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murdockparker · 6 days

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Roses and Regrets Part 2

Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: What a pleasant life it is, to be a widow with no obligations. Getting new dresses, making unlikely friends, what a treat.

Word Count: 3.9k

Rating: 18+!!! MINORS DNI (I will haunt you)

Warnings: female masturbation, yearning, Reader decidedly hates Anthony (what's new??) , maybe a bit of angst

A/N: oops my hands slipped and this is what happened. sorry bout that, bruv!

first part - next part

—

“You should have seen him, Meg.”

Her lady’s maid nodded along to Lady Barlow’s rant, having heard the interaction in nauseam since she returned from the park. From his appearance to his demeanor—Meg assumed she might as well have been there. Carefully, she continued to remove the pins from the dowager viscountess’ hair, the very same that she had placed in the morning.

“I am sure Lord Bridgerton was certainly unagreeable,” Meg droned, accidentally snagging her lady’s hair. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“You know, you don’t have to do all that, I am a perfectly capable woman,” (Y/N) laughed, looking at her maid in the mirror. “And he was, unagreeable, if you must know.”

“He is alway unagreeable,” Meg said, exasperated. “My lady, please take no offense, but I think this talk of Lord Bridgerton must cease.”

“You do not have to ask me twice,” (Y/N) snorted. “I wish for nothing more than to stop speaking about that oaf.”

Meg blinked. “Right. Of course.”

“You… you do not believe me?”

“I believe you believe it to be true,” Meg carefully stated, hands by her sides. “We have a good friendship, ma’am, and I am ever grateful that you allow me to speak my mind—”

“So speak it,” (Y/N) said, voice tittering on a giggle. “I shall not take offense, I swear it.”

“You have done nothing but speak of Lord Bridgerton since you arrived from your visit to the park,” Meg began, choosing her words carefully. “Save for when you had your meals, hard to speak over soup and the like. I, for one, am exhausted hearing about it. Perhaps a respite from the topic?”

“Imagine how I feel,” (Y/N) finally laughed. “That man makes me insane.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I pray whenever he marries—oh that poor woman—I hope she can teach him some manners.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Perhaps I should send him a book on it? Manners, I mean.”

“Good idea, ma’am.”

“Meg, you are not hearing me.”

“Oh I am hearing you,” Meg nodded. “I am just choosing not to listen.”

She bit her lip, eyeing her friend’s faraway glance. Glassy, almost. “Perhaps… I suppose I should drop the topic for now?”

“It is late,” Meg shook her head, nearly dropping out of a trance. “I have mending to attend to, if you do not mind.”

“You hate the mending.”

“Picking and choosing my battles, ma’am,” Meg smiled politely.

“Admirable,” (Y/N) said. “I suppose it is late…”

“Might I fetch you some more tea before you retire?” She set the last pin down amongst the vanity. Covered in expensive oils and products, it’s a wonder that anyone could find anything at all on the surface. Thank God Meg knew the contents like the back of her hand.

“No… I fear it will keep me up all night, but thank you, truly,” (Y/N) said.

“Goodnight, my lady.”

And then, she was alone.

Snuffing her candle, she hopped into her bed. Thankfully she never shared this one with Lord Barlow—that was reserved in the wing across the estate—leaving this bed untouched by such a soiled man. It was pleasantly plush and covered in endless pillows, she wondered if the royal princesses slept in beds as nice as this one—nicer, probably. More pillows, if she had to wager.

Sheets pulled up to her chin, eyes focused on the ceiling, she tried to chase sleep. Her mother had taught her a trick when she was young, imagining rabbits chasing around the room and counting those—perhaps it was sheep? Regardless, she tried counting. She only made it to twenty nine before flipping onto her side, exasperated by the count.

Sleep never came.

The covers melted off of her body in an instant, floating over to her door to ensure it was locked. Quietly, oh-so quietly, she turned the latch. No need for the staff to interrupt her… sleep. She hardly had to turn to such matters, but when exhaustion cycled her brain and not her body, leaving her tossing and turning all night, she really had no other choice.

No other choice, she reminded herself.

She laid on top of the covers this time, rabbits and sheep all but forgotten.

If there was to be one positive of marrying, it was the sheer fact that she was able to fully understand her body as a woman. While the marital act itself was entirely loathsome—a chore with Lord Barlow that happened infrequently during their marriage to try for an heir—the act of doing it alone?

Why the idea alone just got her heart pounding.

She never had anyone to teach her these things, her mother passed before her marriage, so there was no ‘wedding night talk’. Everything that Lady Barlow had learned was from her sheer will and determination—a chase for something she never quite knew she was racing towards. Her husband? He had never been any help. A few grunts and thrusts before he would spend himself inside, collapsing on top of her for the night.

She refused to give her late husband much thought—not when her hands were on her breasts, one slinking lower to touch a more delicate area.

No. She needed to focus her thinking on something else. Something to get the job done, send her to sleep sooner than later.

The gentleman. The faceless one that she imagined in place of her own hands. It usually sped things along if she focused on a generally well-looking fellow and how he’d touch her instead of just chasing her own feelings with her fingertips. Saved her wrists a lot of pain too—occasionally she felt like she was back practicing her penmanship, writing lines all day with her governess—the ache was fairly similar. Although, one pain caused a higher embarrassment than the other.

Decidedly happy with her diversion of thought, she made quick work on the bottom of her nightdress and pulled it up to her stomach. (Y/N) had never the need to sleep with drawers, feeling a dress was more than enough. Besides, it gave her easy access on nights like tonight. Her fingers danced with her lower lips, already damp with arousal.

She sighed at the first contact, the pure ecstasy of running her fingertips across her glistening folds. In her mind, he was doing this to her, the nameless man who wanted nothing more than to give her what she needed. With slow and tantalizing circles, she teased her clit, gasps leaving her lips involuntarily, her eyes rolling shut before she could even think. Her non-dominant hand continued to grasp at her breast, squeezing and rolling the flesh until she was utterly mindless.

The climb was thrilling, it was suffocating and all encompassing. How she dreamed she could experience this with someone, feel this pleasure with another, both giving and taking exactly what the other needed. She groaned again, feeling herself getting closer to the edge, her circles faster now, the gentleman making good work on her neglected center.

“Gods,” (Y/N) cried, trying her very best to keep her voice down. She didn’t need Meg inquiring about her, not when she was so worked up and so, so close.

And then… the fall. Everything was white and her heart felt like it was bound to beat out of her chest.

Brown eyes.

As she fell into a peaceful slumber, for no reason in particular, she decided her faceless gentleman had brown eyes.

—

Breaking her fast was usually rewarding, the chefs at Barlow Estate were some of the most talented in the ton—of course, only in her humble opinion, not that she had much to compare it to. When she first married Lord Barlow, having such fulfilling meals first thing in morning was almost worth marrying such an oaf. Almost.

“Did you have a good sleep, ma’am?” A butler asked, taking (Y/N)’s empty plate, replacing it with one full of fresh cut fruit.

“Oh!” Her face flushed. “Y-yes, James, of course. I always have a pleasant sleep.”

“You look well rested, ma’am,” he nodded.

“My lady,” Meg spoke up, gaining the attention of Lady Barlow from her fruit. “You have an appointment at the modiste early this afternoon.”

“I don’t recall making an appointment,” (Y/N) held her hand still, half of an apple tight in her grasp.

“I made the appointment, ma’am,” Meg said. “You are in need of new dresses—”

“Is there something wrong with the way I dress?”

“Of course not,” Meg said quickly, her face growing slightly pink. “It is just, since the late Lord Barlow passed you have been in mourning attire—blacks, blues, the entire dreary ensemble. I figured it would be best to get dresses that suited more the colors of the season.”

“I am unsure if you noticed,” (Y/N) said, taking a small bite of her apple. She chewed it quickly. “But my dress today is green.”

“I did notice,” Meg nodded politely. “It is a lovely color, but perhaps a lighter blue would be nice? A purple?”

“Perhaps you should listen to her, ma’am,” James interjected. “The family account has not been used since after your wedding and the mourning attire—”

“And I can use that money elsewhere,” (Y/N) raised her brow. “I’m sure the new viscount will be pleased I am not blowing his money so frivolously, I do not see the need for new dresses.”

Meg sighed, giving James a trying look. He shrugged. “Humor me. Just one dress.”

“Fine. One dress."

Somehow, between the carriage ride to the modiste and the tailoring of a beautiful purple display piece, Lady (Y/N) Barlow was talked into three new dresses. A sharp pinprick to her left leg brought her back to her senses.

“Oh! Lady Barlow, I do apologize,” Madame Delacroix said. “You must keep still as I pin your hems."

“I will try my best,” (Y/N) smiled, glancing down at the woman working hard on her new dress. “How fortunate the display dress you had fits so well.”

“Oui, how fortunate,” Madame Delacroix nodded. “A few pins and stitches and it will be perfect. And this color is very flattering—I am certain the men of the ton will turn their heads at this.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I have no need to turn heads, Madame,” (Y/N) said curtly. “I am simply just refreshing my wardrobe.”

“Oh, no one has the need to turn heads, save for the young ladies,” Madame Delacroix giggled, it sounded almost fake, forced. “But my work will do that regardless, so do expect that Lady Barlow.”

“Joy,” (Y/N) sighed, tilting her head at her reflection. While it hadn’t been an extraordinarily long time since she debuted—a shake over three years at the most—she was no longer the young girl from her first season. Her curves have filled out, her features more defined, so this particular cut was suiting her just fine. Madame Delacroix was the best modiste for a reason, knowing just how to make the ladies of the ton sparkle.

The front door swung open, a sea of blue flooding in the entryway. “Ah, Lady Bridgerton, I shall be with you in a moment!” Madame Delacroix called out.

(Y/N) froze at the mere mention of the Bridgerton name.

“Take your time, Madame,” Lady Bridgerton cooed, practically shoving a book of fabrics in her daughter’s face. Eloise, (Y/N) recalls, the second eldest daughter of the brood. It was her first season. “We’ll be patient.”

“Shall I pull another dress, Lady Barlow?”

“No,” (Y/N) shook her head wildly. “I rather think I am finished for this afternoon. Please add the dresses to my account—”

“Lady Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton said kindly. “How lovely it is to see you.”

Fuck.

“Lady Bridgerton,” (Y/N) curtsied, feeling far too proper. “Likewise.”

“What a lovely color that is on you,” she said, eying the girl up and down. “I take it you are out of mourning then, yes?”

“Have been since the Danbury Ball,” (Y/N) nodded. “But I gather Lady Whistledown has already made that public knowledge.”

Lady Bridgerton's cheeks flushed, like a child with their hand caught in the biscuit jar. “I cannot say that I find myself reading that gossip rag often, but—”

“Oh Mother,” Eloise groaned, looking up at the ceiling in frustration. “You read Whistledown just as often as I.”

“I do not blame you, Lady Bridgerton,” (Y/N) quickly added. The older woman’s shoulders relaxed. “For the many months I was in mourning and not socializing, Whistledown was my way I could keep up with everything. I very much would like to thank her, should I ever get the opportunity.”

“Yes, well,” Lady Bridgerton cleared her throat. “In any case, if you happen to be free tomorrow afternoon, would you like to join me for tea?”

“Tea?”

“I remember how it felt when—” she stopped herself, eyes becoming glassy. “Becoming a widow so suddenly is difficult. I would like to bestow my wisdom upon you if you’d allow it.”

“You are not quite old enough to be bestowing wisdom,” (Y/N) laughed lightly.

“I beg to differ,” Eloise mumbled.

“Flattery, Lady Barlow, will get you everywhere,” Lady Bridgerton smiled, elbowing her daughter lightly. “And you already have the invite, no need to lay it on so thick.”

“That is very kind of you, but—”

“So, shall we say noon tomorrow?”

The Bridgertons, as Lady Barlow gathered, were a difficult lot to say no to.

“Noon. Sounds perfect.”

—

It felt odd, being in the drawing room of Bridgerton House. She only ever had the fleeting thought that she’d ever sit here the once—ages ago during her first season. Now? Now she was sitting and drinking tea with Lady Bridgerton as if nothing was wrong in the world.

“You have a lovely home,” (Y/N) said, holding her teacup a little tighter than she should.

“Thank you,” Lady Bridgerton said voice full of appreciation. “Tell me, Lady Barlow, how is your family?”

“My family?”

“Oh, forgive me for asking,” Lady Bridgerton clarified. “I just had realized that I know very little about you, you were only in the season for such a short time before you married. I figured your family was a good place to start.”

“No, no,” (Y/N) put the cup down. “I understand. Seeing as everyone knows about your family,” Lady Bridgerton chuckled at that, “I should only fill in some blank spaces, I suppose.”

The elder dowager nodded her head, tipping her cup at the younger widow to continue.

“No family, I’m afraid,” (Y/N) said, her voice wavering on sad. “Mother passed a few years before my debut, Father just last year. No siblings, so… just me I’m afraid.”

“Goodness,” Lady Bridgerton pressed a hand to her heart. “Your father and husband in the same year? I am truly sorry for your losses.”

“My mother was the true loss,” she said honestly, her voice practically lifting. “Kindest soul to grace this Earth, I mourn her every day. The others? I do not doubt anyone has missed them.”

“Lord Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton dropped a spoonful of sugar into her cup. “He was an odious man. When I had heard he had taken another wife—it was quite the story around the ton. I was beside myself.”

“I happen to be number three,” (Y/N) said matter-of-factly. “Number One and Two both died in childbirth, trying to give that man his beloved heir. Never worked out, and I cannot say I am crestfallen I never came to be with child, either. The new Lord Barlow is quite well suited for the role regardless, I am told, so I suppose it has worked out for the best.”

“Yes,” Lady Bridgerton had a small smile against her lips, “I can imagine so.”

“Does your son,” (Y/N) coughed, correcting herself, “Lord Bridgerton, does he know I am here for tea?”

“Oh my son is not always privy to my social calendar,” the older woman winked. “He is probably out galavanting and trying to find a wife.”

“A wife?”

“Oh, yes,” Lady Bridgerton nearly beamed. “Lord Bridgerton is finally looking to marry—even after all these years of begging him. Something just clicked last season, I suppose. Perhaps Daphne, the duchess, marrying finally gave him the right idea?”

(Y/N) nodded politely. “I’m sure you’re thrilled.”

“I only wish for the best for all eight of my children,” she nodded, “so seeing him look to marry makes me ever hopeful.”

“Mhm,” (Y/N) sank into more of her cup, polishing it off.

The grand clock ticked away.

“I apologize if this all makes you uncomfortable Lady Barlow,” Lady Bridgerton started. “It is just… when Edmund passed, I had my family and wonderful friends to support me. I figured, perhaps, having another friend would not be the worst thing?”

“Lady Bridgerton, you are very kind for checking in with me, and I very much appreciate this tea,” (Y/N) said honestly. She felt like she could jump out of her skin with anxiety, but tried her very best to keep it under control. “But… as you had alluded, it is no secret that Lord Barlow and I were not a love match. There is no need—”

“Being a widow is hard,” Lady Bridgerton cut her off. “It is rotten work and you feel like a shell of yourself, only having a title such as ours because of who we married and not in our own right. Tell me, do you plan on remarrying?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I am quite content with my life,” (Y/N) said thoughtfully. “Widows have all the freedom in the world, I am allowed many opportunities because of it—far more than when I was simply a little thing on the Marriage Mart.”

“I suppose that would be… correct,” Lady Bridgerton treaded lightly. “However, do you not wish for a family? The support of another?”

“It is not that I do not wish for a family,” (Y/N) said truthfully. “I am sure part of me does, but it is more the matter of everything that comes with it.”

“I could never imagine going about life alone,” Lady Bridgerton said. “After Edmund… I am just grateful my children were here to keep me sane, grounded, even.”

“Children can be a blessing…”

“But children,” Lady Bridgerton added quickly, “they are not for everyone. I hope you find happiness in whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” the young viscountess said sincerely. “You have such a wonderful life, Lady Bridgerton.”

“Violet,” she corrected. “Please, call me Violet.”

“Oh,” (Y/N)’s cheeks darkened. “Violet, then.”

“We are friends now, after all,” Violet smiled kindly, the kind of smile only a mother possessed. She waved for the tea to be replaced, a butler practically rushed to fulfill the viscountess’ request. “More tea?”

“I would love some more,” (Y/N) said, feeling lighter than air. Perhaps having a friend was a good step forward, a leap into the right direction.

The door to the drawing room slammed open.

“Mother, I just received our balance from the modiste and—”

Much like he owned the place—and in a way, he did—Lord Bridgerton took command of the less-than-quaint room and had all eye on him. His own eyes—his brown eyes—were trained solely on the widow sitting beside his mother, his mouth agape.

“Oh Anthony, you cannot just barge in here,” Violet scolded, “we have a guest.”

“I see that,” he seethed, shoving his hands behind his back in faux-decorum. “Lady Barlow.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” she nodded stiffly, not bothering to raise from her seat.

He ignored her, turning swiftly to his mother instead. “May I have a word alone with our guest, Mother?”

Feeling the tension in the room rise, Violet sighed, giving into her son’s request. “I believe I should check on the governess, anyhow,” Violet said, rising from her seated position. “Behave.”

Anthony brushed his mother’s whispered warning off, tilting his head to the staff, all leaving the room at his command. The door had barely clicked shut before he stepped forward. “Since when are you friends with my mother?”

“Since when do you care about who I spend my time with?”

“Since that company is my mother,” he said cooly. “I would have thought you were just so turned off by the Bridgerton name that you would ignore all of my family—”

“She is a nice woman,” (Y/N) rose, crossing her arms. “How you managed to turn out the way you have despite that is beyond me.”

“You are in my home,” Anthony pointed. “You insult my character and you dare try to befriend my mother?”

“Dare?” She laughed. “Am I not allowed to have friends?”

“Not with my mother,” he stepped towards her.

“Your mother,” she smiled forcefully, “Violet, has been nothing but kind to me today. She was merely looking out for me—offered me some good advice.”

“Advice?” He laughed. “On what planet could someone many years your senior offer you helpful advice?”

“You could not settle with just insulting me, so you had to insult your own mother? She is not yet elderly—”

“Yet she is older than you,” he corrected, his cheeks pink from his mistake. “Do you not have friends your own age?”

“Do you not have something better to do?”

He huffed, squeezing his wrist in restraint. “I came here to speak with my mother—”

“Yet you shooed her out of the room and decided to speak to me instead,” she countered, stepping closer. “To insult me? To threaten me? Whichever, I suppose, I will never understand. I decided to take tea with Lady Bridgerton because she offered it—offered advice on being a widow, something you have already known about me.”

“I wouldn’t wish for her to hear our conversation, besides, her advice could not have been that helpful,” Anthony snorted. “My parents were in love, her trials of being a widow pales in comparison to your situation—”

“The one in which I also lost a husband? The sole definition of being a widow?” She said, her arms tight against her chest. “That situation?”

The grand clock—that damned grand clock—chimed in the uncomfortable silence, a new hour beginning.

“I may not have loved Lord Barlow,” she admitted. “He may not even have been a friend to me, but I still am a lady who has lost her husband—a lady who has so much as lost her way in this fucked world, a world where a woman cannot simply be without one. Your mother was simply being kind.”

“I did not mean…” Anthony’s posture softened, even just a bit, words caught in his throat.

“But you did,” she pointed. “If you hadn’t meant it, you wouldn’t have said it. My, Lord Bridgerton, you certainly have a way with words, much like you always have, it seems.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She looked at the clock. “I must take my leave. I am expected to be back home soon, the estate certainly cannot run itself, seeing as my husband,” she nearly spat the word, “has left it to my care. What a thoughtful man he was.”

“I—Lady Barlow,” Anthony started, unsure of where he was going with it. “Please accept my apologies.”

“Keep them,” she smiled. “They are nearly as useless as you are. Excuse me.” Lady Barlow opened the door with haste, nodding to the staff members who were waiting outside. Her lady’s maid, Meg, followed only a few steps behind her, her attention caught on the wounded viscount in blue.

Anthony practically dissolved into the arm chair, unsure of what to do next. He had half a mind to go to his study to drink, to pour over the invoices that had him enter this room in the first place. His interactions with Lady Barlow usually left him buzzing, his blood boiling and his ego only partially wounded. How he was left feeling so defeated was beyond him.

“A way with words?” He mumbled to himself. “I never wish to understand that woman.”

Yet, a part of him nearly screamed the opposite.

How peculiar.

—

Roses and Regrets Tag List:

@creative-heart , @sunshineangel-reads

want to be added to my taglist? comment below!

#anthony bridgerton #bridgerton #bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagines #x reader #oopsies #didn't expect to write some steamy bits already in chapter 2 but oh well!! reader is pent up i guess

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fanficapologist · 11 days

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Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Seventy-Five

The ride back to Harrenhall was filled with a sense of hope and anticipation, buoyed by the discovery of the dragon egg. Maera rode atop Ēbrion with a renewed energy, the wind whipping through her hair as they soared through the skies.As Ēbrion propelled them forward with powerful beats of his wings, Maera felt a surge of exhilaration course through her veins. She clung to the dragon's saddle with determination, her eyes scanning the horizon with newfound optimism.

The landscape below rushed by in a blur of greenery and winding rivers, the sunlight casting a golden glow upon the land. Glancing across the vast expanse of sky, Maera spotted Aemond flying on Vhagar alongside them. His figure was a distant silhouette against the backdrop of clouds, his dragon's wings slicing gracefully through the air.

As they landed back at Harrenhall and made their way to the castle gates, Maera and Aemond were filled with a temporary sense of excitement and camaraderie. The tension that had lingered between them seemed to melt away in the exhilaration of their adventure. Maera spoke animatedly about their discovery of the dragon egg, her green eyes alight with enthusiasm as she recounted the details of their flight and the breathtaking sight of the molten rock. Aemond listened attentively, his own excitement mirroring hers as they shared in the joy of their discovery.

Entering the courtyard, they were greeted by a flurry of activity and a sense of panic among the guards. However, as Maera and Aemond approached, relaxed and seemingly unaware of the commotion, the tension in the air dissipated. Maera couldn't help but giggle at the reaction they had caused. It was clear that their absence had been longer than expected, and the sight of them returning unharmed eased the worries of those within the castle walls.

Ser Adrian, Maera’s brother-in-law, approached them first, his blue eyes reflecting genuine concern. “We thought something had happened,” he confessed, his freckled face flushed with relief.

Maera couldn’t suppress her amusement. “Something did happen, good-brother,” she replied, a playful glint in her eye. Aemond grabbed the dragon egg from under his arm and proudly presented it to the onlookers. With a blackened shell and flecks of green, the sight of the rare and precious egg elicited murmurs of awe and excitement from those gathered around, their eyes widening in wonder at the remarkable discovery.

“Gods, even if it doesn’t hatch, it’s worth a fortune,” Ser Adrian remarked, his tone tinged with bewilderment.

“It will hatch,” Aemond asserted firmly, his confidence unwavering, earning a playful nudge in the ribs from Maera’s elbow.

Maera interjected with a gentler tone, her words carrying the weight of tradition and expertise. “What my husband means is that Targaryens are skilled in the art of hand-rearing dragon eggs and hatchlings,” she explained, her voice a soothing counterpoint to Aemond’s sternness.

As they made their way back to their chambers, Aemond’s hand rested protectively on Maera’s back, the warmth of his touch a comforting presence amidst the turmoil that surrounded them. For a fleeting moment, they found solace in each other’s company, their shared mission bonding them once more.

However, their temporary respite was shattered when they turned a corner in the corridors and came face to face with Alys, her swollen belly unmistakable beneath her green dress. “You have both returned unharmed. I’m glad,” the witch greeted them with a saccharine smile, but Maera couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that lingered within her.

The Princess’s heart pounded with trepidation as the witch's cat-like eyes lingered on the dragon egg cradled beneath Aemond's arm. "Is that...?" Alys began, her voice tinged with bewildered curiosity. The weight of Alys's fixation filled Maera with a sense of dread, her fingers instinctively reached out to Aemond's forearm for support, though she hardly noticed her own actions.

A knowing grin spread across Alys's lips as she clasped her hands together, her words dripping with eerie reverence. "It seems the Gods favor you, Prince Aemond. This is undoubtedly an omen from them." Maera's jaw clenched as Alys's gaze flickered momentarily to her before settling back on Aemond, her fingers absently tracing the curve of her swollen stomach. "What a powerful Prince your son will be as a dragon rider," the witch mused, her words hanging heavy in the air.

The Princess’s silent anger simmered beneath the surface as Alys brazenly requested the dragon egg for her own child, despite it not being a true Targaryen. The audacity of the request fueled Maera's disdain for the woman who had meddled in her marriage and sought to undermine her at every turn. Unable to tolerate Alys’s insolence any longer, Maera braced herself to speak out, but to her surprise, it was Aemond who broke the tense silence.

“Indeed,” he replied calmly, his tone devoid of emotion, causing Maera’s eyes to widen in disbelief. Surely he wasn’t entertaining Alys’s absurd notion. The One-Eyed Prince’s gaze shifted from Alys to Maera, his single violet eye piercing through her with a depth that left her breathless.

For a moment, their silent exchange spoke volumes, a silent understanding passing between them before Aemond returned his attention to Alys once more. “The egg will be placed in the cradle of my trueborn child,” he declared firmly, his words cutting through the tension like a blade.

Alys's reaction was immediate, her expression momentarily stunned before morphing into a mask of disbelief. Maera couldn't help but revel in the sight of shock on the witch's face, a small victory amidst the swirling currents of uncertainty that surrounded them.

Aemond's hand remained a reassuring presence on Maera's back as he attempted to gently guide them both around Alys, his gesture signaling his desire to end the conversation with the witch and continue their journey back to their chambers.

Yet Alys sidestepped, effectively blocking the couple's path with a determined stance. "Do you think that wise?" she challenged, her tone firm and unwavering.

Maera glanced up at her husband, noticing the subtle tightening of his jaw, a sign of his growing agitation. The Prince's response was swift and sharp, his voice laced with a dangerous edge that made Maera jump in surprise. "Alys, I suggest you hold your tongue," he growled, his words carrying a weight of authority that both frightened and thrilled Maera to hear him finally stand up to the witch.

Undeterred, Aemond pressed on, his voice dripping with suppressed fury. "I have endured your presence for the sake of your sight and your contributions to the war effort," he began, his gaze unwavering as he met Alys's defiant stare. "But quite frankly, I have tolerated your disrespect, particularly towards my wife, for long enough."

Alys's cat-like eyes blazed with fury, a storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface as she met Aemond's gaze head-on. Though Maera harbored doubts about the witch's supposed magical abilities, she couldn't shake the sense of apprehension that gripped her at the prospect of things escalating further. The tension in the air crackled with the unspoken threat of confrontation, leaving Maera longing for a swift resolution to their encounter.

"Aemond..." Maera's voice carried a note of pleading as she tugged gently on his arm, her eyes silently urging him to let the confrontation with Alys come to an end. But her husband, consumed by anger, seemed beyond reason.

"Should the Gods desire their vision to come to fruition so desperately, they can do so on my terms," Aemond declared, his single violet eye flashing with determination as he cast a steely gaze between the two women, ensuring they both understood the gravity of his words.

Maera nodded silently, her gaze downcast but a small, relieved smile playing at the corners of her lips. It seemed her husband had finally found his clarity. Yet, Alys remained undeterred.

"But, my Prince..." Alys began, her voice tinged with desperation.

At that moment, Aemond's composure shattered, his anger boiling over as he abruptly pulled away from Maera and advanced towards the witch with determined strides. He loomed over Alys, his voice dripping with venom as he spat out his words. "Do you really think it would be placed in the cradle of a half-breed? Of a bastard to a whore?”

As Alys averted her gaze, Aemond closed the distance even further and leaned down so his face was at the same level as the witch’s, his pointed nose and chiseled features accentuating his disdain. "Do you think I would entrust a dragon's egg to a child I did not desire? To a child I was assured would never come to be?" His voice, though hushed, carried a weight of stern authority that caused even Maera to flinch.

Sensing the tension reaching its breaking point, and seeing the tremble in Alys's frame, Maera stepped forward, her hand gently settling on Aemond's shoulder. At her touch, the Prince's tense shoulders relaxed slightly, his stormy demeanor softening as he took a step back from the witch, regaining his usual stoic composure.

"We are done here," Maera declared firmly, her gaze flickering between her husband and the shaken witch. With a firm grip on Aemond's arm, she guided him away, the tension dissipating as they retreated to the sanctuary of their shared chambers, feeling a renewed sense of solidarity between them.

In their rooms, the silence hung heavy between Maera and Aemond, thick with unspoken tension. Maera could sense the seething fury radiating from her husband after is interaction with Alys, a palpable force that filled the room with its intensity. A few months ago, Maera would have approached him, seeking to ease his anger and discuss the situation calmly. But now, after enduring so much hurt and betrayal, she chose to let him stew in his rage. It was a deliberate choice, a silent retaliation for the pain he had inflicted upon her with his indifference and betrayal.

As they sat in the oppressive silence, each concentrating on their own tasks of reading and writing, Maera allowed herself a small sense of satisfaction, knowing that Aemond was experiencing just a fraction of the turmoil she had endured since the arrival of Alys. It was a bitter victory, but one that offered a semblance of vindication in the face of their fractured marriage.With the hours passing by, the oppressive tension in the room began to ease, replaced by a more subdued atmosphere. Maera remained engrossed in her book, delving into the intricacies of Aegon's Conquest, while Aemond meticulously transcribed his notes into a new ledger, his movements deliberate and focused.

The Princess couldn't help but notice the new leather bound ledger, a replacement for the one she had thrown into the hearth in a fit of anger. Part of her felt a twinge of guilt, wondering if vital information had been lost in her impulsive act. However, another part of her, fueled by pettiness, secretly relished the idea of inconveniencing Aemond, who had to rewrite his old notes from scratch. Despite the lack of verbal communication, Maera and Aemond occasionally stole glances at each other, their eyes meeting fleetingly. In those moments, there was a silent yearning for connection, a longing for the bond they once shared to be restored.

When night fell, the couple shared their evening meal together before making their preparations for bed. Maera was assisted by the maid out of her dress and into a soft nightgown, her pregnant belly more prominent beneath the fabric with each passing day. The child within her seemed particularly active tonight, its kicks a comforting reminder of the life growing inside her.

As Maera settled into bed, she observed Aemond's nightly routine unfold. He made his way to the chair by the hearth, a ritual he had faithfully followed for the past month since she had banished him from their bed. He glanced at the black dragon egg in its metal pot, sitting atop burning coals before placing the lid back on top of it. With graceful movements, he untied his straight silver hair, allowing it to cascade around his shoulders, and removed his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire glint of his remaining eye in the flickering firelight.

Sensing Maera's gaze upon him, Aemond looked up, meeting her eyes with a silent acknowledgment. In response, Maera threw back the sheet covering her side of the bed and patted the space beside her, a wordless invitation laden with unspoken longing and a plea for connection.The Prince hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flickering in his violet eye as he silently questioned Maera's invitation. Her small, sad smile in response seemed to give him the reassurance he needed. With a newfound resolve, he stood and made his way to the bedside.

Slowly, Aemond removed his sleep shirt, revealing his slim yet toned chest and stomach, a sight that stirred a sense of longing in Maera. As he sat on the bed and discarded his trousers, he revealed himself completely, his vulnerability laid bare along with his form. With a gentle hand, he removed the sapphire from his eye socket and placed the gem in a dish on his bedside table.

Maera, too, shed her nightgown, lying before him naked, just as they had always been with each other in Kings Landing when they retired to bed. His gaze lingered on her, taking in the changes her body had undergone in the past month. Her curves had become more pronounced, her breasts somehow even larger, her stomach swollen with the life growing inside her, adorned with a few blue and purple stretch marks—a testament to the journey of motherhood she was embarking on.

As Aemond extinguished the candle, enveloping them in darkness, the only sensation permeating the silence was the rhythmic cadence of their breathing, intertwining in the stillness of the chamber. A shiver coursed through Maera's body as the cool air prickled her exposed skin. Accustomed to sleeping alone and clothed since banishing Aemond from their shared bed, she now felt a chill settle over her skin.

Seeking warmth and solace, Maera inched closer to him, her body instinctively drawn to his. With a tentative gesture, she rested her head on his bare chest, seeking the comfort of his proximity. In response, Aemond's muscular arm encircled her, drawing her closer to him. His hand found the curls on her head, his fingers gently stroking them with a soothing rhythm, a silent gesture of reassurance and affection in the darkness. As Maera stirred awake the next morning, she found herself still comfortably entwined with her husband, nestled against his chest with her head tucked under his chin. Aemond's arm remained draped protectively around her, his other hand tenderly resting on her swollen stomach, eliciting a contented smile from Maera as she savored the warmth of their shared embrace.

When they entered the council room that morning, the Prince and Princess presented a striking image of unity, both adorned in attire that echoed their shared allegiance. Clad in matching black leather accented with gleaming gold symbols of dragons, they exuded a palpable sense of connection that didn't go unnoticed by the courtiers who greeted them with respectful nods and murmurs.

Seated together, Maera observed in silence as Aemond took command of the room with confidence, providing updates and soliciting counsel from the assembled advisors. Throughout the proceedings, his hand remained firmly planted on her thigh, a subtle yet reassuring gesture of their renewed bond that Maera welcomed wholeheartedly.

As each lord provided their updates on strategy and army numbers, Maera couldn’t help but notice a distinct air of optimism that seemed to permeate the room, a stark contrast to previous meetings. From what she could surmise, the reports sounded more positive, hinting at progress and potential victories on the horizon.

When Aemond finally turned to Alys for her input, Maera noticed her sitting at the opposite side of the room, her expression dark and brooding. Despite her discomfort from the late stages of her pregnancy, Alys rose from her chair with determination, her hand resting protectively on her bump as she addressed the council.

“I would like to bring before the council once more the matter of the Westerlands, my Lords,” Alys proclaimed, her voice carrying an air of self-importance that elicited an eye roll from Maera before she continued. “The Gods have revealed to me that the Lannister forces will remain unharmed as they journey here. Therefore, I believe assigning the Princess to patrol the western border is a misuse of valuable resources.”

Maera couldn’t suppress a scoff at the absurdity of Alys’s suggestion, quickly masking it with a discreet clearing of her throat. Glancing around the room, she noted the skepticism mirrored in the expressions of the other council members.

“I’m not certain House Lannister would share your theory,” Ser Adrian interjected diplomatically, attempting to maintain a sense of decorum in the face of Alys’s bold proclamation.

“Indeed. The Princess’s patrol of the area ensures safety in the west,” the Peake Lord concurred, his agreement echoing the sentiments shared by many in the room. Maera offered him a silent nod of appreciation for his support as their eyes briefly met.

Meanwhile, the elder Lord Vance stroked his grey beard thoughtfully, considering Alys’s words with a hint of skepticism. “And what, may I ask, is your proposed course of action?” he inquired, directing his gaze towards the witch.

Alys’s smile widened at the attention, her confidence unwavering as she laid out her suggestion. “I propose that the Princess return to King’s Landing,” she declared, her voice dripping with certainty. “I have foreseen the sky above the Keep ablaze with red and gold flames, and venom seeping into Blackwater Bay. With her in the Capital, the catastrophe would be prevented.”

Maera’s eyes widened in disbelief at Alys’s proposal. The sheer audacity of suggesting such a thing, especially after Aemond had begun to stand up for her, left Maera incredulous. It was a ridiculous notion, and Maera couldn’t help but feel insulted by the suggestion. However, she was glad to see that the room had erupted into murmurs, frowns, and shaking heads among the attending lords and knights. The notion of sending the Princess away was met with disbelief and disapproval from those present, meaning Maera had the support of the councilmen.

But there was only one person’s support she truly needed. The Princess turned to her husband, but found his gaze fixed on Alys with a steely intensity that sent a clear message of disapproval. His hand remained reassuringly on Maera’s thigh as he addressed the witch, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “And is this belief rooted in fact? Or is it just a gut feeling?” The Prince sneered, all eyes around the room locked onto his commanding figure. Alys simply blinked bewilderedly at his words. Despite her attempts to maintain composure, the shock of Aemond’s rebuke was evident on her face, leaving her momentarily speechless.

The Prince shook his head, leaning forward to rest it on his propped-up elbow. “Aegon holds the city on Sunfyre. The city watch guards the gates, preventing any invasions,” he asserted, his tone laced with confidence. The attending lords and knights nodded in agreement, their murmurs of assent echoing throughout the chamber. Maera observed Alys closely, noting the flicker of realization in the witch’s eyes as she came to the stark realization that nobody in the room supported her misguided proposal.

Undeterred, Aemond continued, his hand rubbing reassuringly up and down Maera’s leg as he spoke. “There is no conceivable reason for Rhaenyra to invade King’s Landing at this time,” he reasoned, his voice firm with conviction.

Alys’s confidence wavered visibly, her demeanor shifting from assertive to bewildered as Aemond’s words sank in. Her cat-like eyes widened in surprise, and she ran a frustrated hand through her long dark hair, a subtle sign of her discomfort and annoyance at being challenged so publicly. The witch then scoffed dismissively, her defiance evident in her tone. “You’re not listening,” she retorted, her frustration palpable.

“And why should I listen to you?” Aemond shot back, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he scanned the room, locking eyes with each council member in turn. “I couldn’t give a shit what you think, Alys. My wife remains here,” he declared firmly, his loyalty to Maera unwavering.

Before Alys could voice another protest, Maera rose gracefully from her seat, her black and gold attire emphasizing her regal presence. Her gravid form, a testament to her impending motherhood, only added to her commanding aura, a symbol of her union with the Prince and her significance in the realm.

As the Princess surveyed the room, a sense of empowerment washed over her. She felt the weight of the Lords’ reliance on her and her dragon, recognizing the shift in power that had occurred in her favor. With Aemond’s support and the respect of the assembled courtiers, Maera was no longer a pawn in Alys’s scheming prophecies, but a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

Turning her green gaze upon the witch, Maera conveyed authority and determination. It was a silent warning, a declaration that Alys’s manipulations would no longer be tolerated. With her husband’s backing, the Lords’ esteem, and her own formidable intellect, Maera addressed those surrounding the table. “Clear the room,” she commanded, her voice carrying an air of authority that brooked no opposition.

Without hesitation, the council members promptly rose and filed out of the chamber, leaving Maera and Aemond alone with Alys. The witch lingered for a moment longer, shooting a venomous glare at the royal couple before finally exiting, her departure marking the end of the tumultuous council meeting.

The room was now empty, aside from Maera and her husband. She moved from her seat and circled the table, her gaze tracing the intricacies of the map of Westeros spread out before her. The figurines representing the Blacks' forces dotted the map, a testament to their growing strength. Yet, amidst them, she noticed new green figurines, symbolizing the dragons aligned with the Greens. Her heart swelled with pride as she spotted Ēbrion's figurine placed strategically on the border of the Westerlands, a clear indication of her contribution to the cause.

As she lifted her eyes from the map, she found her husband engrossed in reading from a scroll. A sense of admiration washed over her as she took in his features, the chiseled lines of his face, the intensity of his gaze. She couldn't help but marvel at the sudden change in his demeanor, the way he had staunchly defended her during the council meeting. It sparked a flicker of curiosity within her, wondering what had prompted this shift in his stance.

"You're being particularly cruel this morning," she remarked with a small smile, acknowledging his firm handling of Alys

Aemond remained focused on his scroll, but his response carried a flirtatious undertone. "I thought you enjoyed a bit of cruelty."

Maera chuckled softly, knowing the effect her next words would have on him. "It depends on the context, issa darys," my king, she teased noticing the way Aemond swallowed at the sound of the High Valyrian words, stirring something deep within him. But her amusement faded as she furrowed her brow in genuine confusion. "Are you going to tell me what's going on? What's changed for you to challenge her so suddenly?" she pressed, her tone tinged with concern.

Aemond's gaze flicked up to meet hers, and after a moment, he closed the scroll with a heavy sigh. “You are right. I have been a fool,” he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. Rising from his seat, the scrape of the chair against the stone floor echoing in the chamber, he approached her with purpose. “So blinded by notions of the Gods’s Will and their plan for me, that I have allowed you endure great pain.”

Maera felt her cheeks flush under the intensity of his burning gaze, and she averted her eyes, focusing instead on the map spread out before them. She felt his presence behind her, the warmth of his body radiating against her back as he reached out to lightly graze her shoulder, his fingers brushing away stray tendrils of hair to expose the nape of her neck to him. "And in doing so, I've risked losing you," he concluded softly, his warm breath teasing her skin as he leaned closer, his proximity sending a shiver down her spine.

As Aemond's lips brushed delicately against her neck, Maera's breath hitched in her throat, her heart quickening its pace. She felt his arm wrap around her waist, pulling her closer until the Prince's body was firmly pressed against her back.

"Your sense of duty and your drive to better yourself are qualities I admire most about you," Maera breathed, her words tinged with affection, even as Aemond continued to pepper wet kisses along her neck. Despite the sensations coursing through her, she fought to maintain her composure. "But your ambition can sometimes make you arrogant and blind to logic and reason."

Aemond's mouth trailed up to her earlobe, he bit down harshly, eliciting a surprised yelp from Maera. She turned to face him, her hands finding purchase on his chest, while one of his hands settled on her waist and the other threaded through her scalp, lightly tugging on her dark brown curls.

Meeting his gaze, Maera's expression turned serious. “I do not know what she told you of the Gods’s plan for you. In truth I do not wish to know as I do not trust her with every fibre of my being,” she admitted, her frown deepening as she referred to Alys. Aemond responded with a soft hum, his hand sliding down to rest on her hip. With a gentle touch, Maera's hand traced the sharp contours of Aemond's jawline, her touch imbued with a mixture of affection and concern. "But regardless of fate, your place is by my side," she affirmed, her voice filled with unwavering certainty.

Aemond sighed in response, his thumb tracing the curve of her bottom lip. "I am unworthy of you," he confessed, his voice heavy with self-doubt.

A mischievous smile danced across Maera's lips as she met his gaze. "I know," she teased, her tone playful yet affectionate.

Without hesitation, Aemond leaned forward, capturing her lips in a fervent, passionate kiss. Maera melted into his embrace, returning the kiss with equal fervor, their passion igniting like a wildfire as they surrendered to the irresistible pull of desire. His hand found its way to the back of her head, tugging on the roots of her hair so Maera’s head would tilt backwards, allowing him to deepen the kiss.

The kiss was warm and wet, all teeth and tongue and filled with desperation and lust. It was as if he never wanted to let her go, that he had now finally realised what was a stake. To hell with the Gods, to Hell with fate. There was only her. His Princess. His Wife. Maera attempted to keep up, sliding her tongue against his with equal enthusiasm but found herself breathless and lightheaded. She then felt his strong hands on her backside, lifting her up onto the table, knocking some of the black and green figurines over.

He jammed his knee between her legs, forcing them open and slotted himself between them, never breaking the desperate kiss for even a second. Maera’s hands found the clasps on his doublet and began to undo the buckles frantically, consumed by the need to feel his skin on hers. The Prince in turn began to greedily bunch her skirts in his fists, hiking up the fabric until it sat just above her hips. His calloused palms gripped onto her plush thighs, watching her concentrating on unclasping the very last buckle on his chest before pushing the leather from his shoulders, his white cotton shirt underneath.

Growing impatient, he discarded the remaining barrier to his torso quickly, allowing Maera to run her fingers over the chiseled muscles, licking and biting at the scars that littered his chest, causing him to close his eye and groan. Maera’s fingers descended lower and lower, down his toned stomach before reached the front of his trousers and palming his very obvious bulge through the fabric.

Aemond growled and pulled away for a moment, only to reach behind her and push all the black and green figurines off of the table, the marble objects bouncing off the stone floor below. Maera gasped in surprise and excitement before being roughly pushed back onto the table, her chest heaving beneath her dress as her breathing increased rapidly.

His cock grew impossibly hard at the sight of her like this, so the Prince reached forward and grabbed both of her breasts, eagerly cupping the soft flesh, his hands not being able to grasp them entirely due to their size.

“I have never seen you so beautiful,” he murmured darkly before squeezing the flesh in his palm. “You will look like the Maiden herself when these are full of milk for our child.” Maera’s core clenched at his words and she let out a desperate whine, causing the Prince to smirk at her needy response.

He withdrew for a moment, and Maera propped herself up on her elbows to see him pulling up a chair so he could sit comfortably between her legs. Grabbing her by the ankles, he yanked her towards him and sat down, his violet eye darkening as he fixated on the noticeable wet patch on her smallclothes, before ripping them off her legs and throwing them across the room. Aemond began to press wet kisses against one of her rounded thighs, lips trailing slowly up to where she needed him most before he abruptly switched to her other thigh, indicating that he was going to take his time.

“For fuck’s sake Aemond,” Maera groaned through gritted teeth, her hips practically chasing his face and the back of her head hitting the table in frustration. “Just take me, I need you!”

He leaned forward in his chair, his breath fanning across her bare cunt. “Patience, issa daria,” my queen, he chuckled cruelly, before pressing a feather-light kiss to her dripping centre, causing her to gasp. Aemond then began to deliberately bestow kitten licks on her clit, the pressure hard enough to elicit a gasp, but too light for a release to build. Maera felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his tongue on her pearl but desperate for so much more.

She attempted to compose herself, to not seem so wanting, but that idea left her head the his tongue slipping inside her and tasting her greedily, his sharp nose prodding against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Mmm, the sweetest cunt in the Seven Kingdoms,” he growled against her folds, lapping at her centre frantically as his hands resting on her hips to keep her in place.

The Princess panted as the pleasure began to build in her lower stomach, eyes rolling to the back of her head and hips bucking into Aemond’s face as he continued to feast upon her with practiced eased, groaning obscenities into her slick folds as he savoured the sweet taste. When he moved his tongue to her clit once more , Maera felt his skilled fingers gathering the wetness around her core before plunging two of them deep inside of her.

Her back arched as he immediately found her spongey spot, moving his fingers in a come hither motion, all the while sucking on her sensitive bundle of nerves relentlessly, the knot deep in her stomach winding tighter and tighter. Maera’s plush thighs began to shake and clench around his head, making him continue to press harshly on her hips with his free hand to keep her in place.

Rapidly, her body tensed as an unbelievable high hit her, blinding hot pleasure coursing through her veins, a sweaty sheen forming on her body as she rode out her orgasm against her husband’s mouth. Aemond’s fingers slowed inside her, a contented hum escaping his lips as he took in the sight before him; his wife, red-faced, panting and sweating, all because he had caused her to become undone.

Maera did not have time to think before the air was knocked out of her lungs as her husband sheathed his long, thick cock into her, filling her to the hilt before setting a tempestuous rhythm, thrusting in and out of her as if his life depended on it. The fact that they were doing this here, when just minutes ago they were sat having a meeting made the experience all the more captivating, the thought of it causing Maera to clench around her husband as she moaned his name.

“Fuck,” he groaned in response. “Such a perfect cunt. And it belongs to me.” He adjusted his hips upwards so that his length brushed against the soft spongey spot within, that familiar coil winding itself tighter and tighter once again.

“Gods, Aemond. Please!” She babbled, tears streaming down her face as she was jolted upwards on the table, the slapping sound of skin on skin making her even wetter.

“Tell me who you belong to, sweet wife,” he grunted, slamming his hips faster and faster into her. When Maera’s reply did not come quick enough, he reached between them and used his thumb to rub against her pearl, the sensation sending a jolt up her spine.

She relented between moans. “You, my Prince! I’m yours!”

“And I am yours,” he rambled, his cock bullying the sweet spot inside of her causing her second release to come upon her suddenly, her body convulsing as he fucked her through her high. Maera’s vice-like grip around his cock practically milked him for his seed, squeezing him so tightly that his pace faltered and he came with a deep and guttural grunt, his jaw going slack as he filled her up with his cum.

There was no sound left in the chambers, except the couple’s desperate panting as each of them came down from their high. After a moment, Maera propped herself up on her elbows, smirking as she drank in her husband’s cunt-struck face. Aemond raised a brow at her before abruptly withdrawing his softening cock, the loss of contact causing her to hiss. He then offered his hand and pulled her up, causing her to sit up straight and rest her face upon his bare chest, the rapid beating of his heart pulsing beneath his skin.

Hopping off the table, Maera smoothed down her skirts and combed her hand through her brown and silver curls. She turned to look at the table and felt Aemond’s hand caress her rounded stomach before he pressed a firm kiss to her cheek, his lips lingering a moment before he pulled away. Maera met his gaze and smiled contently before pointing at the table.

“I hope you remember where all the Black and Green figures go, because I don’t.”

Notes: Ok so I went over my word count this chapter, sue me! But definitely after this one it’s two more chapters of Alys, I’m sick of her as well. But hey we got smut so 🤷🏻‍♀️

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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