don’t want to be protected—“
“It is my duty to protect you.”
“And when I am Queen? Will you lock me in a tower so no one might see me? No one might hurt me? Do you know how lonely it is? To have you right there and yet to know you think me so childlike you cannot tell me simple things, that you ask Myra to lie to me—“
“Yes,” he says, voice cutting out. “I do.”
She turns and faces him, mouth set and tears running down her face. “How can I trust you the way I trust her? She tells me things I do not even want to hear because she knows the truth hurts far less than whatever you do.”
“And what do I do Mina?” He demands back.
“I am not a child!” She yells. “Yes I do not want to see her, but—“
“And I have spared you from it—“
“Aye,” she says bitterly. “And lied to me about it. Made her lie to me. The two people I am meant to trust most I and cannot because you forget the power you yield as the future King. If you tell her to do something: she has no choice but to listen. To obey.”
His mouth slaps shut and she shudders in a breath, shaking her head.
“I want you to treat me like your wife.”
“Mina,” he starts, “I do—“
“You would not treat her like this.” His face falls and his chest feels like it has been struck. “I know I am not her,” she choked out, “But—“
He just stares at her, but does not see her. And then she flees so he will not see anymore of her tears.
And he does not follow her.