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“That was….” Dyanna trailed as another shudder wrecked through her, her voice gone hoarse with moaning.
Maekar watched her with half lidded eyes from between her legs, his face glistening with slick and sweat in the sunlight, his smile smug and content.
The sight would have been enough to undo her a third time, if she had the strength for it. They had used their mouths to please each other once or twice before, but it had never been so…fulfilling for her. They had been shy with giving and receiving, and inexperienced besides. What her husband lacked in experience he more than made up for in enthusiasm, and she had been satisfied with that–better a husband who knew too little than one who knew too much in matters of the bed, her mother had always said, and she agreed. The keep was full of lecherous men and their silk street whores, and she was glad her husband wasn’t one of them.
She grasped at his hair weakly, and he hauled himself up to kiss her. She could taste herself on his tongue, bitter and salty, and wrenched his head by the hair. A line of spit connected their lips, shining and obscene.
“And where did you learn such precision, My Prince? Hopefully not in another’s bed?” she asked, aiming for playfulness and landing on the vulnerable.
She wanted to revel in the hazy bliss of her peak, but she wanted the truth more. They had been apart for the better part of a year and a half, and her pregnancy had prevented any coupling in the few moments they could snatch away. And all he had wanted to do was hold her anyway, Daeron and Aerion clutched in between, as if it was them going to war and not him.
She knew what war did, that men needed to blow off steam, that there were camp whores aplenty and highborn ladies gushing for handsome princes on the way to battles. And women liked him so, her virile husband who was fierce and awkward in equal measures, tall and lean and muscular, and now rugged and scarred too–though he never believed her when she told him (as she had done many times, her desire to ease her husband’s insecurities winning over her envy).
“You’re the only one for me, as I have told you many times.” he sneered, though the effect was ruined by the fetching blush spreading across his face and neck. It had fascinated her, in the beginning of their secret courtship, how red he could get. She had heard the other ladies speculate crudely about how far it reached, and remembered smiling smugly to herself because only she had known.
She straddled him then, so that her pert ass rested firmly on the thick bulge in his dust stained breeches–he had come straight from the yard, so eager to please her was he–and he hissed as she grabbed more of his white gold locks and tugged.
“You are yet to answer my question fully.”
Her tone was playful as she divested him of his sweat drenched tunic and mapped his body, taking the time to take in all that had changed, pausing every time her fingers found a new scar, a bruise, a freckle that had developed in her absence. She marked each scar with her mouth, tongue lapping at the salt of his sweat, teething over them to stake her claim. Dyanna squeezed his chest, delighted at the way the muscles flexed beneath her hands, raking her hands through the trail of downy white hair that disappeared beneath his breeches.
He mumbled something, red as a tomato now. Moaned and repeated louder as she took a pink nipple between her teeth and bit, embarrassment colouring his words, and she stilled her ministrations out of shock.
"I asked Maester Melanquil how to please a woman without–without disturbing the stitches, and he sent me some books and scrolls.” At her shocked silence, a distraught look entered his face. “He will not tell anyone, if that is what you are afraid of, Dy. I'll geld him myself if he does.”
And then, because he was a Targaryen prince and considered arrogance his birthright, he sat up so that she was properly straddling him, and added smugly, “You liked it enough, besides.”
Something in her husband's shy confession stoked the flames of arousal inside of her. “Off!” She almost ripped the lacing of his breeches in her eagerness, and his eyes widened comically, as if her desperation for him was a surprise. Best amend that quickly, and she palmed at the bulge while lavishing his scarred cheek, lightly stubbled jaw, and the column of his swan-like throat with open mouth kisses, running her hands across his strong arms, his muscular back, his flat stomach–anything she could get at.
“Stop a moment, let me unlace them at least, you insatiable beast!”
Between the two of them, they made quick work of his breeches and small clothes, all the while giggling. She felt seven-and-ten again, sneaking out to meet Maekar in the dead of the night. She had never been so desperate to have him inside of her, but alas! Aemon's birth had left her with so much tearing that Melaquin had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not to be penetrated until half a year had passed, ideally a whole year, if the Maester had his way.
In her eagerness she would have dismissed the concern, but Maekar held to it steadily, and refused her at every turn. She knew he blamed himself for not being at the birth, and she had tried to alleviate his guilt by reminding him that he had been at war.
Daemon Blackfyre would not lay down arms because a prince’s wife was swollen with child and wished her husband near so she could curse at him as she birthed his son.
She could use her mouth on him, as Maekar had done for her, but she didn't want to stop with her kisses. Hands it was then, as they had done when the betrothal had been finalized and they had taken to sneaking into each other’s chambers for quick embraces and quicker releases. Those final four months had been agony, and she had burned with resentment every time Lady Jena had greeted her with that satisfied cat-that-got-the-cream smirk, for she was wed and had a handsome husband to warm her bed, and Dyanna did not.
She took a moment to admire her husband’s cock, and was struck again by how pretty it was. She had been quite naughty as a young girl, had spied on the knights and squires that passed by, back in Starfall, and had giggled at the “anatomical” book her friend had “borrowed” from an older brother. The illustrations had revealed members much like stoats–fat, pink, turgid and utterly despicable to her younger self–but her husband’s was long and thick and red, and curved deliciously, his stones tight with nearing release.
“Mayhaps the lady would like to paint a picture?” he had quipped at her first inspection when they had felt bold enough to be half naked in each other's presence, but had quickly grown embarrassed when she had dreamily sighed that she wished to.
It had never come to pass, for once they had their wits about themselves Maekar had made her promise not to write about, draw or even describe it. What a fusspot her prince is!
She kissed him, one hand fondling his stones and the other smearing the clear spend it had been drooling over his cock. Once it was properly bedewed she began her ministrations–running her hand along the shaft, teasing the slit with a fingernail, letting her fingers linger on the vein that ran at his underside. In her hands her fierce husband turned pliant, letting her do as she pleased as he watched her with an open mouth, all of him radiant and red.
“Tis a pity, husband,” she giggled,”that your big-headed son tore me during birth, or I would be well on my way with a fourth after today.”
“You cannot say such things,” he groaned thickly, mouthing at the pulse at her throat, rutting into her hand.
One hand was kneading her breast, and he reached to take a brown nipple in his mouth, and a despondency arose in her for she had no milk to offer him this time–her husband had been fascinated with the white rivulets that ran from her breasts after Daeron and Aerion, had come from simply suckling her teats. She had, in a fit of wanton madness, considered forgoing the tea the Queen had pressed upon her to make her milk dry, for princes only fed from nursemaids, and prince consorts were not to be milked like common cows.
She mewled when he bit the nub and whined when he reached for her pearl, caressing it in a way that made her unspool with pleasure.
She panted her release into his ear, tugging hard at his cock, and bit down on his shoulder with her sharp teeth. He came with a groan, painting her hand and breasts with his seed, and fell on her bonelessly, one hand rubbing his spend in her skin. Their loud breathing was the only sound in the room bathed in the quiet gold of the noon sun. Soon, they would have to rise and call for a bath, for the Queen and King wished to dine with their family in their private solar. They had an hour and a half at least, though they might yet sup from each other again.
After, when they had calmed some and he had cleaned them up with a wet rag, he laid his head on her stomach as she lazily combed her fingers through his hair.
“Do you really think–ah, right there, please, Dy–Do you think Aemon’s head is overlarge?”
Trust her husband to take what had been said in passion to heart.
“We had to extend the necks on Valarr’s gowns for Daeron, remember?” He hummed in agreement, tracing nonsensical squiggles on her thigh. “And Aemon tore me because he decided to come feet first after 13 hours of labour, the little beast. The maesters had me stitched and trussed like a game hen after.”
His hand stilled, and even before he spoke, she knew he was going to blame himself. He had a penchant for self-flagellation that had been adorable during their courtship and was quickly becoming frustrating. He must have read her annoyance on her face and smoothly course-corrected.
“Then I shall punish him for hurting my wife so.”
She giggled again, glad he had surprised her. “I do not think he would mind if ‘tis you doing the punishing. The boy clearly adores you.”
"Even if it was I who bled for him," she groused privately to herself.
There was a chuffed smile on her husband's face now, and she swatted gently at him. He shifted his head so he was looking directly at her now.
“I should have been there for you, not read it in a letter that was sparse in detail.”
There was a hint of reproach in his tone, but it had been the right thing to do at the time–there was enough trouble about, and she had feared that a confession of the danger she had been in would have him running back to her.
The war had been officially won at Redgrass field, but there were enough houses in the Reach and the Marches that continued their futile rebellion, and for neigh on a second year her husband had been running ragged either parlying with them or delivering the King's justice to them. She could see his exhaustion in the dark shadows under his eyes, and wished to give him some succor.
He was taller now too, his face more chiselled, his eyes a touch wilder. She had expected him to fall upon her like a feral beast after his return from Redgrass, had even welcomed the idea, but that first week had been spent resting, recovering from the many bruises he sported (each she had catalogued in kisses, willing them away with a press of her mouth), reporting to the King, in council meetings that droned on and on.
And he was troubled, she had come to realise. He would come to her bed exhausted and yet, night after night she had heard him come awake with a start, a strangled cry on his lips. Daemon’s children slayed in battle weighed heavily on his mind, she had known that when he had collapsed in her arms, sobbing like she had never heard him cry before.
Perhaps she should have pushed back when the King had named their boy Aemon, for her husband’s sake, but she had not known then what tragedy came attached to the name.
Jena had mirrored her troubled gaze across the breakfast table often enough, and she was glad that in this she–they–were not alone. Baelor had looked much the same as her husband, though he was even more ragged, now that he had been made Hand to the King. She and her good-sister had spoken some about it, but both had been at a loss as to what to do. She could see the tension he held in the furrow between his brows, fast becoming a permanent fixture, and the tension held in his shoulders.
“What ails you, My Prince?” she asked after the maids had set up the hot bath, and gently guided him towards it.
It was almost boiling, but the blood of the dragon was not deterred by a little heat, as her prince was fond of reminding her. Aerion, who was ever emulating his father, had begun taking boiling hot baths as well, a development she disapproved of. Maekar sighed as he eased into the bath, his brow relaxing. She picked up the bottle of spiced oil she'd had brought from Dorne, and began massaging his shoulders, willing the tension away. He groaned and moaned as she did; she loved all of his noises, even those that bordered on the overdramatic.
“Do you remember Summerhall?” He asked suddenly.
Enough time had gone between her question and his response that she was taken by surprise when he finally spoke.
“How could I forget Summerhall of all places, Maekar?” she admonished cheekily.
His parents had given them leave to “supervise” the building of Summerhall a week after their wedding, and they had anointed the place thoroughly. No wonder they had Daeron nine months into the marriage.
Still, why bring up the palace now?
“I cannot forget it, either,” was his reply, gaze gone half lidded again.
She splashed him with the now merely-hot water. They could not afford to get distracted again; the Queen's luncheon was in an hour and she was yet to bathe. The water was finally at a temperature that wouldn’t slough her skin off; she divested herself of clothes and entered the bath. Maekar took a washcloth and began scrubbing her back gently.
“What of Summerhall?” she prompted him.
“I have it on good authority that Father means to grant it to me.” “What?” She turned around, a wide grin plastered on her face, and hugged him fiercely.
“‘Tis good news!”
So the luncheon was meant to announce this honour to the family? She took his face in between her hands and was about to kiss him when she noticed the furrow in his brow.
“Are you–no, you are not pleased. Why?”
She could not think of a reason why he looked so…dispirited at the news. It was a great honour, especially for a fourth prince. It meant that they would have something to leave to Daeron. They would have hardly wanted for anything under the King, but having your own keep brought with it a different kind of freedom. Too often she had thought that Maekar chafed at not having anything to do in the Red Keep–Baelor had Dragonstone and was Master of Law, Aerys had his books and the king’s ear, and Rhaegel had his mental peculiarities and the Queen’s affection. Her husband had his martial training, but no office that would give him a purpose. He thrived in war, had become refined by it, but war had brought with it its own horrors. And she was purposeless as well–for now she had her children, three shadows that clung to her skirts and fiercely demanded her affection. But children grow, and then what? A palace of their own, away from the political viper pit of the Red Keep would do them all good.
And she was troubled by the hold Baelor had on her husband–she sympathised with the burdens her good-brother shouldered, but too often he relied on Maekar, which would not have been troublesome if her husband was at least lauded with the praise and goodwill he deserved. Baelor was like the Sun and her husband like the Moon–each had its own splendour, but so many were blinded by the Sun’s light that they failed to see the Moon’s glow.
“Tell me your worries, Husband. Two heads are better than one, and together we can root away the issue.”
He sighed.
“There is no issue to root away at, I fear, only the doubts that plague my mind. I–I know it is a great honour, Dy, I really do, for us and our children. And I am pleased, despite what you said. It is just–”
He sighed again, visibly trying to give voice to what ailed him.
”–just that I rather feel like I’m being sent away.”
Dyanna opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off before she could.
“No, Dy, I know its foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth. But out of all of my brothers, I am the most alike in colouring to Daemon. And I worry that Father thinks of me with designs upon my brother’s throne, as Daemon did to him. I do not, Dyanna, I swear!”
He looked positively distraught even at the thought of it.
“You need not swear, my love. It is obvious for anyone with eyes to see–you bled for Baelor’s claim because you love your brother so much. And he loves you–all he has done since you returned is boast about your Vanguard defence, about how magnificent you were out in the field. Your brother knows how loyal you are, your father as well.”
She took his face in her hands again and kissed him until his face lost that distraught expression.
“You would never think of something so abominable by yourself; someone has been filling your ears with filth. Who is it?”
He looked away in guilt at that.
“I heard. Well, I didn’t mean to spy–the cunts were quite loud.”
She raised a brow prompting him to continue, and he did.
“Lord Butterwall with some Tarth bastard. They said that I was envious of Baelor, that it was a good thing the King meant to send me away to Summerhall, far from the rest of the family. And they are half right–why not give me the Blackfyre Keep, if he meant to honour me? Summerhall is a two-week ride from here, and in the blasted Marches.”
That was–that was rather a good point. She had seen the Keep only once–it looked small and diminutive, but a bit of coin would fix that. And it was only a day’s ride from the Red Keep. But then an idea came to her.
“Surely the King means to put you in Summerhall as a check against the Marcher lords? So many minor Marcher houses sided with the Blackfyre bastard, I am sure the King believes that the ‘Anvil’s’ presence will be able to rein them in.”
Maekar good-naturedly rolled his eyes at what he termed a ‘silly nickname’, but he looked pleased, a weight taken of his shoulders.
“I feel a fool, Dy. You were right, two heads are better than one.”
Saying so, he kissed her. She let him, but after a while broke it off to take his hand in hers to lead them out of the tub. The water had gone cold while they talked, and their fingers had pruned. She coarsely dried them both with the soft towels laid onto the side, and led him towards their bedchamber. Once they were near the bed, she pushed him until he was sitting on the edge. He looked bemused but let her manipulate him into a position of her liking, but his eyes darkened when she dropped to her knees in front of him.
“What does my lady wife intend to do with me?” he asked, his voice a silken whisper that had her nipples tightening. His cock at was half-mast again. She arched a brow at him, and smiled self-satisfyingly.
“Why, I just mean to congratulate you, My Prince of Summerhall!”