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You are the Dornish princess, daughter of a powerful Dornish house (say, Princess of Godsgrace). You were sent to court as part of the fragile peace after the Blackfyre rebellions—officially to strengthen ties, unofficially because your father knows the Targaryens can’t resist Dornish fire. In Sunspear, you grew up riding sand steeds, swimming naked in the Greenblood, learning spear and seduction in equal measure. Paramours are no scandal in Dorne; they’re celebrated. Lovers—male, female, both—are simply part of life. You arrived in King’s Landing already notorious: the Dornish girl who dances too close, laughs too loud, and looks at men (and sometimes women) like she’s deciding which to devour first.
Baelor noticed you the first night—your silk slit to the thigh, the way you held his gaze without dropping it. He took you during a night when the wine ran redder than blood. Maekar discovered you six months later—already astride his brother, riding him slow and filthy while Baelor whispered praise against your throat. Since then they have shared everything: blood, blades, and you. No jealousy, only a dark mutual understanding that what belongs to one Targaryen belongs to both.
Tonight, after the feast, as lords stumbled to bed reeking of wine, you slipped away first. Baelor caught your wrist on the servants’ stair. Maekar followed, silent as death, black cloak billowing. Up the spiral to the abandoned tower room—stone cold, braziers low, air thick with old dust and anticipation.
The door slammed shut. The chamber already smelled of spilled Dornish red, heated skin, and the sharp, metallic tang of Targaryen arousal.
The air in the chamber was already thick with wine and heat when Maekar kicked the door shut behind the three of you.
Baelor’s mouth was on yours before you even finished exhaling—slow, filthy kiss, tongue sliding deep like he was trying to taste last night’s sins still clinging to your throat. His big hands were already under your shift, bunching linen up to your waist, calluses scraping the sensitive skin just below your ribs.
“Gods,” he growled against your lips, two thick fingers sliding through your folds without hesitation, spreading your wetness in slow, cruel circles over your clit. “Already dripping. Did you spend the whole banquet imagining us inside you again, princess? Clenching on nothing while lords droned on?”
You tried to answer but only managed a broken whimper when Maekar stepped up behind you.
He didn’t speak—Maekar rarely did when he was this wound up. Instead his teeth found the slope of your shoulder, biting down hard enough to make your knees buckle. One iron-strong arm banded across your stomach, pinning you back against the solid wall of his chest while his other hand shoved Baelor’s fingers deeper inside you.
“Make her louder,” Maekar growled low against your neck. “I want to hear exactly how desperate she is before I split her open.”
Baelor grinned—dark, pleased—and dropped to his knees.
He dropped to his knees, shoved your thighs wider, and sealed his mouth over your cunt like a man starved. No teasing, no gentle licks—just broad, greedy strokes of his tongue, sucking your clit between his lips, then fucking you with quick, filthy thrusts of it while his fingers curled against that spot that made your vision white out.
Your hands flew to his silver-gold hair, gripping hard. “Baelor—fuck—too much—”
Maekar’s free hand wrapped around your throat—not choking, just holding. Possessive. “You’ll take it,” he said, voice gravel. “You’ll take both of us until you can’t remember your own name.”
He rocked his hips forward so you could feel how hard he already was, thick length grinding against your ass through his breeches. The friction made you clench around Baelor’s tongue and fingers at the same time; Baelor groaned into you like he was the one being tortured.
When you started shaking—really shaking—Maekar hauled you off Baelor’s mouth with a wet, obscene sound and spun you around. Your back hit the edge of the bed. He didn’t let you fall; he lifted you like you weighed nothing, tossed you onto the furs on your stomach, then yanked your hips up so your ass was presented.
Baelor was already stripping, cock springing free—long, flushed dark at the tip, glistening. He stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on where you were dripping down your thighs.
Maekar didn’t bother undressing fully. He just unlaced enough to free himself and lined up behind you without preamble.
The first inch burned in the best way.
You keened, fingers twisting in the furs. He didn’t stop. Kept sinking in slow, relentless, until his hips were flush against your ass and you could feel every pulsing vein of him.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hands bruising your hips. “Still so tight even after Baelor’s tongue.”
Baelor climbed onto the bed in front of you, fisting his cock and tapping the leaking head against your lips. “Open for me, princess” he said softly, almost tender—right before he pushed past your teeth and slid over your tongue.
You moaned around him, the sound vibrating straight up his shaft. He cursed under his breath and started fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts, letting you adjust to the stretch of both of them at once.
Maekar pulled halfway out, then slammed back in—hard. The force shoved you forward onto Baelor’s cock until your nose brushed his pelvis. They found a rhythm like they’d done this a hundred times: Maekar pounding into you from behind, each thrust driving you deeper onto Baelor until tears pricked your eyes and spit ran down your chin.
Baelor’s fingers carded through your hair, almost gentle despite the way his hips snapped. “Look at you,” he breathed. “Taking us both so well. Such a perfect little whore for your princes.”
Maekar leaned over your back, changing the angle until he was hitting so deep it felt like he was in your stomach. His voice was wrecked when he spoke against your ear:
“Come like this. Clench around my cock while you choke on his. I want to feel it when you break.”
You did.
The orgasm hit like a warhammer—shattering, messy, loud. Your whole body locked up, fluttering wildly around Maekar while you gagged and drooled around Baelor. Maekar swore viciously and fucked you through it, thrusts turning erratic, until he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, guttural groan, flooding you so deep you could feel the heat of it.
Baelor wasn’t far behind. He pulled out at the last second, fisted himself twice more, and painted your lips, your chin, the tops of your breasts while he shuddered through it, whispering broken praises.
For a long moment there was only harsh breathing and the wet slide of bodies.
Then Maekar eased out slowly, watching his spend drip from you with dark satisfaction. Baelor dragged you up into his lap, kissing the mess he’d made on your face like it was something holy.
“Still breathing, my princess?” he teased, thumb on your swollen lip.
You nodded, shaky, smirking like a true daughter of Dorne.
Maekar’s hand claimed your nape—warm, steady.
“Good,” he said. “Because in Dorne they say you never stop until the sun burns out.”
He glanced at Baelor. A cruel smile curved the younger prince’s lips.
“Turn her,” Maekar ordered. “Let her ride you this time. I want to watch our sand viper move—then I’ll take her by behind."
Baelor flipped you astride him. His cock—hard again—nudged your oversensitive entrance.
“Move, princess,” he whispered, hands on your hips. “Show us how Dornish women claim what they want.”
Maekar knelt behind, fingers sliding through the slick mess, teasing higher, circling that tight ring with slow intent.
“We’ll fuck you until dawn,” he promised, voice lethal silk. “And when you can’t walk… we’ll carry you to the next feast dripping our seed—so every Reachman and Stormlander knows exactly whose princes you belong to.”
You sink down onto Baelor’s cock with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, savoring every thick inch as he stretches you open again. The burn is exquisite, familiar now, and you let out a long, throaty moan that bounces off the cold stone walls—pure, unashamed pleasure.
Baelor’s hands clamp onto your hips, fingers digging into your sun-kissed skin hard enough to leave marks you’ll feel for days. “Fuck—move,” he rasps, voice already unraveling. “Ride me like you ride those sand steeds back home."
You laugh—low, wicked, the sound that always makes both their cocks twitch—and start to move.
Slow at first. Teasing. You lift until only the swollen head remains inside you, then drop back down in one smooth, slick glide that makes wet, filthy sounds fill the chamber. Each descent drags a ragged groan from Baelor’s throat. You brace your palms on his chest, nails raking over pale Targaryen skin, tracing the faint scars left by Dornish steel and Stormlander blades.
Behind you, Maekar watches with that predatory stillness he wears like armor. His thick fingers—still slick with your combined release—circle your rear entrance with maddening patience, spreading the mess, pressing just enough to make you gasp and clench hard around Baelor.
“You like that?” Maekar murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You like knowing I’m going to take you here too? Fill every hole until you’re leaking from both ends?”
You shiver, hips stuttering for a heartbeat before you pick up the pace—faster now, grinding down harder, chasing the friction against your clit with every roll. “Try me, prince,” you taunt over your shoulder, voice thick with that slow Dornish drawl. “Dorne taught me to take more than most women can even dream of.”
Maekar growls low. One hand fists in your long dark hair—pulling just enough to arch your back beautifully—while the other presses a single thick finger past that tight ring. Slow. Inexorable. You hiss at the stretch, but push back against it instinctively, taking him deeper.
Baelor bucks up to meet your next downward stroke, driving himself even harder into your cunt. “Gods—feel that?” he pants, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “You’re clenching so fucking tight around me now. You love being filled in both places, don’t you?”
“Yes—” The word comes out broken, breathless. You rock faster, riding them both—Baelor’s cock pounding up into you, Maekar’s finger fucking in and out in perfect counter-rhythm. The dual sensation builds like lightning over the Red Mountains: sharp, electric, unstoppable.
Maekar adds a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching you with ruthless care. “Good girl,” he praises, the rare softness in his voice making your cunt flutter around Baelor. “Taking it so well. You were made for this—for us.”
You laugh again, ragged this time, head thrown back against Maekar’s shoulder. “I was made for sun and sand and fucking—and you two are only half as hot as a Dornish noon.”
Baelor curses and thrusts up harder, chasing his edge. Maekar withdraws his fingers suddenly—only to replace them with the blunt, leaking head of his cock. He doesn’t push in yet. He just rubs the thick crown against your stretched entrance, letting you feel the size, the heat.
“Beg for it,” he orders quietly.
You turn your head just enough to meet his violet eyes—defiant, glittering. “Please.”
And with that you push back—slow, determined—taking the first inch of him into your ass while Baelor stays buried to the hilt in your cunt.
The stretch is blinding. Fullness on a level that steals your breath, makes your vision swim. You freeze for a heartbeat, trembling, adjusting—then start to move again. Tiny rocks at first, testing, then longer slides that take more of Maekar with every pass.
Both princes groan in unison.
“Fuck—tight—” Maekar’s voice cracks for the first time tonight.
Baelor’s hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples. “Look at you,” he breathes. “Taking us both like it’s nothing. Our perfect, filthy princess.”
They find their rhythm again—awkward for a moment, then devastating. Maekar pulling back as Baelor thrusts in, then reversing, so you’re never empty. Each movement drags against every sensitive place inside you until you’re shaking, sobbing with pleasure, nails raking down Baelor’s chest.
“Come for us,” Baelor commands, teeth grazing your neck. “Come with both cocks inside you. Let us feel it.”
You shatter—violently.
Your whole body seizes, inner walls clamping down on both of them in brutal spasms. A scream tears from your throat—raw, unashamed, echoing through the tower like a war cry. Baelor swears and bucks up hard, spilling deep inside your cunt with a broken moan. Maekar follows seconds later—burying himself to the root in your ass and coming with a low, animal sound, flooding you until you feel the heat blooming everywhere.
You stay locked together for long minutes—panting, slick with sweat and come, hearts hammering against each other.
Finally Maekar eases out first—slow, careful—watching his spend leak from your stretched hole with dark fascination. Baelor lifts you gently off his softening cock and pulls you down against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he never intends to let go.
Maekar settles behind you both, one big hand stroking down your spine in long, soothing passes. For once he doesn’t speak—just presses a surprisingly tender kiss to the bite-mark he left on your shoulder earlier.
You turn your head, smirking through the haze of exhaustion. “Still think you can keep up with a Dornish princess until dawn?”
Baelor chuckles weakly against your hair. “We’ll die trying.”
Maekar’s hand tightens on your hip—possessive, promising. “We have all night to find out.”
And as the first gray light begins to creep through the arrow-slits high above, they start again—slower this time, languid, like the long, hot days of Dorne itself.
No rush.
No end in sight.
Just heat, and skin, and the three of you tangled together until the sun finally rises over the Blackwater.