- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower
ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)
notes:
gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!
“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.
The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.
Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.
“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”
Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.
While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.
Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”
His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.
“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”
There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.
Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.
“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”
With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.
“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.
The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.
Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—
And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.
The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—
The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.
A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.
And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.
“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.
Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.
Oh, this is really happening, is it not?
“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”
“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.
You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.
After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.
As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:
“Could you be gentle... at least?”
“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.
Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.
Precious thing, she truly is.
With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.
He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.
“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.
His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.
A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.
“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”
Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.
Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.
“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.
He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.
“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”
“But—”
His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.
“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”
Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”
His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.
“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.
Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?
“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”
He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.
When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.
“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.
You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.
For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.
Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.
His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.
Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.
But you weren’t alone.
A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.
“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.
“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”
Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.
“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”
“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.
His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.
“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”
His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.
“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”
A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”
“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”
Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.
Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.
“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”
“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”
“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”
He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.
“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”
The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.
With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.
Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.
Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.
These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.
And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.
To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.
“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”
“Oh—!”
A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.
His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.
“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.
However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”
Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.
“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.
His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—
His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.
Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.
How?
Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?
His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:
“Were you with Ormund?”
. . .
You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.
You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.
“Why were you with him?”
That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.
But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.
He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.
“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”
“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.
You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—
“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”
You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.
But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.
Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.
The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.
“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”
“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”
Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.
Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.
It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.
“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”
You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.
“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”
You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.
His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.
The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—
“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”
Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.
“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.
Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.
With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.
Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?
A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.
Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.
Fuck patience.
He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.
Fuck virtues.
Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.
“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.
“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”
He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.
“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.
When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.
As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.
You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.
There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.
“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”
The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.
Fuck.
The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.
You awoke before him.
With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.
Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.
Sweet man, and he’s all mine.
A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.
At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.
“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.
Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.
You blinked. “What for?”
“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”
“Oh?”
“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”
He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.
“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”
You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.
“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”
Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.
“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”
His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.
“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”
“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”
Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?
Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.
“This is how you kiss, darling.”
And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.
When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.
What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.
tagging @luvweezer @j3ons4 @heavenlypuggs @salinaiacono6 @thelastemzy @meowingtotheoldies @violetrainbow412-blog @reading-it-all as per request <3
summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)
contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
i. DUTY & HONOR
Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.
You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with.
They gave you a husband instead.
Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.
“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.
“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”
You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.
Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.
That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).
You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.
You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.
“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.
“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.
“I was,” Gwayne nods.
“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”
He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed.
The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.
Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve.
“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”
“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.”
“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”
“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”
You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.
“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.
Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”
“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”
“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.
“It feels less and less so these days.”
“They’re only frightened—”
“I’m frightened,” you remind him.
The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud.
He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”
“No Hightowers?” you add.
“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”
You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”
“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”
“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”
“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”
“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”
“They won’t.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”
“So do most men—”
“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”
Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.
“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”
“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.
A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”
“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”
“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”
Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.
But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.
And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.
ii. OATHS & ASHES
The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself.
It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”
Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.
Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.
You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask.
The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.
Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.
“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.
“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.
Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.
“Well, I was going to, of course.”
“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood.
“…Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”
“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”
“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”
“The king has given orders—”
“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”
Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”
“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”
“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”
“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”
Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you.
His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.
“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”
“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”
“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”
“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…”
You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.
“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.
The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.
The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.
“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely.
“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”
“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”
The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”
Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”
Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”
Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.
“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.
“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”
Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.
He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.
This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.
It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.
The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.
“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there.
He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.
He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”
You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.
Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.
His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.
Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.
Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”
You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.
Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.
His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.
“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”
“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.
Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”
“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.
“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.
Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”
iii. CROWNS & CAGES
You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.
Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”
You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.
Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.
You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.
“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”
Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.
“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”
“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”
“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”
“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”
Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”
“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”
“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”
The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle.
Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.
A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.
Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned.
A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.
Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map.
“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone.
“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”
Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”
“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace.
His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.
“I expected someone… older.”
His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”
“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”
“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”
You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”
“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”
You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.
Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”
“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”
“For… What purpose?” he laughs.
You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all.
You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.
“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”
Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude.
It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.
Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.
The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.
It had been four days since then.
And you haven’t eaten once in protest.
It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?
On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.
He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it. The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.
There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow.
Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless.
Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.
“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”
Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.
“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”
His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”
You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”
“Eat.”
You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”
“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”
You respond with only a glare.
Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”
You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.
“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.”
Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.
He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.
“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides. “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”
“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”
“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”
“When?” you spit.
“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”
A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”
His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?”
His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.
“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches.
A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth.
“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”
Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.
“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”
Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”
“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”
Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.
iv. SILK & SWORDS
You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.
Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.
Your days, however, remained painfully empty.
Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.
The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.
Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.
“Is that a love letter—?”
The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.
It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.
“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”
“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.
You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.
His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.
Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”
“Please, don’t—”
His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.
The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.
His head turns slightly under the blow.
Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.
The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.
“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.
You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.
“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”
“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”
The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.
Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.
You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.
Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.
“My lady…”
You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.
Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.
Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.
Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.
“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”
Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.
v. SANCTUARY & SIN
The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.
For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm.
Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.
Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.”
His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.
“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.”
It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.
Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.
You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.
But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.
Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.
“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."
You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.
You haven’t left his bed since.
The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.
No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor.
You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.
You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.
“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders.
“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.
The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”
“I learned everything from you, did I not?”
When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.
Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”
“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.
“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”
“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”
You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.
His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.
“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.
“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”
You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”
“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."
“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.
“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.
He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you.
One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.
It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.
You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.
“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.
“Ought what?”
“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”
You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”
Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction.
“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”
You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”
He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”
“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”
You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.
He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.
Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.
Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.
You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.
“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”
Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”
Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.
Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.
Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.
“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.
“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.
“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”
A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.
“There it is…” he praises.
“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”
The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you.
His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.
It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins.
Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.
You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.
He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth.
He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”
Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”
Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”
“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.
Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”
The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.
“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”
Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit.
Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.
Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you.
The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass.
He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you.
You aren’t far behind.
He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.
“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”
Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one.
The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.
“My lord?”
The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.
“My lord—”
“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”
The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”
You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.
Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”
“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”
Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”
After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”
summary: punished for his greed, sylus has three months for a princess to kiss him or else his curse becomes permanent OR you are indebted to a talking crow and repeatedly deny his one request of a single kiss
wc: 10.1k
warnings: oral (f rec), fingering, piv, unprotected sex, pronebone, creampie, xav is a pos plot device sorry guys, the servants really like gossip
an: :)
It was a beautiful summer day, the sky crystal clear, a warm breeze carrying the scent of the wildflowers that dotted the landscape. You were free of lessons today, meaning you were free to enjoy the perfect day, your prized golden ball, a gift from your father, the plaything of choice. Up and down, up and down, it fell into your waiting palm, until it went up and then didn't return. You looked up curiously, eyes scanning the branches of the large oak tree that stretched into the bright blue sky, your gaze finally landing on the glint of your ball far above your reach. You huffed, annoyed that it had gotten stuck at all, but also distressed that your favorite toy might never come back down.
Tears welled up in your eyes, unbidden, as you continued to stare at your beloved toy lodged in the branches. Would your father be disappointed in you for losing it? The tears fell faster and faster until you were sobbing upon the ground. It was such a little thing to be so upset over, you knew that, but it meant so much to you.
“What ails you, princess?” Came a voice from high above you, but from whom you could not see. “You cry so miserably, even a stone would be moved to show pity.” A shadowy form descended until the black bird landed directly in front of you, its unnervingly intelligent eyes seemingly looking into your very soul.
You were taken aback. It was talking. The bird was speaking to you. And not just mimicking someone else’s voice, but truly speaking. All thoughts of your ball were wiped from your mind as you stared in awe at the feathered anomaly. It waited patiently for your response, calm as the breeze that flowed through the trunks.
“My ball,” you eventually stuttered out. You pointed where it was still lodged, the crow following the line of your arm to spy the golden bauble. “It’s stuck, and I can’t get it down.”
“No need to cry for that. I will help you, but what will you give me in return if I bring your plaything back down?” He asked, his shrewd eyes fixed on your own.
“Anything you desire,” you responded. “My clothes, my pearls and jewels, and even the crown on my head if that is what you wish.”
The crow tilted its head. “Anything? You should be more careful when making promises, especially to the unnatural. What if I asked for your heart? Or perhaps an eye. Would you give it to me?” Derision dripped from his every word.
You faltered. What nerve this feathered beast had. “I’ll give you what you wish so long as it is within reason, and I maintain the right to deny that which I am either unwilling or unable to fulfill. Does that satisfy you?”
The bird turned your words over in its mind, thinking carefully about your wording before answering that yes, that would do just fine. So up, up, up the bird flew, nudging your precious gift from where it had lodged itself so that it came falling back to earth with a solid thud. You reached out, your hand wrapping firmly around it. The bird landed in front of you once more, his request already decided.
“Thank you, Mr. Crow. What is it that you would like in return for helping me?”
“A kiss,” he answered confidently, not a shadow of a doubt that that was what he wanted.
You had expected gold or other such shiny things, something a crow might find enjoyment in, but reality was so far from your expectations that you were again stunned into silence.
“A kiss, your highness, that is all I ask for,” he pleaded, almost desperate. Why a crow was so insistent on a kiss was beyond you, but you would not grant it. It spoke like a person, so how could you be sure it was a crow at all and not some evil of the forest that only took the form of a crow? What if a kiss would bind you to it for all eternity?
“I cannot do that, Mr. Crow,” you declined.
“Cannot or will not? Your terms were that you could refuse my requests if you were unwilling or unable, so which is it?”
“Will not. My father is considering a betrothal with another kingdom. Whether you are a crow or something else, my kisses are reserved for the one whom I will marry.”
The crow looked disappointed, which you didn't even know was possible for a bird. “I would like to be your companion then. To eat and drink the same food, to sleep in the same quarters, to be at your side, always.”
You acquiesced, but the second the crow looked away from you, you fled back to the castle, trying to put as much distance between you and that unnatural bird as you could. He took to the air, following your retreating figure, squawking at you to wait, to come back, that he meant you no harm, you promised. But you did not listen, did not care to hear one more word the mysterious bird had to say. It shouldn't have had any words to say in the first place.
You didn't stop running until the castle doors were shut firmly behind you. You thought the crow wouldn't have dared leave its home in the forest, but it was waiting for you, adamant that you would hold up your end of the deal.
That night at dinner, you heard an insistent tapping at the window. Your father, the king, heard it as well, shooting a curious glance your way as if to ask if you heard it too. The dining room was not on the ground floor; no one should have been able to reach those high windows. You rose slowly, walking to the covered window to pull back the curtain. There, perched on the windowsill, was the crow from the forest. It stared at you directly through the thick pane of glass, its beady eyes narrowed. Yet, it never stopped the incessant tapping on the window with its beak. You yanked the curtains closed, returning to your seat and ignoring the infernal tapping upon the window.
“What is it?” your father asked, looking between you and the window.
“A crow,” you answered simply, drinking from your goblet to hopefully avoid saying more.
“Why is there a crow on the windowsill? It’s awfully late for a crow to be this active.”
You sighed heavily, telling your father of all that had transpired earlier in the day. How you had lost your ball, how the crow had retrieved it, how you had promised it a reward, and then how you hadn't fulfilled his wish. He looked angry, but not at the crow; no, he was angry with you. “That which you promised must be fulfilled. You are a princess. You cannot make such empty promises. Go, allow him in, and keep your word. He will eat and drink as you do, sleep as you do, and be at your side always.”
Though you greatly disliked it, you did as he said, approaching the window and once again parting the curtains to reveal the disgruntled bird. You scowled at it. Why couldn't it just stay in the woods? Or, better yet, have helped you just to be kind, and not ask for such ridiculous compensation.
You unlatched the window, allowing the bird to fly into the dining room where it perched on the chair across from yours, staring at you expectantly. You walked back to your seat after securing the window, not taking your eyes off the bird.
You didn't speak to the bird, ignoring it as best you could, whereas your father made polite conversation with it, as if there was nothing odd about conversing with a crow over dinner. Your father had called over a servant, requesting that both a meal and a drink be brought out for the bird. “What shall we call you?” your father asked politely.
“Your daughter called me Mr. Crow. That will do fine.”
“Don't you have a name of your own?”
He did, but it stuck in his throat when he tried to utter it. “No. I’m just a crow.” For now.
Your father nodded, not quite satisfied, feeling bad that a sentient creature such as the crow had not so much as a name to call its own. “Mr. Crow it is then.”
When dinner ended, he followed you to your bedroom, and almost followed you into the bathroom as well until you shut the door in his face. You dismissed the maids, insisting that you wanted to be alone. Obviously, the crow was here to stay, so you wanted all the alone time you could get. You scrubbed until your skin was angry and raw, wishing you could scrub the crow itself from both your memory and life. No ball, however sentimental, was worth such a headache.
You exited the bathroom, finding the crow stubbornly waiting for you just outside. You groaned, ignoring it, and it followed you all the way back to your room, making itself comfy on one of your pillows. Your distaste for the creature only deepened. “You're not sleeping in my bed,” you stated.
“Our agreement-”
“You requested the same quarters, not the same bed. It was you who said to word things carefully, no?”
He laughed, beyond amused. You were right, he did say both of those things. “Very well. Where would you have me sleep then, your highness?”
“Don't know, don't care. Get out of my bed.” You glared as you watched him settle himself on your writing desk. You crawled into bed, blowing the candle out to sleep, and hopefully, when you woke up, this would all have been a dream.
“Princess?” called the bird. “You've not given me a place to sleep.”
“Sleep on the floor for all I care,” you grumbled, pulling the covers up higher to cover your ears.
“How do you expect to care for your people one day if you cannot even care for a bird?” The bird goaded, amusement morphing into offense at your continual poor treatment of him.
“You're just a bird!” you spat at him.
“I’m your guest,” he corrected indignantly, pride running hot through his veins.
You shot up in bed, snatching the other pillow that he had been on and tossing it to the floor. “There! Is that what you wanted?” He hopped onto the plush cushion, making himself comfy.
“It is,” he said finally, content with his downy accommodations, even if not so pleased that he was still on the floor and not your bed. Just to add to your obvious irritation, he added, "Goodnight, princess.” He took immense satisfaction in your muffled groan from beneath the blankets you had buried yourself under.
The next morning, you woke from the light streaming in through the open window. You stretched, body still lethargic with sleep. You forced yourself into a sitting position, spotting the now-empty pillow on the floor, the only trace that the bird had been there at all. You dressed for the day, making your way to the dining room to join your father for breakfast.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he greeted you warmly. “Sleep well?”
You hummed in affirmation, pouring yourself a cup of coffee from the carafe.
“And where is Mr. Crow?” he asked, not missing the absence of the newest resident of the castle.
You shrugged. “Don’t know. He was gone when I woke up. The window was open last night for fresh air.”
“You didn't throw him out of the window, did you?” he asked, eyeing you suspiciously.
“No! Of course not!” You wanted him gone, but you didn't want to actively terrorize the bird.
Your father still looked slightly suspicious of you, but let it go without further argument. He finished his food, excusing himself from the table to go to his office. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, telling you to take your time with breakfast and that your lessons had been postponed in favor of getting to know your new friend, absent though he was.
You sipped your coffee, taking in the early morning light. It was calm, relaxing, until that same wretched tapping as last interrupted the serenity. You sighed, placing your mug back on the table and rising from your seat. As you drew near, you could see that it had something in its beak, but you weren't quite sure what until you opened the window.
They were flowers. The bird had woken up early to pick flowers. He angled his head up, as if offering them to you. “For me?” you asked quizzically.
It nodded its feathered head, hopping closer. You took the modest bouquet, curious why he would do such a thing. You had done nothing to deserve such a gesture. “Thank you. They’re very pretty,” you said with a small smile, touched by the effort this must have taken for the small animal.
“Pretty enough to deserve a kiss?” He asked.
You shook your head. “I already told you I won't kiss you.”
Sylus was beginning to think he should have negotiated that kiss before helping you at all. “I’ll earn that kiss eventually, princess.”
You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him and returning to finish your now lukewarm coffee, the crow in pursuit. He nibbled at the spread, but didn't seem keen to eat much. He was a bird, and the phrase ‘eat like a bird’ had to come from somewhere, you guessed. In truth, he was planning and plotting how to get you to kiss him. He only had so much time before this was permanent, and his human consciousness was overridden and forgotten.
Days came and went in the same fashion. The bird continued sleeping on what you had designated as his pillow on the floor, ate every meal with you, and joined you for walks around the garden. He was your ever-present shadow, just as he had requested. Your annoyance with him decreased with each passing day, beginning to grow fond of his company, especially once you got used to his dry humor. On this particular day, he was perched on your chair in the garden’s gazebo, reading over your shoulder. When you had asked if he was even capable of reading, he had merely scoffed at you.
The two of you were reading in silence, and with him still securely perched on your chair, you knew it wasn't him hopping around beneath the table, so what was that brushing against your shoes?
You glanced beneath the table, jerking away with a scream that startled Sylus into the air. He landed on the ground, eyes zeroing in on the offender who had scared his princess so badly. It was just a small garden snake, something he could easily handle. He looked at you to see that you weren't just surprised by the snake, you were genuinely scared. That settled that, then. The snake had to go.
It was quick, but unable to evade Sylus forever, now squirming in his beak. He flew off with it, returning without it shortly, landing on the table. “Are you alright, your highness?”
“Yes, quite. Thank you, Mr. Crow,” you said gratefully, smiling at your feathered friend.
“I think my heroics ought to be rewarded. How about a kiss?”
You giggled. He was very persistent about receiving a kiss but would not tell you why, no matter how much you asked. You kissed the pads of two of your fingers, then brought them down on the bird’s beak. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he said, not impressed with your display.
He was even less impressed when Prince Xavier, the crown prince of one of the neighboring kingdoms, Philos, was invited by your father in the hopes of the two of you becoming amiable to a betrothal to unite your two nations. He was seething. It was supposed to be him! He was the one who was in talks with your father, not this boy who hadn't even ascended the throne yet. He would not sit idly by while his would-be bride was wooed by another, condemning him to life as a crow permanently.
Though Xavier was every bit the gentleman he was expected to be, Sylus also knew that Philos was suffering economically. Onychinus, on the other hand, was thriving. How unfortunate that the king had gone missing recently, leaving your father to explore other options for his daughter. It wouldn't last. Sylus would make sure of it.
Already, the young royal was on Sylus’ nerves, sitting in his spot across from you. He made his displeasure known, staring the prince down from his position on your chair, abstaining from the meal altogether in favor of glaring at the nuisance in his seat.
“Is he your pet?” Xavier asked, gesturing to the bird.
You glanced over at Sylus, shaking your head with a smile. “Mr. Crow? No, he's a friend more than a pet.” Sylus puffed his chest out proudly. “He’s usually more talkative than this, though,” you added, somewhat concerned with his new silence.
Xavier seemed confused for a moment before something clicked in his head. “Right, I’ve heard that corvids are wonderful at copying human speech. I hope to hear from Mr. Crow before I have to return to Philos.”
You pinched your lips together, deciding not to tell him that the bird could truly talk and didn't just copy phrases he heard. It almost felt special that he wouldn't talk to Xavier when usually he talked your ear off, his sarcastic remarks never failing to pull a giggle from you.
But his odd behavior didn't stop with his uncharacteristic silence. Cookies and tea were brought out, and before Xavier could take one from his plate, Sylus took it upon himself to snatch one.
“Hey!” you reprimanded, gently pushing him away from the plates, cookie still held in his beak. “What is wrong with you today?” It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but you didn't miss the pointed glare he directed at Xavier.
“He’s quite alright. I don't expect birds to have table manners. Would you like another?” he asked, nudging his plate towards Sylus, which was promptly ignored.
The intention was to anger the other royal, cause a tantrum, but all he had succeeded in doing was endearing you even more when Xavier had actually been kind to him.
Nothing was working. Not dropping a grasshopper on him in the gardens, not pulling the buttons of his coat, not even pecking at his hand when he tried to hold yours. He remained ever so patient. You, however, were losing yours. Xavier might believe that Mr. Crow was just a normal bird, but you knew better.
That night, when the castle was turning in for the night, you were confronting an audacious bird. “What was all that about today? I need him to like me!”
“Why? You're a princess; you have plenty of other options. You don't need anything from Prince Xander,” he dismissed. Based on his tone, if he were human, you would be convinced he would be inspecting his nails, bored, and acting as if the conversation was nothing of import.
“Xavier,” you corrected. “And I do need something from him. A marriage proposal would unite our kingdoms and-”
“And what?” Sylus interrupted. “Drag you into ruin with him? Philos is a failing kingdom, and he would only take Linkon down with it. He intends to use you to gain access to Linkon’s resources.”
The bird's cruel words cut you deeply. “You're just a bird. How could you possibly know any of that?”
He scoffed derisively. “Because he believes me to be just a bird, and, despite what you say, you know that’s not true. He doesn't watch his words around me the way he does with you.”
You were biting your bottom lip, brows furrowed in that oh-so-cute way he loved. He hated that it was born of insecurity, though. “Did he talk to you?” you asked timidly, trusting that he wouldn't lie to you, but still knowing that his answer would likely hurt.
“He did. When you excused yourself from the gardens. Said that ‘my owner’ is a foolish girl looking for love in the wrong places. That she was just a means to an end, and when he married you, the first thing he would do is get rid of me. Which I don't appreciate, by the way.” He saw your downcast face, hating that there was nothing he could do to make it better. “I’m sorry, your highness.”
You shook your head. “It’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. I believe you, but can you prove it? Something tangible that I can show my father?”
“Consider it done.”
“Come back here, you odious beast!” the young prince’s voice followed him as he took flight from his room, returning to yours, the damning letter clutched in his beak. You were waiting for him by the windowsill, accepting the letter he proudly presented to you. Your eyes scanned its contents, your face expressing your anger more and more.
You were tempted to rip the letter into pieces, but you needed the evidence to show your father, preferably in one piece.
“Will that suffice?” Sylus inquired. “He walked in before I could finish reading it.”
“It’s exactly what I asked for. You couldn't have done any better.”
“I believe my hard work is worthy of a kiss, wouldn't you agree?” You were, in fact, inclined to agree with him this time. Were it not for him, you may have actually ended up betrothed to a man who thought you “foolish and airheaded” and described your dear friend Mr. Crow as “a ghastly thing that ought to be fed to the dogs.”
You nodded at the bird who was waiting for you to refuse him as you always did, but the refusal did not come. You nodded slowly, ever so grateful to the bird that you were willing to accept the one request he so often made. You pushed your hair behind your ear, leaning in to kiss the feathers atop the bird’s head, the bird himself eagerly waiting to be rid of this cursed form.
A knock at the door. It was a maid informing you that your father was requesting you in his office immediately. You smiled at the bird apologetically, his disappointment palpable. His time was dwindling. Already, he could feel the crow’s instincts overriding his conscious thoughts.
“Explain to me why Prince Xavier just stormed out of the castle! What happened?” Your father was livid, more so than he’d ever been with you. “You’re not a child anymore! You have your future to think about. He’s the crown prince of-”
“Of a kingdom on the brink of financial ruin. Here.” You thrust the stolen letter forth, watching your father’s anger at you redirect to the arrogant prince.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you, my dear child. After reading this, good riddance to him. But how did you get this letter?”
“Mr. Crow retrieved it. I left the two of them alone, and Prince Xavier talked to him, told him everything. Mr. Crow wouldn't speak in his presence, so the prince thought he was a normal bird. I asked for proof, and he brought me the letter the prince was penning back home.”
Your father nodded, not thrilled with the methods, but opting to turn a blind eye since it kept his precious daughter out of the hands of a man who only sought to use you. He lamented the disappearance of King Sylus. Regal, successful, and in need of a queen. In terms of a political match, he was perfect. For a love match, your father still thought that you would have made a lovely pair, your personalities balancing each other. Their letters of correspondence detailed likes, dislikes, the state of the kingdoms, policies, everything that was of any importance to a marriage as high-profile as yours would be. But then they’d stopped, and eventually the news reached him that the king was nowhere to be found, having gone off on a hunt and never returning.
There hadn’t been time to build such a relationship with Philos, a fact that greatly disheartened the king. You were of the age where royalty needed to wed, but you were still his daughter, and as any father would, he only wanted the best for you. Instead, he had nearly paired you with a worm.
“When you return to your room, can you inform Mr. Crow that I would like to see him? I want to thank him personally.” You nodded, closing the door softly behind you when you left.
When you returned, Mr. Crow was sifting through your jewelry box, sorting by both types of jewelry and gemstone color. “Well, aren't you nosy?” You teased.
“It’s a terrible mess in here. Have you ever organized it?” he said, his smooth voice echoing from where his entire head was still within the ornate box.
“I have, thank you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
You walked over to your vanity, prying the bird away from your priceless ornaments, a bracelet still dangling from his beak, which you relieved him of with your hand.
“My father wants to see you in his office,” you told him as you began to return your jewelry to its rightful place.
“I wasn't done with that,” Sylus told you, miffed that you were undoing all his hard work.
“You are now. Go, before my father comes looking for you.”
He heaved a great sigh, but set out through the open window. The summer breeze was lovely, but you really did need to start closing them if Xavier was a lesson to anyone.
-𓅨-
It was gone. You dumped out the entire box, sifted through every piece of jewelry you owned, and still couldn't find it. You had lost your mother’s necklace. You were panicking, hyperventilating. Since her death, you had kept that necklace safely tucked away, so how could it have disappeared? Fat tears rolled down your face, a deep ache settling in your chest.
“What’s wrong, princess? Are you hurt?” Mr. Crow’s deep velvety voice called from the windowsill.
“My necklace, my mother’s necklace, I can't find it, and I’ve looked everywhere. Did you see it when you were digging through it?”
“What does it look like?”
You described the necklace in as great detail as you could with your frazzled mind, and, unfortunately, Sylus knew exactly the one you were talking about. It was currently sitting in the tree he had initially taken up residence in, the one you had found him in that fateful day, squirreled away with a trove of other shiny pilfered items.
You would hate him. You would most definitely hate him after this, but he could not, in good conscience, allow you to believe that you were at fault for the loss of something so important to you. He took off from the windowsill, heading straight for the tree, tossing out all of his little treasures in his hunt for the one he should have never taken.
The second he found it, he was high-tailing it back to your room, hoping against hope that you would forgive him. And for a moment, when he landed, he thought you might. You were overjoyed when he placed it in your outstretched hand, until it dawned on you. He knew exactly where to go, and it wasn't anywhere in the palace.
You looked at the bird that you had trusted so much, betrayed. “Did you steal this from me?” you asked, your voice now a hoarse whisper, disbelief coloring your words.
He hung his head in shame. “I did,” he confessed solemnly.
“Why?” You were still crying, and it was his fault. “Why would you take this?”
“Because I can’t help it. I-” he choked on the words. He wanted to tell you that this wasn't him, that he didn't want to hurt you, and that he was losing his real self to the crow instincts, but the terms of the curse wouldn't allow it. “I’m just a crow,” he settled on morosely. He was coming to terms with the fact that soon he wouldn't exist at all, his human soul condemned to rot away, leaving only a crow in its place. It had already begun.
“Get out,” you commanded coldly.
“Princess-” he started, landing on the bed beside you.
In your anger and hurt, you lashed out at him, pushing him away from you. The movement was so sudden and unexpected that he wasn't able to prevent himself from falling to the floor.
You gasped, pushing yourself into a sitting position to lean over the edge of the bed. “Are you ok? I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to—” The tears came stronger now. You had hurt the only real friend you had.
He flapped back up to the bed, staring directly into your eyes. “If you're sorry for hurting me, then kiss it better.”
“What?” you sniffled.
“Kiss it better, and I’ll forgive you.”
Wallowing in your own guilt, you didn't think twice about fulfilling his request, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. When you opened your eyes, Mr. Crow was gone. In his place, face to face with you, was the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on. A man who was very, very naked.
You jerked away, a scream bubbling in your throat that the man was quick to muffle with his hand over your mouth, pinning you down beneath him so you couldn't run off. “Relax, Princess,” he said. You’d know that silky voice anywhere. You pushed his hand away, needing to confirm what you already knew was true.
“Mr. Crow?” you asked in disbelief.
“Sylus,” he corrected.
“Sy-” you started, and then your eyes widened in realization. “The missing king.”
“In the flesh, your highness,” he grinned. “Been a bird for so long I thought I’d never be human again.”
“You- how-” you stuttered, unable to properly express yourself.
He chuckled at you, the sound so much more attractive now that it was coming from a man and not a bird. “It was a curse. I took something I shouldn't have.”
“Sounds familiar,” you said pointedly.
“Don't interrupt me. As I was saying, I took a gemstone without realizing it belonged to a witch. As you can imagine, she didn't take kindly to it. And as you've come to know over these few weeks, greed is my vice. Told her finder’s keepers, so she said if I act like a crow, then I might as well be one. And then I was one. She gave me three months before it became permanent, only broken by the kiss of a princess.”
“That’s why you wanted a kiss so bad,” you said, staring at the man in awe. “But why didn't you just say that?”
“Another condition of the curse is that I couldn't talk about it. Couldn't reveal any identifying information, but now I’m free, thanks to you, princess.”
“You are. You're also…” your eyes trailed down his toned figure, quickly going back to his face when you saw more of him than you meant to, your face flushing hot.
“Naked? Doesn't seem like you're complaining, though. I don't mind if you look.” He said, thoroughly amused at your obvious embarrassment.
You turned your head away from him, avoiding eye contact. He exhaled through his nose, leaning in to nose at your exposed throat. “C’mon, don't be shy, princess. Won’t you let me thank you?”
Your tongue wouldn't cooperate to answer him.
He hummed questioningly, nipping at your earlobe. “Some time later, then.” He rolled off you into a sitting position, but you stayed put where you were, your eyes fixed on his every movement. “It's dangerous to look at a man like that, princess, especially lying down,” he stated.
You sat upright immediately, looking at him apprehensively. “I’ll get you some clothes,” you told him.
He nodded, watching you exit the room to summon a maid. You returned shortly, still avoiding eye contact with him. He frowned at this. He knew this was a lot to take in, but it’s not like he was a total stranger. You wouldn't even sit on the bed with him, choosing to stand near the door and wait for the maid to return with the clothes you had requested.
The maid returned with a gentle knock, and you opened it just enough for her to squeeze the clothes in, which you took gratefully, tossing them over to Sylus as quickly as you could, not caring if he caught them or not. You were turned to face the wall, determined to not see any more of him than you already had. He was still a king deserving of respect. That, and you had never seen a bare man before. This was highly improper.
“You’ve already seen everything. Might as well enjoy the show,” he teased.
You squeaked out a no, making him laugh. Even listening to the shuffling of clothes was enough to bring a blush to your cheeks. “You can turn around now,” he informed you when he finished. You did, almost laughing at how ridiculous the outfit looked on him. You weren't sure where the maid had gotten the clothes, but they were entirely too small for the large man, the pants' legs barely brushing the top of his ankles.
You covered your mouth to hide the growing smile, but it wasn't nearly enough to mask your mirth. He didn't hold it against you. He knew he looked silly, and it was nice to see your smile back on your face in place of the fear and uncertainty his return to human form had caused.
“Princess, can you arrange a meeting with your father for me?”
“Of course. You could just follow me to his office. I’m sure he’d put aside whatever work he’s doing. You’ve been missing for so long.”
Sylus looked down at his ill-fitting outfit with a grimace. He’d be seen by everyone like this. He almost wished he were still a bird, but it couldn't be helped. “Lead the way,” he said.
The walk to your father’s office was awkward, at best. You had spent weeks talking to the imposing man who now walked beside you, but you didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; you were just trying to reconcile that the bird who’d been sleeping in your room was actually a full-grown man, a king, and wondering if it was immoral that you found him wildly attractive even though he had been a bird up until twenty minutes ago.
When you arrived at the large wooden door, you knocked, waiting for permission to enter. You gestured for Sylus to wait outside for a moment, slipping into your father’s office to try to explain at least a little bit and not blindside him with the king’s sudden appearance.
You regaled him with everything that had transpired, his jaw dropping open more and more as you spoke. When you finished, he just stared at you, unsure where to even start. “Is this a joke?” he asked.
You shook your head, opening the door and waving Sylus inside. Your father looked between you and the other king, his brain still trying to catch up to your story. He addressed Sylus first. “Your Majesty, I have been told the most fantastical story I’ve ever heard. You were Mr. Crow?”
“I was, Your Majesty. Cursed by a witch. I can tell the full story if your lovely daughter here hasn't done so already.”
“She glossed over that, but it’s not important right now. So you were a bird, and my daughter kissed you, and that reversed the curse?”
You both nodded. Your father was at a loss for words. He’d never had to deal with anything remotely near the situation he now found himself in. But the more he thought about it, the more something bothered him. “You,” he growled, pointing an accusatory finger at Sylus. “You've been sleeping in my daughter’s room all this time.”
His demeanor completely flipped when he turned to you. “Darling, would you give us a moment alone?” he asked with faux cheer.
You shot Sylus a look, silently wishing him luck, before getting out of that room as quickly as you could. The second the door shut behind you, your father unleashed hell on the silver-haired king, not giving a damn about his status. You rocked on your feet outside, waiting for the lecture to end. You doubted anyone had ever spoken to Sylus like that.
Moving forward from that day, Sylus was immediately given his own room while preparations were made for him to return to Onychinus. He was also given explicit instructions to stay out of your room. You wouldn't admit it to him, but you missed Mr. Cr- Sylus.
It came to a head, and you couldn't take it anymore. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you were striding down the halls to the guest wing. You found him in the drawing room, seated on one of the overstuffed chairs, a book in hand and head propped on one hand.
He saw you enter in his peripheral vision and set the book down on a side table to give you his full attention. “Princess, to what do I owe the honor of a visit?”
“I just…” You trailed off. It was embarrassing how much you missed his company, and you knew he would be smug if those words ever reached his ears.
“If you don't know what it is that you want, then I can't do anything to help you.” Was your pride worth it if he was smug anyway?
“Just thought that we haven't talked in a while.”
“In other words, you missed me,” he said, those crimson eyes seemingly peering into your very soul. Your new shyness around him was as endearing as it was irritating. He had gone from a potential suitor, to a crow, to your friend (still as a crow), to nearly a total stranger again. Did you still view him as a bird? Because he could change that.
“Come here, princess,” he commanded. There was no bite or authority to his words; you could refuse if you wanted, but you didn't. You walked forward, head held high, a facade of confidence you did not possess, not around this man who sent heat shooting to your core with a mere glance.
You stopped a few feet away, but you were still too far for Sylus’ liking. “Closer,” he urged. Again, you stopped short of where he wanted you. He sighed, leaning forward in the chair to pull you forwards by your hips, your body slotting between his knees, his face level with your abdomen and looking up at you. “When I say I want you close, this is what I mean.” His husky voice washed over you, as tempting as the siren is to the sailor.
You braced your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the hard muscle beneath your palms. No amount of pushing would separate him from you, though. “This is improper,” you objected, but your voice was thin and brittle, your resolve weak, and he knew it.
“Is it?”
You couldn't tear your eyes away from him even as he rose from his seated position to his full height, not allowing you to put so much as a millimeter between your bodies. He bent low enough to brush his nose against yours. “You still owe me a kiss for chasing off that prince,” he whispered, breath fanning your face.
Your cheeks flamed, but you would be lying to yourself if you pretended you wanted him to stop. You brought your hand up to his face, cupping his jawline and guiding his face forward until his soft lips were on yours. He hummed lowly, reciprocating with movements of his own. He licked the seam of your lips, asking permission, wanting, needing, more.
You parted your lips, and he snaked his tongue into your mouth, caressing your own. You hummed into his mouth, and he tightened his hold on you as if you weren't already pressed flush against his chest. Without parting from your pretty lips, he lifted you into his arms, your legs on either side of his waist. He didn't care if any of the servants were in the halls; he had already reached an agreement with your father. The betrothal hadn't been announced, but it had been decided. You were his, whether you knew it or not. He’d almost lost you to that pompous prince, and he wasn't keen to let you nearly slip through his fingers again.
Upon entering his room, he kicked the door shut behind him, quickly making his way to the bed to lay you down gently. Your lips were kiss-swollen, your eyes wide and waiting.
Normally, Sylus prided himself on his immense patience, but your sweet form beneath him was pushing him to his limits. He surged forward, peppering every inch of exposed skin with kisses, hiking up your gown to bunch around your hips. The warmth of his hands was so much more intense with the fabric out of the way. His lips were glued to your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin until he found the spot that made you mewl. With renewed effort, he focused on that spot, leaving a dark bruise that would surely let everyone know you were his.
He toyed with the waistband of your panties, hooking his fingers under it and then letting it snap back against your skin. He dragged his hand even lower, feeling the way you’d soaked a wet patch through the thin fabric. He finally gave your spit-covered neck a break, admiring the bruises already blooming. Pride is part of the reason he got cursed in the first place, and he still hadn't learned his lesson, that same vice swelling in his chest as he watched the way you panted for breath, already more worked up than anyone had probably ever made you, knowing he was the one to bring you to this point.
Fuck, you were just so goddamn pretty, even more so when you were under him like this. He prodded at your leaking hole through your cute little panties, cooing at you with faux sympathy. “You’re so wet, sweetie. Why don’t you let me clean you up, hm?”
With slow, deliberate movements, he slid your panties off in time with the maneuvering of his body, lower and lower until he was face to face with your bare pussy.
“Sylus, what are you- ahh!” you moaned loudly, question interrupted when he licked a broad stripe up your dripping cunt, groaning at the taste. So good, you tasted so fucking good. He dived back in, lapping and slurping as much of you as he could, his hums of approval shooting vibrations through your overly sensitive cunt. You clenched your thighs around his head, the sensation of his tongue thrusting into you pulling moans and gasps from your lips.
All Sylus could think about was how to coax more of your sweet sounds out, alternating between pushing his tongue inside and suckling on the sensitive bud at the apex. You wound your hand through his hair, pulling for some sort of stability. The sting of having his hair pulled only spurred him on. With renewed vigor, he pushed a finger into your gummy walls, then a second, curling them as he moved them in and out. It was so much that you were practically screaming his name. You’d never even been kissed before today, much less experienced such ecstasy. Your back was arching against the sheets, your hips canting upward, seeking more of his tongue, his fingers, everything he was willing to give you.
Sylus’ eyes peering up at you with all the conviction of a devotee praying at an altar was the final push you needed for your pleasure to reach a crescendo. Your legs clamped around Sylus’ head as your body writhed under his continued onslaught, his deft tongue lapping up everything your body would give him until you were pulling his hair for even a modicum of relief from the overstimulation.
He reluctantly pulled away, his breath coming in huffs and his face smeared with the evidence of your arousal. His attention was utterly captivated by the sight of your blissed-out expression, your eyes watery with unshed tears, and he almost came untouched at the mere fact that he was the one responsible for your current state, and he took immense pride in that.
He reached towards you to cup your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Would you like to continue, princess, or shall we stop here?” he asked.
You could only stare dumbly, still trying to pull your head back down to earth from the high he had brought you to. You wanted it. You wanted him, and you don't think you'd ever have enough of him after this. As his words processed, you nodded, the only response your cottony mind could manage.
“Words, your highness. I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you whatever it is you desire. You need only ask for it.”
Warmth flooded your face, and the sincerity of his voice only endeared you further to the king. You hesitated, somewhat shy at verbalizing such a coarse desire. Swallowing thickly, you answered him properly this time. “You. I want you.”
Sylus groaned at your admission, his cock throbbing in its confines. “You already have me,” he whispered reverently, almost in disbelief that his affections were returned. A betrothal would make you his legally, but he wanted everything: your mind, body, and heart surrendered to him the same way he had already surrendered his to you.
He wasted no time unfastening his pants and freeing his aching length, the tip raw and leaking. You eyed it warily as he leaned over you and braced his cock at your entrance. With a final glance at you to be certain that you were sure, he began to push in with as much tenderness as he could muster, his self-control fraying with every quiver of your cunt and every whine that escaped your lips.
Your breath hitched at the intrusion, the blunt head of his cock pushing further and further into you until his hips were pressed flush against yours. The new sensation of being so thoroughly filled was enough to have your head spinning before he’d even started moving.
“Is this alright?” Sylus asked, his voice strained with the effort of keeping still.
A breathy “uh-huh” was the best you could muster. Sylus would have chuckled at how you were already fucked out, but truthfully, he wasn't far behind you. His hands drifted from their place on your hips to your thighs to pull your legs snugly around his waist. With his body weight keeping you securely pinned beneath him, he pulled out until only the head of his cock remained and thrusted back in languidly, savoring the way your body accepted his, your tight walls clenching around him tightly.
It took every ounce of his self-control to not let go of all his inhibitions and lavish you with all the carnal attention you could handle, until the only thing you could do was moan his name. Having you like this was a privilege he had begun to think would never be his, but here you were, staring up at him as he worked your body, his thick cock splitting you open and his tongue laving over the soft skin of your throat, the proximity allowing him to hear every gasp and whimper and moan in perfect clarity.
In his impatience, Sylus had neglected to properly undress, a fact he thoroughly lamented now that your fingernails were raking down his clothed back. How he would love for his body to bear the undeniable proof of how good he made you feel. Next time, he supposed. For now, though, he was content to watch you fall apart more and more with every deep thrust into your weeping pussy.
You were so close, he could feel it in the way you clenched around him. His own peak was rapidly approaching; you just felt too good around him, but he was determined to make you cum before he reached his own end. With a deft thumb, he began to rub sensual circles over your sensitive nub, the added sensation making you squeal and tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him in even deeper.
You came undone once again with a shrill cry of his name as the ecstasy coursed through your veins. Sylus’ hips continued to snap into yours as he chased his own high, his pace beginning to falter as the need to release built inside him. Grunts rumbled in his chest and spilled from his lips with every thrust into your pulsing heat. He was so close, and the thought of filling you up, marking you as his, spurred him on, but this tryst was already more of a risk than either of you should have taken. He was already tempting fate enough as is.
He reluctantly pulled out of you, using his hand to stroke himself to completion, his cum painting your folds a creamy white as he groaned out your name. Not “your highness,” not “princess,” but your name. A title so much more intimate than that of your status. Something only those closest to you had the privilege of using. He panted above you, his pale skin flushed and pupils blown out, solely focused on you. If he got this worked up when you were practically still fully clothed, he wondered if he’d last at all the first time he sees you completely bare. For now, though, he pressed chaste kisses across your jawline, compliments spilling freely between each one. “Beautiful” kiss “stunning” kiss “perfect” kiss “mine.” He finally pressed his lips to yours softly after his claim, both of you completely melting into the single kiss that somehow felt almost more intimate than even your prior activities.
You were completely worn out, and exhaustion was quickly taking over. Sylus, always astutely in tune with your body’s needs, smiled fondly at your sleepy form. He rose from the bed, telling you he’d be right back before entering the ensuite bathroom and returning with a wet cloth. He made sure you were clean and comfortable in one of his extra shirts, the material dwarfing you in a way that sent protective pangs through Sylus’ heart.
He crawled into bed next to you, pulling you flush against his now-bare chest. He pressed a chaste kiss into your hairline, whispering a quiet goodnight.
While the two of you were wrapped up in each other and sleeping soundly, a red-faced, flustered maid hurried away as quietly as she could to tell the others the juiciest piece of gossip since a butler had been found to be having relations with not just a maid but also a stableboy.
There had already been talk about the two of you. It had started the second you’d requested a set of men’s clothes and refused to open the door any more than necessary, concealing the rest of your room from prying eyes (you were no fool, and the servants weren’t quite as discreet as they believed themselves to be). Shortly after that peculiar request, King Sylus, who had been missing for the better part of two months, reappeared in the palace from seemingly nowhere and with little explanation. And it did not escape the notice of those who worked closely with you that Mr. Crow was suddenly gone, but surely the two events were unrelated; it would be preposterous to link the two, even if the bird and the king shared certain similarities.
As your interactions with the silver-haired man increased, so too did the servants’ speculation of the exact nature of your relationship. After all, their princess was as pretty as a peach, and the foreign king was certainly easy on the eyes. They all knew it was bound to happen; it was just a matter of when. There was even a betting pool on when the inevitable finally happened, and this pleasantly smug little maid who was fortunate enough to be wandering down the halls at just the right time would be the one to announce the winner.
She chuckled to herself. Margaret would be furious that she lost by only three days. She rushed into the servants' hall, where many of her fellows were gathered around eating, conversing, and generally merry-making. Her giddy demeanor and swift entry drew the attention of those closest to the door. “We have a winner!” she cheered. This, naturally, drew everyone’s attention to her, all of them asking their questions at once. How did she know? Was she sure it was them? Who bet it would only take two weeks?
She explained quickly. The head housekeeper had sent her to do her final check on the visiting king to ensure he was comfortable and did not require anything before the servants retired for the night. Instead, she was met with a chorus of moans and grunts and the sound of skin on skin that only got louder the more she neared the door of his room. And certainly it was you in there with him. There was no one else in the palace that “princess” or “your highness” could refer to.
Squeals and giggles alike filled the room from the younger servants, while those who had lost the betting pool groaned while reluctantly handing over their hard-earned funds to the victor. From that point on, you began to notice that many of the palace staff would sport flushed cheeks and the occasional suppressed grin when they saw you. And not only that, but every time you were with Sylus, it was as if whispers followed you, but when you’d turn to the source, all you would see was an empty doorway with the edge of a skirt swishing just out of view.
Sylus had only chuckled, pulling you into his lap and whispering conspiratorially in your ear. “I think they know, kitten.” You had whined into his shoulder to hide your face, embarrassment washing over you. This, of course, had only made him laugh harder, mirth coloring his tone when he spoke again. “If you can’t handle even this little bit of gossip, how are you going to handle it when we’re married and talk of heirs begins, hm? Then they’ll really know.”
You had smacked him on the chest, huffing about how improper this line of conversation was. “Certainly no more improper than what we’ve already done,” he teased.
That, too, provided even more fodder for the servants’ late-night talks, but nothing had them going near as much as your wedding night.
“Did you see how pretty her dress was?” gushed one.
“Yes! And the way he looked at her!” replied another.
“I want a man to look at me like that,” grumbled one of the cooks.
“Yeah, yeah, who cares, doesn’t anyone appreciate the flower arrangements? Grew those myself, you know,” boasted a gardener, who was now being glared at by the cook.
One of the guards nudged the comrade sitting next to him. “Think those two are having fun right now?” he asked, grinning ear to ear, his implications obvious. He had no idea how right he was.
-𓅨-
“Sy- oh!” you cried out, his cock pistoning in and out of your sopping pussy at a furious pace. The second the two of you were behind closed doors, and finally away from the celebration, he had wasted no time in stripping you of your ornate gown, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger for you that he would never fully satisfy. From the moment he had seen you, his gorgeous bride, walking down the aisle, his composure had formed the first hairline cracks, which only deepened and spread with every small interaction: exchanging the rings that would bind you to each other forever, the kiss that sealed the union, his hand on your lower back as he guided you through the throngs of people congratulating you on your marriage, all of it was lighting a fire in him he couldn’t put out. Not in public. The cherry atop it all was Prince Xavier’s irritated face in the crowd.
Sylus took great satisfaction that it was he who had you face down in the pillows, bringing you to the gates of heaven over and over, and that that audacious little prince would never touch you thanks to the efforts of yours truly.
The sight of your bare back and your hands fisting the sheets was for his eyes only. The way your ass jiggled with every thrust and the way you writhed beneath him, completely pinned with his legs on either side of yours and his weight pressing into you, for only him to experience. And the way you moaned and cried out his name was for his ears only.
Your name spilled freely from his lips, your proper title forgotten and permanently replaced with “my wife” in Sylus’ frenzied mind. He leaned his body over yours, close enough for his heaving breaths to brush against your face. He trailed a hand across your delicate skin until his palm was pressed flush against your abdomen. “Do you -ngh!- feel me, my love? Feel how deep your husband’s cock is?”
You nodded feverishly. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Sylus, it’s- ah!- so much!”
“Oh my poor wife,” he cooed, faux condescension dripping from his words. “Can’t take it? Is it too much for you? Should I stop?” Before you could even register his words, he had fully stilled above you.
“No! Don’t stop, please!” you begged, the sudden loss of pleasure somehow more overwhelming than the reception of it.
Sylus groaned, and his cock twitched inside of your tight heat. “What’s wrong, sweetie? I thought it was too much?”
“Not enough. Need more. Please, Sylus, husband, I need you.”
Sylus growled, heat rushing straight to where you were joined. He could bear it no longer. He had waited far too long as it is. His hips rutted into you with a ferocity that spoke of his insatiable greed. His panting breath and grunts mingled with your own moans and cries of pleasure.
Just a bit more, and he’d again feel the nirvana of your cunt pulsing around him. With the same hand that had been pressing into you, he snaked his fingers lower, deft digits rubbing tight circles on your clit. You howled at the added stimulation, hurtling towards the edge that Sylus was so eager to bring you to. “Cum for me, my wife,” he rasped. “Let go.”
With a shrill cry of his name, you were finally pushed to the pinnacle, Sylus following shortly after, his own orgasm triggered by yours. This time, he gave no thought to pulling out of you. His hot cum filled you as his orgasm washed over him. His grunts were low and rough in your ears, so delightfully sinful, and his free arm locked around your waist, holding your body to his tightly as he continued to release into you. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat and shoulders, whatever skin he could comfortably reach, as you both came down from your highs.
He pulled out of your spent body with a hiss, eliciting a final whimper from you before he collapsed beside you on the bed. You rolled onto your side to glance over at him just to find him already staring at you, those ruby eyes filled with such adoration. He mirrored your actions, opting to lie on his side to face you directly. He didn’t think he could ever tire of the sight. You, looking so lovely, so completely content. His lovely wife. His Mrs. Crow. His happily ever after.
quarrels between you and your husband are not new, but when a heated argument turns into the two of you see it fit to give each other silent treatment… it takes an incident to make both of you realize that perhaps a lion and a dragon are not a bad match after all
genre/warnings:
very suggestive, childhood enemies to lovers, jealousy -> marital quarrel (aka aerion YEARNS but gets constipated instead), description of injury, mentions of blood, hurt/comfort, romance & fluff, first time with aerion bc he’s finally losing it, lannister!reader
notes:
a continuation of the dragon and the lioness but can also be read as a standalone. i thought i love only valarr but apparently aerion is such a goofball i love him too <3
Aerion did not know what you had done to him.
Lately, his thoughts were all about you. Where you were, what you had eaten for the day, to whom you talked to... by one means or another, he always knew.
And damnably, there were moments when his mind betrayed him too. That instead of savoring this distance you maintained, other thoughts came creeping in—
Thoughts like bending you over his desk, stripping your composure piece by piece... until there was nothing left but you breathless under him—
For any normal man, such fixation upon one’s wife might have been a blessing, but let’s not forget that you were his enemy-wife.
Was it some sort of cunning Andal sorcery? Whispered into his ear while he was asleep? Or perhaps you had slipped something in his drink? Something insidious enough to root yourself in his thoughts?
It made no sense.
But what made even less sense... was what he was feeling right now. His jaw tightened as his gaze drifted across the hall, where you stood far too comfortably in conversation with Daeron.
His own brother. Aerion didn’t like how you were with his drunkard of a brother. The way you inclined your head as you listened, the faint curve of your lips—soft, polite, endearing in a way... It was so different to the sharp look he was accustomed to.
Gods, how it vexed him.
There was… something deeply infuriating about the ease with which you seemed to forget yourself—forget him—when you talked with Daeron. What could possibly be so amusing that it drew laughter from you so freely?
So he did what (arguably) anyone in his shoes would do: listening in.
Not openly because he would not be caught stooping to that, but close enough— just within earshot, where your voices carried if one paid attention.
“You fare better with my brother than I thought.” Daeron gave a low snort, shaking his head almost in awe. “Only a remarkable woman would be able to.”
There was a brief pause before your reply came, your expression almost wry—
“He could be a menace…”
The words struck like flint to steel.
A menace. Aerion’s jaw tightened, a burn seared inside his chest. A menace? That was what you thought of him? What you would say to his brother?
Before any sense could take hold of him, the Bright Prince was already moving. The distance between you closed in long, purposeful strides, his presence cutting cleanly that both you and his brother turned to him.
“A word,” he spat. You barely had time to react before his hand closed around your wrist, and he was already pulling you away.
. . .
The instant your husband hauled you away, a knot of unease twisted in your stomach.
The door to your marital chamber opened with a sharp push, and just as quickly, it shut behind you. You stumbled slightly at the sudden stop, surprise flickering across your face as you turned to him—
But Aerion was already looming close, his violet eyes dark with fury.
“You are—” he started, voice tight, “—to conduct yourself in a manner befitting my wife.”
You blinked, wide-eyed and clueless. “What do you mean?”
After the tourney at Storm’s End, you thought you had made meaningful progress with him. True, you still quarreled every now and then, but it was not quite as severe as before. And for one, the wall of pillows that once divided your bed had since been cast aside.
“Start behaving in a way that does not bring disgrace upon my name,” Aerion continued, his voice sharp with disdain.
“When have I ever done—”
“Don’t feign innocence with me, wench. You have been behaving as though you have no husband to answer to.”
What was this nonsense he was prattling about? You had only just conversed with Daeron, and of all men in Summerhall, he was the most harmless soul there was.
“Are you suggesting I’m having an affair?” Your voice rose, tinted with disbelief. “Aerion, he is your brother—”
“Brother or not, I am not blind,” he cut in sharply. “History is not so kind as to spare men from betrayal simply because of blood. Do not pretend such things are beyond you.”
You couldn’t believe this. The accusation lingered, and his very presence suffocating in its intensity. Something lurched in your chest at the way he worded it.
“You would do well to remember your place.” Something dark and ugly flickered in his violet gaze. “If you cannot even manage the duties expected of a wife, then you will soon prove yourself inadequate.”
This madman. Was the things they said about the Targaryen madness true after all? You didn’t know why your eyes were getting watery.
But by all Seven Gods, you refused to show it to him. You held his gaze, fingers tightening against the fabric of your skirts.
“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”
The way you hissed out made Aerion tilt his head to reassess you. Oh, but you were far from done. You had enough too.
“From now on, I request a separate chamber as I cannot share a chamber with a man who thinks I’m an unfaithful wife. I will explain it to your father should he ask.”
And before he could answer—before he could twist your words into something else—you turned on your heel. Your steps were swift, resolute, carrying you toward the door before the sting in your chest could betray you.
Ever since that day, you avoided Aerion as though he were a plague.
You wasted no time in moving your personal belongings into one of the guest chambers—the farthest one from his, you made sure of it. The servants had looked at you strangely, though none dared question it. By nightfall, the room had been made entirely your own, and from then on, the door remained locked whenever you were inside.
Your hours were filled with all womanly pursuits there were—embroidery, painting, books... sometimes you were lost into them until late night.
You had your space now. Your peace. You no longer had to endure his temper or unreasonable accusations, and probably should have done this from the very first day of your marriage. Being rid of him was a blessing—
So why, then, did it irritate you… that he made no effort to seek you out?
He is so infuriating!
With a sharp motion, you stabbed your needle into the embroidery more harshly than intended, as though the act alone might banish every thought of your stupid husband from your mind.
. . .
Aerion had thought that distance would do him good, really.
He had hoped that once you were no longer within reach, whatever strange fixation had taken hold of him would fade, starved by absence.
Oh, but it had not. If anything, you plagued him more.
Your absence was louder than your presence had ever been. He kept thinking of your smile when he told you of his shit day, your puckered lips when he boasted, and how you would held the blanket tighter when you were cold at nights.
You asking for separate chambers had not been part of his expectations. Not once had it crossed his mind that you would be the one to walk away first, and now he was alone in a room that had once been his during his boyhood—
And damn, it felt so... unbearably empty.
He struggled to make sense of it. He should have been relieved. There were no more sharp-tongued retorts to provoke him and no more tempting presence to unsettle him at every turn.
So why did the silence grate?
Why did each night alone leave him more irritable than the last?
Aerion still didn’t know the answer, but he did know he needed a fucking distraction.
The next morning, he found himself riding alongside his father’s hunting party, the chill air biting against his skin as they rode through the woods.
Prince Maekar had cast him a glance, one brow arching high. Aerion was not known for early mornings, least of all voluntary ones. But he let him be all the same, thinking that perhaps his boy had finally gathered some of his long-lost wits.
The hunt would end in afternoon. And yet—
By midday, the Bright Prince had not loosed a single clean shot.
Aerion was usually a decent shot, but somehow this morning, his focus always frayed, his thoughts drifting— your face rose in his mind more times than he preferred.
Not as you had been in the hall, smiling at Daeron, but as you had looked at him then.
“If that is truly what you think of me… then so be it, my lord husband.”
More than spite, you looked hurt. Though you had tried so damnably hard not to show it, and worse, he realized it only now. He lowered his bow, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest.
Seven hells, if I could just—
Aerion exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. By the time the hunt ended, his mood had only soured. He reined his horse in beside his father at last, silent for a moment before asking his father a question out loud.
“Father, do the Andals practice sorcery or the sorts?”
Prince Maekar turned his head slowly, fixing him with a look of pure exasperation.
“Are you drunk, boy?”
The evening meal was quieter than usual.
Prince Maekar sat at the head of the table, his presence imposing as ever, while his sons occupied their usual places—Daeron already halfway into his cups, Aerion brooding over his goblet, and Egg watching them all with bright, curious eyes as he munched on his meat.
Maekar’s gaze flickered towards his second son briefly before he addressed the nearest servant. “Where is my good daughter tonight?”
Your handmaiden, standing a careful distance away, dipped into a respectful bow. “My lady is unwell, Your Grace. She sends her apologies.”
Aerion did not look up, scoffing inwardly as he took a drink of his wine. You were avoiding him, he was convinced of it. This was merely the next step in your petty defiance.
Daeron, on the other hand, perked up at once, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Unwell, is she?” he mused, glancing at Aerion. “Or am I witnessing some grand marital dispute from a safe distance?”
His younger brother’s violet eyes snapped towards him. “Hold your tongue.”
“Oh, I am merely curious,” Daeron drawled, leaning back in his chair with careless ease. “You drag her away in a fury one day, and the next she vanishes from supper entirely? You must have incurred her ire. Ladies do tend to prefer husbands who do not bite, brother.”
Egg snorted softly into his cup, quickly trying to disguise it as a cough.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “At least I do not drown myself in wine to make myself tolerable company,” he shot back.
“You believe yourself… more tolerable than me?” Daeron raised a brow, amused. “You?”
Egg, unable to resist, piped up, “If she is avoiding you, you must have said something particularly dreadful, brother.”
Aerion shot him a glare. “Stay out of matters you do not understand, you little—”
“Quiet, all of you!” Prince Maekar hissed, looking over the unruly lot that were his sons. He shot a withering look at Daeron, a grim one at Aerion and ushered Egg with, “Finish your meal and return to your quarters, Aegon.”
Egg only gave a careless shrug—entirely unbothered, if not faintly amused by his brother’s state—before taking his leave soon after. Aerion, for his part, scoffed under his breath, his temper already stretched thin to its breaking point.
“She will attend when she pleases,” he spat curtly, as though that settled it.
And yet, for the rest of the meal, his eyes strayed more than once to the empty seat.
. . .
You were ill... and you were not faking it in the slightest.
This was the third day now, and perhaps it was your own doing when you spent one night too deep in your painting that you didn’t sleep. Your body felt sluggish, heat pooling beneath your skin in a way that left you both feverish and cold. Sleep came often, but never restfully.
You probably should have a maester look at you soon. You shifted beneath the covers, your breath shallow as you tried to coax yourself into sleep. By now, your eyes stung faintly, your composure worn thin.
And worse, you missed him.
You had been so certain of your anger, and yet here you were— aching for the very man who had wounded your pride.
Perhaps the fever had muddled your thoughts and stripped away any reason, but you found yourself wishing that Aerion were here. That he would push open the door without warning, standing at your bedside with that sharp, infuriating presence—
“You stupid little menace...” you grumbled under the blankets, forcing your eyes shut. You would not allow yourself to falter before him though.
And just as you began to doze off— the air shifted. You immediately knew you weren’t alone. Your eyes snapped open, wary.
At first, there was only the dim outline of your chamber, shadows dancing faintly in the low candlelight. Then, a glint of steel caught the light—
A blade.
Instinct seized you before thought could. You twisted sharply as the knife came down where you had been only a heartbeat before.
The mattress tore. You scrambled back, heart pounding, vision swimming as you forced yourself upright. Your hand grasped blindly—finding the nearest object—
The rogue lunged again and you swung whatever it was you had grabbed.
. . .
The wine tasted particularly good this late evening.
Aerion was not exactly a fan of alcohol, but sometimes dulling his senses made thinking certain things easier. He had turned it over enough in his mind, brooded on it, weighed it— and come to a decision.
Tonight, he would put an end to this cold war between you. He would drag you back to your marital chamber if he had to. The nights without you had grown so unbearable that it felt as if they were driving him towards a slow, simmering madness.
Across from him, Daeron had sunk deeper into his usual drunken stupor, though his tongue remained as loose as ever.
“You know,” he slurred, lifting his cup lazily. “You are a fortunate man, brother.”
Aerion turned his head slightly, regarding him with a nonchalant glance.
“What does Lady Lannister lack for? She has it all. Beauty, wit, spirit…” He let out a chuckle. “Nothing at all. You ought to cherish her.”
To Aerion, all he heard was his brother coveting his wife. His lip curled slightly, irritation sparking.
“I don’t want to hear that from—”
A shrill scream suddenly cut through the hall that the two princes stilled. Your handmaiden came rushing in, her eyes wide with terror, pale and breathless, addressing him instantly.
“My prince! An attacker—! In my lady’s chamber!”
The world suddenly came to vivid focus. In one dreadful heartbeat, Aerion was already on his feet, seizing the sword displayed on the cabinet, the fine steel already drawn as Daeron sobered instantly, rising from his seat.
The brothers tore through the corridors, servants scattering in their wake. Aerion cannot think—he only drove forward with harsher strides, a single thought consuming him.
Anyone who dares to injure you would pay their price in blood.
The moment he arrived, your chamber was in chaos. Your other handmaiden lay crumpled on the floor, bathed in her own blood, whereas you—
You stood there, trembling, a candlestick clutched in your hand like a weapon, eyes wide and unfocused as the attacker struggled at your feet.
For a single, suspended moment, Aerion saw nothing but red.
His sword thrusted cleanly through the man’s shoulder, pinning him to the floor with a sickening force. The attacker cried out, writhing in agony—but he paid him no mind.
His focus was you. He reached you in one stride, as you threw yourself on him.
“You—!”
The strong arms of your husband came around you at once, pressing you against him, holding you fast—and in that instant, he felt the searing heat from your skin.
“Aerion…” you breathed, laced with relief at the mere sight of him.
But whatever words he had died in his throat when your knees buckled. Your fingers slackened, the candlestick clattering to the ground.
He caught you before you could collapse, arms tightening instinctively as your weight went limp against him. Your head fell against his shoulder, your breath faint, and your body far too warm.
Something cold and suffocating coiled around his chest.
“My lady!” your handmaidens cried out, their voices frantic, but he scarcely heard them, because for the first time in his life—
Aerion felt a raw, undiluted fear for you.
“Why was I not told my wife was this severely ill?!”
The Bright Prince’s voice rang through the chamber, sharp and furious. Almost everyone—and Prince Maekar—flinched at his harsh tone.
Your handmaiden shrank beneath his vicious anger. “My prince, I did inform you—”
Aerion’s gaze only darkened further, which made her recoil. It was not only your condition that had stoked his wrath, but also the very fact that Summerhall had been breached by some nameless assailant.
“I want the wretch who dared trespassing my wife’s chamber bound in the dungeons with no water. I will question him myself.”
He turned sharply to the guards, snapping, “And if you allow another vermin to slip into this fucking castle again, I swear to the Seven, I will have your hands and feet severed for your failure— you’ve proven them useless enough as it is.”
Nothing and no one could soothe his temper. Prince Maekar might have deemed his son excessive in his threats, yet… he understood, in some measure, and said nothing.
The maester, who was already tending to you, spoke calmly over the tension.
“It is the spring fever, my prince. Unpleasant, but not uncommon these days. If she makes it through the night, there is every chance she will recover.”
His gaze was fixed on you then, who were still and deathly pale. It looked as though even drawing breath had become a struggle for you, and he was on the verge of turning his wrath upon the maester when—
“Aerion…”
Your voice was no more than a whisper, yet it reached him. This was the second time this night you had called his name.
Maekar saw it firsthand— how the fury ebbed from his boy’s gaze, giving way to raw concern as he hovered over you. In all his life, he had only seen Aerion like this twice: once, when the boy had stood by his mother’s sickbed… and the second time, now.
Truthfully, the Prince of Summerhall had nearly abandoned hope for him. His second son had grown into someone so cruel and vain... and in Maekar’s mind, binding him to a proper lady like you had been a last, desperate attempt to salvage whatever remained of the happy boy he had once been.
Aerion’s hand had found yours, fingers closing around your palm as though to anchor you there. The maester glanced between them. “My lady needs rest—”
“She is asking for me,” the Bright Prince replied, leveling him with a dark stare. “I am staying.”
There was no room for argument in his tone.
Maekar studied him for a moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. Then, with a subtle look from his eyes, he motioned for the others to withdraw from the chamber.
Having gone through this himself with his late wife, he knew exactly what Aerion must be feeling. Still, he allowed himself a moment longer at the threshold to watch while the others left.
The four dragons on Maekar Targaryen’s personal arms stood for all four of his sons, but deep in his heart, Aerion had always been different. He was the son who resembled him most— that same fire, quick temper, and unquenched thirst ran thick in his veins.
He could see how Aerion was determined to stay, his hand still wrapped firmly around yours. Now he had taken a seat near the edge of the bed, stroking your face in silence.
Something in Maekar’s expression softened, just barely.
Then he, too, turned and left them to their silence.
Consciousness came to you slowly. Your eyes fluttered open, vision still blurred at the edges, only to find your silver-haired husband quite close to your face— violet eyes fixed intently on your face, as though he had not looked away for hours.
Your heart fluttered. If this was a dream, you did not wish to wake from it. For a moment, you simply stared at Aerion, dazed, trying to make sense of him.
“…You look dreadful,” you croaked, noticing his disheveled hair.
“And you have been unconscious for almost twenty hours,” he returned dryly, lacking his usual bite. “You have little ground to speak on appearances.”
“Twenty…?”
“Your fever broke not long ago. You were burning like a forge.”
“And yet here I am,” you retorted, a hint of humor slipping through despite your weakness. “Still very much alive. How unfortunate for you.”
There was a brief silence. You became aware then, of the fact that Aerion was not merely near you, but lying on the bed itself and facing you, closer than he had been in… days.
“Your maid told me you have been ill, and still you chose not to summon a maester,” he started, his irritation slipping through. “And look what demanding a separate room got you. Brilliant.”
“I didn’t think it necessary then, but who could have imagined anyone might come and go from Summerhall as they pleased—”
“I will have that wretch’s offending arms severed and leave him as a corpse—”
“Oh? How very assertive of you. I certainly did not ask you to loom over me like some—”
“Like some what?” he cut in, sharper now.
You faltered, then looked away again, something tightening in your chest.
“…Why do you suddenly care?” you asked instead, pointed. “Aren’t you the one who thinks I am not beyond unfaithfulness? You should have just let me succumb to my illness so you could find a new, prettier and younger bride in my place.”
While a part of you wanted to be near to him, his accusation hurt you in equal measure. Meanwhile, Aerion went still. For a moment, he said nothing—only watched you, something dark flickering behind his gaze.
“You think I would stoop to that?” he questioned at last, voice low, edged.
“What else should I think?” you shot back, meeting his eyes now despite the ache in your head. “You made your opinion of me quite clear—”
That was when his patience snapped. He did not let you finish, because before you could fathom anything, his hand suddenly pulled the back of your head and—
—his lips crashed against yours.
It was not gentle—or at least, not at first. It was searing, sudden, born of frustration, anger—also days of tension, of unspoken thoughts and unacknowledged feelings. Myriad of things seemed to spill into that single kiss.
Your hand rose instinctively, pressing lightly against his chest, to steady yourself more than to push him away. And then the kiss softened, if only slightly— less force, less anger, and more something else entirely. Lust?
Something either of you chose not to name in the end.
When he finally pulled back, the violet of his eyes blazed, his forehead nearly brushing yours, breath uneven.
“You infuriate me—” he growled, voice tight, breath warm against your skin. “You vex me, you are everything I never want in a wife, yet—”
For once, Aerion was at a loss of words. His hand lingered at your cheek, thumb brushing faintly against your skin as though savoring the feel of your skin, because in fact, this was the first time the two of you were this close on your own will.
Your gaze was unfocused, wide and glassy, lips parted slightly as you looked at him. You were the very image of the girl he had once waited for in the halls of the Red Keep during your visits during his boyhood.
How funny was it that he actually fell for you? Almost begrudgingly, Aerion tugged you closer, spitting these words as he held your gaze with that steadfast urgency:
“I lied— you are everything I want after all.”
And then, he kissed you again. His lips found yours with a quieter intensity, no longer clashing but claiming—slow, deep, as though he meant to make you feel every bit of it. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, drawing you closer and deepening the kiss.
“Mmh, it felt fucking mad... wondering what you were doing—” he bit out against your lips, the words rough. “I can’t stay away from you for a single fucking day and and yet you can go about... as though I do not exist?”
“Ah, mmph...” you breathed, drawing him closer to you as his hands traced along your sides and up the length of your spine. He was so warm, so solid— from the very moment you saw him riding in that tourney at Storm’s End, you had secretly wanted to hold Aerion Brightflame in your arms too.
The two of you were like two lovers discovering each other. Your husband rained hot kisses on your skin, from your mouth, jaw, throat, to your cleavage—
You hadn’t even realized that his deft fingers had been making a quick work of your bodice, and suddenly you were naked before him.
“F-Fuck...” he grounded out, laving his tongue on your bare chest. You inhaled sharply, feeling how he took your left breast in his mouth and sucked hard. You moaned, gripping the back of his head, savoring the heat that was coiling in between your legs.
Your voice was melody to his ears and Aerion started grinding against you, putting everything he had known of pleasuring a woman into practice.
“Aerion—” your breath hitched, your senses heightened, your whole body trembling— his tongue and lips were everywhere in your body he could touch.
It was overwhelming how close he was, how completely he seemed to surround you, as though there was nothing left in the world but him.
“Say my name,” he commanded, only then realizing how deeply he craved the sound of his name falling out of your sweet lips.
And so you did— when he held you as though you were something fiercely his, and when you clung to him as though you had always belonged there. You called his name over and over, crying it out at one point, when he buried himself to the hilt inside you and filling you with everything that was his.
And somewhere between defiance and surrender, between resentment and longing... the lines between enemies and lovers blurred for the dragon and the lion on this night.
. . .
The next time you awoke, you were in Aerion’s arms.
You were nestled against him, your head resting upon his bare chest. His arm draped securely around you, as though even in sleep he would not let you stray far.
Your husband—your enemy since you were children of five—had staked his claim over you. He had kissed you, bedded you, claimed your maidenhead and, Gods help you, you had been lost in the allure of the first night you had long dreaded since before your wedding.
Your fingers moved idly across the pale expanse of his chest, tracing slow, absent patterns—half in thought, half in quiet wonder.
Perhaps your prodding had been a moment too long that Aerion stirred.
His arm shifted slightly, and one violet eye cracked open, casting you a sidelong glance. You startled, hand stilling at once.
“What?” he asked, voice rough with sleep.
“Nothing,” you replied quickly.
He did not look convinced. Still, he said nothing further, only watched you for a moment longer before his gaze softened, just slightly. His hand, which had rested idly against your back, began to move in slow, absent strokes along your spine.
Never in your life had you seen Aerion Brightflame this… tame.
“Yes. I am comely enough,” he muttered after a beat, catching your lingering gaze. “You may stop staring now.”
A huff left you. “You are insufferable, even at this hour.”
“And you are unexpectedly tolerable.”
You let out a snort, and he had a half-grin on his face. “Careful, wife. You may grow fond of me.”
“Do not flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
Who would have thought that the two of you—who could scarcely endure one another’s presence—would find yourselves here, like this?
You did not speak the thought aloud. Instead, after a moment, you said, “If this—” you gestured vaguely at the sheets, “is to… continue—”
Aerion’s brow lifted slightly, looking as if he had taken some sort of offense. “If?”
“—then I will have one condition.”
He regarded you with mild curiosity, before letting out an exasperated exhale, tempering his voice into a mocking tone.
“Very well, my lady… and what, pray tell, do you demand of me now?”
You hesitated, just briefly, before meeting his gaze.
“No more visits to the whorehouse. Under any circumstances.”
The words lingered, and you could feel the warmth rising to your face even as you held his gaze. You braced yourself—expecting resistance, a sharp retort, perhaps even mockery.
But instead—
“Done.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “That was… remarkably quick.”
Aerion cast you a withering stare, shifting slightly as he settled more comfortably. “You misjudge me, wife. It does not interest me.”
Your frown deepened, suspicion threading through your expression. Surely he did not fully grasp what he had just given up.
“Aerion, do you even—”
Oh, but by now, your husband knew what he had to do. He cut you off in the only way he seemed to favor— with a kiss.
He then moved above you, trailing wet kisses along your throat and shoulder. You should have pushed him away, yet you didn’t.
When he finally drew back, a roguish grin had settled onto his face. That damn, handsome face.
“You think too much. Just rest your pretty little head, my lady.”
“And you think too little,” you returned, though the bite had dulled.
A faint hint of amusement touched his lips, and you knew what he said to be true, much to your chagrin.
“Then we are simply… well-matched.”
Ever since the incident in your chamber, something had shifted. No one spoke of it, or noticed at all… save, perhaps, Prince Maekar, who watched his son with a sharper eye than most.
Aerion, for his part, remained very much himself. Haughty, vain and simply cruel, he still made a sport out of other’s suffering. And you simply listened with the composure of a saint, playing the demure wife to his fire.
While the two of you might fool everyone with the act, you could never with the Anvil— a seasoned man with a colorful experience of his own.
And soon, he saw it with his own very eyes.
Prince Maekar had taken to his usual walks through the gardens. It was meant to be a solitary habit, at least until he turned the corner and found his son bending you over the marbled table—
In the very picture of impropriety.
After a brief pause, he simply turned away, continuing his walk as though he had seen nothing at all.
There were some things a father did not need to witness twice… though, for what it was worth, it was not so terrible a sight after all. And he knew one thing for sure—
There was no such thing as a secret that could truly be kept.
. . .
The romance of the dragon prince and his lion princess would become an anecdote in many years to come… but before then—
Right now, it was Summerhall who had come to know first... that the dragon too had captured the lion’s heart.
tagging @mommyoftwoo @w1tch-hazel @kitkatrattrap @zarrockette4 @cupidsms @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @heywtvsss @kimkhyuna as per request and those asking for part 2 teehee! thank you for reading if you have reached this far <33
Synopsis ── 𖤓 ˚｡⋆ You are to marry a prince of dragon blood. Fearing for your life as your wedding night approaches, what happens when a fierce dragon wraps his sharp claws around you, leaving you nowhere to escape?
Tags / warnings: 18+ content, arranged marriage, cruel aerion, enemies to enemies, hurt no comfort, smut, stabbing oops, blood play, biting, rough sex, reader is scared of marriage, loss of virginity, aerion gets off on antagonizing the reader, aerion likes to be in control, toxic romance, angst, female reader insert, readers appearance is not mentioned, the usual targaryen weirdness, choking, the reader is not as helpless as she seems, reader is from house dayne, notes available at the end of the chapter, extreme slowburn
Word Count: 10.1k
You do not like King’s Landing.
It is dark, cold, and nothing at all like Dorne. Your body does not feel the comforting warmth of Starfall hug around you in a soothing embrace, instead it is met with inky clouds that smother any ray of sunlight that dares try to cut through the ghastly sky. Your body is not yet used to it, and you suspect it never will be, your mind is too fixated on the memory of glassy waves and sunlit stone.
Standing on the balcony, you delicately angled your gaze enough that your eyes could slip down into the small cramped and crooked streets rather than lingering in the torchlit halls behind you. The firelight feels rather ghostly, like a whisper of stone and flame. Draped in the finest silks that are perhaps too soft and easygoing for a place that smells of leather steel and smoke pale purples spill from your shoulders in gentle folds. The gold folds over your body, catching the last of the weak daylight it gleams at your throat, a quiet proclamation of your Dayne blood.
Your fingers curl around the dainty rings at your hands, turning the cool metal against your warm skin, focusing on the familiar weight of them before you let your quiet thoughts circle back to the reason you are here— which is marriage. Since young, it has been imprinted into you that it is a woman’s duty to marry and bring honor to her house. You are no fool, you have known this since you were old enough to watch brides ride away from Starfall trembling in the wind.
Aerion Targaryen is a prince, and to wed a prince of Westeros is more than simply duty, it is the highest honour you could lay at your family’s feet. The blood of the dragon runs through his veins, and your kins would be fools not to seize that. Binding fire and blood to your bloodline, silver hair and sharp imperious features, along with violet eyes would never allow tongues to cease whispering. People fear him, and you do not need to question why, the fact that they once were dragon masters was enough for you to understand.
You know you ought to feel a swell of joy and pride, yet you cannot help but want to weep, fear sitting heavier in your chest than any sense of honour. The ‘Brightflame’ is a stigma dressed in chains, a dragon with his wings torn off but its claws left sharp, and the thought of standing at his side makes your stomach fold and tuck in horror. And you are so very far from home, all that is left with you are the rings that sit on your fingers and the knowledge that you are being given to something made of fire.
You hear your fathers soft voice call your name from behind, and you cannot bring it upon yourself to turn and face him.
“It is time,” he says.
It feels as though all the time in the world has slipped away, like sand through open fingers, yet you are only eight and ten. Time was the one thing you had thought endless when you ran through the sunlit halls of home, but now it has narrowed to this single corridor as you follow behind your father. Feet falling into perfect rhythm with his, each tread is swallowed by the echoing of stone, you feel insubstantial, nothing more than a pawn on a board built by men.
“I love you, my daughter,” your father says, pride swelling in his chest, you swear you can almost see it. “You are doing the realm a great service.” He glances down at you and offers you a gentle smile you have always been used to, the one that meant safety, stories and long arms opening to catch you. Now it means nothing such.
To you, the words feel like mockery. You want, with an aching desperation, to be a child again in his arms, to bury your face in his chest and ask him not to make you stray so far from home, not to give you to a dragon and to keep you in Starfall until you become grey and old. Instead, you swallow back the heavy weight in your chest, blink back the sting of tears that threaten to fall and continue to walk beside him in silence. The words you do not voice turn bitter on your tongue.
Standing small at your father’s side, your spine remains straight and hands are folded in mirror to etiquette that was drilled into you since childhood. Even though you hold yourself in place with perfect posture, you cannot ignore your heart beating too fast against your ribs. You assumed you would have been prepared for this moment, or so your ladies-in-waiting had told you, but the nerves rising in your throat made a liar of every lesson.
The dragon prince, Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen stands opposite you, milky hands tickled neatly behind his back before his violet eyes sweep over you in idle disinterest. There is something about him that does not feel entirely human, you tell yourself it is only the Valyrian cast of him, the handsome lines of his face, the sharp bone, silver hair and inhuman calm. You find his presence to be heavy, as though it presses against your lungs with intentions to make them collapse, and you find yourself breathing a touch too quickly for a lady who is meant to be composed.
The embers in his eyes glow like the flickers of flame as he looks at you, and his calm expression shifts, disinterest becoming irritation. He has not yet said anything, but behind his glimmering daze you can see him thinking. Gaze lingering on you, unfocused, in a sudden flicker of candlelight he turns his head towards his father.
“I have no desire to take someone so plain-looking,” He says at last, and his voice is smooth and steady, and almost silky enough that for a second you do not register the words that slip out his lips.
Prince Maekar’s expression curdles and he lifts his chin up high in sharp irritation while his lips curl into something close to a snarl.
“Boy,” the Prince bites out, “do not try to be clever with me. You are to wed her.”
Aerion clicks his tongue to this, making a loud and disdainful sound. His purple eyes drag over you from head to toe in a slow and assessing manner. They are striking, you must admit, such eyes are not common in Westeros, and this is the first time you have seen them so closely. For all his cruel words, you cannot deny he is pretty in a cold, Valyrian way. Yet, his satisfying appearance does not help to ease the tightness in your throat. You decide to swallow hard, watching the two of them like some small thing caught between, absolutely insignificant.
“It is tradition,” he replies, his tone sounding bored, “for a prince of the dragon to take a wife of pure blood. It is tradition. She is no pureblood.”
“Pure blood or not, you’ll do as you’re told and take what is given. The matter is settled.” Maekar grunts out, beyond tired of his son's disobedience, then he gives your father an apologetic look. Aerion does not respond but you do see the jaw his skin tightens as he clenches his sharp jaw, the lids of his violet eyes growing heavy in what you suppose is anger at rejection.
The thought settles in your chest as you take slight offence to the young prince’s words. You are a Dayne of Starfall, not some nameless girl that was plucked from a crowd, but his words make it clear that you are not what he desires. In his eyes, you are not pure enough nor worthy enough, and certainly not what he believes he was promised.
Mind circling back to the same inevitable truth, you remember he is a dragon. It does make sense that a dragon would want fire and blood, and dragons do not bear disappointment well, they would prefer to scorch it from the world. Your shoulders stiffen as you wonder with a cold creeping dread if he will lose his tempter and spill his anger on you.
A light tap between your shoulder blades signals your father’s silent command and you know it is time to perform your duty. Lowering your head at once, silk whispering as your pretty purple skirts sway forward, your hair slips forward like a curtain which veils the side of your face. You school your features into something that’s gentle and obedient, the way you were taught, the way a prince would prefer a lady.
“I hope I will prove… acceptable to you, my prince,” you speak, voice soft, the royal title scraping your throat. My prince, the words feel wrong in your mouth, it is a vow that does not belong to you, like you are bending the knee to the edge of a blade, swearing undying loyalty to it. You are expected to play the dutiful pride, to smile and obey a man who can air his displeasures as openly as he breathes, while it is looked down upon if you so much as flinch.
His expression tightens further, as though the gods above are mocking him, as though you are mocking him. To him it must seem like your very presence is a cage to be fitted around him, link by link.
“I will judge that for myself,” he says at last, each word precise. “Soon enough.”
The words feel like a threat. He licks his lips in a quick, unconscious motion, and for the first time his piercing gaze truly settles on you. It drops from your face to the line of your collarbone, to the way the slightly sheer Dornish silk clings to your body. It is modest enough beneath the sun of Starfall, perhaps, but here it feels suddenly too light and too revealing under a dragon’s scrutiny.
With a sudden shiver, you realize that he hadn’t properly looked at you before you spoke. Now he is, and his gaze lingers a heartbeat too long before he catches himself, haunting eyes snapping back up to your face. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek and he clicks it again, creating a small, irritated sound that feels like a final verdict.
The anger painted on his face does not fade. You have a sinking feeling it will not leave for some time, if it ever does. You can only hope he chooses not to sink his sharp claws into you the way a dragon might into a lamb, that he will not prove more cruel in marriage than he has already shown himself to be in court.
──
Aerion is aware of exactly who he is, the second son of a fourth son. In his family's eyes, he is too far removed from the line of succession to be given the honour of a sister or a cousin, too valuable to waste entirely, a convenient piece to trade. His father speaks of great alliances and the strength of the old blood as though that should soothe the insult. His late-mother had been a Dayne, he already paid the price of that through the blood that ran through his veins. Then why must a prince of dragon blood take a wife whose blood does not burn, whose hair does not gleam silver in the light that will not promise him babes with the right look?
During these thoughts, his mind inevitably slips to you. You seemed timid and shy, eyes lowered and shoulders held perfectly tight. A dragon can smell blood, and Aerion had smelt your fear the moment your eyes gazed upon him and you opened your mouth. Perhaps you will provide him with some entertainment in this dreary visit to King’s Landing. The whores of the Street of Silk had begun to bore him, there is no sport in flesh that yields far too easily, and definitely no thrill in maids who tremble on command. He supposes you will be different, untouched, untried yet already flinching. Your face is not entirely displeasing either, fear will suit you he thinks. A scared look on your delicate features might even be pretty.
The pre-celebration of your marriage bleeds into the evening, the last light of the sun dying over King’s Landing as lords and ladies murmur and laugh around you. You notice the sun sets much earlier here than it does in Starfall. You are dressed to be seen, Dayne’s prettiest colours draped over your frame, your gown mirroring the soft purples of the setting sky just before the darkness wraps Westeros in a black cloak.
Ladies stop you with gentle hands and sweeter smiles, offering kind congratulations as if they are gifts, mentioning what an honour it is to be marrying a prince. What a blessing it is to find such a compelling husband, asserting what a lucky lady you are. You do as you’re taught, smiling and nodding as you let the words wash over you like cold water. The idea of drowning yourself and letting the night blur into nothing slips past you, yet you cannot afford to make a fool of yourself. You cannot risk forgetting the last scraps of freedom you have before you stand beside a dragon at the sept tomorrow.
Your gaze drifts away from the cluster of smiling girls in front of you, still giggling over some lord who had just entered the hall. Your face morphs into a pleasant neutrality before you spot your beloved, Aerion Targaryen sitting alone at one of the long tables, one pale hand wrapped around a golden goblet. His fingers are restless against it, tapping it irately. If the goblet were not forged of the finest gold by the finest hands, it would already be crushed to splinters under his grip, and there is intent in the way he holds it, as though he is imagining the breaking. The lords near him cast him sidelong glances, eyes widening warily before they turn away, choosing the safety of polite ignorance over the flames of a dragon's temper.
Then, intense violet eyes find yours, and for a second you forget how to breathe. You try to shake off the fragile, trembling feeling that crawls up your spine as his gaze rakes up your face, like a hand turning a blade to catch the light. Something flickers in his Valyrian eyes, an unknown flame that sets you further on edge, then the edges of his lips curl upwards, mouth forming a sly smile.
It somehow manages to unsettle you more than his scowl ever did.
Suddenly, he hurls the goblet in his hands to the floor beside him, the crack of the metal on stone splits the room, sharp enough to pierce through the upbeat music and laughter. The sweet, dark wine spills out in a syrupy pool, sliding across the floor, soft and cloying, everything he is not. The serving girl nearest to him flinches violently as she drops to her knees beside his boot to clean up after the fallen cup with trembling fingers. When you look back, his smile drops from his slips yet he continues to stare at you, not with idle curiosity, but with the fixed and hungry focus of a predator who has chosen its victim.
You tear your gaze from his, feeling your pulse jump and stomach twist, the hall feels too small, too loud, too full of eyes. Slipping away from the intimidating grey of the dining hall, skirts whisper as you weave between lords and ladies, pushing through a door onto the wide terrace that overlooks the dark smear of the sea.
A sob catches halfway up your throat as you drag in a breath, wheezing it out in a shudder. You had not realized how long you’d been holding your fear tight inside your ribs until it started spilling over. The glass clanking against the floor may have been something he had meant to show you, perhaps it was a promise of how easily his temper shatters or a suggestion of what he might do to you when nobody is watching.
You tip your head back, forcing your gaze up to the sky, dragging in a sharp breath and holding it in, willing the tears to stay where they are. It is a star-dusted night, a faint echo of the heavens above Starfall. You fixate on them, the quiet and the distance , letting their shine stand between you and the horrors waiting for you back in the hall.
Your fists clench at your sides, silk biting into your palms as you try to hold yourself together, because tomorrow you are meant to marry Aerion Targaryen, and you are not sure how much of you will be left once you do.
The sound of boots on stone drags you back from the stars, and you see the dragon prince step out onto the terrace like a storm crossing a threshold. His dark cloak snaps in the wind and anger clings to him as tangibly as the scent of wine and smoke. His jaw is tense and his pale hair catches onto the torchlight behind him, violet eyes already fixed on you with a furious disbelief, as though your very presence here is an insult carved into the night.
“You dare,” he says, voice low and threatening, “to run from your to-be husband?”
The prince looks angry, annoyed and most of all offended, so offended it is as if the emotion has sunk into his bones. You can see it in the tight line of his mouth and the way his hands flex at his sides, as though he's restraining the urge to break something just to hear it shatter.
“No— never, my prince,” you blurt out, the words almost tumbling over one another in your haste. “I only needed some air.” Your mouth parts as you let out a breath, eyes wide with concern as you meet his violet eyes with fear racking up within your body.
“Air?” he repeats, as though finding the words and finding them rather bitter. “Tell me, little bride, are you trying to insult me, or are you merely stupid?”
Heat crawls up his spine, settling hot and ugly between his shoulder blades. He can feel everything in him tense along with it, his jaw, hands, and the muscles in his neck pull tight as your excuse echoes in his mind. What utter insolence he thinks, to leave him sitting alone before half the court, like some unloved fool, while his bride wanders off to stare at the stars.
In his eyes, it is complete disrespect. Do you not understand the insult, to walk away from a dragon prince in a hall full of lords and ladies, to turn your back on him as though he is nothing.
Your mouth opens to answer, to apologise, to say something or anything, but the prince does not give you a chance.
“Are you always in the habit of abandoning your betters whenever you please?” He cuts in, voice silk over steel.
He steps forward, and in response your body takes a step back without thinking, the movement small but unmistakable. His eyes flick down, catching your action, the retreat and the fear behind it. You cannot tell whether the sight of his eyes glimmering means he likes it, or simply files it away as something to use in the future.
“I am so sorry,” you quickly apologize, shame crawling up your throat. You suppose it is better to apologize rather than face the wrath of the dragon, “I did not mean to—”
“First I am given a bride I do not want, but must endure, and now you make me look a fool.”
You have no answer for him, the words dry up on your tongue. You are suddenly certain if you dare to say anything more, you will pay for it. When you still say nothing, Aerion shifts under his weight, tilting his head to regard you from above, like something curious caught under glass.
“Is this some little game of yours?” he asks, voice low and intentional. “Standing there mute, waiting to see when your dragon will finally lose his temper?”
He moves to close the distance between you with another measured step, the hem of his cloak whispering over the stone. This time, you force yourself to stay rooted where you are, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
“No, my prince. That was never my intention.”
“Then why do you run from me?” he asks, head tilting slowly, eyes narrowing. “Afraid, perhaps?”
He watches the way your throat works as you swallow, the small stiffening of your shoulders. He can smell the nerves on you, they are sharp and thin, like smoke before a fire, it is instinct. You look as though you are about to murmur another sad little apology, and he almost turns away, growing bored at the sight. Instead, you lift your chin a fraction,
“No, my price,” you say in trained softness. “It is the highest honour to wed a prince of the blood.”
You fight the horrible urge to tremble, and for a fleeting moment it almost feels as though you are standing up for yourself. Aerion says nothing at first, only studies you in silence, eyes raking over your face. Whatever interest your answer had sparked fades quickly before his gaze fools and he peers down at you with an unimpressed look.
“You lie poorly.” He says. “What a shame. If you were not so bound by duty and virtue, you might almost be interesting.”
“Interesting how, my prince?” you find yourself asking quietly and suddenly. “For smiling when you insult me?”
You think you hate him. He feels like everything made of ash and ember, all heat and hurt and sharp edges, while you are of calmer waves and glassy tides that he would only try to pierce. You know you are pushing too far that you are prodding at a dragon’s temper with bare hands but you cannot bring yourself to be more careful. Everything is too much, the hall, the stares, and the weight of tomorrow, and you are not the only one being dragged into a marriage you do not want.
“Is that not a wife’s duty?” he drawls, deciding to humour you. “To smile and bear what her husband gives her?”
Aerion thinks he hates you. You pretend to be obedient, frail and soft-spoken, but the words you dare to offer him are anything but meek. Your words bite and push, his jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as his lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes.
“Perhaps you would find me interesting if I worshipped you as devoutly as you worship yourself.”
You meet his gaze as you say it, violet eyes on yours, steady and unflinching. Neither of you move before his eyes widen a fraction, and you see something catch a fire beneath them, a flash of raw, burning fury that makes your stomach drop, regretting your words at once.
His breathing shifts, and rage seems to ripple through him like a shudder passing down a tethered beast. His shoulders tighten, fingers flex at his sides, even the line of his throat goes taut as if the anger is something barely held inside skin and bone. The prince looks as though he is vibrating with rage, every muscle in his body straining in order not to lash out.
You wish with sudden, sick clarity that you had kept your mouth shut, that you had not let your frayed emotions drive you to prod at a dragon’s pride.
The space between you closes as his pale hand is suddenly at your throat, fingers closing hard enough that the breath stumbles in your chest. His grip is iron and unforgiving, fingertips digging into the soft flesh of the side of your neck as his thumb presses against the hollow of your throat. Your back hits the cold white stone of the balustrade with a dull jult, the remaining air leaving you in a strangled gasp.
Your hand flies up on instinct, fingers donned with golden rings wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him away, however he is far too strong. He peers down at you through dark narrowed eyes, watching the way you struggle, the way your mouth parts endlessly, the way your pulse flutters frantically beneath his palm.
His other hand almost lazily settles along your jaw, long fingers curling against your cheek, the heel of his hand pressing against the edge of your jaw as he forces your face up, angling you to meet his gaze. You try to protest, but you are pinned, held open beneath him, throat in his grasp and eyes locked onto his.
The world narrows to the burn in your lungs and the heat of his rage wraps around your neck like a collar.
“You will not shame me,” he grinds out, grip tightening. “You are mine to endure, whether you wish it or not, and you will learn your place.”
He leans in, closing the space between you until you can feel his breath hot across your face. He tilts his head, studying you, and his gaze drops to your lips— parted and struggling for air. There is a dark gleam in his eyes as he watches you struggle, something ugly that makes your skin crawl.
Your vision begins to blur at the edges and black creeps in, just before you think you may faint, you swear you see your to-be husband's lips twitch, almost forming a smile before his hand loosens.
You drag in a ragged breath as his fingers slip from your throat, but one hand remains on your sensitive skin, resting almost lightly now at the curve where the neck meets the shoulder. The contrast makes you shiver, a moment ago he was all violence and fire, but now he is close and still, leaned over you, refusing to move away— it feels almost possessive.
He looks at you as though he is taking in art work, gaze lingering on your exposed throat. You can feel the ache blooming there, the tender skin throbbing where his grip has marked you. His fingers trail over the bruising skin in a slow brush, as if he is tracing the outline of something he has carefully crafted before he finally lifts his hand away.
“Know who you belong to,” he says at last, voice low and unhurried, as though he is in no rush. “And do not forget it tomorrow.”
Your chest heaves as you fight to steady your breathing, each inhale sharp against your bruised throat. His gaze drops, following the rise and fall of your purple silks as they shift with every desperate breath, before sliding back up to your face.
It is a shame, really, you used to love the colour violet, the evening-kissed skies over Starfall, the wild flowers that clung to the cliffs. Now you find yourself growing to hate it, it is everywhere, in the dress that draped fluidly around you, in the shadowed bloom that has begun to form on your neck, in the sharp and piercing violet of Aerion’s eyes that refused to leave you.
You find yourself fearing tomorrow, after it, you will be alone in this world and only your husband’s, bound to a dragon’s temper for the rest of your life. And you cannot help but think that the colour you once adored is already beginning to dull for you.
──
The bells of the city had already begun tolling at dawn, their chime threading through the stone of the keep. The soft ringing serves as a reminder that by sunset, you will no longer be the only daughter of starfall, by sunset, you will be Aerion Targaryen’s wife.
The maid fusses with the clasp of your necklace, her cool fingers brushing the nape of your neck as you stand before a mirror, this is the last time you will see yourself as you are now, you think. Silk falls over your shoulders while the jewels catch the pale morning light, yet your gaze finds the faint purple shadow blooming at your neck. Your fingers trace the edge of the bruise, you know you are meant to be thinking of your vows, but all you can think of is the mark of his hand around your neck.
“You look beautiful, my lady.” The maid says as she finishes with the clasp and meets your eyes in the mirror, offering you a small smile.
“Thank you,” You say, yet you cannot bring yourself to fake excitement, all you can think about is the dragon prince and the work of his hands.
“Do you wish for me to cover it, my lady?” She asks quietly, almost hesitantly, her gaze following your eyes, hesitating before she shuffles a step closer.
Of course, her gaze lands on your throat. After all, what else could she possibly mean with the ugly mark sitting so brazenly on your neck, impossible to ignore despite the necklace that has been carefully placed. The thought of him, your prince, soon-to-be husband, causes tension to ripple through you, a slow tightening in your shoulders as you can almost feel his fingers there again.
“No,” you say after a moment of thinking. “It is well. Leave it as it is.”
Your eyes remained fixed on the bruise in the glass. If he can lay his hands on you before you are even officially his, then he can live with the evidence. You decide that you will let him see it, let his family see it. You want him punished in the only way left to you, you want the dragon to feel a sliver of the shame you have felt burning since arriving in King’s Landing. If you are meant to endure him for the rest of your life, you may as well make a spectacle of him before he convinces himself he is untouchable. Dragons may be fireproof, but he certainly isn’t, you think.
Your gaze drifts, heavy and unwilling, to the large bed that rests against the wall, and you can feel fear strike clean through you. Your breath grows thick in your chest, harder to pull in, harder to push out. You know exactly what you are feeling, and you would be a fool to call it anything but fear. If he is this cruel to you before the vows are even spoken, you cannot imagine how cruel he will be when the night is his by right.
The maid catches your expression and her face softens, giving you a sad, almost knowing smile. It is a look of a woman who has seen what men can do, who knows cruelty first hand. When you glance back at her, she meets your eyes and gives you a steady nod. It is an entirely fragile thing, but you almost feel comforted to know at least one other soul in this kingdom can feel sympathy for you.
“I would like to be alone for a moment.” You say as you suck in a steadying breath.
Without protest she dips into a curtsey and slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
The reality of today settles on you like lead, in heavy and uneven breaths you cross the room and sink down at the edge of the bed, curling towards it. Tears string your eyes as you stare at it, you try to imagine some way to keep yourself from further harm, some way to defend yourself and remain in slight control when the doors close and there is no one but your husband at your side.
A tear slips down your left cheek and you find yourself reaching for the drawer beside the bed, pulling it open to the familiar sight of jewellery chests wrapped in velvet. Your fingers fumble past them until they find one particular box, and you draw it out, sitting on the bed as you settle it on your lap. Swiping the back of your hand across your eye you suck in a breath, reminding yourself you are strong, and must be strong.
Opening the box, inside, Valyrian steel catches the light. A slim, beautiful blade inlaid with the crest of your house remains within, the pale metal taking on a faint white sheen where the morning sun touches it. Your brother had given it to you when you were children, a secret hidden away like a treasure, half forgotten until now.
For a moment, you wonder what your prince would do if his throat ever met its edge, would he scramble in fear, whimper like a dragon who has lost its wings? You decide that this will be your last resort, if he tries anything with you, you will not be entirely defenceless.
You tuck the blade beneath your pillow, angling it so your fingers can find it easily. It is hidden but close, close enough that if you need it you can reach for it in an instant.
──
“I trust you won’t be as defiant tonight as you were yesterday, wife.”
His words roll easily off his familiar tongue, smooth and casual, and you do not like how binding it sounds. You try to bite back every answer that tries to rise, and he seems to savour it, the taste of your shackling. You cannot help but wish he would find enjoyment in anything other than tempting your anger by simply standing in front of you.
Aerion stands before you in the reds and blacks of his house, colours cutting sharp against his pale skin. His violet eyes linger on you with a kind of idle entertainment, as if he can hear the way the word ‘wife’ grates inside your skull. He rolls the title again in his mind, you’re sure he is savouring it like a mouthful of rich wine. Stepping a little closer, his gaze drifts lower, skimming over the fall of your gown before noticing the bruise on your throat. There is a slight pause and faint narrowing of his eyes as he takes in the mark you chose not to hide.
“Why do you choose to disgrace yourself like this?” His gaze continues to linger on your throat, voice smooth as silk.
You pull yourself together and offer him an obedient smile, your head tips, lolling slightly to the side, baring more of your throat to his gaze. “Something made by your own hand could never be a disgrace, my prince.”
“I do not know where this sudden nerve is coming from,” he says, voice dropping. “But do not toy with me, woman.” His eyes narrow at you, the faint glimmer in them sharpening.
The threatening edge in his voice cuts through whatever sudden spine you had found. You take a small step back, lashes lowering, smoothing your features into practiced obedience. “I do not toy, my prince.” You say, tone soft and careful. “It is not my place to trifle with you.”
He watches you as you finish speaking, gaze flickering down to your mouth, to the way your lips tighten around the words. A quiet huff escapes him, half irritation, half something else, and he lets the silence stretch a moment longer than comfortable. Then he clicks his tongue in a sharp, dismissive sound before finally deigning to speak again.
“You know what is expected of you, do you not?”
The thought of your wifely duties alone makes you shudder, a cold tremor running down your spine while fear coils in your gut. However, you smooth over your face and force your shoulders not to quake, you nod.
“Of course, my prince.” You say, voice barely above a murmur.
He tilts his head at that, considering your words before a low hum curls from his throat. The golden light of the hall catches on his Valyrian features, gliding against his cheekbones. For a moment, you can’t help but notice how beautiful he is, like a blade forged to be admired before it spills blood.
“Good. Since you are so eager to please me, then you will do your duty and give me heirs worthy of dragon blood.” he muses before continuing, “Real heirs, not some bland little half-bloods.”
His tone is light, edged with condescension and something disturbingly similar to amusement as his gaze lingers on you. It drifts slowly down the line of your bruised throat, falling over the creases of your silks, and settles at your stomach, as though he’s already picturing it swollen with his seed.
“If the gods bless us so, my prince,” you say, eyes lowered, “I will bear you the heirs you desire.”
Your fingers move before your mind can catch up to the words that have just spilled from your lips, crossing your hands over your stomach in a swift yet awkward fold. It is as if you are trying to hide that part of you from his gaze, the gesture feels small and foolish but you try and cling to it. Dislike coils hot inside you, bitter as you continue to gaze at the dragon prince.
He seems almost pleased by your answer, as though he hadn’t quite expected you to agree. He nods once, pouting his lips before he falls into thinking as you murmur again,
“If I may be excused, my prince.”
He regards your presence for a heartbeat longer, then inclines his head. “Very well.”
You leave the hall with your head lowered, the roar of conversation and music dimming behind you in every step. He torches throw wavering shadows over your face as you bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep another sob from clawing its way out, blinking fast to prevent your vision blurring.
Fear sits heavy in your gut as you make your way into the bedding chambers, a cold knot tightens and presses at your ribs as you are walking away from the girl you will not be again. Yet, beneath it all, you think of Aerion in an unwelcome thread of curiosity, you wonder what he will be like when the door shuts and there are no witnesses.
You slip inside and close the chamber door behind you, the room is quieter than you remembered, the candlelight pooling soft and golden over the bed. Turning towards the mirror, your fingers find the clasp of your cloak, sliding the fabric from your shoulders, leaving only silk, skin, and jewels staring back at you. It is duty, you think as your gaze stays to the bed behind you in the glass, searching over the pillow where a blade lies hidden beneath, a secret waiting for your hand.
Moving towards the bed in slow steps, your fingertips brush the carved post as the door opens, and Aerion steps inside, shrugging off his cape in a smooth motion before his gaze finds you at once. The space between you seems to narrow as his violet eyes lock with yours, and that strange feeling coils in your chest again. You refuse it as curiosity, deeming it as nerves as you know you hate him, or you should hate him. Yet, your breath comes quicker and your chest rises and falls as the two of you hold each other’s stare in quiet intensity.
“Waiting for me already, wife?” He speaks as he slowly crosses over to you, eyes unmoving from yours. Your gaze tracks over him, to the pale fall of his hair and the way the lamplight falls over his face, in this light, he looks attractive. Swallowing as he draws nearer, you feel your throat tighten with every inch he closes between you.
Retreating on instinct, the back of your knees collide with the mattress and it takes you off balance. You drop onto the edge of the bed with a thud, fingers catching in the blankets as you look up at him. Aerion steps into the space you’ve surrendered, boot brushing your leg as he presses his knee forward. He parts your legs with an easy, unhurried nudge, sliding his thigh between yours until you’re forced to open around him.
You feel heat seep through the thin layers of silk as his chest looms in front of you, and your breath stutters. His gaze drags down over you, your bare face, your bared throat, and the rise and fall of your purple silks where his knee is bracketed between your legs. Then slowly, his eyes climb back up, pinning you in place.
His hand rises as you feel every inch of its approach, and it rests along the edge of your jaw. His fingers are careful this time, the pad of his thumb grazing the edge of your jaw rather than digging into it, slender fingers warm against your skin. He exhales, breath ghosting over your lips as he leans down, lids lowering as his gaze roams your face.
“You’re not so bad up close,” he murmurs at last.
His fingers tighten, just enough to remind you who is in control. “On the bed,” he commands quietly, and you obey him.
Shuffling back, silk whispering as you crawl up against the pillows until they cradle your spine. The mattress dips as he sits at the edge to pull off his boots before he follows you, knees sinking into the mattress, the frame creaking softly under his weight as he looms over you. His hands go to fasten his top, one by one he works the buttons loose before the sharp line of his throat and collarbones appear, pale in the lamplight.
You watch, unable to look away while he shrugs the garment off his shoulders until he tugs the shirt away completely and reveals lean muscle painted with shadows of old bruises or training scars that rise and fall of his chest. Heat crawls over you, prickling beneath your skin and you are not sure if it is fear, shame or something else you cannot name. He tosses the shirt aside before looking back at you, hair spilled on pillows as silk draped over you, it is as if he’s cataloguing every inch of you laid out before him.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” He suddenly asks, eyes lingering where the silk hitches up your thighs.
You pause, chest heaving a little too fast, fingers knotting in the sheets. “Yes,” you breathe, “I am.”
“Good,” he says, running his tongue through his teeth. “They’re always easy to get wet.”
He moves in and a startled breath slips from you as his hand finds your face again, fingers curling more gently this time along your jaw as his finger rests beneath your cheekbone. Holding you there steadily his violet eyes lock with yours before he lowers his head. His mouth finds the crook of your neck, feeling your pulse beat against his warm lips that move slowly, as if he is tasting something that he now owns. A small whimper escapes your throat before you can stop yourself, and you feel his mouth curve against your throat, a small smile pressed into your skin. His eyes open and his gaze darkens as he lifts his head upward back towards your face.
Heat pools low in your belly, and it feels shameful the way your body betrays you. You can’t help but look at him, eyes wide and full of something that feels much like guilt, as if he’s caught you in a sin you never chose.
“Enjoying this now, are you?” he asks as something shifts in his gaze, tone going cool as he inhales slowly. His eyes track over your face then inevitably down to the bruise at your throat. Like flames flickering beneath skin, his hand slides from your jaw to that mark, fingers tightening suddenly as he grips your throat and presses your head deeper into the pillow. You feel panic slam through you as the mattress seems to swallow you whole.
Your lungs burn, his fingers brand your throat, and your vision narrows to the dark blur of Aerion’s face above you.
“M…my prince—” You try to reason, but he does not hear you, only leaning in further as his eyes remain fixed on yours, and you see his other hand rising, fingers tensing as it comes towards your neck.
In fear, your body decides for you as your arm snaps sideways, diving beneath the pillow. Your fingers close around the cool steel, the familiar shape of the hilt fitting into your palm as you rip it free and drag it up in a sharp and desperate slash. The blade flashes in the candlelight and meets the flesh of his hand in a wet resistance, parting his skin a fast gash. Heat splatters across your knuckles as Aerion jerks back both of his hands with a snarl,
“Fuck—!” He yells as blood spills from the gash, dark and bright all at once, running in quick rivulets down his palm and dripping onto the sheets between you.
The dagger slips from your fingers and falls onto the mattress, your hand recoiling as though burned. Scrambling backward, your spine presses hard into the headboard while your husband stares at his hand, blood splattering onto the sheets in soft drops. His palm curls, flexes, crimson welling fresh with every twitch as you watch it trail down the line of his wrist, staining his pale skin. Aerion lifts his head, fury in his eyes blinding, violet eyes gone dark, burning straight through you. Your stomach lurches at the sight, gaze trapped onto his bloody figure.
“You whore,” he spits, low and vicious. “You dare to shed blood of the dragon?”
“No— no, my prince, I—” The words die in your throat as he looks at you through half-lowered lids, rage simmering just beneath the surface. His injured hand reaches for the dagger and his blood smears over the hilt as his fingers wrap around it.
Bringing it up, you whimper a small and broken sound as the blade comes closer, glinting in the low light. His face follows, leaning in as a warm drop of blood falls from his wrist onto your bare skin, then another, sliding hot and sticky over your collarbone as he lifts the knife toward your throat. You suppose this is the end, you’ve laid steel against the prince of the realm, there is no taking that back.
“You spill a dragon’s blood, wife,” he says, studying you with the length of the blade, voice low and calm when it comes. “And you think there will be no price?”
His gaze drops from your eyes to your collarbone, to where his blood makes a trail over your skin. He stares at it with a terrible, intentional hunger, like a man eyeing a feast laid out before him, watching each red line crawl over the sharp jut of bone.
“You must be taught the cost of that.”
Slowly, he moves the dagger that shines in the candlelight toward your collarbone, pressing the cold edge against your warm skin. His violet eyes watch intensely as your skin splits apart, blood sweeping through the slash like sweet wine dripping from a goblet, your blood swelled and mixed with the crimson already staining his hands. His thumb smeared through both as though ready to taste the liquid, his and your own mingling over your skin in a glistening streak.
“H—haah…” You whimper out at the stinging pain, a broken sound caught in your throat. At once the sweet noise you make catches his attention as he lolls his head up to your pained expression with an unnamed satisfaction.
“I was right,” he murmurs, nails dragging slowly against your neck, voice low and almost thoughtful, “You do look pretty with fear on your face.”
He leaned down again, slower this time as the heat of his mouth brushed against the bloodied trail along your collarbone. The touch made you suck in a deep breath, your whole body going taut against him as he shifts closer, closing the space between you. It feels wrong. It feels disgusting. And yet, your body betrays you as your legs tense and a restless heat gatherers low inside you, it is dark and shameful and impossible to ignore.
The warmth of his mouth traces at the thin red line at your collarbone and you feel a sudden drag of his tongue against you. You try to catch your breath, but it is of no use as the heat of his mouth is lingering and unhurried, and he continues to lick away the blood as though he is savouring the taste of it. A dark warmth pools low in you, feeling humiliating throbs between your legs, the satisfaction is so dirty you feel it makes shame rise hot beneath your skin. You do not want it, you think you do not want it, but your body answers differently as you press your hips into his thigh, aching cunt trying to press against him in some hope of friction.
His nails drag slowly where they rest against you and your breathing turns uneven, leaving you in a trembling rush. You tip your head back to look at him breathlessly, lashes heavy and mouth parted as your eyes find his, and he looks up at you in terrible focus, listening to every little hitch in your breathing. You suddenly feel him pressed against the heat of your cunt, his lips parting faintly as he pushes himself closer, almost like he’s refusing to let you grind onto him.
“You enjoy it,” he says, breath caught in a sharp hiss when he feels you move against him once again.
“I do not,” you manage, breathless as your chest rises and falls, trying to pull in another breath under the heat of his gaze.
His mouth curves upwards without warmth, taking in your ruined figure. “No?” he continues, thumb pressing against your neck before it tightens, which forces you to arch subtly towards him. “Then why are you pressed against me like a bitch in heat?”
He pulls your head back slowly as his gaze drags over your tired face, forcing your gaze up at him. You try to pull in another breath, but it only seems to amuse him as he leans closer, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“No, you do not get to move against me like that and pretend innocence,” he begins, staring you down with his violet lidded eyes before he drags them over your throat, to your jaw and then to your lips. “You must taste the blood you’ve spilt.”
Aerion leans in slowly as you feel the heat of his breath as blood continues to stain his lips, smeared at the edge of them before his mouth presses to yours and stains your lips with red. His lips move against yours as though he wishes to claim all of you, below you his hand tightens just enough to keep you in place while his lips continue to drag against yours slowly. Your lips part slightly as you let out a shaky moan into his mouth and he slips his tongue into your mouth. He tastes of metal and rust, and the blood continues to drip into your mouth, smearing your lips with red.
He pulls back only a small fraction, just enough to free you and see the red that is now smeared across both your mouths, branding you of him. It all feels wrong, tastes wrong, like the memory of claws biting into flesh, but the realization steals through you all the same, you want him. You want to feel the heat, you want the fire, and you want to burn.
A single dark drop of red gathers at the curve of your lip, trembling before it begins to slip down your parted lips, trailing lower to the line of your chin. His gaze follows as it falls, then his hand rises and once slowly, his thumb catches it before it can fall any further, smearing the red across the pad of his skin. His violet eyes stay fixed on your face with terrible calm before he draws his hand back, gaze locked with yours as he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it with infuriating slowness. He sucks his thumb clean without looking away, as though your reaction is the truly satisfying thing.
His hand slides down your thigh, fingers settling there before they drag a little higher, slow enough to make your breath hitch. “Your legs tremble, wife,” he murmurs, his eyes remaining on your face as his mouth curves, “Are you growing restless for me?” His voice is mocking, but you cannot find it in yourself to deny him.
You drag in a shaky breath and tilt your chin up at him, trying to gather what little pride you have left. “You speak... as though it displeases you,” your breath shudders against him, lashes fluttering before you push your head back onto the pillow behind you.
Aerion tilts his head at you, and his hands move to grab your hips without bothering to reply. He forces your back further against the bed before he presses you down into the sheets before you can move. The mattress dips beneath you and the silk twists at your legs as his grip tightens, full of possessiveness before his mouth curves faintly,
“I will not be displeased so long as you remember to obey me.”
Then he shifts closer, slow enough to shake you until the space between you begins to vanish again. His slender fingers then reach for his pants, fastening his clothes, undoing them with slow hands as you can only watch as he shoves them aside, his face does not soften before he looks at you once again, and his lips are on yours again.
You taste him and feel the heat of his body as his hands pull on edges of your dress, pulling it over your stomach, revealing your trembling cunt dripping with pain before him. Aerion hisses, hips jerking toward your soaked cunt as you feel the tip of his cock brush against your slit. You latch onto his sweaty shoulder, nails digging into his pale skin before he lets out a heavy breath.
“You weep for me, wife.” he says as you let out a whimper and brush your hips further into his hard cock, silk beginning to flatten against your stomach as he moves closer, wrist flicking as he grabs the base of cock, giving it a light stroke.
“Aerion— please,” you find yourself speaking in desperation, head lolling to the side as he lets out an amused huff and his lips brush against yours again.
“There, there,” he says softly, almost mockingly. “That is better. You should remember how to speak with me.”
Aerion then curls his slender hand around your waist, jerking his hips forward before he begins to push himself into your warm cunt. Unable to handle your bodyweight, your head slips further into the pillow as you feel him penetrate you entirely, your gaze blurs before you feel a sting, trying to adjust to his sheer size.
You gasp, throwing your head back as you feel a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, his cock stretching your walls. Aerion slips his dick in you further and your nails dig into his shoulders as you whimper, trying to bury your head into his shoulder. He snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix as you gasp, “Hah—” it's so deep in you, you swear you feel yourself seeing stars.
Aerion lets a grin out at the sight and continues to rut into you while breathily grunting, “You belong to me,” be begins, drawing out the sentence with quick huffs while he continues to thrust into your wet cunt, “all of you belongs to me.” His hand begins to trace your thigh shakily as he grunts out a quiet “fuck!” when he feels you clench around him, pressing his face closer to yours.
Tears well up in your eyes as he hurries his pace, chasing a high both of you seem to be reaching before he begins to suck at the crook of your neck where the mix of your blood begins to dry, “Tell me you belong to me.” he commands, hips dipping further into you as he continues to lick the blood dry, you can only moan in response as he drags his tongue
When you don’t respond immediately his abdomen tenses and he removes himself from the crook of your neck, earning a needy whine from you. “Say it,” he bites the words out, eyes lingering on yours with the embers of flames glimmering behind them, and you can almost see the frustration build up within him as he grips your neck, forcing you to look at him as he continues to thrust into you with slowed movements.
“I’m yours,” you say, biting your lip as tears well up in your eyes as you feel his thrusts begin to fasten again, his cock once again buried deep inside you. Your thighs burn with pleasure as his cock continues to push into your gummy walls, and his chest flushes against yours in satisfaction before you feel breathless.
He settles against you fully, skin to skin and the heat of him wraps around you like flesh giving into flame. It feels like you are being burned, it is cruel and consuming but you find yourself wanting more of it, you think this must be how a dragon leaves its mark, where you cannot tell the difference between warmth and burning.
Your hand slides into the silver of his hair, gripping it tightly before he snarls at you and moves to give you an open-mouthed kiss, and you find yourself kissing him back with similar intensity. You lewdly moan into his mouth before he speeds up again at the sound of the soft melody leaving your throat, and he suddenly bites down on your lip and you let out a choked noise.
Suddenly you find yourself slipping your arms around his shoulders and bringing his body closer to you as you feel your belly grow warmer and pleasure coils through you, “Aerion,” you breathe out, hands sliding to cradle him as his slightly watery violet eyes meet yours.
His head falls forward toward you as he ruts into you fast, like a territorial animal, and you suppose it is because dragons are territorial creatures after all, but you do not mistake the way he lets out a huffed groan. You squirm under him, feeling that coil in your stomach intensify before you desperately cling to him, rolling your hips into him slowly.
Aerion’s pace grows sloppy as he feels your cunt spasm around him and he grinds his teeth together, “Fuck— Don’t move.” Instead, you do the opposite and jerk your hips upwards earning a lewd moan from him before he throws his head back with a clenched jaw and his veins bulging in sudden strain.
Locking your legs around him you mutter his name over and over and with one last roll of his hips he spills his seed deep inside your cunt, thrusting forward once more in order to make sure a drop of it doesn’t leak. Your lips brush the side of his shoulder before the coil within you snaps and you find yourself cumming around his cock, whining while your hips stutter.
Neither of you move and Aerion makes no attempt to slip out of you, remaining where he is with heavy breaths as your bodies press together in marital bliss. The room around you remains swallowed in candlelight as his hand does not leave you. Instead, his fingers drift slowly to the bruised skin at your neck, tracing the mark, as though admiring something he has made. The touch is light, but it makes your breath hitch nevertheless.
His eyes stay fixed on the darkened shape before they lift to yours, lips curling into a small smirk. A dragon has laid claim to you, and you feel it like the claws buried beneath your skin. There is nothing more you can do now except be held here and burn.
“You are mine to endure now.” he says at last, voice unhurried. “Do not forget it, wife.”
divider made by me (please credit if used)
woahhhh this one shot was long aff hahahah and it took so long to write. i love my aerion so much he deserves all the love but at the same time he is a complete evil man!!
all reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated and loved <3
note: i had so much fun writing this and i love house dayne so much i thought it would be rlly interesting to write about it and i lowk forgot that aerion is a dayne while beginning to write it but we continue MOVING FORWARD. this was originally supposed to be a daeron fanfic actually because of the Dayne's having correlation to the dragon dreams and being of old blood (idk if this is accurate but its something like that LOL) but i might write a daeron one about that MAYBEEE lmk if u guys want it. anyway i've had an aerion hyperfixation this week so he gets the spotlight today ! this was also supposed to be uploaded saturday night but i lowk got tired and couldn't bring myself to finish it rip but its here now so ENJOYYY
married to the most volatile man in the Seven Kingdoms, you have committed the ultimate sin: being too human for a dragon’s blood. now, you must find a way to be useful to the cruel prince, or risk a war that will leave the kingdom in ashes.
💭 thinking about Husband!Aerion who likes biting his pretty wife a little too much ᝰ.ᐟ nasty thots 18+
When Aerion first bit you, you had hit him out of pure reflex, right across the cheek, hard enough for his skin to pinken and sting under your palm, enough for him to gasp and pull away from your mouth with a glare.
“You hit me. You hit your husband. Your king,” he had all but gawped, staring dead into your eyes.
“Yes, because you bit me, Aerion. You drew blood.”
Your retort had only brought a smirk to his face, smug and sardonic and when he reached a hand up to your mouth, it was not to soothe but rather to press his thumb against your bottom lip and smear the blood across your chin in pure awe.
Since then, he’s been a terror, like an untrained puppy who nips and chews on anything it can get its canines on.
When you try to fix his hair in the mornings, he tries to nip at your fingers. When he’s bored, he’ll lean in and bite your cheek and jaw without a care who’s watching and in bed? Well, he’ll sink his teeth into every beautiful inch of you.
You’d try to push him away when his teeth dig into your skin a little too hard, your hands squishing up against his face, but it’s a fruitless endeavour because gods, he’s relentless— his hands pinning yours into the pillows, his hips pressed firmly to your own, grinding against you clumsily.
“Don’t push me away,” he whines, the petulant creature he was, his breath hot against your jaw, “just one more, right here… my sweet wife, for me? Please?”
His favourite place to bite is your thighs and hips. He loves to see his teeth marks as you ride him, loves pressing his fingers against the bruises when you're on top of him, just to watch your rhythm falter and feel your cunt clench around his cock.
It’s a sick fascination he gets, watching the way your soft skin moulds under the shape of his teeth. He’s obsessed with the marks he leaves, the bruises and aches that bloom after— he adores watching you wince when you sit down or walk the halls, the hitch of your breath and the subtle furrow of your brows.
What thrills him the most, though, is when you snap, pulling him back by his white hair or grabbing his jaw tightly to wring him away from you— his lips all kiss-bitten and shiny, pupils blown. Nothing turns him on more than watching you lose your patience that you normally hide behind politeness.
“You’re a leech, Aerion.” You seethe, and your stern tone makes him dizzy, the sick man he was. “I told you not near my neck… as if people don’t already talk enough.”
“If you think I care about what people say… then you’ve sorely misjudged me, wife,” he boasts pridefully, turning his head to nip at the inside of your wrist. “Besides, was it not you who told me to pay no mind to the opinions of those whom are beneath us?”
The smugness of him irks you in ways you’ve never thought possible. He’s an untameable beast, and when he ducks his head to kiss at your neck, all slow and open-mouthed, almost apologetic if it were anyone but him, you know he’s got you right where he wants. “I’d eat you alive if I could, my sweet wife,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe, and you think he just might.
AN: I finally got around to watching this show and now Vampire!Aerion is all I think about these days smh 😔
Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion
A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k
The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.
You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.
This is familiar ground.
You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.
Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.
You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.
Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.
The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.
It snags on you by accident.
Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.
It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.
He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.
You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.
Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.
He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.
He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.
You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.
Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.
He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.
That night, you think you are alone.
The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.
You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.
Not a sound or movement.
Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.
He stands just inside the door.
Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.
You do not remember hearing it open.
For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.
You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.
“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.
His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.
“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.
“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”
He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.
“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”
Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.
He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.
“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.
You swallow. “I didn't.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”
His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.
The shape of how easily you might bend.
You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.
“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.
You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.
He notices that too.
“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”
Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.
He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.
“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.
Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.
“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”
"I meant no disrespect, my prince"
His hand lifts.
For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.
The touch is light, but the effect is not.
“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”
“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”
The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.
His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.
When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.
"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."
You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.
"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"
"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.
He's a Targaryen prince.
Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?
"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"
The honest answer catches in your throat.
Yes, I'm terrified.
But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.
"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."
"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."
He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.
"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?
"Yes, what?"
Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."
"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."
"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.
"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"
The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."
"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."
"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"
"My prince, please-"
"Answer the question."
Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."
"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."
Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"
"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.
You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"
"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"
"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"
"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."
The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.
"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."
His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."
"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."
His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.
"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.
"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"
"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."
The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.
"Look at me."
You don't want to, you do not know how.
"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.
"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."
The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.
You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.
"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."
He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"
"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.
"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.
He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.
"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."
Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.
When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.
"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"
You shake your head mutely, face burning.
"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."
When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.
"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."
You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.
When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.
"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."
So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.
"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."
His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.
"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."
Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.
One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."
"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."
His smile is cruel. "We'll see."
He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.
"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."
His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"That's it," he encourages darkly.
You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.
"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."
His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.
The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.
"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."
The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.
"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."
He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.
Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.
"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.
"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."
You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."
Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"
He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."
You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"
"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."
He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.
"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."
But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.
"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."
When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.
"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.
"Again."
"I'm yours, my prince."
"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."
His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.
It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.
"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."
"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.
"Yes," he counters.
One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.
"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."
Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.
"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."
His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.
He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.
After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.
"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."
You turn your face away, but he's insistent.
"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."
Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.
"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.
He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.
"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"
You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.
And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.
Wanted it.
Wants him still.
"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."
You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
It becomes a pattern.
Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.
Aerion comes to you at night.
Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.
You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.
Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.
The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.
He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.
The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.
You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.
Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.
“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”
It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.
“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”
You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.
Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.
And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.
There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.
In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.
“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”
You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”
It is humiliating, how true that is.
“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”
You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.
“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”
The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.
It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.
A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.
Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.
It does not work tonight.
You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.
Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.
His eyes find you immediately.
The look is not subtle.
Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.
When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.
The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.
“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”
The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.
Too intimate to be mistaken.
Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”
“Good,” Aerion says lightly.
He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.
The taboo hums in the air between you.
It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.
There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.
They can only watch.
Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.
“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”
You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”
He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”
The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.
You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.
You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.
Aerion does not care.
He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.
Let them see, the look says.
Let them understand what cannot be undone.
The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.
Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.
“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”
The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.
The court has already heard it.
idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3
Summary: Fueled by the betrayal of your betrothed, you tumble into bed with the worst person you can think of- Aerion of House Targaryen. Whilst you may see it as a one time mistake, Aerion Brightflame does not.
Warnings: 18+, cheating (not by Aerion), vaginal fingering, Aerion calls reader a whore, biting with blood, slightly oc Aerion?, blood play, canon divergence, obsessive behaviour, slight dub-con, loss of virginity, hunting, canon typical violence, vaginal sex, no protection, unedited
Word Count: 10k+
targaryen masterlist
The air in the corridor was cooler than usual. With a shiver, you tucked your hands under your armpits after checking that you were quite alone, and began to make your way to the hall for dinner.
Ashford Meadows was different to your home. Grayer, colder, busier. It seemed an unusual time to hold a tourney until you had found out it was Lady Gwin Ashford’s birthday. Lord Ashford himself had invited your family down to join in on the celebrations and your elder brother, Leon, had been eager to join the lists.
It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.
And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.
You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.
The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.
Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.
You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.
Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.
With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.
At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.
You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.
“Oh, Owen, please!”
You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.
You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.
You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.
“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”
Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.
You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.
After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.
A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.
You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.
It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.
Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.
It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?
Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.
He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.
“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”
Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?
“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”
Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.
“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.
You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.
“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”
Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.
You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.
Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.
The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.
What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.
Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?
There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.
You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.
As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.
Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.
The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.
When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.
Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.
Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.
You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.
The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.
The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.
Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.
Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.
He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.
“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.
You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.
Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.
“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”
Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?
You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.
Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.
Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.
“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”
“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”
You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.
Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.
Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.
It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?
Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.
The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.
“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”
You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”
Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.
And then you bit down. Hard.
Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.
You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.
He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.
“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”
You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?
“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.
It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.
Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.
Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.
“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”
You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.
Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.
His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.
He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.
Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.
You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.
If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.
With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.
His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”
You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.
Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.
The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.
Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.
The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.
When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.
Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.
Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!
As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.
You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.
Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.
“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”
“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”
Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.
A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.
You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.
Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.
You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.
“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”
“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”
You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?
“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.
Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”
“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”
The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.
He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.
Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.
You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?
It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .
You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.
Aerion arrived first.
You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.
Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.
Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.
The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.
“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”
He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.
Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.
You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.
“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.
Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.
Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.
Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.
Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.
Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.
Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.
One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.
After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.
Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.
Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.
You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.
At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.
Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.
Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.
“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.
The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.
Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.
For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.
Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.
You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.
The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.
Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.
Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.
You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.
After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.
No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.
Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.
One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.
Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.
Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.
On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.
He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.
After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.
Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.
Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.
You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.
Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.
“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”
You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.
Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.
The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.
You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.
The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“
“But I have need of you.”
You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.
“I’ll scream,” you warned him.
“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.
He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.
You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.
Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.
Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”
“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.
Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”
“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”
Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”
“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”
You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.
Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.
“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”
“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”
“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.
“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.
Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.
He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”
It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”
“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”
You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.
You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”
Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.
When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.
One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.
Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.
Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.
Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.
You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.
You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“
“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”
All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.
You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.
Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”
With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.
Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.
Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.
No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.
At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.
On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.
You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed.
You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.
Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.
The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.
Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.
You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”
“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.
“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.
He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.
“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.
Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.
It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.
Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.
Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”
Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”
Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.
“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.
Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?
When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.
“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”
You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.
He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”
He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.
“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”
Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.
There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.
Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.
Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.
Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.
You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.
Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.
You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.
Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.
Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.
“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”
His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.
It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.
You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.
“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.
“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“
“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”
You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.”
“Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.”
“My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.
“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”
“My father would not make me –“
“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”
“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”
“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.
“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”
a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it
I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated
Daeron the Drunken Dreamer [Original Art]
"Not that I ever asked to have my honor redeemed. Whoever has it can keep it, so far as I'm concerned. Still, here we are. For what it's worth, Ser Duncan, you have little to fear from me."
Sinopsis: At the Ashford Tournament, Prince Valarr waits restlessly for the arrival of his beloved wife, delayed upon the road. While knights compete and lords feast beneath banners and torchlight, the crown prince’s heart is fixed only on the northern horizon.
Warnings: Light romantic intimacy (non-explicit)
WC: 2,200 words approx.
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The afternoon sun began to sink behind the sand-colored tents and the banners of the houses gathered for the tournament. The wind moved the fabric gently, and the scent of horse, trampled grass, and the wood of the tilting grounds filled the air.
Prince Valarr had spent the last two days riding aimlessly around Ashford, training with his lance until his arms ached and forgetting to eat since his arrival. His father, Prince Baelor, surely believed he did it to avoid listening to Aerion’s bitter jests—those he struggled so hard to endure without losing his temper.
But the truth was different.
Every morning, when the dew still dampened the grass, and every night, when the torches lit the road, Valarr mounted his horse and positioned himself at the northern entrance of Ashford. He narrowed his gaze, shielding his eyes from the sun or the growing dusk, and he watched. He watched the horizon, waiting to see a caravan, a cloud of dust, a sign.
No. There was still no sign of your arrival.
The worst part? That despite those two days—which had felt endless to him, though more than one would call it an exaggeration for a crown prince—you would depart after him. Not because you did not wish to travel at his side, but because your parents had gone to visit Dragonstone and had already been there a week. It had been you who proposed it to Prince Baelor, more than to Valarr: that they depart first for the tournament, and you would leave the following morning, once your parents had already taken their leave.
Baelor had hesitated at first, frowning as he considered the roads and the dangers that might lurk. But in the end he nodded and agreed to escort you with half a dozen good soldiers—the kind who knew how to handle a sword and did not frighten at every sound in the night. He did it so your journey would be peaceful, yes, but above all so that Valarr would be at ease.
And it was true that when Baelor made that decision, his son was already looking at him with dampened eyes, wearing that slight pout he had shown since childhood whenever something displeased him. Those lamb-like eyes that even Baelor—a serious and measured man—could not see without smiling. Almost laughing, if he were honest. For he himself had once been that way with Valarr’s mother, with his beloved Jena. The years had not erased the memory: he too had waited, had longed, had loved with that same tenderness. It was love, simply. And love understands neither rank nor protocol.
"I can wait," Valarr had said that morning at Dragonstone, before departing. "It does not matter if you arrive later."
They were walking back toward the chamber, hand in hand. The stone corridor echoed with their steps, and light poured through the high windows.
"Of course it matters," you replied without releasing his hand, squeezing it gently. "You are the crown prince after your father. Your presence at the tournament is important as well. People expect to see you."
Valarr huffed—a short, almost childish sound—and you laughed as you looked at him. His eyes, one sky-blue and the other brown, shone with irritation.
"My prince," you said in affectionate mockery, "follow protocol. You cannot throw a tantrum simply because your wife will not travel with you to Ashford on the same day."
"It is not a tantrum," he protested as they crossed the threshold of the chamber. "I worry about you. Leaving alone… what if something happens to you?"
"Is that the only reason it pains you so much?" you asked, stepping inside and releasing his hand to sit at the edge of the bed.
Valarr remained standing for a moment, watching you. Then he approached slowly and knelt before you, wrapping his arms around your waist and hiding his face in your lap. His voice came out muffled, yet clear:
"Two days are too many. Endless hours. Counted seconds. And with Aerion’s presence behaving like a… and my uncle Maekar shouting for him to behave, I shall lose my mind. But do you know what will make that madness worse? Your absence. My wife must ride at my side, take my hand, sleep beside me, smile at me over breakfast, wish me luck in the tilts. Who will do that if you are not there?"
He lifted his gaze toward you. His eyes, so different from one another, looked at you with a mixture of pleading and tenderness that broke your heart just a little.
You smiled. You ran a hand through his brown hair, gently caressing the nape of his neck.
"Just wait for me," you whispered. "I will come to you, I promise. And I will spend the whole day with you, every moment. Besides, when we return to Dragonstone, I will always come at your side. We will not be parted again."
And so he ended up waiting for you.
A crown prince was meant to have control over himself, not lose his reason, to make wise decisions. That was what the maesters and counselors said. But Valarr, beyond being the king’s grandson and the heir’s son, was a man in love. Everyone in the castle knew it. In the town they murmured. "Valarr the Enamored," some said. "The Prince in Love," others whispered. You would laugh when you heard it while visiting the villages with your ladies. Then more murmurs would follow: "There is no man more in love than Prince Valarr." "They say he bought the princess a dozen white horses." "Every jewel that arrives at court, if it bears the color red, goes straight to the princess by order of the prince."
And it was Valarr’s fault, of course. The fault of how he would go from stern, brows furrowed and gaze distant, to a radiant smile with dimples in his cheeks each time he looked at you. The fault of how he searched for you in a crowd the moment he entered a hall, how his hand sought yours beneath the table, how his eyes lit up as though he had seen the sun after a long storm.
"Your Grace," a knight’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, "it grows late, and Prince Baelor reminded you of the supper tonight. With the lords who have arrived."
Valarr turned slowly, drawing his gaze away from the dark road that vanished among the trees—the very road by which you were meant to appear. He nodded without a word, took his horse’s reins, and returned to the camp.
The supper passed with a painful slowness. Torches flickered in the great hall of Ashford Castle, casting dancing shadows over the white tablecloths and the wine goblets. The lords spoke of horses, of lances, of wagers. Aerion released a jest now and then, glancing sideways at Valarr, waiting for a reaction. But Valarr scarcely listened. He moved the food on his plate without bringing it to his mouth, glanced at the door again and again, toyed with the rim of his cup.
"Has she not yet arrived?" Baelor asked quietly, leaning toward his son.
Valarr shook his head, wordless.
Maekar, the king’s brother, seated at the other end of the table, set down his goblet and looked at his nephew with an expression rarely seen upon his face: soft, almost tender.
"Such devotion to your wife, son," he said in his deep voice, "reminds me of the loyalty your father bore your mother. And Baelor was never a man of many words—but with Jena… well, he was another man entirely."
Baelor smiled faintly, never taking his eyes off his son.
Then, suddenly, the sound of trumpets broke through the murmur of the supper. Distant at first, then nearer. Everyone in the hall turned toward the entrance. A servant came running in, breathless and grinning from ear to ear.
"The princess has arrived, my lord!" the woman announced, looking directly at Valarr.
He rose from his chair so quickly that it scraped sharply against the stone floor. All eyes were upon him. He should follow protocol, of course. He should wait, walk calmly, greet those present, excuse himself, depart with dignity.
But who the hell cared about protocol when his wife was so close?
He was the first to descend the stairs. The smile he wore was so wide it seemed to light the entire vestibule.
"It seems your little toy has finally arrived—" Aerion began, having followed him with the intention of provoking him, but he did not finish the sentence.
Valarr pushed past him. Not with malice—simply moving him out of the way, never ceasing to smile for a single instant. Aerion frowned, offended, but Valarr was already far ahead, crossing the courtyard in long strides.
"My prince," you managed to say when you saw him appear.
He quickened his pace, and before you could say anything more, he wrapped you in a tight embrace. He buried his face in your neck, breathed deeply, taking in your scent, your warmth, your presence. You smiled and slipped your arms around his back, smoothing your hands over his cloak.
"My love," he murmured against your skin. "How long you have taken. And here I was, nearly dying of your absence."
You let out a soft little laugh—one of those he adored so much. When he pulled back just enough, he cupped your cheeks in his hands and kissed you gently, as though he feared you might break. When he withdrew, he continued smiling, gazing at you as if he could scarcely believe you were truly there at last.
"I apologize for the delay, husband," you said, brushing a hand along his cheek. "I felt somewhat unwell on the road. The carriage swayed so much that I had to stop for a while to catch my breath."
He frowned at once, concern flooding his features. He remembered those bouts of dizziness that overtook you after many hours in a closed carriage—how once you had nearly fainted on the way to Storm’s End.
"I told you to travel with me," he said, stroking your arm. "I could have cared for you every moment. Watched over you. Kept you close."
"I am here now," you whispered. "It is over."
"Ah, yes. The very same masochist as his father with his wife," Maekar murmured to Baelor, who had followed them outside and now observed the scene from the top of the steps.
Baelor smiled, shaking his head gently.
"He is simply in love," he said softly, watching as Valarr adjusted your hair, smoothed your gown, and pressed kisses to your forehead.
Exactly as he himself had done with Jena so many years ago. Love does not change, he thought. It simply passes from father to son.
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Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow, Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār and Awakening. Can be read as a oneshot?
Warnings: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded, pregnancy/childbirth themes, talks of death, Aerion has insane ideas, angst, hurt&comfort, Targaryen lore, this is Westeros people, politics. Aerion's pov.
It was nearly three weeks before she could stand without swaying.
The maester forbade it at first, but she had always possessed a stubbornness that no decree, medical or royal, could fully bend. One morning, resolute, she pushed herself upright from the bed. Aerion was at her side before she could take a step, hands hovering.
“I can walk,” she said, breath thin but defiant.
“You nearly died,” he answered.
“And yet I did not.”
He did not argue further. He simply stayed close enough that if she faltered, he would catch her before she struck the ground.
The nursery had been moved to warmer chambers overlooking the inner yard. The hearth there burned constantly now. When they entered, the nursemaid bowed and withdrew discreetly, leaving husband and wife alone with their son, and the creature curled along the cradle’s edge.
The dragon had grown a bit. Its body was longer, its limbs stronger. Its scales had deepened in hue, silver brightening to near-white along its spine, gold tracing the edges of each plate like delicate filigree. It lifted its head at their entrance. Its eyes, bright amber, fixed first on the babe, then on Aerion. It did not hiss.
She stepped closer, slowly, and gazed down at both child and dragon. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached to lift her son. The dragon shifted but did not protest. Instead, it coiled its tail loosely around the edge of the cradle and observed.
She cradled the infant against her chest and closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in.
“He is perfect,” she whispered.
“He is Targaryen,” Aerion replied.
She looked at him then, studying his face as if measuring what had changed in it since the Stranger had hovered over her head.
“You have not told me everything,” she stated.
Aerion did not pretend ignorance.
He dismissed the last lingering servant with a sharp glance and shut the door himself. When he returned to her, there was something almost restless in his movements, like a man pacing the edge of confession.
“You remember nothing?” he asked.
“I remember pain,” she said. “And fire. And screaming.” Her gaze flicked to the dragon. “Not that.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Daeron dreamed,” he began. “He saw you lying in your own blood. Unmoving. He heard a dragon cry.” Aerion’s mouth tightened. “You know our bloodline carries such dreams. I did not dismiss it.”
“You believed I would die.”
“I believed you might,” he corrected. “And that if a dragon was to be born, it would be paid for in blood.”
Her fingers tightened instinctively around their son.
He told her everything.
How he had sent ravens across the Narrow Sea and beyond, offering gold for knowledge of old Valyrian rites. How the sorceress had come, nameless and cold-eyed. How she had spoken of blood and fire, of sacrifice, of dragons starved by peace. How she had said that if Daeron heard a dragon cry, then a dragon would come, but that it would demand payment.
“She said it must be you,” Aerion said, voice low. “Or you and the child. That your blood would birth strength. That once dragons flew again, I could take a bride of purer Valyrian stock.”
Her face drained of what little color it had regained. “And you listened?”
“I listened,” he said. “I did not agree.”
He told her of the circle of stones, the candles, the murmured high Valyrian spells. Of the moment the maester had asked for leave to cut her open.
Her breathing grew shallow as he spoke, but she did not look away.
“What did you do?” she whispered.
“I gave the ritual what it demanded,” Aerion said. “Valyrian blood. Fire. A life for a life.”
Understanding dawned slowly in her eyes.
“You killed her.”
“Yes.”
“In front of...”
“In front of everyone who needed to believe she meant you harm.” His jaw flexed. “I slit her throat over the circle she made. I pushed her into the fire. Fire and blood. If a sacrifice was required, it would not be yours.”
Silence filled the chamber, heavy as smoke.
At last she said, “You gambled.”
“I risked, yes.”
“You had no guarantee.”
“No.” His gaze burned, fierce and unwavering. “But I was not about to let some Essosi witch decide that you were expendable.”
Her eyes shimmered not with fear, but with something more complicated.
“And if it had failed?” she asked him. “If the egg had remained stone?”
“Then I would have broken the world until it yielded another way,” he replied without hesitation.
She huffed an incredulous breath. “You are mad.”
“I am a Targaryen.”
She studied him for a long moment. “And if I had died despite it?”
His expression shifted then, just slightly.
“I told you once,” he said, quieter now, “that I would have a child by other means if I must. That our line would not end with me. But I also told you that I would not replace you as my wife.”
She remembered. The words had unsettled her then.
“I meant it,” he continued. “I do not care that you are Tyrell. I do not care that your blood is not Valyrian. The dragon hatched beside our son all the same.”
His hand brushed against the cradle where the dragon lay coiled.
“I will not trade you for some pale cousin because a witch thought it convenient.”
It was not tender in tone. It was not gentle. But it was, in its way, devotion.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
“You frightened me,” she said at last. “Even now.”
“Good,” he replied reflexively.
“Not good.”
He stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup her cheek.
“You are alive,” he said. “Our son is alive. A dragon breathes in his cradle. I will accept your displeasure.”
She leaned into his touch despite herself.
After a moment, she glanced toward the dragon. “What now?”
“Now,” Aerion said, “we do not make the mistakes of our ancestors.”
He straightened slightly, mind already turning.
“The last dragons were kept chained in pits and domes. Fed and displayed like ornaments. They shrank. They withered. If she is to grow, she will fly.”
“She?” his wife echoed.
“The maester examined it,” Aerion said. “Her. Female.”
Her gaze softened as the hatchling lifted its head, as if sensing attention. Its small chest expanded, and a thin ribbon of smoke curled from its nostrils.
“She will need space,” Aerion continued. “Air. Sky. Not a cage beneath the Red Keep.”
“The city will panic.”
“The city will learn.”
She adjusted their son in her arms. “If she grows large...”
“Then the realm will remember what we are.”
“But if no other egg hatches?”
That question lingered heavier than the rest. Aerion’s expression darkened slightly.
“If she is the only one,” he said, “then she cannot lay fertile eggs alone. Dragons are not made from nothing. If another healthy dragon does not hatch, if the magic is not strong enough…then she will be the last.”
He did not say what that would mean for his son. They both understood.
“We wait,” he said finally. “We watch the other eggs. We see whether what was begun in blood has strengthened what was fading.”
She looked down at the child in her arms.
“They are already speaking of his name,” she said.
His mouth curved faintly. “They protest.”
“Maegor,” she said pointedly.
He did not look ashamed. “They forget that Maegor was also a dragonrider.”
“They remember the cruelty.”
He huffed an irritated breath. “Baelor lectures. Grandsire scowls. Even father suggested that perhaps the boy should not bear the weight of that name.”
“You disagree.”
“I do not bend easily.”
“No,” she agreed dryly. “You do not.”
She considered for a moment, then said, “Maeron.”
He frowned slightly. “Maeron.”
“It keeps the strength,” she said. “But sheds the shadow.”
He tested it under his breath. “Maeron.”
After a pause, he inclined his head. “Very well. Maeron.”
Relief flickered across her face.
“What about her?” she asked, nodding toward the hatchling.
Aerion’s gaze turned reverent as it settled upon the dragon.
“She is born of blood and flame,” he said. “She answered sacrifice. She will not be named lightly.”
He considered the old Valyrian pantheon, names of deities half-forgotten, whispered in fragments in crumbling scrolls.
“Aegarax,” he said at last. “For the goddess of blood. Queen of the gods.”
His wife arched a brow faintly. “Subtle.”
“I have never pretended to be subtle.”
The dragon, Aegarax, lifted her head and released a sharper cry than before, a sound that made the fine hairs along the back of his neck rise.
Maeron was barely a fortnight old when Aerion began holding him up, far more carefully than anyone would have expected, and angling his tiny fist toward Aegarax as though the child might meaningfully grasp at destiny.
“Look,” Aerion would murmur, as if speaking to a young squire rather than a swaddled infant. “That is yours. She chose you.”
Maeron responded as infants did: with a gurgle, or a squirm, or a sudden indignant cry when his father’s enthusiasm disturbed his comfort.
Aegarax, for her part, had been removed from the cradle after the third night she singed the edge of the linens with an errant puff of flame. Even Aerion had conceded that a dragon, however small, did not belong pressed against a newborn’s face while its fire came and went like a hiccup.
She was given a brazier-lined alcove instead, ringed in iron lattice, open at the top so she might stretch her wings. She did not like it.
When Maeron cried, she would claw at the iron with a metallic scrape that echoed through the chamber. When he quieted, she would settle, tail coiled tight, eyes half-lidded but alert.
Aerion interpreted this as proof of bond. The maester interpreted it as instinct. His wife interpreted it as both.
Yet for all his intensity with the child and dragon, it was her he hovered over. At night, he did not allow space between them.
He slept on his side, one arm beneath her neck, the other banded around her waist, as though she might dissolve if not physically grasped. If she shifted even slightly, his eyes would open.
The first time she slipped from the bed after midnight, aching but restless, drawn by the quiet rustle of the nursery, he woke to cool sheets and nearly overturned the bedside table in his haste.
He found her standing over Maeron’s bassinet, one hand resting on the edge.
“You left,” he said, voice tight.
“I walked five paces,” she replied gently.
“You left.”
She studied him in the flicker of candlelight and saw what lay beneath the sharpness: fear. Not of assassins. Not of prophecy. Absence.
“I will wake you,” she promised.
“You will,” he insisted. “Every time.”
She did. Even if it meant rousing him to stumble half-awake to her side while she checked that their son still breathed, that Aegarax still lay curled in her alcove, that the hearth had not burned too low.
He would stand there, hair mussed, eyes shadowed, watching both child and dragon as if memorizing them against loss.
The small council pressed again about the dragon’s confinement.
“She must not be seen flying above the city unchecked,” Baelor argued during one meeting. “The memory of dragonfire is not so distant that the sight will comfort the smallfolk.”
“She will not grow chained,” Aerion replied.
“There is a difference between chain and prudence,” Baelor said evenly.
Maekar leaned back in his chair, studying his son. “You intend to let her fly.”
“Yes.”
“Over King’s Landing?”
“When she is strong enough.”
“That could cause panic.”
“It could cause reverence,” Aerion countered.
Daeron, lounging near the window, tilted his head. “Or both.”
Aerion’s gaze flicked to him. “You have no dreams?”
Daeron’s mouth twitched faintly. “None that concern dragons.”
That answer seemed to settle something in Aerion, though only slightly.
In the end, a compromise was reached. When Aegarax’s wings grew strong enough to bear her weight for more than a few frantic flutters, she would be taken at dawn beyond the city walls, to the rocky outcrops near the Blackwater, escorted by guards sworn to silence. There she would stretch her wings properly.
It was Maekar who suggested the location.
“If she is to learn the sky,” he said, “better rock than rooftops.”
Aerion agreed.
His wife’s recovery was slower than she let on. The maester spoke plainly in private.
“Another pregnancy would be…inadvisable,” he said carefully. “For more than a couple years, I'm afraid. Her body barely survived the first.”
Aerion did not hesitate. “Then there will not be another.”
“You will drink moon tea,” he informed her unceremoniously. “Regularly.”
She blinked at him, startled.
“You object?”
“No,” she said slowly. “I expected argument.”
“I have a son,” he replied. “I have a dragon. I will not gamble you for the possibility of a spare.”
There was something darkly practical in the way he said it, yet also fiercely protective.
“You would deny yourself more heirs?” she asked.
“If Maeron dies,” he said evenly, “I will burn the world.”
She sighed. “That is not reassuring.”
He touched her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“You are not a broodmare,” he said. “You nearly died proving the line continues. That is enough for now. Our son needs you.”
The maester measured the dragon obsessively.
“She is outpacing the records of the last hatchlings,” he admitted one afternoon, ink-stained fingers tapping parchment. “By nearly a third.”
Aerion’s satisfaction was quiet but unmistakable.
Yet another question began to stir beneath the surface.
Other eggs remained.
If blood had strengthened something unseen, if the current that the sorceress had spoken of had indeed been stirred, would another egg answer?
He did not speak of it openly. Not even to his wife.
But one evening, as they stood together watching Aegarax snap playfully at a strip of raw meat, he said, almost to himself, “If she is alone, she is the ending.”
She rested her head lightly against his shoulder. “You are already thinking of more.”
“I am thinking,” he said carefully, “of balance.”
“Meaning?”
“If she grows large,” he continued, “and no other dragon lives to match her, she will never lay fertile eggs. Dragons require each other.”
She studied Aegarax as the dragon unfurled her wings and leapt clumsily from stone to perch, landing with a scrape of claws and a triumphant hiss.
“Let us survive the first miracle before chasing a second,” she said softly.
He glanced down at her.
“You were the miracle.”
a/n: Okay, the next chapter will be longer than this and will include smut! And multiple plot points. It's not what you'd expect probably hehe.
a/n: Donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
— summary: while lunching in the red keep’s gardens with the targaryens, ser duncan spots prince aerion behaving like a civilized man beside a kind, sun-bright lady. bewildered by the rare sight, poor dunk assumes she must be prince baelor’s daughter, patient and too compassionate—because surely no woman of sound mind would choose to spend time in aerion’s company on purpose.
— pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: ~2.5k
— content: sunshine x grumpy!!, domestic fluff, humor, protective!aerion, himbo!dunk, romance, pda, poor dunk can't catch a break with these people, probably ooc!aerion.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.
That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.
They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.
Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.
He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.
She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.
Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.
Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.
Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.
He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.
Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.
You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.
Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.
Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.
“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”
Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.
Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.
“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”
Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”
At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.
You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.
“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”
Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”
“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”
“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”
You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.
“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”
Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”
“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”
“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”
You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.
“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.
“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”
And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.
“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”
Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.
Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.
“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”
You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.
“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”
“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.
Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.
“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”
“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”
“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”
“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”
You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.
The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.
You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.
“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.”
“He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.
His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.
Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.
“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”
“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”
Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.
“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”
Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.
Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.
“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.
Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”
“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.
You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.
The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.
Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.
“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”
“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”
Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.
“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.
“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”
While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.
For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.
Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.
“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”
Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.
Dunk, eventually looks at Aerion and then back at you. He still doesn't quite get it—how the most difficult prince in the Seven Kingdoms ended up with a woman who treats him like a pampered house cat—but as he watches you laugh again at something the prince whispers in your ear, he decides that maybe he doesn't need to understand.
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Summary: When you left with Sansa to Kings Landing, you and Jon made a promise full of whispered confessions and kisses that you’d see eachother again. Now, after four years of physical and psychological trauma, you and Sansa were brought to the wall where you reunited with a lost love.
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Warnings: Joffery and Ramsay. Yes they are warnings in themselves. Physical abuse. Beheading (RIP Ned Stark). Death. (RIP Jon but like then not RIP???)
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ Word Count: 6.6k
𓂃𓈒𓏸♡ A/N: this is probably the most angst/yearning filled story I’ve ever written. But I don’t like just sad times so don’t worry, has a bit of a happy ending.
The godswood was hushed in the way only Winterfell’s heart could be, snow dusting the red leaves of the weirwood as if the old gods themselves had drawn a shroud over their sacred place.
You had slipped away from the warmth of the hall hours ago, heart pounding in your chest like a caged bird, cloak drawn tight against the late-winter air.
The fire inside had been stifling, filled with last-minute farewells and worried glances from those sworn to Sansa’s side. You had smiled where you were supposed to, dipped your head politely, hidden the way your stomach twisted at every mention of King’s Landing.
The capital was a world away—bright, dangerous, and full of vipers. Everyone knew it, though few dared to say so aloud.
It was Jon who had found you here.
His boots crunched softly over the frosted ground, his breath misting pale in the moonlight. You turned at the sound, and even before your eyes landed on him, something inside you eased. Jon Snow was not a man who belonged to many things, but he had always belonged to you.
“I knew you’d be out here.” he said, voice low, almost hesitant.
“Jon.” You tried to smile, though it trembled. “I thought you’d be with Robb and your brothers.”
“They’ll have me enough in the morning.” He shifted his weight, his dark curls falling into his eyes. “I wanted… one last moment. With you.”
The words cracked something open in your chest. You held your cloak tighter, not against the cold, but against the swell of longing you feared might undo you entirely.
Jon stepped closer, the moonlight catching on his pale skin, the soft fur at his collar catching the few snowflakes that were falling. He had always been beautiful to you—quietly so, in the way snow was beautiful. Not dazzling, but steadfast. Constant. A quiet kind of wonder that settled deep in your bones.
“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud made it more real. “With Sansa.”
“Yes.” Your throat tightened around the word.
His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there as though he fought with words he did not know how to shape. His fingers twitched through his gloves. That was Jon’s way—full of things he wanted to say, never certain how to say them. But tonight, perhaps, the weight of time pressed too heavy for silence.
“I don’t like it,” he confessed at last. “I don’t trust the south. I don’t trust their people, or their court. You shouldn’t have to go.”
“I serve Sansa,” you said gently, though your own doubts had plagued you for weeks.“Where she goes, I go. She’ll need me.”
Jon nodded, though his eyes burned with a helplessness that hollowed you. “Aye. She will. But who will I have, when you’re gone?”
The words were like a knife twisted between your ribs, but you knew he never meant it in a malicious way.
You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his gloved hand. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he caught your hand firmly, as though anchoring himself to the only truth he knew.
“Jon,” you whispered.
“I don’t have much to give you, there not much a bastard can offer,” he said, voice rough with urgency, “but I swear this: I’ll see you again. No matter how long it takes. No matter what it costs.”
Your eyes stung, tears threatening as you tried to hold them back. “Don’t promise me that,” you breathed. “You don’t know what the world will bring.”
“Then let it bring what it will.” He stepped closer, his free hand rising to cup your cheek. His palm was cold, roughened with callouses, but the touch set your skin alight. “I’ll find you again. Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”
You couldn’t fight it anymore. The tears slid hot down your cheeks, and before you could think better of it, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question neither of you had dared to ask. Then it deepened, desperation bleeding into every brush of lips, every shiver of breath.
Jon held you as if he feared you’d vanish with the morning, and you clung back with equal fervor, pouring every unsaid word, every hidden longing, into that single moment.
When you broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling, the world seemed to hold its breath.
“You’re mine,” Jon whispered, as if speaking it might make it true across distance and years. “No matter where you go. No matter what happens. You’ll always be mine.”
Your heart broke and healed in the same beat. You nodded, letting your hand rest over his racing heart. “And you, mine.”
The godswood bore witness to your vow, the red leaves whispering overhead like a thousand unseen eyes. In the stillness, you almost believed that the promise would be enough to hold back the storm.
You did not know, then, how cruel the years would be. You did not know the faces of kings or monsters, the taste of blood in your mouth, or the weight of scars yet unearned.
But you carried that kiss with you. That promise.
And so did Jon.
The road south seemed endless. Spring crept cautiously across the land, but to you, it felt nothing like the renewal you had known in the North.
Here, the air grew warmer too quickly, the winds carried dust instead of snowflakes, and the nights were louder—filled with insects, strangers, and the constant groaning wheels of the royal carriage.
Sansa rode ahead often, her auburn hair glinting bright in the sun, a sight that caught the king’s eye far too easily. She carried herself proudly, as she had been taught, the picture of a lady betrothed to a prince. You followed quietly, as was your place, a shadow at her side. Lady-in-waiting, companion, shield when needed. You did not envy her; you pitied her, though you did not let her see it.
At night, when the fires burned low and the camp settled, Sansa would sometimes lie awake, staring at the stars as though they might tell her the shape of her future. You’d sit beside her, mending a sleeve or brushing her hair.
“Do you think it will be as wonderful as they say?” she asked once, her voice wistful. “King’s Landing. The Red Keep. The court. The songs always speak of it as though it’s a dream.”
You hesitated. “Dreams can be fair or foul, my lady.” You didn’t want to dim her spark but you also needed her to understand that things could be different than the way they were exaggerated in the songs and tales.
Sansa frowned, childlike, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “It has to be wonderful,” she said, almost fiercely. “It must.”
You smoothed her braid and said nothing. Deep inside, you thought of Jon’s eyes in the godswood—dark, worried, warning—and wished you could carry that look with you as armor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The capital was dazzling in its own way: white stone towers catching the sunlight, banners snapping in the breeze, streets teeming with color and sound. Sansa gasped at the sight, her hands clasped in yours like a child too excited to contain themselves.
You, however, did not gasp. Your stomach twisted. For all its splendor, King’s Landing smelled of rot beneath the perfume—fish left too long on the docks, waste tossed into alleys, sweat baking in the sun.
You had such a bad feeling in your gut but you were here for Sansa. You wouldn’t let your fears and doubts get in the way of her happiness.
In the Red Keep, you learned your place quickly. Sansa was betrothed to the crown prince, and every eye turned on her with calculation. The queen’s smiles were sharp like knives. The courtiers’ laughter hid teeth. Even the servants seemed sharper here, watching for weakness they could exploit.
You walked a step behind Sansa, hands folded, eyes lowered, and yet still you felt the weight of it pressing on you. They saw you as hers—her shadow, her confidante. That meant you were worth something, and in King’s Landing, worth was a dangerous thing.
The cruelties began softly. A jab at dinner about your northern accent. A mocking look when you stumbled over the endless stairs of the Keep. Servants whispering when you passed, calling you “the wolf girl’s shadow.”
You bore it quietly, for Sansa’s sake. She needed to shine, to impress, to stand proud before her prince. When she blushed beneath Joffrey’s compliments, you forced yourself to smile too, though something about his smirk made your skin crawl.
At night, Sansa would chatter about him—how handsome he was, how noble, how gallant. You nodded, you hummed agreement, and you swallowed your doubts.
But sometimes, when she slept, you sat by the window and thought of Winterfell. Of snow on your lashes, of quiet halls, of Jon’s arms around you. The memory of his kiss was still fresh enough to warm you against the cold stone of your chambers.
The first true cruelty came on the kingsroad, long before King’s Landing had taught you its lessons in full. The clash between Arya and Joffrey, the chaos with Nymeria, the way Sansa was pulled between love for her sister and her betrothed—it cracked something in her.
That night, she wept in your lap.
“I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed, clutching at your gown. “I didn’t want her hurt. I only wanted him to—”
“I know.” You stroked her hair, rocking her gently, holding her close as if you could take away the pain that way. “I know, Sansa.”
Her tears soaked your skirts, but you let them. Better you than anyone else. You whispered the old songs of the North until she slept, your own eyes burning with helplessness.
In the months that followed, you learned the rhythms of the court. The morning greetings, the endless prayers, the meals where every bite carried hidden meaning. Sansa grew more quiet as the days went on, her laughter grew stiff, and her smiles were painted on with effort.
You stayed close to her, ever ready with a handkerchief, a brush, a word of comfort. When Joffrey snapped at her, you bowed your head. When the queen corrected her, you curtsied deeper. When Sansa trembled after, you whispered courage in her ear.
You found yourself doing the same for other handmaidens in your court. Wiping their tears when a nobles hand touched where it shouldn’t, sneaking them food when they’ve been dealing with a particularly cruel noble.
Once, when Joffrey struck a handmaiden across the face for hesitating too long over an answer, you stepped forward without thinking. The king’s eyes landed on you, sharp and amused.
“Would you take her punishment, girl?” he sneered.
You did not flinch. You would not give him that satisfaction. “If it pleases you, your grace.”
The back of his hand came fast and cruel. Your lip split, your cheek burned, but you kept your gaze steady. Sansa cried out, but you shook your head quickly, silently begging her not to speak for the fear he would turn his hand onto her.
Later, in the privacy of her chamber, she pressed a cool cloth to your face with trembling hands.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered to you, her concern evident in her voice.
“I’d do it again,” you said simply.
Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned her head on your shoulder and clutched your hand tightly, as if afraid you might vanish too.
It was not all torment. There were moments—brief, fragile—where Sansa’s old self shone through. When she laughed at a story, when she hummed as you braided her hair, when she whispered to you about the snow she missed so dearly.
But those moments grew fewer. The queen’s shadow loomed long, and Joffrey’s moods turned sharper.
You bore the weight with her. You let them mock you, hurt you, use you as shield and scapegoat. Because every time you stepped between Sansa and their cruelty, you saw relief in her eyes, and that was enough.
At night, when she finally slept, you let yourself think of Jon. You remembered the way he would hold your face, the warmth of his kisses. The love in his words. You wondered if he thought of you still.
And when you whispered his name into the silence, you almost believed the old gods carried it northward, across the leagues of stone and snow, to where he waited.
The day everything broke began with shouting in the streets. Rumors ran faster than the wind: Ned Stark, arrested. Treason. Plotting to steal the throne.
You could hardly breathe as you ran to Sansa’s side, finding her pale and shaking in her chamber. “They’ve lied,” she said to you over and over, as though repeating it could change what was happening. “He’s good, he’s honorable—he would never—”
You held her, though your own heart cracked. You knew Eddard Stark was an honorable man. He held the laws and regulations of court as well as his duties to high regard. He would never do or be what they’ve accused. But you and Sansa were just small pieces in a too big and malicious world. There was nothing you two could do.
The days blurred. Pleas to the queen and Joffery. Tears. Desperation. You stayed strong for her, even as your stomach continued to fill with dread.
And then came the day of the execution.
You were given the ‘courtesy’ to stand with Sansa next to the execution block. You believed it gave Joffery a sort of sick pleasure for you to be there to witness Sansa’s life officially fall apart. The sun was too bright, the air too sharp, and every sound seemed to echo.
When the axe fell, when Ned Stark’s head struck the ground, Sansa screamed.
You caught her before she collapsed, though your own knees nearly gave way. The world tilted, broke, shattered. Around you, the crowd roared, jeered, cheered.
You held her face to your chest, shielding her eyes, your own tears hot on your cheeks, your eyes locked on the severed head that laid disrespected on the ground. But you could not shield her ears, nor your own, from the sound that would haunt you both forever.
The moment Winterfell’s dream died.
The days after Lord Stark’s beheading blurred together in shades of grief and terror.
The North had always been your compass, its honor a steady star, but in King’s Landing that star had been shattered before your eyes.
Sansa hardly spoke if it wasn’t to you. She moved like a doll wound too tightly, her smiles brittle, her eyes empty. You dressed her, brushed her hair, whispered comfort she no longer seemed to hear. You wanted to rage, to weep, but you swallowed it. She needed you strong, even if she could not be strong herself.
The court was merciless. Joffrey preened with his crown, the queen smirked her triumph, and the courtiers whispered gleefully of treason and justice. You became Sansa’s shield in truth, stepping forward when she faltered, bowing deeper when she forgot herself.
When Joffrey forced her to look upon her father’s head on a spike, Sansa swayed as if she might faint. You caught her hand tightly, whispering, “Don’t let them see you fall.”
Your own knees nearly gave way when the boy-king turned his eyes on you. “Ah, the little wolf’s shadow,” he said with a cruel grin. “Still following her around like a dog? Perhaps we’ll find a place for you at court too. A whipping girl, maybe.”
The laughter that followed was jagged as broken glass.
You bowed your head, jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms. You said nothing. Later, in the quiet of her chamber, you let Sansa sob against your shoulder until her throat was raw.
Life in the Red Keep became a game of endurance for you two. Each day brought new humiliations, new cruelties. You learned to read Joffrey’s moods before he struck. You learned when to distract the queen’s attention to spare Sansa a question. You learned silence was often the only shield you had.
And yet—there were unlikely mercies.
Tyrion Lannister was not like the rest of his kin. Sharp-tongued, yes, but his wit never carried cruelty. When he became Hand of the King, the court sneered at him, but you watched closely. He listened to Sansa where others mocked her. He offered small kindnesses—a word, a nod, a cup of watered wine when her hands shook.
You began to exchange quiet words with him too. Once, after Joffrey had humiliated Sansa before the court, Tyrion found you in a corridor, your hands trembling with fury you dared not show.
“Best not to let the boy see your anger,” he advised softly.
You stiffened, but his eyes held no malice. Only weariness.
“I don’t need your counsel, my lord,” you murmured.
“Perhaps not.” He inclined his head. “But the both of you need allies, even small ones. And you’ll find few here willing to bleed for the last two wolves in the keep.”
It startled you. But over time, you allowed small trust to grow. Tyrion never overstepped, never treated you with scorn. It was a strange friendship—quiet, unspoken, but real.
Sometimes, when Sansa slept, you wondered if he saw in you the same thing in you two that you saw in him: a soul trying to survive in a place built to crush the weak.
The day of Joffrey’s wedding to Margaery Tyrell dawned bright and hot. You dressed Sansa carefully, smoothing her gown, braiding her hair with steady hands though your stomach churned with dread. Weddings were meant to be joyful, but here, joy felt like a dangerous facade.
The feast was a blur of music and laughter, though every sound seemed brittle. Joffrey strutted, drunk on power and wine, tormenting Sansa with jests and cruel mockery. You kept your gaze down, your hands folded tight, praying silently for the night to end.
And then—chaos.
Joffrey coughing, choking, his face turning purple as he clawed at his throat. Screams. Shouts. The queen’s shrill cry.
You froze, one arm instinctively around Sansa’s waist. You watched as the boy-king convulsed, as the hall erupted. You felt no pity. You felt no mourning. Only a hollow, stunned silence.
But then all eyes turned. To Sansa. To Tyrion. To you. To anyone who might bear blame.
“Come,” whispered Ser Dontos, suddenly urgent at your side. “Now. Quickly, if you two want to live.”
Sansa trembled, wide-eyed, and you pulled her close. You trusted no one—but in that instant, you knew staying meant nothing but death. You nodded sharply and tugged her along.
The next moments were a blur of rushing feet, pounding heartbeats, shadows and alleys. You clutched Sansa’s hand as though letting her go meant losing her forever.
By the time you reached the river, breathless and terrified, the Red Keep was behind you.
King Joffrey was dead.
And you were fugitives.
The escape was not salvation. It was the beginning of a new kind of prison.
Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion had never been consummated, yet it still marked her in the eyes of Westeros. She was a pawn, a prize, a Stark of Winterfell with claim and name worth killing for.
Wherever you went, hunters followed.
When Littlefinger’s schemes wound their way to the Eyrie and beyond, you found yourself swept into a web of lies and dangers. You absolutely loathed him, yet you had no power to break free. All you could do was cling to Sansa, whispering reassurance when she doubted herself, bearing the scorn of others so her shoulders could remain lighter.
But nothing could prepare you for Ramsay Bolton.
When Sansa was handed to him, you went too—her shadow still, her shield, her sister in all but name.
The dread set in the moment you stepped through the gates of Winterfell reborn. The castle was familiar yet twisted, its stones haunted by memory. The banners bore the flayed man now, crimson on pale, a grotesque mockery of what was once your home.
Sansa’s face was carved from ice as she was presented as bride. You stood at her side, head bowed, every muscle tight with foreboding.
And Ramsay… Ramsay smiled.
Life in Winterfell under Ramsay was worse than King’s Landing in its cruelty. Joffrey had been a spoiled boy with far too much power; Ramsay was something else entirely. Something darker.
He delighted in fear, in pain, in breaking spirits. And when he turned that attention to Sansa, you stepped between them as often as you dared.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it did not.
When Ramsay struck her, you moved forward. When he demanded obedience, you took the punishment in her stead. He seemed to relish it, amused by your defiance, by how far you would go to protect her.
The bruises became your constant companions. The nights bled into terror. But Sansa endured, and so did you.
“Why do you always stand in front of me?” she asked once, her voice trembling as you cleaned blood from your lip.
“Because I can,” you whispered. “Because I must.”
Her eyes glistened. “I don’t want you hurt for me.”
“It’s too late for that,” you said softly. “You mean a lot to me, Sansa. If taking a beating means you live another day, I would do it ten times over.”
You embraced then, two broken pieces clinging together in the cold. In that moment, you were not lady and servant, not Stark and companion—you were sisters.
And always, in the silence of your heart, you thought of Jon.
On the darkest nights, when Ramsay’s laughter echoed in the halls and despair threatened to swallow you, you clung to the memory of the godswood. Of his lips against yours, his voice promising, “Not even the Wall could keep me from you.”
You repeated it to yourself like a prayer. You had to believe it. You had to believe he was somewhere at the wall also repeating your words in his mind. You had to.
Because if you didn’t, you feared you would not survive.
Unbeknownst to you, Jon was going through his own version of struggles.
The Wall did not sleep. It groaned and sighed like some great beast, its ice shifting with the wind, its surface glittering cold beneath the pale sun. For Jon Snow, it had long since ceased to be a wonder. It was home now, though home was a word that rang hollow in his chest.
Winterfell was gone to him. The halls of his childhood, the voices of his kin, the warmth of the hearth—those belonged to another life. His was the black now: the rough wool of his cloak, the bite of wind against his skin, the weight of duty on his shoulders.
And yet, even here, your memory would sit with him.
At first it was only at night. He would close his eyes and remember the day you met, the way your love grew until the two of you couldn’t ignore it. He remembered the godswood, the snow in your hair, the way your lips had trembled against his when you kissed him. He would remember the promise he had made—I’ll see you again.
When the days were long and grueling, when his muscles ached from training recruits or from long patrols on the ice, he would hear your laughter in his memory. He had not realized how often you laughed, how often your smile had cut through the gloom of Winterfell’s stone halls. Here, without it, the silence was heavier.
He never spoke of you. Not to Sam, not to Grenn, only to Ghost, who watched him with red eyes that seemed to know too much.
You were his secret, his solace.
When the Watch brothers named him Lord Commander, Jon felt the weight of it settle like a yoke across his shoulders. He had not sought it, had not desired it, yet it was his. He bore it with quiet resolve.
But still, there were nights when he stood at the top of the Wall, looking north into endless white, and thought of you. Did you still live? Did you still smile? Or had the vipers of the south swallowed you whole?
The uncertainty gnawed at him more than the cold ever could. He had promised. He had promised. What was a man if he could not keep his word?
Sometimes, when exhaustion left him weak, he let himself imagine you walking through the gates of Castle Black, cloak heavy with snow. He would step forward, take your hand, kiss your snow touched lips and at last breathe again.
It was foolish. But it kept him warm when the wind cut sharp enough to bleed.
The knives came fast.
He had known discontent brewed among the brothers. His choice to side with the Wildlings was not a choice they approved of. He had heard the whispers, seen the looks. But he had not expected the steel.
“For the Watch.”
The first blade pierced his side. Jon gasped, the cold sharper than fire. Faces swam before him—men he had led, men he had trusted. And yet they carved him open as though he were nothing.
Another blade. Another voice. “For the Watch.”
Jon fell to his knees, his vision darkening. He thought of Robb, of Arya and Sansa, and Bran and Rickon. He thought of Winterfell, of snow falling on the courtyard.
And then—he thought of you.
Your face rose in his mind, clearer than any memory of banners or blades. The way you had looked at him that night, eyes full of fear of the future and love for him, lips whispering his name. He felt the press of your hand against his chest as though it were there still.
As the final knife slid home, Jon let the darkness take him with one thought: At least… perhaps I’ll see her again.
But death was not the end.
He woke gasping, the world searing bright, his lungs burning as if they had forgotten how to draw breath. His body was cold, too cold, and his heart hammered as though it might burst.
They told him later of Melisandre, of sorcery and fire. Jon heard, but he hardly listened. The only thing he knew was this: he had been given back.
Why?
He did not know. But in the dark of his chamber, he whispered your name, voice hoarse, and something inside him ached with fierce certainty.
Not even death could keep him from you.
Afterward, everything felt rawer. The cold sharper, the silence deeper, the world thinner. He did his duty still—met with the wildlings, bore the stares of the brothers, walked the halls like a ghost among men. He had brought the betrayers to justice with a face too tired to give away any other emotion.
But the thought of you no longer brought him solace. It was a knife twisting in his ribs, sharper now than ever. Because he had come so close to never keeping his promise. Because he feared he had failed you already.
Yet he clung to it. To you.
He remembered your hand in his. The vow spoken beneath the weirwood. The kiss that had been both beginning and farewell.
Jon Snow was many things—bastard, brother, commander, corpse—but he was still yours. And if there was any justice left in the world, any bit of good, the old gods would lead you back to him.
Winterfell was a cage.
Its stones were familiar, but they carried no warmth. They echoed with Ramsay’s laughter, with the scrape of locks and bolts, with screams muffled by walls too thick.
The days blurred into dread. Sansa endured with a face carved from frost, but you saw the cracks: the way her hands trembled as you braided her hair, the way she flinched when boots sounded in the corridor. You hid your own bruises, your own scars, as best you could, but some could not be hidden.
You shielded her when you could, always stepping forward, always drawing Ramsay’s cruelty toward yourself. He delighted in it. Sometimes he hurt you simply to watch Sansa break. And each time, you wondered how much more your body could take, how much more your spirit could bear.
But still you clung to the promise whispered years ago in the godswood. I’ll see you again. You whispered Jon’s name into the dark, and sometimes it was the only thing that kept you from collapsing.
Hope came in flickers.
Sansa whispered of an old woman in the kitchens, of promises that help would come if she lit a candle in the tower. You listened, heart pounding, afraid to believe.
But one night, you crept with her to the broken window, the cold biting your skin. Together, you struck the flint, the flame trembling as though it too feared discovery.
You stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the two of you staring into the night, praying someone saw.
“Do you think anyone will come?” she asked softly.
You took her hand, squeezing. “Someone will.”
For both your sakes, you had to believe it.
Theon Greyjoy was a ghost of the arrogant boy you once knew. You had grown up with him in Winterfell, seen him boast, laugh, strut like a rooster. That boy was gone. In his place was a broken man who called himself Reek, eyes hollow, shoulders bent beneath invisible chains.
At first, you despised him. For betraying your house, for standing idle as you and Sansa suffered. For being Ramsay’s creature.
But there were moments—small, trembling—where his old self flickered through. A glance, a word, a hand hesitating where once it would have obeyed.
And then one night, when Ramsay’s cruelty pressed too far, Theon found you both.
“You can’t stay here,” he whispered, eyes darting in terror. “He’ll kill you. Or worse.”
Sansa stiffened, her voice icy. “And why should we trust you?”
“Because…” His throat worked, tears glinting in his broken eyes. “Because I can’t watch him hurt you anymore. Not after everything I’ve done.”
You studied him, your heart heavy. He was no longer the boy you’d known, but something in his voice rang true. Perhaps even broken things could still choose to stand.
“Then help us,” you said softly, taking his shaking hand in your own. “Prove it.”
The escape came on a night when the snow fell heavy, muffling the world in white. Theon led you through hidden passages, his steps sure even as his hands shook. You held Sansa’s arm tightly, your heart pounding with every creak of the stones.
Behind you, Winterfell slept fitfully. You prayed Ramsay did not wake.
At the battlements, the drop yawned below, the snow piled thick.
“We’ll never survive it,” Sansa whispered.
“We’ll die if we stay,” you murmured back.
Theon’s face was pale, his breath ragged. “It’s the only way.”
You looked at Sansa, at the girl you had followed from Winterfell to King’s Landing to this twisted mockery of home. You thought of all you had endured together, all the nights you had held her when she cried, all the blows you had taken for her.
“If you jump, I jump,” you said firmly.
Her eyes filled, but she nodded. Together, you grasped hands. And then—
You leapt.
The air tore past you, the snow rushed up, the world spun white. Impact stole your breath, pain lancing through your body. But you lived. You lived.
And for the first time in years, the gates of Winterfell no longer held you prisoner.
The snows were merciless, but hope was fiercer. You stumbled through the drifts with Sansa, half-carrying her when she faltered, half-dragged yourself forward when your own legs nearly gave out. Theon pressed on too, his face a mask of determination and guilt.
When riders came—Bolton men, hunting—the end felt near. You braced yourself, clutching the small dagger you’d stolen, prepared to die before you let them take you back.
And then a shadow thundered from the trees.
A woman, tall as a tower, sword flashing in the pale light. She struck with fury, cutting down men twice her size as though they were stalks of wheat. Beside her, a squire fought valiantly, though clumsily.
Brienne of Tarth.
You had heard whispers of her—a woman knight, sworn to Catelyn Stark.
You knew the squire too. Podrick had been a good friend to you in your years in Kings Landing.
When she dismounted before you, kneeling in the snow, her voice rang with a vow that made your knees weak.
“Lady Sansa. I swore to your mother I would keep her daughters safe. I offer you my sword and my life.”
Sansa’s lips trembled, tears freezing on her cheeks as she looked at you. She looked afraid to trust another person and you couldn’t blame her. Both of your walls had been built with iron, refusing to crumble anymore. You steadied her with a hand, your own chest aching.
“You can trust her,” you whispered, though your voice shook.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed it.
Under Brienne’s protection, the path turned northward. The snow was bitter, the road perilous, but for the first time in years you felt a flicker of true hope.
At night, huddled by the fire, you and Sansa whispered of what lay ahead.
“Jon is Lord Commander now,” she said softly, as though afraid the words might vanish if spoken too loud.
Your heart clenched at his name. “Jon?”
“Yes.” A small, trembling smile touched her lips. “At Castle Black. If we can reach him—”
You closed your eyes, the image burning bright. Jon, alive. Waiting. The promise not yet broken.
Sansa reached from her own horse to hold your hand, the same flicker of hope in her eyes. She knew what Jon meant to you.
You let yourself whisper into the wind, so quiet no one else could hear: “Not even the Wall could keep him from me.”
And as the snow fell, you prayed the gods were listening.
The gates of Castle Black groaned open beneath the weight of the storm. Snow swirled in great white sheets, the wind cutting through wool and fur alike, but you barely felt it. Your pulse thundered too loud, your chest too tight. Each step forward was an agony of anticipation.
Sansa’s hand gripped yours from her own horse, trembling though she tried to hide it. Brienne and Pod fell behind, giving her space. Even Theon lingered back, eyes lowered, his shoulders hunched in shame.
And then he was there.
Jon.
Standing in the courtyard, dark cloak swirling about him, hair damp with snow. His face was pale, lined with weariness deeper than his years, but his eyes—gods, his eyes were the same. Grey as a storm sky, piercing as ever, widening now with disbelief.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The wind howled, snow whipped, and the years between you stretched like a chasm. Jon and Sansa simply stared at eachother, almost as if they believed the other was simply an illusion.
Then Sansa broke.
She stumbled forward, a sound torn from her throat, half a sob, half a laugh. Jon caught her, arms wrapping around her so tightly you thought he might never let her go and you found your lips curling into a smile for the first time in a long time.
“Jon,” she gasped, clinging to him. “It’s you—it’s really you.”
He buried his face in her hair, his shoulders shaking. “Sansa.” His voice cracked. “I thought I’d lost you as well.”
You watched, tears stinging your eyes, your chest aching with the sight of them. Brother and sister, torn apart, reunited at last. You wanted to give them this moment, every heartbeat of it.
When at last Sansa pulled back, Jon cupped her face in his hands, studying her with a mix of grief and relief. Then, slowly, his gaze shifted.
To you.
His breath caught. His hands fell away from Sansa’s face, hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something rawer than you had ever seen.
“Love…?”
Your ever lasting pet name on his lips shattered you.
It was not the first time you had heard it—he had whispered it to you many in Winterfell’s court and godswood, murmured it in stolen kisses. But now, after four years of silence, after the weight of torment and separation, it felt like a miracle.
You stepped forward, your legs unsteady, tears blurring the world. “Jon…”
And then you were finally in his arms.
He crushed you against him, as though afraid you might vanish if he loosened his hold. You buried your face in his neck, sobs tearing free, your fists clutching tightly at his cloak.
“I thought—you were gone,” you choked.
“I thought the same of you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. His hands framed your face then, trembling as his thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks. His eyes devoured you, searching every line, every scar, as though to assure himself you were real.
“You’re alive,” he said, over and over, like a prayer. “Gods, you’re alive.”
Your laugh was a broken thing, wet with tears. “Barely.”
At that, his expression shifted. Grief. Rage. His gaze dropped to the faint bruises at your throat, the scars you could not hide. His jaw clenched, his whole body taut with fury held barely in check.
“What did they do to you?” His voice was hoarse, dangerous.
You shook your head quickly, pressing your forehead to his. “Not now. Please. Just hold me.”
And he did. He held you as though he could keep the world itself at bay.
Later, when the storm eased and warmth could be found in the Great Hall, the four of you—Jon, Sansa, you, Brienne—sat together. Food was laid out, though you barely touched it. Your eyes stayed on Jon, drinking in every detail, afraid to blink.
Sansa held your hand, her head resting on your shoulder, the tension in her shoulders easing for the first time in years. Brienne stood guard nearby, silent as ever, but you felt her watchful gaze soften.
Jon reached across the table, his hand finding yours beneath the wood. His fingers twined with yours, rough and warm, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed.
“I kept my promise,” he murmured low, for you alone.
Tears burned again. “So did I.”
That night, in the quiet of a chamber that held nothing but you and him, you showed him the truth.
You let the cloak fall from your shoulders, revealing the bruises, the scars, the thinness of a body too long starved and beaten. His eyes roved over you, and the pain there nearly undid you.
“Every mark,” he whispered, his hands shaking as they hovered just shy of your skin, “is one more I’ll carry with you. They’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”
You reached for him, cupping his cheek, forcing his stormy gaze to meet yours. “Jon Snow,” you said softly, firmly, “you are the only thing that kept me alive. Every day, every night, I thought of you. Of our promise. That’s why I survived.”
His lips trembled, and then he kissed you.
It was not the hurried, secretive kiss of Winterfell, nor the desperate imagining of years apart. It was broken and healing all at once, tasting of tears and firelight, of longing finally, finally fulfilled.
When you pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, Jon whispered, “Not even death could keep me from you.”
And for the first time in years, you believed in tomorrow.
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