➤ POISON PARADISE. intoxicate me now, with your lovin’ now, i think i'm ready now. ⋮ 𝓐erion targaryen x valarr's wife! reader.
summary. after some time obsessing over you, valarr's wife, aerion finally strikes.
cw. +18 content, afab! reader, dubcon?, infidelity, dirty talking, angst (? i mean poor valarr, breeding kink, mention of pregnancy.
wc. 1.4k
notes. i think i hate this
The taste of sin leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth, so harsh that you wish you could never encounter it again. It’s not as if you had sinned excessively — perhaps arriving late to a feast, perhaps thinking ill of someone because they ate your favorite dessert and left you none. Your offenses could only be described as harmless, even silly. You always felt excessive guilt despite your insignificant transgressions, something that amused Valarr and made him smile at you with that affectionate curve of his lips, always quick to soothe you with tender kisses and gentle caresses. He loved you so much. You were good, sensitive, with a heart too big for your chest. You were the perfect wife.
Weren’t you?
Valarr was the perfect husband as well. You couldn’t ask for more from him. He was affectionate, attentive, and respectful, both in private and in public. In the four months you had been husband and wife, you had never had a single argument. Everything seemed to be going perfectly, and Valarr had no idea of the storm brewing — a hot, hungry storm with an intense gaze that could only belong to his cousin, Aerion.
Being the center of attention could be uncomfortable, but being the center of his attention was almost suffocating.
Your husband didn’t notice, but Aerion’s intense stare rarely left you whenever you were in the same room. It was a gaze so scorching you could swear it burned every inch of your skin as his violet eyes slowly dragged over your body — your lips, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts straining against the fabric of your dress. When your confused gaze met his, the only response was a nearly imperceptible tilt of his head and an expression of pure arrogance that made your skin prickle. As if you knew he would strike, but not when. As if he knew that at any moment he could make you his.
And it infuriated you. You had been nothing but a good and devoted wife since the day you were joined in marriage before the Seven. What right did he have to try and steal you from Valarr’s gentle hands, to consume you with his fire?
You tried to ignore him, but the idea that “if you don’t look, he isn’t there” proved completely useless. Your eyes kept finding his against your will, drawn like magnets, causing a painful lurch in your chest at the raw need for possession that radiated from him. Because why the hell did something flutter deep in your belly at his obsessive attention when you had Valarr by your side?
Your mind betrayed you mercilessly when certain thoughts clouded your mind. What would it feel like to be possessed by someone as reckless and dangerous as him? He wouldn’t be gentle like Valarr, always so careful not to hurt you, whispering soft praises against your ear as he entered you slowly. No. Aerion would be rough, vicious, and he would make sure every thrust stripped away whatever pride and dignity you had left after betraying your sweet husband. The thought lingered in your head for a moment, sending a shiver down your spine and ending with a small burst of heat low in your abdomen.
Your hand flew to your stomach, as if the mere realization that you had thought such a thing made you ill. Valarr, seated beside you at the feast, placed his hand over yours. “Wife, my dear, are you well?” he asked, concern etched across his face at your troubled expression. You simply nodded and pulled away discreetly as guilt seized your heart and sweet poison flooded your veins.
“I just need some fresh air. Could you wait for me here, my love?” you replied, knowing he would nod and give you the space you asked for. But the worry in his eyes only filled you with deeper shame.
He didn’t deserve this. And you hadn’t even dishonored him yet.
The cool night air felt like a blessing against your heated skin as you stepped onto the balcony overlooking the beautiful gardens. The moon hung high and luminous, and the night-blooming flowers proudly displayed their sweet fragrance. A small smile touched your lips. The temptation could still be avoided. It was a sin, but you had not yet surrendered to its seductive claws. You would go to the septa tomorrow, you told yourself. You would light a candle and pray —
“Does something torment you, little lady?”
The smile vanished from your face, which paled the instant those soft but dark words reached your ears.
Aerion.
You didn’t turn around. You knew that if you faced him, you would crumble like a defenseless fawn, and that was the last thing you wanted in front of a dragon as ruthless as him. “I needed some solitude. So if you would be so kind…”
“Oh, but I have been kind,” he replied, stepping closer like a predator approaching its prey. “However, my patience is running thin.” His voice dropped. “Look at me.”
A shiver ran down your spine. You had no choice but to turn. And there he was — closer than you expected. His eyes studied you with unsettling intensity, waiting for whatever answer you might give.
“What do you mean by that?” you managed to whisper, your gaze flickering toward the balcony entrance over his shoulder, searching for any sign of your husband. Whether you wanted him to come rescue you or prayed he wouldn’t appear at all, you couldn’t tell.
“No. Don’t do that.” He shook his head slightly, a small gesture of impatience. With the back of his hand, he gently guided your eyes back to him. “I’m the one here, not him. So you’re going to look at me.”
A heavy silence wrapped around both of you. He used it to study you up close, like a man admiring a beautiful flower right before he plucks it. A wicked, amused smile darkened his face when his eyes dropped to your abdomen.
“Four months together, and still no swelling?” The hand that had been near your cheek slid down, brushing over the exposed skin of your collarbone. “I knew his seed was weak. But don’t worry, little bird. One day your womb will be full. Whether the child is his or mine… you won’t know until the day it’s born. And maybe not even then.”
“You should return inside.” you replied weakly.
Aerion’s lips curved into a dark smirk. He didn’t move away. Instead, he stepped even closer until your back pressed against the stone balustrade, trapping you between the cold marble and the heat of his body.
“Should I?” he murmured, voice low and rough. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, then dipped lower, brushing the swell of your breasts. “Or should I bend you over this railing right now and fuck you until you forget my cousin’s name?”
Your breath hitched sharply at his words.
“I bet he’s gentle with you, isn’t he?” Aerion continued, lips ghosting over your ear. “I bet he makes love to you slowly… whispers sweet things while he’s barely moving inside that tight cunt. But that’s not what you need, is it?”
His hand slid down to your waist, gripping hard enough to make you gasp and squirm.
“You need to be fucked like a dragon’s whore. You need someone to ruin this pretty pussy until you’re crying and dripping down your thighs. You need me stretching you open, filling you so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow when you’re sitting beside your husband.”
A broken sound escaped your throat. Heat pooled between your legs, and you hated how true his words felt. “Quit it—”
Aerion’s fingers dug into your hip as he pressed his hard cock against your belly through his clothes. You couldn’t move, but your body ached to press closer. Your mind was spinning. He leaned in until his lips brushed yours, not quite kissing you yet.
“Go back to him if you want,” he whispered against your mouth. “But we both know you’ll be thinking of me when he fucks you tonight. And one day soon… you’ll come to me. You’ll spread your legs and beg me to claim what should’ve been mine from the start.”
Aerion stepped back slowly, eyes burning with triumph and hunger. He gave you one last arrogant smirk, as if he could already see your inevitable fall.
“Sweet dreams, little lady.”
Then he turned and disappeared into the lively feast again, leaving you trembling against the balcony.
Later that night, when Valarr asked if you were well for the second time, you could've told him the truth. Could've told him that Aerion was uncontrolled, that he was threatening to snatch you from him. But you just smiled weakly and nodded. “Everything's fine.”
SUMMARY - Convinced that you both still despise one another, you consider accepting the proposal of another lord, but Aerion doesn't approve.
CONTAINS - enemies with benefits, piningg, aerion is aerion, banter
A/N - diabolical last linee, apologies for constantly edging you guys LMAO
The velvet curtains of Aerion’s chambers were drawn tight, shutting out the afternoon light. Inside, the air was warm, smelling faintly of rich oils and the intoxicating scent of his skin.
You stood before the mirror, fingers working to fasten the laces of your gown. Your skin was still flushed where his hands had gripped you just moments prior, a lingering heat that would soon turn into a bruise.
Behind you, Aerion was leaning back against the bedpost. He was watching you with a heavy gaze, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You look like a frantic cat,” he murmured, his voice a low purr. “Do you always have to rush? One might think you find my company displeasing.”
You rolled your eyes, pulling a tight knot into the silk laces before turning around to face him. “Your company is displeasing, Aerion. I merely prefer to return before someone notices my absence and assumes I’ve been murdered by you.”
Aerion let out a soft, delighted click of his tongue. He stepped away from the bed, his frame cutting through the space between you. His hand shot out, his rings cold against your skin as his fingers curled around the nape of your neck, tilting your head up.
“You have a terribly sharp tongue today,” he whispered, his thumb tracing circles beneath your ear. “It’s entertaining.”
You forced yourself to hold his gaze, swallowing down the dangerous softness that threatened to unravel your resolve. This was what you did. You traded venom in the bright corridors, snapped insults across tables, and then tore each other's clothes off in the shadows.
It was a chaotic cycle born of a mutual friction that had existed since childhood. You were certain he loathed your very existence, using these secret hours to tame his volatile impulses, and you had accepted it.
You had to.
Because acknowledging the ache in your chest every time he looked at you would mean ruining yourself over a prince who could never love a girl he spent half his life mocking.
You lazily knocked his hand away, taking a step back to smooth down your skirt.
“Enjoy tormenting me while you can.” You adjusted the rings on your finger. “My father received a formal raven from the Reach a few days ago. Lord Bradyn intends to put forth a betrothal offer. I think I should accept it.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Aerion went rigid. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating so completely that the colour nearly vanished. He stared at you, tilting his head.
“What did you say?” His voice was quiet, vibrating with confusion.
“I said I’m accepting a proposal,” you repeated, brow furrowing at his reaction. You offered a stiff shrug. “It’s a good match. Bradyn is kind, his lands are vast, and it’s time I left the capital anyway.”
Aerion took a step forward, panic settling into his features. “A good match? You are talking about a simpering lord from the south. You cannot marry him.”
“Why not?” you countered, your own temper flaring at his arrogance. “Do not pretend you care. You spend every waking hour insulting my intellect and treating me with annoyance. Why does it matter if I marry someone who might actually treat me with a shred of gentleness?”
Aerion looked as though you had just driven a dagger directly into his ribs. But as the shock settled, the bewilderment in his face rapidly darkened.
“Pretend I care?” he repeated, his voice cracking before it rose into a harsh growl.
“Just yesterday you called me an insufferable whining girl in front of everybody!”
“Because you were ignoring me!” he growled back, the sudden volume of his voice slamming against the stone walls. His pride, thoroughly wounded and desperate, bled into his voice.
“We trade wits! We argue in the halls! I let you take food off my plate, I… you belong here. Not someplace south.”
He slammed his fist into the wardrobe beside him. His breathing was ragged. “You cannot give yourself to a stranger.”
The violent flare of his temper was the breaking point for your frayed nerves. “I can.” you snapped coldly.
Shoving your way past him, you walked toward the door and shut it with great force.
For the next few days, the keep felt vastly different, entirely because the prince who usually lingered with demanding presence had become a complete ghost to you.
You saw him on the third morning, standing near the bannister with a group of men. Your steps naturally slowed as you crossed the outer courtyard. Your gaze locked onto the sharp line of his profile, bracing your shoulders, waiting for him to turn his head.
But the glance never came.
Aerion kept his eyes strictly ahead, his posture unyielding. Even when you walked close enough that the shadow of his frame fell over your path, he didn’t look back. He simply continued his conversation, treating your presence as if you were nothing more than dust.
The pattern repeated itself with agonizing consistency. In the gallery, he walked past you without a single pause, the fabric of his cloak brushing against your sleeve for a fleeting, mocking second before he vanished down the stairwell.
A heavy weight settled deep in your stomach, growing more oppressive with each passing second.
You had spent years convinced that what happened behind closed doors was merely an angry release—that his feelings for you were rooted entirely in the mutual dislike and childhood rivalry you shared.
You had told yourself that his fleeting curiosity could never be actual regard, and that leaving for the Reach was the only logical choice to protect your own heart.
Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the protective wall of your anger began to crumble, leaving behind a hollow ache.
Walking through the quiet paths of the gardens later that night, you looked down at your hands, your skin feeling empty without the firm weight of his rings pressing into your palm.
The exhausting fire of his personality was gone, and in its place was a peaceful, predictable future that suddenly felt uninviting.
You stopped by the stone fountain, looking into the water.
Did you make the right choice?
The end of the week arrived with a feast in the great hall. The vast room was packed to the brim, the air filled with the scent of roasted meat.
You were seated near the front of the hall, flanked closely by your family. Sitting directly beside you was Lord Bradyn.
He was pleasant enough, offering you a smile as he leaned in to describe his family’s fortunes in the Reach, pointing out with a neat gesture where the new flowers would be planted for your future home.
You nodded along, forcing a tight smile onto your face, though your eyes kept drifting toward the high dais where King Daeron sat.
Aerion was nowhere to be seen.
His empty chair beside Prince Maekar felt like a gaping wound in the room, making the hollow ache in you throb all the more painfully.
"And of course, my lady, my mother has already begun selecting the finest linens for our chambers," Bradyn murmured, his soft hand lightly resting over yours on the table.
Before you could offer a reply, the doors at the back of the hall bursted open.
The chatter of the court died, multiple heads turning in unison.
Aerion marched down the center aisle. He had completely disregarded the formal court attire. He wore his dark riding leathers, his sword clanking aggressively against his thigh. His jaw was set hard, and his eyes were locked onto you.
Your breath caught in your throat. Bradyn quickly withdrew his hand at the sudden entrance of the prince.
Aerion didn't stop until he reached the center of the hall, directly before the King’s dais and right in front of your table.
“Grandsire,” Aerion’s voice echoed through the room. “I request a favour.”
King Daeron sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as he looked down at his grandson. “Aerion. You interrupt a formal occasion. What is it that cannot wait until the morrow?”
Aerion shifted his shoulders, his stare breaking from the King to snap to you. He took three deliberate strides until he was standing over your table, blocking Lord Bradyn from view.
He reached up, his larger calloused hand reaching across the table to grab yours. He gripped your fingers, weaving his own through them.
“I demand her hand,” Aerion declared, his voice ringing out for the entire court. “I will have no other. She belongs at my side.”
You stared up at him as your lips parted in disbelief, your mind spinning into a state of confusion. You saw the raw, stubborn devotion swimming in his eyes.
“Aerion,” you whispered hoarsely, voice trembling as the room watched in stunned silence. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
A faint grin finally broke through his tense expression, his fingers squeezing yours. “Partially.”
The weight of the realm seemed to hang on your next breath. Across the table, your parents were staring at you. Their expressions a mix of profound shock and calculation.
You looked at them, the lingering doubts that had plagued you for the last three days clearing away to make room for undeniable certainty.
Slowly, you nodded.
You didn’t look long enough to watch as your parents processed what this would mean for your family. You had already shifted your gaze to the man beside you.
You offered Lord Bradyn a sympathetic look—a silent apology for the madness he had been dragged into, and a gentle reassurance that he was better off without a woman whose heart already belonged to a prince.
Aerion didn’t wait for Bradyn to speak, nor did he care for the furious uproar that began to swell among Bradyn’s family as they realised what was happening.
The moment he caught the subtle rejection in your eyes, a look of triumph flashed across his features. He pulled you smoothly out of your seat, his hand still clamped around yours.
With his shoulders blocking you from the stare of the court, he guided you down the long center aisle. The great hall slammed shut behind you both, cutting off the disruption he had caused.
He guided you down the winding corridors of the keep, his sweeping strides forcing you to keep up. Your mind was still spinning from the spectacle that had just unfolded in front of the entire realm.
“You are insane,” you gasped out, looking up at the rigid line of his jaw.
Aerion didn’t stop. He cast a swift glance down at you. “You just agreed to a marriage with an insane man,” he retorted, “tell me who’s truly mad here?”
Before you could snap back a response, he rounded the final corner and pushed open the door to his quarters, pulling you inside.
The quiet of his chambers was almost jarring after the chaos earlier. Aerion finally released his grip on your fingers, turning to unbuckle his sword belt, tossing it onto the table with a dull clatter.
You remained standing near the hearth, the crackling warmth of the fire doing little to soothe the erratic racing of your pulse. You looked at his back, the confusion and emotional turmoil of the last few days spilling over.
“You spent days pretending I didn’t exist,” you said, your voice carrying the exhaustion that had plagued you.
“You wouldn't even glance my way, you treated me like a complete stranger. And then you suddenly pull a stunt like that?”
Aerion paused, his shoulders tense for a moment before he turned around. His eyes searched your face with intense focus.
“I was furious,” he muttered, crossing the room until he stood before you. “You stood in my chambers and told me you were leaving for the south with another man. What did you expect me to do?”
A breathless laugh slipped past your lips. You tilted your head up, your confusion melting into a playful familiar spark as you caught on to his behavior.
“So you deliberately ignored me?” you teased, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “The prince of the blood, acting like a sullen, brooding child hoping I would come begging for your attention just because you didn’t get your way?”
A faint flush touched his cheeks, his eyes narrowing as his pride flared at your words. “Be quiet,” he murmured.
You were about to reply when his arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you slightly as he pulled you directly down onto his lap on the sofa, your skirt tangling around his thighs.
Your fingers instinctively caught his shoulders to steady yourself as you looked into his face. “Aerion–”
He didn’t let you finish. Lifting your knuckles to his lips, he pressed a warm kiss against your skin.
His lips trailed a path up the inner side of your wrist, pressing against the rapid flutter of your pulse before his lips moved to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. His breath fanned across your neck as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the crook of your shoulder.
You leaned into him, inhaling his scent. Your eyes fluttered shut as the last of the distance between you dissolved.
“Since you have so much to say these days…” he whispered, eyes burning into yours as his thumb brushed your lower lip, “let’s see if we can keep that sharp tongue occupied.”
tags: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, dubcon/noncon, toxic relationship, possessive behavior, corrupt cop, bully to lover, humiliation, praise kink, dom!aerion, coercion, dacryphilia, fingering, sex (p in v), handcuffs, public sex, size king, spit kink, orgasm denial, degradation, spanking, Stockholm syndrome vibes, yandere
pairing: cop!aerion x prostitute!reader
The roads were completely silent.
That should've been the first red flag.
Sure, there'd been quiet nights before. Nights where the only sound you heard for hours was the monotonous hum of car tires. Nights where you'd lost yourself staring into the dark abyss. Nights where you nearly froze in the cold before a customer pulled up.
But sooner or later, one always did.
Maybe a business man looking to blow off some steam after a hard day at the office. Or maybe some frustrated sixteen-year-old looking to lose his virginity.
Whatever the case, there was always gonna be a man willing to pay you for a fuck. Always.
The only reliable part of your life. More reliable than your family who'd steal the cash you kept under your pillow to buy some booze. More reliable than the high school that threw you out for a theft you didn't commit because it's easy to assume the apple doesn't fall from the tree. More reliable than the boyfriends who played savior only to start hitting you a week after you moved in.
If that's all you could count on, then so be it. God didn't give you many things, but he gave you your body. And you'd survive off of it.
It was hard in the beginning. You were a pretty romantic person. Sensitive. You loved love and thought that sex was sacred. Two bodies entwining as one. But such pretty thoughts aren't meant for trash like you. What you once considered your core belief was now not even an option.
You learned how to disassociate very well. You'd turn yourself off, no feelings, no emotions, and perform. Every moan, every arch of your back, every orgasm - calculated. Intentional. Meant to get him off quicker so you could be done with it.
You really didn't feel like it was - you.
Just a job. Something to pay the bills. Like waitressing or cleaning. But those jobs didn't pay enough for you to look after your younger brother and keep him in school so he wouldn't turn out like you.
That's what you were thinking about when it happened. Him. What fancy college he would end up at. What city he'd leave to. What life would look like once he got one of those nice banking jobs and whisked you out of here.
Then a police siren rang and you were right back to that dingy street corner instead of a daydream.
You took of your stilettos and carried them in your hand, putting one foot in front of the other as you took off into a dark alley. Running was second nature. Police cars would come by once a month and scare girls off. They'd laugh as you scattered off like mice wearing fuck me pumps and tight little dresses. It was funny. A little game they liked to play between home invasions.
You hid behind a trash can for five minutes. Surely they had their laugh and would be long gone by now, actually getting back to work or finding some other poor gals to mess with. You slid your heels back on and looked left and right for any sign or whisper of another person. All clear.
You tiptoed out of the alley, trying as hard as you could to not make a sound. As you peered your head around the corner - a shadow.
You gasped then covered your mouth.
A laugh, twisted and delighted, rang out from the dead of night.
You stumbled backwards, eyes darting frantically all around you desperate to find the source of that terrible sound.
"Who - who's there?"
You stuttered out, voice thick with fear.
Another laugh even more sinister than the first pierced through the air.
You reached into your purse, a raggedy old thing falling apart at the seams, and pulled out a switchblade. You had only used it a handful of times before. Some customers thought they could get by without paying, others tried to be rougher than what you had outlined.
Just the sight of it was enough to spook them into placing a couple hundred dollars into your hand and taking off without question.
You yielded it in your hand, still shaking.
"Stay back! I have a knife!"
A hand came down on your arm in a flash, pinning it behind your back. You lifted the other, slashing the knife in every direction as you struggled to break free. You felt a body press into your back as two feet stepped just outside of your own, caging you in between your assailant's legs.
Your heart was pounding out of your chest. Your breath was fast, heavy, uneven.
Whoever or whatever this was, they were strong. Very strong.
No matter how much you squirmed, how hard you kicked, the body behind you remained steady. Feet firmly planted at your sides, hand gripping your wrist unyieldingly, your attacker was trained.
"Let me go!"
You screamed, hoping you'd scare him or maybe someone would hear you. But it was hopeless. There'd be nobody on this corner, not at this time of night anyways. And if there were, it wouldn't be the kind of person who'd intervene to save you.
In your final attempt to escape, you mustered all your strength to turn around and strike your attacker in the face.
You had him. Your aim was precise and you were strong enough, quick enough. Just one more inch and -
Another hand clasped where your hand held the knife, pulling you to face him completely.
You weren't sure what exactly you expected, but it was something disgusting, ugly, only a truly horrible creature could've had such a laugh.
You were stunned looking at the man in front of you. Under a black "Police" beanie laid delicate features placed perfectly on sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Two violet eyes shooting a supernatural, but beautiful light into the pitch black alley.
You studied him longer, face fixed on the sick smile imprinted on his mouth. The way he licked his bottom lip at the sight of you trembling.
The knife was still between you both, silver steel glistening with starlight. His hands tightened around yours, fingers pressing deep into your skin.
You let out a yelp as he dragged your hand to his mouth, darting out a long tongue to lick the blade before him, eyes not parting from yours for a second.
"I wouldn't try that, honey."
He yanked your other hand in between his thighs, clawing between your fingers to force your hand open. You gasped as he dragged your hand along his cock pressed hard against his pants. Even through clothes, you could feel he was big. Very big.
"The more you struggle, the harder I get."
He threw the knife on the ground. The clattering of your last line of defense filled you with a new wave of fear. But something worse than fear - familiarity.
That face. That voice. You... you knew him.
Your eyes travelled to across his face, desperately trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
"Starting to remember me, crybaby?"
Crybaby.
That's what he called you.
Aerion.
Ever since that first day of kindergarten when he pulled your pigtails up until reaching his hand under your skirt freshman year.
That was the one good thing about getting kicked out.
You didn't have to see him again.
You fought your hardest to stop it, to swallow the burning sensation building up inside of you. But Aerion had always had this effect on you, this cruel control you couldn't understand.
As tears welled in your eyes, you turned your head away so he wouldn't see. You'd heard him before. It would only make him want this more.
"Awwww, crybaby."
He dragged his pointed tongue along your jaw, catching the falling tear and licking up back to your cheek.
"Mmmm. Nice to know I still make you wet after all these years."
In one swift movement, he turned you over and twisted your hands behind your back. He bent you over the trash can, hips flush onto yours, his bulge pressing through the laughably sheer fabric of your mini dress. Your legs stumbled further apart, involuntarily making room for him.
A jingling sound ran from behind you and before you realized what was happening the unforgiving metal of handcuffs was clamped shut around your wrists.
You were breathless, unable to speak. He had moved so quickly, with such tact - it was as if he'd rehearsed it for months.
His body moved closer, hovering over your laid out back when he ran two fingers up your dress and along your folds.
You couldn't help it. You weren't sure if it was the adrenaline, the excitement of it all - maybe some sick part of you actually enjoyed this, enjoyed being hunted. You weren't sure if it was his unavoidable handsomeness or his brute strength.
But you were wet. Dripping down your thighs. And now he knew.
"In more ways than one."
He whispered, voice hoarse and intoxicating. He grabbed your face with one hand, turning you to face him as he leaned down. Eyes glued to yours, he brought the two fingers to his mouth sucking your juices off their length, eyes rolling back ever so slightly.
"So sweet. Sweeter than I imagined you'd be."
He planted a sickeningly tender kiss to your forehead before moving behind you again. He pushed your head down into the rails of the trashcan before tearing the sheer fabric of your dress from the neckline down to the end of your skirt.
You let out a cry as he shifted the rest of the fabric off revealing your naked body.
"Help! Somebody help me!"
You shouted at the top of your lungs, tears pouring down your face. This man humiliated you in every way possible in your childhood. And your life since him had been equally humiliating, if not more. And now, here you were. Head pressed against the edge of a trash can, naked and trembling in handcuffs, as your childhood bully stood behind with the imposing length of his clothed cock rubbing against your bare ass.
"Nobody's here, sweetheart. Don't you think I'm smarter than that?"
The words drifted into your neck as he nuzzled his chin into your collarbones.
"When I heard you were selling this - "
He slapped your pussy, the impact against your wetness making a pathetic squelch.
"Pretty little pussy on the street I just - well, I couldn't help myself."
He slapped again, harder this time. He then dragged his wet lips up to your ear, stopping to bite your earlobe.
"I had been saving you for myself all these years. You know, I was supposed to be your first."
His long fingers slowly slid back between your slick folds, teasing your clit with faint circles.
"Your biggest tormentor"
He picked up his speed and laughed as you kicked your legs, overwhelmed with sensation. You'd never admit it, but it felt good. Very good. The sick asshole knew what he was doing.
"Giving you the ultimate gift."
You bit down on your lip as his fingers pressed harder into your clit, trying to muffle out the pitiful mewls and whimpers escaping your lips.
"I had waited for so many years. Needed you to hate me. Really fucking hate me. So when you finally begged me to fuck you, begged me to ruin you, it would be that much sweeter"
He practically moaned the words as he sank his index finger into your pulsing hole, his thumb continuing to ruthlessly rub your clit.
You arched your back into his touch, unable to control the wave of pleasure building up in your stomach.
"When I heard my sweet little girl had become a trashy prostitute all these years later, you can imagine. I was very... angry"
He thrust his middle finger into you with animal force. You reared your head back as his free hand pulled your hair.
"Took me a while to find you. You went quite far, crybaby, didn't know you had it in you."
Tears were rolling down your face as hopeless moans fled from your mouth. His fingers were fucking you relentlessly as his cock twitched on your ass, throbbing harder after every little movement you made. Every time your walls clamped around his digits, you could feel him smile as he pressed his lips to the skin on your neck.
"But eventually I got my hands on your file. Saw those soliciting charges. Found you out here."
You tried everything in your power to fight it. You tried moving away, thinking about other things, breaking free from his grasp, but it was no use. Aerion had you right where he wanted you. The pleasure was so intense now you could envision it - envision yourself screaming his name against your will as his fingers brought you to release.
But just as you began to reach your final peak, he stopped.
He pulled his fingers out of you and laughed as you whimpered pathetically at the feeling of emptiness. At the loss of being denied an orgasm you hadn't even wanted in the first place.
He gripped your face with his hands, turning you to face him again. You looked a mess, naked, hair tangled, eyes coated in a desire-fueled haze. But still, he licked his lips with want, with need.
This was exactly how he wanted you.
"Not yet, baby. Remember? I want you to beg"
He started rubbing again, slower this time. Painfully slower. Your legs twitched in frustration at his cruel teasing.
"You've been such a bad girl without me"
His hand came down on your ass with a sharp crack as the other picked up its pace, tracing circles around your clit. You let out a muffled moan, trying your best to quiet yourself.
Another sharp crack landed on your ass cheek.
"No, no. That's not what I said I wanted, is it baby?"
He slapped your ass again as he slid his fingers back inside you, your body convulsing at the overwhelm of sensation.
"Answer me!"
He spat, voice crossing from teasing to unforgiving. You searched his purple eyes for any sign of what he wanted. Any sign of what you could do to make him stop. There was nothing.
You shook your head in defeat.
"Good. That's a good start. What do I want then, honey?"
You tried to find something to say, but it was impossible to concentrate with the way his fingers pushed into you. The way his thumb commanded your throbbing clit. The way wetness was pouring like a waterfall down your legs to the point you could feel it pool around your ankles now.
Then just like that, he pulled his fingers out again.
The groan you let out could only be described as desperately animalistic. He was breaking you in. Training you. Ruining you. Forcing you to be a naked, whimpering mess in the alley and worse. Forcing you to enjoy it. To beg for it.
He carried on for what felt like hours. Fingering you senseless. Circling your clit with relentless precision. He stuck his fingers in your mouth, leaving you to drool all over him and yourself. He pulled your hair each time you arched your back, mocking your body's willingness to let him take you. He landed occasional slaps to your ass and pussy, blending the unbearable pleasure with pain.
And every time you were about to orgasm, he'd stop.
He'd laugh as you cried, as your legs writhed with need and your hips bucked up against him, asking him to fuck you, to finish you off.
But it wasn't enough. He needed to hear you. And at this point, you needed release so badly, you cried. Not from pain, not from fear, but because you needed him to fuck you so badly you couldn't think about anything else anymore.
He eyed you as he wiped away some of the wetness running down your thighs.
"Do you feel that, baby? You're fucking soaked for me. You're fucking nasty. A nasty, slobbering mess for me. All you have to do now is admit it."
You opened your legs wider with anticipation as you forced the words out of your mouth.
"I - I - I want you."
Your voice was shaking. It almost sounded like a cry rather than a statement.
"You - you - you want me to what, honey?"
Aerion's mocking voice poured like a sweet poison into your ears.
"I want you to - to fuck me."
Your body betrayed you. You betrayed yourself. But he'd just spent the last few hours completely ruining you, playing your body like an instrument to where you now were just a toy. A toy who'd let him play with you. Who'd beg him for it.
"There she is. There's my girl."
Aerion smiled as he undid his pants. Your mouth watered as he unzipped his pants and let out a pained moan as he revealed his cock. It was quite long, but more than anything it was thick. Thick and pale, coated with veins and an angry red tip that filled you with a combination of desire and fear.
He disappeared behind you and you felt his hand trace your spine as he aligned his tip with your entrance.
"You want this cock?"
He teasingly tapped the end of his cock onto your entrance, your hips desperately moving backwards to try to close on his length. But he always remained just out of reach.
"Y-yes. I want your cock."
He moved his tip from your hole to your clit, tapping and rubbing it as you thrashed around squealing.
"You're gonna have to beg better than that, sweetheart."
You cried out as he removed his cock again.
"Please, Aerion. Please. I want - I need you to fuck me. I need your cock. Please."
The tears came down harder in a mix of shame and need. You couldn't believe the words that came out of your mouth, but you couldn't have said anything else.
"That's better."
Aerion whispered as he kicked your ankles apart with his boot, spreading you wide as he sunk his cock into your clingy hole. Your walls clamped around him immediately as you screamed his name.
But then stillness. He refused to move.
"Aerion, please move."
"Who's pussy is this?"
Aerion's voice came out controlled.
"Yours." A muffled cry escaped as you tried to sink your hips onto his cock, but his hands held you firmly in place.
"What do you want me to do to you, my pretty girl?"
Your mind was completely blank right now. His cock was inside you, yes, but it wasn't enough. Another tease. Another thing reminding you of how much you needed him to fuck you.
"Anything, e-everything."
And with that, he smashed into you, hips bucking onto your ass as he thrust deeper and deeper with a brutal tempo. The lewd squelches of your wet pussy on his throbbing cock sent him into a frenzy.
Your jaw dropped, drool spilling everywhere, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he fucked you harder and harder. He pulled your head back by your hair so he could see your face.
"Look at you, baby. So cockdrunk off me you can't even say anything anymore? Can't even form thoughts?"
You nodded your head thoughtlessly and he let out a cruel laugh. He pulled on your jaw, opening your mouth further before titling your head back and spitting into it.
"You hold that there for me, you dirty slut. You hold it for me until I tell you to swallow."
You nodded, eyes glued to his as he continued rocking his hips into you. You kept your mouth open, holding his sticky spit on your tongue as he leaned over and began rubbing your puffy clit with his thumb again. You rolled your hips back onto him, desperately needing more.
"That's it. You're mine. You're my dirty little plaything. See how good you are for me? See how well I treat you when you obey?"
You nodded again as he dug his fingers into your hips.
"Swallow."
You swallowed the thick layer of spit he left in your mouth moments ago.
"That's my good girl. That's my pretty girl."
He slapped your cheek, sending you into a sickening fit of pain and bliss.
"Where do you want me to come honey, huh? Where do you want me to spill on you?"
The sweetness of his voice sent chills up your spine.
You couldn't respond for a minute, mewling and whimpering pathetically as he split you open with his cock.
"An - anywhere. On me. Inside me."
He thrashed in you with newfound fervor, bringing you dangerously close to your release as you bounced up and down on his cock. His hands trailed up your body, grabbing your breasts, thumbs circling around your nipples. His breath hitched as he spoke
" I -hah - I'm gonna come inside you. Fill you up with every drop of me till you love me. Till you're nothing but a stupid mess of spit and cum and the only word you're able to say is my name."
"Aerion, Aerion, Aerion, Aerion"
You chanted hopelessly, shouting his name like a prayer as he pushed into you over and over.
Your orgasm came violently, like a wave knocking everything out of you. As your walls clamped forcefully around his cock still twitching inside you, Aerion came, cock filling you stupid with his cum.
He rested his head on your back, hands gently stroking the sides of your legs, as both of you caught your breath. You were still seeing stars, unable to shake off the last hours of sick, twisted, mindless pleasure. You were a pool of spit, of cum - both yours and Aerion's.
He took off his police jacket and placed it on your shoulders, wrapping you in an embrace as you trembled. You turned to face him, his pale face covered in sweat, but his eyes. They worried you. Perhaps more now than before.
"I was sent to arrest you. Asked to transfer to vice so I could clean up the mess that tight pussy's been makin' all over town."
He moved his hands to your face and planted a whisper of a kiss onto your nose.
"Figured I'd give you a choice. Since we go back and all."
He almost sounded kind.
"I can arrest you and take you to the police station for being a whore for any pathetic schmuck on the street -"
He let out a laugh. That same wicked, vile sound that had filled you with fear earlier.
"Or I can take you to my place and you can be my whore. Only mine. "
His lips brushed gently on your cheek as he kissed away your remaining tears.
"What do you say, crybaby?"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: please read the warnings/don't be upset if you read and saw things you didn't like. def a very dark aerion take but just thought of it tonight seeing that gif of him in the beanie (eek). Will be continuing the other Aerion series, next part out soon. As always, hope you enjoy and thanks for all the love, kisses xxx
Obsessive Aerion got the most votes on my recent poll, so here it is:)
Word Count: 2.1K
Summary: You have loved Aerion for as long as you can remember, and he has been completely and utterly obsessed with you for as long as he can remember.
I haven't proof read again, sorry!
Warning: Mentions of violence, violence, obsessive love
Reblogs, comments and likes are very appreciated :)
Masterlist
My requests are open.
The day that you married Aerion had felt like a dream. You had known him for the majority of your life, for your fathers were good friends. Aerion was known for being cruel and wicked. Rude and arrogant. Yet, he had never been cruel to you.
Rude and arrogant, yes- but never was he cruel nor wicked to you. Quite the opposite, actually.
You had fallen in love with Aerion long, long ago, when you were a child. He was always doing things to try and impress you, whether it be going the extra mile in his sparring lessons because you watched, punching a young boy when he tripped you over and called you a name- one that you could not remember now. Or when he made a small, rather crooked bench for you to sit upon when you wanted to watch the sunset.
As you grew older, his light hearted fondness towards you turned deeper, and his heart began to burn for you wholly, He found himself threatening, and or hurting anyone whom even looked at you for too long.
When you were both ten and six, a boy proclaimed his love for you, publicly, having consumed a few cups of wine. You, of course, were horrified. As was Aerion, who with darkened eyes and a clenched jaw threw his dagger across the table. It span within the air as it flew, hurdling towards the drunk boy, resulting in the blade tearing through his chest before anyone could act.
He lived, luckily. The maester said that it had been a few inches from the heart. Aerion was glad, because if the boy had died his father never would have shut up about it. The punishment for that would have been horrific.
On your ten and eighth name day, your father threw a spectacular tourney in celebration. Another young boy, one that you couldn’t name, with a handsome face and kind eyes attempted to ask you for your favour.
An army of butterflies had erupted in your stomach in that moment. Part of you felt flattered as no men had spoken to you unnecessarily for a very long time due to the known reaction that it would evoke from Aerion. You had two choices, which were both inevitable to end badly.
“My lady, it would be a blessing from the seven themselves.” He called, a sweet smile upon his lips.
A smile that made Aerion feel sick.
You could accept, but of course Aerion would be livid and possibly- most definitely, kill the man. Or you could deny, and risk the awkwardness of such an encounter. You dreaded the crowds reaction to that. The small folk didn’t take too kindly to mild forms of disrespect.
Although his position was down on the ground and away from you, you felt Aerion’s eyes burning a hole into your head. You had searched for him desperately, your face finally stopping when you saw the magnificence of his helm and the sharp, beautiful features on his face within it.
He was a sight of beauty then, just as he was now.
You saw the fume in his expression; he looked as though he could have fought one thousand men alone in that moment.
“My apologies, sir,” you had stuttered awkwardly, your fingertips fiddling with the emerald jewels within your satin dress, “I must deny for I belong to another.”
You were in fact not sworn to Aerion, not politically. But your heart belonged to him fully, the same way that his belonged to you.
Despite the fire that burned within him at the sheer audacity of the man, a soar of hope shot through him when he witnessed your denial and proclaim that you belonged to him.
Belonged.
You remembered how the man’s face softened, and his brows furrowed in embarrassment. Aerion had commanded his steed to move closer, and a satisfied smirk sat proudly upon his face.
“Firstly, you attempt to receive the favour of my woman, which fails. Next, you will try and beat me- you will fail.” Aerion’s mocking words tore through the arena, earning some laughs, and some boos from the small folk within the crowd.
“Are you brave or stupid?” The question was of course, rhetorical.
Stupid, of course. What was supposed to be a light hearted joust in the sprits of celebration, turned into a bloody mess. Aerion, of course, beat the man. Very violently. Bending the rules of ethics in order to incite his revenge.
The crowd booed, but Aerion was certainly pleased with himself. As soon as he was declared the winner, he threw off his heavy helm and rode towards you. You, of course, gave him your favour and let out a yelp of surprise when Aerion climbed up the pole, picked you up and brought you down. He kissed you there and then for everyone to see- tenderly, lovingly. Not only a message for everyone whom saw, but a message to you- to prove his seriousness and dedication.
Your families watched in horror- they knew the love you shared, of course. They knew very well of the obsession that Aerion held for you. Yet, politically, you were not to marry. Such a public proclamation meant that suitors from all the realm would be scared off.
Aerion didn’t care, and did not understand why your fathers had not arranged your marriage sooner- he could have put two babes in you by now. The Targaryen prince never worried that you would marry another- no. He had done just fine thus far scaring off possibilities. And worst case, he had already bedded you many times- if there were to be a day where another arrangement would be announced, he would have no problem revealing that awfully kept secret.
After the tourney, Aerion had requested an audience in front of both his father, and yours, as well as his uncle and the king himself. It was there that he demanded that you marry. Aerion knew no embarrassment, and made witnesses sit for a whole hour while he recounted every memory that he had of you. The ones that he deemed appropriate, anyway.
You remembered the giggle that left you when he had started with, “it began when we were five years old.” And proceeded to tell the tale of how you fell and scraped your knee, and how he had helped you up and dusted the dirt from your bloodied knee.
Aerion’s obsession manifested itself in many ways; he knew every single thing that you liked, loved, disliked and loathed. He read every book that you mentioned, he had men travel the world in search of jewels and gowns that you had read of, he sometimes even travelled himself to acquire the finest flowers from the free cities, just to see the delight in your face when you inhaled the scent.
There was no fibre of your being that had the heart to tell him to calm down, even if sometimes you really wanted too. Every human on the earth needed their alone time, and he could not comprehend that. His alone time included you- it had too.
“I do not understand why we must host such delinquent people.” Your husband’s voice exclaimed from beside you, echoing throughout the hall and bouncing from the large stone walls. The sudden noise snapped your attentions back to the table that you sat at, a roasted duck still rested upon your plate.
During your dinner, Prince Baelor had announced that in the coming days, they should be welcoming the arrival Maron Martell, Prince of Dorne, and his eldest son.
Baelor laughed, hesitantly lifting a silver goblet to his lips, “Delinquents?” The heir took a large swig of wine before playing the cup back upon the table.
Aerion did not understand the humour within his words, and started as his uncle awaiting a valid response. Despite the stare, his eyes flickered to you once or twice.
“It’s your fucking great aunt’s husband and child, what problem could you possibly have?” Aerion’s father, Maekar, questioned impatiently.
You already knew the problem, yet were not sure if Aerion would admit it.
You see, Aerion knew very well that his Maron Martell’s eldest son was in fact around the same age as you both- described by all in the seven kingdoms to be the most handsome man of Dorne. He was said to have a thick head of dark curls, and a chiseled jaw. He was said to be tall, with sun kissed skin and an unforgivingly beautiful face. He was also said to be charming, and funny.
Naturally, Aerion did not want him anywhere near you. You should have known better than to question whether he would admit it.
“My problem is that I will not have that man whore set eyes upon my wife!”
Maekar shook his head in pure disbelief, and decided to allow someone else on the table to handle his son.
You, amused by the situation, placed your hand on his thigh gently, your fingers brushing the fabric of his hose.
It was fair to say that the people of Dorne did things differently; they are known to be very open with their doings, very confident and free.
“My love, that will not be a problem.” You said simply, peering at him with a blank expression.
Aerion couldn’t help the small tut that escaped him. Placing his hand on top of your own which rested on his thigh, he looked at you, leaning his face closer to yours. “Of course it will be a problem.”
“No, it won’t.” Daeron called from across the table. “Brother, you must be less…”
Daeron’s hands raised, and he gestured unknowingly as he thought of how to articulate his thoughts. “Less territorial.” He finalised his words with a small burp.
“And you, brother, must drink less. You are making my stomach turn.” Your husband shot back, his eyes darkening as they scanned Daeron.
And with that, your husband stood abruptly, grabbing the flowing, emerald sleeve of your gown as he stood- a forceful signal that he wanted to leave and intended to take you with him.
Two days later, your guests had arrived, and in turn, a flurry of guests dined in your husband’s family halls. You sat beside your husband, as usual. Your hand firmly clasped in his, laughing at the ridiculousness he spoke into your ear. Both of you loathed family gatherings, and so had always passed the time by making jokes of those who surrounded you. That, or you would spend the time whispering all of the things that you would rather be doing to one another.
The chaotic hum of music chimed through your ears and people of all ages danced happily to the sound. Aerion nibbled at your ear and pressed kisses to your neck as you both sat- you watching the crowd, and him watching you.
Maron’s eldest son was not as pleasing as the ladies of court had painted, and he seemed rather unintelligent, if you were honest.
“Princess,” You heard an unfamiliar accent call.
You peered to your right, and Aerion paused as his lips ghosted your neck. Him too looking towards the direction of the voice.
“Pass me the wine.” He commanded you calmly, yet loudly.
Aerion’s head snapped up, and he turned his head so it fully faced the young Dornish man. He sniffed through his nose and thought carefully- your husbands violet eyes throughly scanning his face.
“You dare command my wife.” Aerion spoke in a harsh voice. The Dornish Prince’s head snapped back in disbelief.
“I just want the wine.” He shrugged.
Aerion lazily reached forwards and nudged the tall jug of wine towards his direction. “Then get it yourself.”
The Dornish Prince peered at the wine, then peered at Aerion, and then looked at you.
“Sorry, my Princess.” He spoke in an overdramatised voice, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Aerion shot up then, despite your hand that had clasped his waist in a desperate attempt to make him sit back down. Aerion could threaten and beat whomever he liked, but Maron Martell’s eldest son simply could not be one of them. Makar barked at him from the latter side of the table, most of them now gaining the attention of the ridiculous display before them.
Aerion felt your harsh hands- a brief pang struck him as a consequence- not because it hurt, but because you always touched him gently, and tenderly.
Other than when you were in bed, of course.
Aerion thought for a heartbeat, about the consequences of putting his hands on the tanned man in front of him.
Despite it all, he lunged forward and punched the Prince in the face, causing his head to jerk back and a small gasp to leave his throat.
To your surprise, however, Aerion did not continue his attack. Instead, he moved away. Placing one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other on your sleeve, he placed a kiss on your forehead.
“Come, let us leave.” He pulled you up. “I cannot stand everyone here, being able to stare at you for much longer."
SUMMARY: Kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen. In a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way.
TW: rape, sexual abuse, sex trafficking, forced prostitution, domestic abuse, dubious consent, trauma bonding, graphic violence, torture, child endangerment, kidnapping, misogyny
WC:25K
209 A.C Flea Bottom
The first thing you ever remembered was your brother’s hands.
Not your mother’s face, that was gone, worn away like a coin passed through too many fingers. You could summon the shape of her if you concentrated: the blurred watermark of a jawline, the suggestion of a mouth that laughed like a cracked bell, the smell of cheap wine and cheaper perfume that clung to her hair long after she stopped breathing. But her face? No. That belonged to the dark now, along with everything else from before.
But the hands, those you remembered. Dunk’s hands. Too large for a boy of eight, the knuckles already crosshatched with scars from street fights and kitchen fires, but impossibly gentle as they lifted you from the straw mattress where your mother lay cold and still. You had been five years old. You had not understood death, only that Mother would not wake. It was Dunk who wrapped you in a blanket thin enough to see through. Dunk who carried you out into the grey morning, your face pressed to his neck so you would not see the body being hauled away. Dunk who said, in a voice that splintered because he was barely more than a child himself, “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And he had, you slept in doorways at first, curled together like kittens against the cold that seeped up through the cobblestones. Dunk learned quickly which bakers threw out day old bread and which watchmen could be bribed with a sad eyed look. He found work at an inn in Flea Bottom and the innkeeper’s wife let you sleep in the stables so long as Dunk scrubbed the floors and hauled the kegs and made himself useful in a dozen small ways. You would sit in the corner while he worked, your knees drawn up to your chin, watching him. Watching the boy melt away, season by season, into something that looked more like a man. He grew taller and broader and harder, his shoulders widening, his voice dropping. He was three years older than you, but sometimes he felt like thirty. He had never been a child. Neither of you had.
But you had each other. And that was enough. It had to be.
Every night, after his labors were done, Dunk would come to you in the stables. He would reek of sweat and sour ale, and he would lower himself onto the hay beside you with a groan that belonged to a man three times his age. And then he would tell you stories he’d gathered like dropped coins from travelers and old soldiers and the septon who sometimes came to beg a bowl of soup. Stories of knights who never faltered, dragons who spoke in riddles, castles of white stone that caught the sunrise like mirrors. Maidens so beautiful that kingdoms burned for a single glance.
You were twelve when the men began to notice you. It happened on an ordinary night, with an ordinary drunk who’d had too much ale and too little sense. You were carrying a tray of empty cups back to the kitchen, your arms aching with the weight, when a hand came out of nowhere and closed on your backside. You froze, no understanding of what the sudden heat crawling up your neck meant or why your body had locked itself rigid as a board. The man laughed and then Dunk was there.
One moment the drunk was leering at you, his hand still on your body, and the next he was on the floor with blood fountaining from his nose and Dunk standing over him like a thunderhead. He threw the man out into the mud, and when he came back inside his hands were trembling with a rage so profound it seemed to warp the air around him. “Stay close to me,” he said, and it was not a request. His voice was quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that lives on the far side of fury. “Always. Do you understand? Always.”
You understood. From that day forward, you were never more than arm’s reach from your brother. When he walked to the market, you walked beside him, your fingers sometimes hooked into the rope that acted like a belt, when the crowds pressed too close. The men still looked, by fourteen, you had grown into the kind of beauty that stilled conversations mid sentence, your mother’s eyes and your unknown father’s soft mouth arranged on a face that seemed to belong in a ballad rather than a Flea Bottom inn, but they looked from a distance. Dunk saw to that.
You were inseparable. Joined at the hip, the innkeeper’s wife liked to say, shaking her head with a fondness that bordered on bewilderment. “Never seen the like. That boy would tear the world apart for his little sister.”
You were sixteen when everything ended. The festival came in the spring, an eruption of color and noise that spilled from the gates of the Red Keep and flooded through the city like a tide. Mummers on stilts, jugglers with flaming torches, singers with harps slung across their backs, knights in armor that caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand glittering shards. Dunk had been given the night off—a rarity—and he had taken your hand with a grin you hadn’t seen since you were children hiding from the rain under a stolen tarp. “Come on,” he said, and his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.
You laughed and followed. The crowd was too thick. The torches made everything swim, light and shadow bleeding together until faces became masks and masks became faces. Dunk kept his hand clamped around your arm for the first hour, his grip unwavering, but then a knot of drunkards staggered between you and in the space of a single heartbeat, you lost him.
“Dunk?”
You rose onto your toes, straining above the heads of the crowd. You saw him turn, saw his mouth open to call back to you, saw the sudden alarm flash across his features, and then the surge of bodies carried you sideways, a riptide of flesh and noise, and you stumbled into an alley to escape the crush.
That was when they took you. There were three of them. You never saw their faces clearly, only hands. Rough and quick and impossibly strong, one clamping over your mouth, another banding around your waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You tried to scream. You bit down on the palm pressed against your lips, tasted blood and salt and felt the man curse and shift his grip, but there was no time. A sack came down over your head, coarse and stinking of something you did not want to name, and the world went dark and muffled and small.
The last thing you heard was the festival. The music, the laughter, the endless churn of celebration. It went on without you, as if you had never been there at all.
Dunk searched for three days. He did not sleep. He did not eat. He tore through Flea Bottom like a storm given flesh, overturning carts and kicking down doors, bellowing your name until his voice shredded into something barely human. He went to the City Watch, and they laughed, a girl from the slums, what did he expect? He went to the sept, and the septon only clasped his hands and murmured prayers that tasted like ash. He went to every inn, every brothel, every lightless corner of the city where a girl might be hidden or sold or worse, and he found nothing. Nothing. Nothing and nothing again.
On the fourth day, a woman came to him, she found him in the alley where you had vanished, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands, and she knelt beside him.
“You’re the one,” she said. Not a question. “Looking for the girl with the H/C hair. The pretty one.”
Dunk’s head came up so fast his neck cracked. “Where is she?”
The woman shook her head. Slowly. Deliberately. A gesture that held everything he did not want to know. “They found her in the water this morning, lad. Some men…” She paused, and something that might have been pity flickered across her ruined face. “They took her. And when they were done—” Her hands made a twisting motion, a brutal pantomime that needed no translation. “The women who found her said she was hardly recognizable. They’ve already burned the body. Too much damage, they said. You don’t want to see that. Trust me. You’re better off remembering her the way she was.”
Dunk did not speak. He simply sat there, staring at the woman’s face, and something inside him cracked straight down the middle and bled dry.
“Who?” His voice did not sound like his voice. “Who did it?”
“No one knows. Drunkards, maybe. Travelers passing through. They’re long gone now.” The woman rose, joints creaking, and looked down at him with something that was not quite pity and not quite indifference. “I’m sorry, lad. Truly.”
She left him there. And Dunk stayed. He stayed in that alley as the sun bled out and the moon rose pale and indifferent and the city settled into its night noises around him. His little sister was dead. He had promised—promised—to protect her, and she was dead. And the world, which had never been kind to either of them, now seemed to hold no color.
—
213 A.C Ashford
The gardens of Ashford Castle were not as grand as the ones in Summerhall but they were still beautiful. You had been here for less than a fortnight, arrived as part of Prince Maekar's retinue for the tourney celebrating Lord Ashford's daughter's nameday, and already the place had worked its way under your skin. The roses were in full bloom, cascading over stone walls in waves of crimson and gold and softest pink. The hedges were trimmed into the shapes of birds and beasts.
The little girl was running through the grass ahead of you, her silver gold hair streaming behind her like a banner caught in a high wind, her bare feet slapping against the earth with the unselfconscious joy of someone who had never known hunger or fear or the back of a stranger's hand. She was two years old, small for her age but fierce, so fiercely alive that it stopped your breath sometimes, with violet eyes that missed nothing and a laugh that could fill an entire hall and still demand more room.
"Rhaenyra," you called, and you tried to sound stern, you really did, but the smile kept breaking through no matter how firmly you set your jaw. "Come back here before you trip and ruin that dress."
"Won't," the child announced, with the absolute conviction of someone who had never been wrong about anything in her life, and kept running.
You sighed, gathered your skirts in both hands, and gave chase. The dress you wore was finer than anything you had owned before Aerion had claimed you, a gift he had given you specifically for this journey. Pale blue silk that whispered when you moved, with silver embroidery at the sleeves and neckline. He had wanted you to look presentable at Ashford. You suspected, though you had not said it aloud, that he also wanted to show you off. To remind his family, and perhaps himself, what he possessed.
You were twenty years old now, no longer the trembling girl who had been thrown into a black carriage while a brothel burned behind her, no longer the hollow eyed creature who had learned to disappear inside her own body while men did what they pleased. The past months and years had reshaped you, smoothed some of the sharp edges and hardened others.
But there was something new in you now, something forged in the long nights of learning to survive Aerion Targaryen and the longer days of learning to love your daughter. You knew how to bend without breaking. And you knew, with a certainty that lived in your bones like marrow, that you would kill any living soul who tried to harm your child.
Rhaenyra had tripped over an exposed root and was sitting in the grass, more affronted than injured, examining a smudge of dirt on her palm with the grave concentration of a maester confronted with an ancient and inscrutable text. You scooped her up before the tears could organize themselves, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, breathing in the smell of sunshine and crushed grass and something warm and sweet that was just her.
"Told you," you murmured into her hair. "You fell."
"Didn't cry," Rhaenyra pointed out. This was technically true, and there was a note of such fierce pride in her small voice that your heart performed an odd, painful little flip in your chest.
"No," you agreed, pulling back to look at her solemn face. "You didn't. You're a brave little dragon, aren't you?"
The child beamed. She adored being called a dragon. It was one of the few gifts Aerion had given her that did not make your stomach twist into complicated knots. This inheritance of fire and blood and the unshakeable conviction that she was meant for something magnificent.
You carried her back toward the castle, her small arms wrapped tightly around your neck, her voice a ceaseless ribbon of chatter about the butterfly she had almost caught and the bird that had flown directly over her head and the flower she had picked that was pink, Mama, pink and pretty and can I keep it forever please please please. You made the appropriate sounds of wonder and encouragement, your eyes scanning the courtyard as you crossed it, your body perpetually aware of who was watching.
The servants of Ashford avoided your gaze, much as the ones at Summerhall did. They had learned, over the course of the tourney's first days, to treat you with a careful neutrality. Not quite respect, not quite disdain, something suspended in the ambiguous space between. They knew what you were. Prince Aerion's paramour. The woman he had brought with him from Summerhall, installed in a guest chamber near his own, paraded through the grounds like a provocative piece of art he wanted everyone to see whether they wished to or not. They did not speak to you unless absolutely necessary, did not meet your eyes, did not acknowledge the child in your arms except to incline their heads stiffly and step aside.
Ashford Castle was a crowded place during the tourney. Lord Ashford's daughter Gwin had turned thirteen, and to honor her nameday, her father had declared a tourney that would last five days. Knights and lords from across the Reach and beyond had gathered to compete, their banners snapping in the spring breeze, their pavilions spreading across the fields like a crop of colorful mushrooms.
Prince Maekar's entire family had come with his children. You saw them sometimes, in the corridors or the courtyards or the great hall at supper, but you never spoke to them. You were not permitted. Prince Maekar had made that blisteringly clear from the very beginning, his voice cold with a disgust he did not bother to disguise.
"The woman stays in her chambers," he had told Aerion when he first met you. "I will not have her parading about in front of the children. She is a whore, Aerion. A whore and you will not embarrass this family."
Aerion had not argued. He rarely argued with his father directly. But he had kept you anyway, had dressed you in silk and silver, had installed you in a room that connected to his own. And now you were here, carrying your daughter back toward the keep while the roses nodded in the breeze and the distant sounds of the tourney grounds drifted over the walls like distant thunder. You had not been permitted to attend the jousts. Not since the yesterday.
You closed your eyes for a moment against the memory. It had been horrible. Aerion's tilt against Ser Humfrey. You had been watching from the stands, Rhaenyra on your lap, your heart in your throat the way it always was when he rode. He was a skilled jouster, your prince, but he rode with a recklessness that bordered on suicidal, and sometimes you thought he would not be satisfied until he left someone broken in the dirt.
This time, he had aimed too low. Deliberately, you were almost certain, though you would never say so aloud. His lance had struck Ser Humfrey's horse in the neck, a brutal, illegal blow that sent the animal crashing to the ground with a scream that would haunt your nightmares for weeks. Ser Humfrey had been thrown, his leg twisted at an angle that made your stomach lurch, and the horse had thrashed in the dirt with blood pumping from its throat.
The crowd had broken through the barriers. Prince Baelor Breakspear himself had risen from his seat, his face a mask of disgust, and you had seen the way he looked at Aerion. The way everyone looked at Aerion. Like he was something monstrous. Something broken beyond repair.
Aerion had found you afterward, still flushed with adrenaline, his eyes too bright. He had forbidden you from attending any more of the jousts.
"It's not safe," he had said, his grip on your arm just shy of bruising. "The crowds are unpredictable. The horses are dangerous. You and Rhaenyra will stay in the castle or the gardens. I don't want you anywhere near the lists."
You had not argued. You rarely argued with him about things that mattered. But you had seen the truth behind his words, the truth he would never admit. He did not want you to see him lose. He did not want you to see the way the other knights looked at him after what he had done.
So you had stayed away. You had walked in the gardens, and played with Rhaenyra, and smiled your careful smile whenever Aerion returned to your chambers in the evenings, bruised and bristling and desperate for the praise only you could give him.
"Up," Rhaenyra demanded as you approached the castle's side entrance. "Up high, Mama. I want to see."
You lifted her higher, settling her higher on your hip with the practiced ease of two years of motherhood, and she gazed around the corridor with the same wide eyed wonder she brought to everything. You loved her so much it scared you sometimes. Loved her with a ferocity that made the love you had felt for your own mother, dim and distant and blurred at the edges, seem like a candle held up against the sun.
"You spoil her."
The voice came from behind you, and you did not startle. Months with Aerion had taught you the particular cadence of his footsteps, the faint jingle of the sword he wore even at peace, the way the air in a room seemed to tighten and grow watchful when he entered. You turned, shifting Rhaenyra to your other hip with a fluidity that had become second nature, and offered him the smile you had perfected over your time together.
It was not a false smile. That was the strange thing, the thing that still surprised you when you stopped to examine it. It was not false at all. There was calculation in it, yes. There was calculation in everything you did, a habit you could not have broken if you tried. But there was warmth there too. The warmth of a woman looking at a man she had somehow, against all odds and reason, come to care for.
Love. The word still felt strange in your mouth, like a garment that did not quite fit. Aerion was not kind. He was not gentle. He was not good, in any sense that your brother Dunk would have recognized. But he was yours, in his possessive, consuming, infuriating way, and you were his, and somewhere in the crucible of the past years, that mutual belonging had transmuted into something that looked, from certain angles, remarkably like love.
He was not a tall man, standing at five and a half feet, and you knew it rankled at him. Knew that every inch he lacked compared to the warriors he trained with was a splinter under his skin. But what he lacked in height he more than compensated for in presence. The way his boots struck the stone floors, deliberate and commanding. The sharp, hawkish beauty of his face, all angles and shadows. The particular weight of his attention when it landed on you, heavy as a hand on your shoulder.
"My dragon," you said, and the word was warm, intimate, a private jest between you that no one else would recognize. "She wanted to explore the gardens. You know how she loves the roses."
He stepped closer, and Rhaenyra immediately lunged toward him, her small arms outstretched, her face alight with the uncomplicated adoration of a child who had never been given a reason to fear her father. "Papa! Papa, I found a flower!"
She had dropped the flower somewhere in the garden, of course. You had seen it fall, a little pink bruise against the green grass, left behind in her headlong rush toward the next thing and the next and the next. But Aerion did not know that, and you suspected he would not have cared if he did. He took the girl from your arms with an ease that still surprised you, settling her against his chest as naturally as if he had been doing it all his life.
Aerion, who was never gentle with anyone. Aerion, whose hands had left bruises on your body in the early days. Aerion, who had aimed his lance at a horse's throat and watched it die without flinching.
But Rhaenyra had never seen that side of him. Rhaenyra saw only the father who bounced her on his knee and called her his little dragon and looked at her as if she were the single good thing he had managed to produce in a life full of sharp edges and bad decisions. And you saw both versions of him, the monster and the man, and you had learned to hold them both in your mind at once, to love the whole complicated, contradictory mess of him.
"A flower," Aerion repeated, bouncing Rhaenyra gently against his chest. "What color?"
"Pink!"
"Pink," he said, with the solemnity of a man receiving a sacred revelation. "Pink is an excellent color. You have impeccable taste."
Rhaenyra giggled, burying her face in the curve of his neck, and Aerion's eyes met yours over the top of her head. There was something in his gaze. A flicker of warmth, a flicker of something that might have been gratitude. It made your heart clench in that way you had long since stopped trying to explain away.
I love him, you thought, and the thought did not feel like a lie. It felt like the truth, strange and inconvenient and slightly terrifying though it was. Gods help me, I truly do.
You knew what people would say if they could hear your thoughts. How can you love him? After what he did to that horse? After what he did to you? After what he is? And they would not be wrong to ask. The early days had been brutal; there was no use pretending otherwise. He had hurt you, in ways that still surfaced in your dreams on bad nights. He had fucked you without asking, had demanded without giving, had treated your body like territory to be conquered and your compliance like tribute to be extracted.
But then something had shifted. Slowly, incrementally, in the way of seasons changing. He had begun to see you. The woman who praised him when no one else would. The woman who listened to his fears and his rages and his strange, tangled dreams of dragonfire and destiny. The woman who had given him a daughter and held his hand through the disappointment and taught him, patient as a stone worn smooth by water, how to be something other than cruel.
And you had seen him, the man underneath, the one who craved praise because he had never received it, the one who lashed out because he had never learned another way to ask for what he needed. You had seen him, and against all wisdom, against all self preservation, you had loved him.
He still hurt you, sometimes. When his black moods descended and his hands grew rough and the words that came out of his mouth were designed to wound. But those moments were rarer now, spaced further and further apart, and after each one he would come to you with his arms full of gifts. Dresses of silk and velvet, jewels that glittered in their velvet nests, books with leather bindings and gold leaf on the pages that you devoured in the quiet hours when he was training and Rhaenyra was napping. He would hold you afterward, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like a cage he was afraid you might slip through.
"You understand me," he would whisper, and his voice would crack on the words in a way that made your heart splinter. "You're the only one who does. The only one who ever has. Don't leave me. Promise me you won't leave."
And you, holding him in the dark, would stroke his short silver hair and murmur the words he needed to hear. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm yours."
You meant them, too. That was the strangest part. After everything, you meant them.
Where would I even go? you thought, watching him bounce your daughter in his arms in this borrowed garden in a borrowed castle, surrounded by roses that belonged to someone else.
You looked at Rhaenyra, at the small, fierce face that was so clearly her father's, and you thought about the day she had been born.
It had been the longest day of your life.
The labor had lasted nearly eighteen hours. You had screamed until your voice gave out entirely, had bitten straight through the leather strap the midwife had given you, had prayed to gods you had not believed in since childhood to make it stop, please make it stop, I can't do this, I'm going to die, please let me die. Aerion had paced outside the door like a caged animal, his boots wearing a groove in the stone, demanding updates every few minutes and threatening bodily harm to the maester whenever the news was not to his liking.
"Is it a boy?" he had shouted through the door, over and over, his voice fraying at the edges. "Tell me it's a boy. It has to be a boy. I'm going to name him Maegor. A strong name. A dragon's name. Tell me!"
You had heard him, even through the wall of agony that had swallowed the world, and you had felt a cold dread settle into the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into deep water. Maegor. He wanted to name his son after Maegor the Cruel. You had prayed then, harder than you had ever prayed in your life, with what remained of your shredded voice and your failing strength. Not a boy. Please, not a boy. Whatever else you give me, don't give me a boy who will carry that name.
The gods, for once in their capricious existence, had listened.
When the baby had finally emerged, slick and furious and impossibly, breathtakingly alive, the maester had looked between her tiny legs and pronounced, with the careful neutrality of a man who knew exactly how dangerous this moment was: "A girl, my prince. A healthy girl."
The silence that followed had been more terrifying than any scream.
Aerion had burst into the room, his face pale as milk, his short hair standing up in wild disarray from running his hands through it for eighteen hours. He had stared at the child in the maester's arms. At the tuft of silver gold hair plastered to her scalp, at the violet eyes that were already open and glaring at the world with an indignation that seemed profoundly personal. His expression had twisted into something ugly.
"A girl," he had said, and his voice was flat. Hollow. A room with all the furniture removed. "I waited nine moons. Nine moons. For a girl."
He had not touched you. He had not touched the baby. He had simply turned on his heel and walked out of the room, and you had heard his boots ring down the corridor, and then the distant slam of a door, and then nothing.
The next three days had been the darkest of your new life. Aerion did not come to your room. He did not send for you. He did not acknowledge the existence of the child at all. He ate his meals with his family, trained in the yard with a brutality that left his sparring partners bloodied and bewildered, and refused to speak to anyone who so much as mentioned the baby's existence. The girl, the servants called her in whispers, because she had no name yet, and a child without a name was a ghost.
You lay in your bed, your body slowly knitting itself back together, your breasts aching with milk, and you held your daughter against your chest and wondered if this was the end. If Aerion would cast you both out, send you back to the streets of King's Landing with nothing but the clothes on your back and a bastard child in your arms. You made plans in the dark hours. Foolish, desperate plans, the kind of plans that only seemed reasonable at three in the morning when you were alone and terrified and your stitches still pulled every time you moved. You would run. You would find Dunk if he was still alive, throw yourself at his feet, beg him to take you back even though you were ruined and used and nothing like the sister he had lost. You would find work, honest work, kitchen work, anything, and you would raise your daughter to be strong and fierce and free, and she would never, ever know what it felt like to be owned.
But on the fourth day, the door had opened.
Aerion stood in the frame, and you barely recognized him. His eyes were ringed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises, his short hair a disheveled mess, his fine clothes rumpled and stained as if he had been sleeping in them, or not sleeping at all. He had been wrestling with something, you realized. Himself, his pride, his expectations, his disappointment. And from the look of him, he had lost.
"Let me see her," he said. His voice was hoarse, scraped raw, as if he had been shouting or weeping or both. "Let me see my daughter."
You did not trust yourself to speak. You simply lifted the baby from your chest. She was awake, her violet eyes tracking the movement with that unnerving intensity newborns sometimes had. And you held her out toward him.
Aerion approached slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a wounded animal that might bite. He looked down at the small, wrinkled face, at the silver gold fuzz on her head, at the tiny fists that clenched and unclenched in the air as if she were already fighting battles only she could see. And something in his expression shifted. Not softened. Aerion did not soften, not in any way you had ever witnessed. But cracked. A fissure in the ice, unexpected and profound.
"She looks like me," he said. It was not a question.
"Yes," you whispered, your voice still ruined from screaming. "She's a true dragon, my prince. Just like her father."
He reached out one finger, just one, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly, and touched the baby's cheek. Rhaenyra turned her head toward the contact, her tiny mouth opening and closing in that instinctive rooting reflex.
"Rhaenyra," he said. "I'll call her Rhaenyra."
You knew the name, of course. Everyone in Westeros knew the name. The princess who had been called Maegor with teats, who had fought a war that tore the realm in half and refused to surrender even when the odds were hopeless. It was a name soaked in controversy, in blood, in the stubborn refusal to be anything other than what she was. It was a cruel name to give an infant daughter, in some ways. A challenge. A provocation. A reminder that girls could be as dangerous as boys, if they were bold enough.
But it was not Maegor. It was not the name of the Cruel. And on that fourth day, with your daughter finally named and Aerion's hand resting awkwardly, almost shyly, on your shoulder, you had decided to be grateful for small mercies.
"Rhaenyra," you repeated, trying the name on your tongue. It tasted like strength. Like fire. Like survival. "My little dragon."
And now, two years later, watching that same daughter tug impatiently at Aerion's doublet while he laughed, that hope had only grown. Rhaenyra was fierce and stubborn and clever and alive, so vibrantly alive, and you would make certain she stayed that way. You would die before you let that happen. You would kill before you let that happen. And the truth of that, the absolute crystalline certainty of it, was the most liberating thing you had ever felt.
"Y/N."
Aerion's voice pulled you back from the precipice of memory. He was watching you over Rhaenyra's silver gold head, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and irritation.
"You're brooding again," he said. "You get that look on your face when you're thinking too hard. I've told you. I don't like it."
You let your expression shift, the distant look replaced by something warmer, more present. But you did not apologize; you had learned, over your time together, that apologizing for your thoughts only made him more suspicious. Instead, you reached out and straightened the collar of his doublet, letting your fingers brush the skin of his throat, a gesture of casual intimacy that you knew he craved even if he would never admit it.
"I was thinking about how happy she looks," you said, and it was the truth, or a version of it. "You make her happy, Aerion. You know that, don't you?"
He grunted, but you caught the flicker of satisfaction that crossed his features before he could suppress it. Praise. He could never get enough of it, had been starved for it his entire life, and you had learned to feed him with the same regularity you fed your daughter. All this time, and he still turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, drinking in every affirmation, every acknowledgment, every whispered you are magnificent, you are powerful, you are loved.
"She's a dragon," Aerion said, adjusting Rhaenyra on his hip with practiced ease. "Dragons don't get sad. They incinerate the things that upset them."
"Papa," Rhaenyra said, with the sudden, intense solemnity that only a two-year-old can muster, "I want to incinerate something."
Aerion threw back his head and laughed. A real laugh, full throated and genuine, the kind of laugh that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish, almost approachable. "That's my girl," he said, and pressed a kiss to her forehead with an uncharacteristic tenderness. "That's my little dragon. We'll find you something to burn later."
You watched them, this strange, fierce man and this strange, fierce child, and your heart performed that complicated maneuver it had been practicing for years, folding affection and exasperation and hope and fear all into one impossible shape.
This is real, you told yourself. Whatever else is happening, whatever else they say about us, this is real. He is my Aerion, and she is my daughter, and this is my life, and it is real.
Aerion shifted Rhaenyra to his other arm and extended his free hand toward you. His earlier tension seemed to have eased, replaced by something almost eager, a restless energy that crackled just beneath his skin.
"There's a play tonight," he said. "Some puppeteers have set up in the village. I've heard it's about a dragon." His mouth curved into that sharp, knowing smile you had come to recognize. "I thought we might go after supper. You and me and the little dragon here. She should see something worthy of her name."
Rhaenyra's head came up at the word dragon, her violet eyes bright. "A dragon play, Papa?"
"A dragon play," Aerion confirmed, tweaking her nose. "With fire and scales and everything a proper dragon ought to have. Would you like that?"
Rhaenyra's shriek of delight was answer enough. She bounced in his arms, clapping her small hands together, already launching into a stream of questions about whether the dragon would be big or small, whether it would breathe real fire, whether she could meet it afterward and be its friend.
You smiled, and this time there was no calculation in it at all. Aerion was trying. In his own strange, possessive way, he was trying. He had brought you to Ashford to wound his cousin, yes. He had paraded you in front of his family like a trophy, yes. But he was also here, in this sunlit corridor, planning an evening at a play with his paramour and his bastard daughter, and there was something in his face that you had learned to recognize as hope.
"That sounds wonderful," you said, and meant it. "Rhaenyra will be talking about it for weeks."
"She'll be talking about it regardless," Aerion said dryly. "The child never stops talking. She gets that from you."
"From me?" You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. "I am the very soul of silence, my prince."
Aerion snorted. It was an undignified sound, entirely at odds with the sharp, cruel prince the rest of the world knew. "You are a terrible liar, Y/N. You always have been."
But he was smiling when he said it, and when he offered you his arm, you took it without hesitation. Rhaenyra was still chattering about dragons, her small voice filling the corridor with improbable questions and even more improbable declarations. Aerion answered her with patience, with warmth, with the particular tenderness he reserved for her alone.
And you walked beside them through the halls of Ashford Castle, your hand on Aerion's arm, your daughter's laughter echoing off the stones, and for this moment, this single bright moment, you let yourself believe that everything would be all right.
—
The screaming started before you understood what was happening.
One moment there had been music, the thin reedy piping of a flute and the thump of a hand drum, and Rhaenyra had been bouncing on your hip with her small hands clapping together in delight. The painted dragon had been swaying above the stage on its strings, its wings catching the torchlight, its jaws opening and closing in roar while the puppeteer below made a rumbling growl deep in her throat to give it voice. Rhaenyra had laughed. You could still hear the echo of that laugh, bright and silver and utterly without fear.
Then Aerion and the white cloaks moved, and the world splintered. The first tent pole went down with a sound like a thunderclap. Silk billowed inward, red and gold and orange, catching the torchlight and becoming flame even as it fell. People were screaming. People were running. A woman stumbled into you from behind and you curled around Rhaenyra on pure instinct, your spine curving, your arms locking, your body becoming a shell with your daughter at its center. Someone's elbow drove into your ribs and you felt something grind and shift and send a bright white bolt of pain up your side.
"Mama," Rhaenyra whimpered, and her voice was small, so terribly small, the voice of a child who did not understand why the world had turned cruel between one heartbeat and the next. "Mama, I want to go. I want to go home."
"Shh," you breathed into her hair, though your own voice was shaking so badly the word hardly had a shape. "Shh, my love, my dragon, Mama's here. Mama's got you. Close your eyes, sweetling. Close your eyes and it will be over soon."
She buried her face in the curve of your throat. You could feel her tears, hot and wet, soaking through the silk of your gown. You could feel her heart beating against your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone. You could feel every tremor that ran through her small body, and each one was a knife slipped between your ribs.
The guard Aerion had assigned to you stood at your back like a statue carved from ice. Ser Harrold, his name was, you had begged him to escort you from the pavilion the moment the violence began. You had turned to him with Rhaenyra clutched against your chest and pleaded with him to let you leave, to let you take your daughter somewhere safe, somewhere the screaming did not reach.
He had looked at you with eyes that held no more warmth than a winter pond. "Prince's orders," he had said, and the words fell from his mouth like stones dropped into still water. "You stay until he says otherwise."
"But she's frightened," you had said, and you had hated the tremor in your voice, hated the way it made you sound weak when you needed to be strong. "She's two years old, Ser Harrold. She doesn't understand what's happening. Please."
"Prince's orders," he had repeated, and he had not looked at you again.
On the stage, Aerion had the puppeteer by the wrist. She was young. That was the detail that lodged itself in your memory like a splinter, the detail that would come back to you in the dark hours of the night for years afterward. She was young, perhaps your age. Her mouth was open in a scream that you could not hear over the roaring of the crowd, and her free hand was beating uselessly against Aerion's chest, against his arm, against the unyielding iron of his grip.
She had made a dragon out of paint and wood and string. She had painted scales on its wings with her own hands, had worked its jaws with her own fingers, had given it a voice that made children laugh and grown men cheer. She had made the terrible, fatal mistake of letting her dragon be killed in the story she told. The knight had slain it with his sword and the audience had gasped and clapped and cheered the hero's victory.
Aerion had not cheered. Aerion had stared with a face like a thunderhead, and then the Kingsguard had begun to move, and now he was on the stage with the puppeteer's wrist in his hand and her dragon lying forgotten at his feet.
He started with her fingers. The first one broke with a sound like a dry branch snapping underfoot in the depths of winter. It was surprisingly quiet, that sound, almost delicate, almost polite. The puppeteer's index finger bent backward at an angle that made your stomach contract violently, and she screamed, a high thin shriek that cut through the chaos of the pavilion like a blade through silk.
Rhaenyra flinched in your arms. "Mama," she whimpered, "why is the lady screaming? Is she hurt? Mama, I want to go."
"Close your eyes, sweetling," you whispered again, and your voice was breaking now, splintering into pieces you could not put back together. "Close your eyes and think of something nice. Think of the roses in the garden. Think of the pink flower you picked. Think of anything but this."
The second finger broke wetter than the first. A muffled, grinding crack that seemed to echo in the hollow of your chest. The puppeteer's legs gave out beneath her, but Aerion held her up by her ruined hand,ìand his face, his beautiful face that you had kissed and praised and learned to love, was alight with something that went beyond cruelty into a territory you had no name for.
Pleasure. A bright, burning pleasure that lit him from within like a lantern lights a room. His violet eyes were wide and shining, his lips parted slightly around his bloodied teeth, his breath coming in short sharp bursts that were almost sexual in their rhythm. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this in a way he had never enjoyed a single moment of the years you had spent together, and the realization crashed into you like a wave into rocks, cold and brutal and undeniable.
You love him, you had thought earlier in the gardens. No, you hate him. That was the horror of it, the horror that would never leave you no matter how many years passed. You loved him, you loved the father of your child, you loved the man who had burned down a brothel for you. You loved him, and he was standing on a stage in a village called Ashford, breaking a girl's fingers one by one because her puppet show had insulted his pride.
The third finger made a sound like a walnut being crushed in a vise.
"Please," you heard yourself saying, and you did not know if you were speaking to Aerion or to Ser Harrold or to the gods who had never listened to a single prayer you had ever sent their way. "Please, someone stop him. Someone make him stop."
Ser Harrold's hand closed around your upper arm, immobilizing you. He was wearing gauntlets, the leather stiff and unyielding against your skin. "Hold still," he said, and his voice was the voice of a man who had learned long ago that obedience was safer than conscience.
The puppeteer's fourth finger snapped.
Then the giant came out of the crowd. His hair was dirty blonde, cut short against his skull in a way that suggested practicality rather than fashion, and it was matted with sweat and dust and something that might have been blood. His face was a shadowed blur in the torchlight, his features obscured by the angle and the distance and the chaos, but his size. Gods above and below, his size.
He was enormous. Seven feet of bone and muscle and righteous fury, with shoulders broad enough to block out the firelight behind him and hands the size of dinner plates curled into fists at his sides. He did not slow. He did not hesitate. He cleared the edge of the stage in a single stride, and then he was on Aerion, and his fist was connecting with the prince's face with a sound like a hammer striking an anvil.
Aerion staggered backward. His grip on the puppeteer's wrist broke, and she crumpled to the stage in a heap of brown wool and ruined hands, sobbing. Blood flew from Aerion's mouth in a dark arc that caught the torchlight and glittered like rubies scattered across the stage. He hit the wooden planking hard, his head snapping back against the boards, and for one impossible, crystalline moment, the entire pavilion went silent.
Then the Kingsguard moved. They came from every direction at once, white cloaks streaming behind them like wings, white enameled armor flashing in the firelight. Six of them. Seven. More, perhaps. They swarmed the big man the way wolves swarm a bear, throwing themselves onto his back and his arms and his legs, trying to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. He fought them. Gods, he fought them. You saw one Kingsguard reel backward with blood pouring from the visor of his helm. You saw another take an elbow to the throat and go down choking, clawing at his gorget. You saw the big man's fists rise and fall and rise again with the relentless rhythm of a blacksmith's hammer, each blow carrying the weight of a righteous anger that no amount of white armor could withstand.
But there were too many. There were always too many. They dragged at his legs and his arms and his neck, six white cloaked knights and then seven and then eight, and still he nearly threw them off, still he nearly got free, still he nearly made it back to his feet with his massive hands reaching for Aerion again. Then one of the Kingsguard drove the pommel of his sword into the back of the big man's skull, and his knees buckled. Another kicked his legs out from under him. Another twisted his arm behind his back at an angle that made the joint scream in protest even from where you stood watching.
They forced him to his knees on the stage. One of them, a tall man with a captain's bars on his white cloak, grabbed a fistful of that dirty blonde hair and yanked his head back, forcing his face up into the torchlight.
Aerion rose to his feet. He moved slowly, carefully, the way a man moves when he is holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads. His lip was split open, a gash that ran from the corner of his mouth nearly to his chin. Blood sheeted down his jaw and dripped onto the white silk of his collar, staining it crimson. He probed at his teeth with his tongue, grimaced, and spat a wad of blood and saliva onto the stage. Something small and white and hard skittered across the wooden boards.
“Why did you throw your life away for this whore” Aerion said.
"You've loosened one of my teeth,"
The pavilion had gone very quiet. The screaming had stopped, or perhaps it had simply receded to a distance where it could no longer reach you. The only sounds were the crackle of the torches, the soft sobbing of the puppeteer still huddled on the stage, and the ragged, labored breathing of the big man as he knelt in the grip of the Kingsguard. Aerion's voice was soft, almost conversational, the voice of a man discussing the weather over a cup of wine. It was more terrifying than any scream could have been.
"So," Aerion continued, prodding at his mouth again with his thumb and forefinger, examining the blood that came away, "we'll start by breaking out all of yours."
"No." The word came out of your mouth before you could stop it, a reflex as automatic as breathing, as instinctive as flinching from an open flame. "Aerion, no."
He did not look at you. He was not capable of hearing you, not in this state, not with the blood of a puppet show on his hands and the taste of his own tooth in his mouth. He was looking at the big man the way a child looks at an insect he has caught in a jar. Curious. Utterly without pity.
One of the Kingsguard, the captain with his hand still fisted in the big man's hair, forced his head down toward the stage. Another moved to stand on either side of him, gripping his shoulders, pinning him in place. A third stepped forward, removing his gauntlets one finger at a time, flexing his bare hands with the deliberate precision of a man preparing to perform a task that required both strength and care.
"Hold him still," Aerion said. "I want to watch."
Rhaenyra was sobbing in earnest now, her small body shaking with the force of her terror. She did not understand what was happening. She understood only that her father was on the stage and there was blood on his face and the safe bright world of the puppet show had collapsed into screaming and white cloaks and a big man on his knees who was about to be hurt in a way she had no language for.
"Mama," she wept, "Mama, I want Papa to stop, make Papa stop, please make him stop."
"I can't," you whispered into her hair, and the admission was a wound that would never fully heal. "I can't, sweetling. Mama can't make him stop. Close your eyes. Close your eyes and don't look."
The Kingsguard with the bare hands stepped forward. He was flexing his fingers, working the joints loose, his movements unhurried and methodical. The captain still had the big man's head forced down at the angle required for what was about to happen. The other guards braced themselves, digging their heels into the wooden stage, preparing for the struggle they knew would come.
The big man lifted his head against the pressure of the captain's grip. It was a monumental effort; you could see the muscles of his neck straining, the veins standing out like cords, the sweat cutting tracks through the blood and dirt on his face. He lifted his head, and the torchlight fell full upon his features for the first time.
You saw his face.
Time did not slow. It did not fade. It stopped. It stopped completely, absolutely, as if some vast and terrible hand had reached down from the heavens and seized the mechanism of the world itself and held it motionless. The torches froze mid-flicker. The screaming faded to a hum that existed somewhere beyond the boundaries of hearing. The blood in your veins turned to ice and then to fire and then to something that had no name at all.
You knew that face. You knew the hands. The enormous hands that had lifted you from your mother's deathbed, that had carried you through the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity and disgust, that had wrapped you in a threadbare blanket and held you against his chest while he promised you in a cracking boy's voice that he would always, always have you.
Dunk. He was alive. He was on his knees on a stage in a village called Ashford with a Kingsguard's hand in his hair and another Kingsguard's bare knuckles preparing to break his teeth out of his skull one by one, and he was alive.
"Dunk."
You did not recognize your own voice. It did not sound like a voice at all. It sounded like something that had been torn out of you by the roots, something that had been buried so deep and so long that pulling it free left a bleeding hollow in the center of your chest.
"Dunk."
Louder this time. Louder, and it cracked on the second syllable, cracked like your mother's laugh had cracked, like a bell that had been rung too hard and too long and had nothing left inside it but splinters.
"DUNK."
Time restarted itself with a violence that made your vision swim. The torches flared back to life. The screaming returned, a wave of sound that crashed over you and through you and left you gasping. The Kingsguard hesitated, their hands pausing on their prisoner, their white helms turning toward you with the synchronized precision of hunting dogs catching a scent.
Dunk turned his head. The captain still had his fist twisted in his hair, still had his neck bent at that brutal angle, but Dunk turned his head against that grip with the slow, inexorable force of a continent shifting, and he looked at you.
His eyes found yours across the chaos of the ruined tent. You saw the recognition hit him. Saw it travel through his body like a physical blow, a shock wave that started in his eyes and rippled outward through his shoulders, his chest, his hands. His face went slack with it, the tension draining out of his jaw and his brow, replaced by something that was too raw and too vast to be called surprise. It was disbelief. It was hope, the kind of hope that had been dead for so long its resurrection was indistinguishable from agony. It was joy and grief and guilt and love, all of them crashing together in the space of a single heartbeat.
His mouth moved. Formed the shape of your name. You could not hear it over the screaming, over the roaring of your own blood in your ears, but you saw it, saw the way his lips shaped the syllables he had not spoken in years, the name he had called across a hundred alleys and a hundred dark streets while he searched for you, the name he had whispered to himself in the long nights when he believed you were dead and gone and never coming back.
He surged against the guards holding him. Not fighting to escape now. Fighting to get to you. His massive shoulders bunched and heaved, nearly throwing off the two Kingsguard who were gripping his arms. A third lunged in to reinforce them, his white cloak tangling around his legs in his haste. Dunk did not seem to notice. He did not seem to feel the hands dragging at him or the knees pressing into his back or the captain's fist still grinding into his scalp. He was looking at you and only at you, and he was trying to reach you, trying to cross the impossible distance between the stage and the place where you stood with Rhaenyra in your arms.
You surged forward to meet him. You did not think about it. You did not calculate the odds or weigh the consequences. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, driven by an instinct older than thought, older than fear, older than anything you had learned in the years since they took you from the festival. Your brother was here. Your brother was alive.
Ser Harrold's arm locked around your waist like an iron bar. "Hold still," he snarled, and he was no longer calm now, no longer indifferent. He was struggling to hold you, struggling to keep his grip on a woman who had spent years learning to be still and silent and obedient and had finally, in this single shattering moment, forgotten how.
"Let me go!" The words tore out of your throat with a force that made your vision white out at the edges. Rhaenyra was screaming in your arms, her small fists beating against your shoulders, her voice a thin high wail that you could barely hear over the roaring in your ears. "Let me go, that's my brother, that's my brother, let me GO!"
"Aerion!" You were screaming his name now, the name of the man you loved, the name of the monster on the stage, the name of the only person in this pavilion who had the power to make the nightmare stop. "Aerion, please, please, you have to stop, he's my brother,please, Aerion, PLEASE!"
Aerion turned to look at you.
His face was still smeared with blood, his lip still split and swollen, his violet eyes still bright with the pleasure of the violence he had been orchestrating. But something flickered in their depths when he saw your face, when he registered the raw, unvarnished desperation in your voice. Confusion first. Then irritation, a flicker of the familiar petulance that crossed his features whenever something did not go the way he had planned. And then something else, something that chilled you more than any cruelty could have done.
Something calculating.
"What," he said, and his voice was a blade drawn slowly across a whetstone, "the fuck are you doing? What is she screaming about?"
You could barely form the words. Your throat was raw, your chest heaving, your arms trembling with the effort of holding Rhaenyra while Ser Harrold's grip threatened to crack your ribs. But you forced them out, forced them past the sobs that were building in your chest, forced them into the space between you and the man who held your brother's life in his bloodstained hands.
"He's my brother. He's my brother, Aerion." Your voice cracked on his name, splintered into something that was half a plea and half a prayer. "The brother I told you about. Dunk. The one I thought was dead. The one who raised me. Please. Please don't hurt him. I'll do anything. I'll give you anything. Just please, Aerion, please don't hurt my brother."
Something moved in Aerion's face. A muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes narrowed, the bright pleasure of the violence draining out of them, replaced by something harder and colder and infinitely more dangerous. He looked at you, and he looked at Dunk, and he looked back at you, and you could see him putting the pieces together. The brother you had wept for in the dark hours of the night, the brother whose name you had whispered in your sleep, the brother Aerion had forbidden you from ever mentioning again.
The brother who was now on his knees in front of him, bloodied and defiant, the man who had dared to strike a prince of the blood, and his expression closed like a door slamming shut in a winter gale.
"Take her back to her chamber," Aerion said. He was not looking at you anymore. He was looking at Dunk, and his voice was utterly without warmth, utterly without the history that stretched between you, utterly without anything that might have been mistaken for mercy. "Lock the door. No one goes in or out until I give the order."
"No." The word was barely a whisper. Ser Harrold was already dragging you backward, his arm still locked around your waist, his heels digging into the trampled grass of the pavilion floor. "Aerion, no, please, you can't do this."
"Take the child to the nursery," Aerion continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your voice did not exist, as if you were already gone. "She does not need to see any more of this. Make sure she stays there."
"No!" The scream that tore out of you was not a sound. It was a living thing, a creature with claws and teeth and a heart full of desperation, and it ripped its way out of your throat and into the torchlit air of the pavilion with a force that made the nearest Kingsguard flinch. "You can't separate us! She's my daughter! She's MY daughter!"
Rhaenyra was shrieking now, a high thin sound that rose above the chaos like a needle sliding into flesh. Her arms were wrapped around your neck so tightly that you could feel her small fingernails digging crescents into your skin, and her legs were locked around your waist, and her face was buried in the curve of your shoulder, and she was screaming, screaming, screaming. "Mama, Mama, don't let them take me, Mama, please, I want to stay with you, Mama, MAMA!"
Ser Harrold was dragging you backward. Another guard, a man in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's household, was trying to untangle Rhaenyra from your arms. His hands were gentle, gentler than you had expected, but that gentleness made it worse somehow, made it more real, made it a kindness that was not a kindness at all. He was murmuring something to Rhaenyra, some meaningless reassurance that neither you nor she could hear over the screaming, and his fingers were prying at her small grip one digit at a time.
"Don't," you sobbed. "Don't take her. Please. Please don't take my daughter."
But your arms were being pulled backward, and your strength was failing, and Rhaenyra's grip was slipping. You felt her fingers lose their hold on your dress. Felt the warmth of her body pulled away from yours. Felt the cold air rush in to fill the space where she had been, and that cold was worse than any physical pain, worse than the bruises blooming on your arm where Ser Harrold held you, worse than the raw burning in your throat from screaming, worse than anything you had endured in the brothel or the alley or the long dark nights when you believed your brother was dead.
"RHAENYRA!"
She was being carried away, still reaching for you over the guard's shoulder, her silver-gold hair bright as a candle flame in the torchlight, her violet eyes wide and streaming with tears. "Mama! I want my mama! Give me back my mama!"
You fought. You fought the way Dunk had fought, with every ounce of strength in your body, with your teeth and your nails and your fury. You twisted in Ser Harrold's grip and raked your nails across his face, felt the skin of his cheek tear beneath your fingers, felt the hot wet rush of his blood against your palm. He cursed and tightened his hold, and something in your side gave way with a sharp bright spike of agony, but you did not stop. You could not stop. Your daughter was being taken from you, your brother was on his knees with a prince's boot on his neck, and the world was ending, and you could not stop.
And then, cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk, a young voice rang out across the pavilion.
"No! Don't touch him!"
Everyone froze. The Kingsguard with his bare hands paused mid-motion, his knuckles inches from Dunk's clenched jaw. The captain's grip on Dunk's hair loosened slightly in surprise. Even Aerion turned, his bloodied mouth twisting into an expression of annoyed bewilderment.
The boy who stepped forward from the chaos of the crowd was small, skinny, with a shaved head that gleamed in the torchlight like a polished stone. He could not have been more than nine or ten years old, and he moved with the absolute, unshakeable confidence of someone who had never been told that the world did not bend to his will. He was bald and his clothes were the roughspun of a stable boy, dirty and sweat-stained, but he wore them like a prince wearing borrowed silks.
Dunk's voice was a ragged gasp, desperate and afraid in a way it had not been when the Kingsguard were beating him. "You stupid boy! Hold your tongue or they'll hurt you."
The boy did not slow. He did not even glance at Dunk. His eyes were fixed on Aerion, and there was something in them that made the prince's expression flicker with the first hint of uncertainty you had seen all night.
"No, they won't," the boy said, and his voice was calm, steady, the voice of someone stating a fact as immutable as the rising of the sun. "If they do, they'll answer to my father."
He stepped past the Kingsguard as if they were not there, as if the white cloaks and the white armor and the drawn swords were no more substantial than morning mist. He stopped directly in front of Aerion, this small bald boy in dirty clothes, and he lifted his chin and looked the prince full in the face.
"Let go of him," the boy commanded. "Wate, Yorkel, do as I say."
And the Kingsguard obeyed.
The captain released Dunk's hair. The other guards stepped back, their hands falling away from his arms and shoulders, their white helms inclining slightly in gestures of deference that stopped your heart in your chest. They knew this boy. They knew him, and they obeyed him, and that could only mean one thing.
Aerion stared at the boy. His violet eyes narrowed, studying the shaved head, the dirty clothes, the small defiant face that was upturned to his own. And then, slowly, recognition dawned across his bloodied features like a sluggish sunrise. It was followed immediately by annoyance, a deep and profound irritation that seemed to cut through even the pleasure he had been taking in the violence moments before.
"You impudent little rat," Aerion said. His voice dripped with contempt, but beneath it lurked something else, something that sounded almost like wariness. "What's happened to your hair?"
The boy did not flinch. He did not blink. He looked at Aerion with the steady, unblinking gaze of someone who had spent his entire life watching and learning and understanding things that others missed, and when he spoke, his voice carried the unmistakable weight of royal blood.
"I cut it off, brother," he said. "I didn't want to look like you."
Brother. The word landed in the center of the pavilion like a stone dropped into still water. Brother. This boy, this small bald boy in stable clothes, was Aerion's brother. Which meant he was Prince Aegon Targaryen, the youngest of Prince Maekar's sons, the one you had glimpsed occasionally in the corridors of Summerhall, the one who had looked at you like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
And he had just intervened to save your brother's life. The revelation halted the attack instantly. The Kingsguard could not carry out Aerion's orders now. Not against a man who was connected, through his squire, to the royal family. Not against a man who was protected by a prince of the blood, however young and however bald and however inexplicably dressed in the roughspun of a stable hand. The captain stepped back further, his white cloak settling around him like folded wings, and the other guards followed suit, leaving Dunk kneeling alone on the stage.
Aerion's face was a study in frustration. The pleasure had drained out of him entirely now, replaced by a seething, impotent fury that he could not express without defying his own brother, his own blood, in front of half a dozen witnesses. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. The blood from his split lip still dripped down his chin, and his violet eyes were dark with a rage that had no outlet.
But he was a prince, and he knew the rules, and striking a man who was connected to the royal family was a crime that even he could not simply burn his way out of.
"Take him to the cells," Aerion said finally, and his voice was flat and cold and utterly drained of the pleasure that had animated it before. "He struck a prince of the blood. That crime remains regardless of whose squire the little rat has chosen to become. He will await trial and judgment, and lock her in her chamber."
Ser Harrold hauled you backward through the ruins of the pavilion. Your legs gave out beneath you, and he dragged you the rest of the way, your heels scraping furrows in the trampled grass, your head lolling against his shoulder, your voice reduced to a raw and wordless keening that did not stop. You passed overturned benches. You passed torn silk and scattered cushions and a child's abandoned shoe.
The last thing you saw before the tent flap closed behind you was Aerion. He was still standing on the stage, his red tunic splattered with blood, his face a mask of cold, distant contemplation. He was not looking at you. He was looking at the place where Dunk had disappeared, and there was something in his expression that you had never seen before. Something that went beyond jealousy, beyond possessiveness, beyond the casual cruelty of a man who had never been denied anything.
He looked like a dragon counting its hoard, and finding a single coin out of place.
—
The door slammed shut behind you with a finality that echoed through your bones.
You had screamed until your voice gave out. You had beaten your fists against the iron banded oak until your knuckles split and bled, leaving dark smears on the wood that looked like accusations. You had thrown yourself at the door again and again, your shoulder bruising, your strength ebbing, until finally your legs had given way beneath you and you had slid to the cold stone floor with your back against the unforgiving wood and your face buried in your bleeding hands.
Rhaenyra was gone. Dunk was gone. Everyone you had ever loved had been ripped away from you in the space of a single night, and you were locked in a borrowed chamber in a borrowed castle with nothing but the silence and the dark and the terrible, circling thoughts that would not let you rest.
You pressed your forehead against your knees and tried to breathe.The hours crawled past like wounded animals dragging themselves toward death. You did not move from your place against the door. You did not lie down on the bed, though it was soft and wide and covered in Ashford's finest linens. You did not drink the water that had been left on the side table, though your throat was raw and burning from screaming. You simply sat, curled into yourself, and waited.
For Aerion. For news. For something, anything, that would tell you what was going to happen next. You thought about the look on Dunk's face when he recognized you. The shock. The joy. The desperate, agonized love. What must he have thought? What must he have assumed about you, about your life, about the choices that had led you to this place?
The shame of it burned in your chest like swallowed fire.
You did not know how long you sat there. It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness of the chamber, with the candles unlit and the fire unbuilt and the only light coming from the pale sliver of moon that crept through the narrow window high in the wall. But eventually, eventually, you heard the sound you had been dreading and hoping for in equal measure.
Footsteps in the corridor. Boots on stone, deliberate and unhurried, the particular cadence of a man who knew that the world would wait for him. The jingle of a sword at the hip. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a key turning in a lock.
The door swung inward, and Aerion Targaryen stepped into the room.
He had cleaned the blood from his face since you last saw him. His lip was still swollen. His silver gold hair had been combed back from his face, still damp from washing. He had changed his clothes; replaced by a simple black doublet that made his pale skin look almost luminous in the moonlight. He looked almost calm. Almost controlled. But his violet eyes were too bright, too sharp, the eyes of a man who was holding onto his composure by the thinnest of threads.
He closed the door behind him. You heard the lock click into place.
"My dragon," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, raw and broken from screaming. You tried to rise to your feet, but your legs would not hold you, so you remained on the floor, your back against the wall, your hands still stained with your own blood. "Aerion, please. Please tell me what's happening. My brother. Where is my brother? Is he all right? What are they going to do to him?"
The change that came over Aerion's face was instantaneous and terrifying. The careful mask of composure cracked like ice hit by a hammer. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides, curled slowly into fists.
"I come to you," he said, and his voice was a blade being drawn from its sheath, slow and deliberate and full of promise, "after being attacked in front of half the nobility of the Reach. My lip is split open. My tooth is loose in my skull. My dignity has been trampled by some hedge knight with dirt under his fingernails and hay in his hair. And the first words out of your mouth are not 'Are you all right, my prince?' Not 'Let me tend your wounds, my love.' Not a single word of comfort or concern for me, the man who saved you from a brothel, the father of your child, the prince who has kept you fed and clothed and protected for years."
He took a step toward you. Then another. His shadow fell across you like a shroud, blocking out the pale moonlight, plunging you into darkness.
"Your first words," he said, and his voice was rising now, climbing toward a register you had learned to fear, "are about him. A stranger. A man who struck me. A man who loosened my tooth and spilled my blood in front of the Kingsguard. That is who you ask about. That is who you care about. Not me. Not your prince. Not the father of your child. Him."
"He's not a stranger," you said, and your voice was barely a whisper. You knew you should stop. You knew you should placate him, soothe him, tell him everything he wanted to hear. That was what you had done for years, what you had become so skilled at doing. But you could not. Not tonight. Not with Dunk's face still burned into your memory like a brand. "He's my brother, Aerion. He's my brother. He raised me. He protected me, and you have him locked in a cell like a criminal. Please. Please, just tell me he's all right. Just tell me you haven't hurt him."
Aerion stared at you for a long moment. The torch from the corridor outside cast his shadow long and dark across the floor, stretching toward you like a grasping hand. His breathing was audible in the silence, harsh and uneven, the breathing of a man who was losing a battle with his own rage.
"You love him," he said finally. The words were flat, toneless, utterly without inflection. "This brother of yours. This hedge knight with his dirty hands and his dirty hair. You love him more than you love me."
"That's not true," you said, and it was the truth and it was a lie and it was everything in between. "I love you, Aerion. You know I love you. But he's my brother. He's my blood. I thought he was dead. I mourned him for years. And now he's here, and he's alive, and I just want to know that he's safe. That's all. I just want to know that he's safe. Please."
"Safe." Aerion repeated the word as if it were a foreign language, a concept he had heard described but never experienced. "Safe. You want to know if the man who struck me is safe. You want to know if the man who humiliated me in front of my family and my father is safe."
He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It was the sound of something breaking.
"You're mine," he said, and his voice cracked on the word, splintering into something that was half rage and half desperation. "You have been mine since the night I bought you. I paid fifty gold dragons for you. I burned down a brothel for you. I gave you a home, a place in my household, a daughter who bears my name. I have given you everything. Everything. And you stand there, bleeding on my floor, asking about another man."
"I'm not standing," you whispered, and you did not know why that was the detail you chose to focus on. He crossed the distance between you in three swift strides. His hand closed around your arm, hauling you upright with a strength that would leave bruises, and you cried out as the blood rushed back to your legs and the pain in your side flared white hot.
"You are mine," he said again, and his face was inches from yours, his violet eyes blazing with a fire you had seen directed at others but never, never at you. Not like this. Not with this intensity. Not with this complete and absolute absence of restraint. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you gasped. His grip on your arm was agony, his fingers digging into the bruises Ser Harrold had left, and tears were streaming down your face. "Aerion, please, you're hurting me."
"Good." He shook you, once, hard enough that your head snapped back and hit the stone wall behind you. Stars burst across your vision. "Good. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll remember who you belong to. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll stop asking about other men. Maybe if I hurt you enough, you'll finally understand that the only way you leave me is in a shroud."
"My brother," you sobbed. "He's my brother. Not another man. My brother. Please, Aerion, please try to understand."
"I understand perfectly." His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I understand that you have spent years telling me you loved me while you dreamed of someone else. I understand that the moment he appeared, you forgot everything I have done for you. I understand that you are a whore I pulled from a brothel, and no matter how many silk dresses I put on you, no matter how much of myself I pour into you, you will never, ever stop being what you are."
The words hit you like physical blows. Each one was a fist to the gut, a slap to the face, a knife slipped between your ribs. You had known, intellectually, that this was how he saw you. You had always known. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing it thrown at you like an accusation, like a crime you had committed against him simply by existing, was something else entirely.
"Aerion," you whispered, and your voice was so small, so broken, that you barely recognized it as your own. "I have never been unfaithful to you. I have never looked at another man. I have never wanted anyone but you. He is my brother. My brother. Why can't you understand that?"
"Because I don't care!" He screamed the words directly into your face, his spittle flecking your cheeks, his breath hot and sour with wine and blood. "I don't care who he is! I don't care if he's your brother or your father or your long lost lover! The moment you chose him over me, the moment you screamed his name instead of mine, the moment you fought my guards and clawed Ser Harrold's face to try to reach him, you made your choice! And now you will live with it!"
His hand released your chin and came across your face with a crack that seemed to echo off the stone walls.
The backhand caught you across the cheekbone, hard enough to snap your head to the side, hard enough to send a spray of blood from your already split lip, hard enough that your legs gave out beneath you entirely. You fell. You did not fall gracefully, did not fall the way women fell in the songs Dunk used to tell you, floating down like petals on a breeze. You fell like a sack of grain, heavy and graceless, your hip striking the stone floor with a jolt of pain that made you gasp, your palms scraping raw against the cold flagstones, your already injured side screaming in protest as you landed.
You lay there for a moment, stunned. The taste of blood filled your mouth, copper and salt and something that might have been despair. The world swam in and out of focus. The moonlight from the window seemed very far away, a distant silver promise of a world that existed somewhere beyond this room, beyond this night, beyond the man who was standing over you with his chest heaving and his eyes blazing.
Then he was on top of you. His weight pressed you into the cold stone floor, heavy and immovable, the weight of a man who had trained with sword and shield and lance, the weight of a prince who had never been denied anything in his life. His knees pinned your thighs. One hand caught both of your wrists and forced them above your head, pressing them into the stone with a grip that made your fingers go numb. His other hand was at your throat, not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, a reminder, a threat, a promise.
"You're my whore," he said, and his voice was a growl, low and guttural and utterly without the cultured refinement he wore like armor in the daylight. "Mine. You have been mine since the night I bought you, and you will be mine until the day you die. Do you understand? Do you understand what that means?"
"Get off me," you gasped. Your voice was barely audible, strangled by the hand at your throat and the weight on your chest. "Aerion, please, get off me, I can't breathe."
"It means," he continued, as if you had not spoken, as if your words were less than nothing, as if your voice did not exist in any way that mattered, "that I own you. Your body. Your heart. Your soul. Every breath you take, you take because I allow it. Every night you sleep in a warm bed, you sleep there because I permit it. Every moment you spend with our daughter, you spend because I have chosen to let you. And the only way you leave me, the only way you ever leave me, is if you are dead. Do you understand? Dead."
He was tearing at your dress as he spoke, the silk that he had given you, the dress he had chosen, the dress you had worn to the puppet show, the dress Rhaenyra's tears had soaked through. You heard the fabric rip, felt the cold air on your skin, and you found what remained of your strength and pushed against him. Your hands were still pinned above your head, but you bucked your hips, twisted your body, tried to throw him off the way Dunk had thrown off the Kingsguard.
It was useless. It was always useless. He was stronger than you, heavier than you, and he had the advantage of gravity and rage and years of training in violence that you had never received. He pressed you back down against the stone, and his hand left your throat to grip your jaw, forcing your face toward his, forcing you to look into his eyes.
"Say it," he demanded. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me. Say that no one else matters. Not your brother. Not anyone. Say it."
You did not say it. You could not say it. The words were locked in your throat, trapped behind the tears and the blood and the terrible, crushing weight of what was happening to you.
You tried to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee drove between them, forcing them wide. He was hard and the sight of his cock made your stomach turn.
"Look at it," he hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head forward. "Look at what you made me do. This is your fault. If you had just obeyed—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, already sore and swollen from the first time, and you whimpered, a high, broken sound that seemed to please him. He held there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of invasion.
"Please," you whispered, your voice cracked and raw. "Please, Aerion, please don't—"
He thrust.
The sound you made was not a scream. It was something worse, a choked, guttural sob that tore from your throat as he buried himself inside you in one brutal push. The angle was wrong, too deep, too dry despite the precum already coating your thighs. You felt every ridge and vein of his cock as it forced its way deeper, splitting you open, claiming space that did not want him.
He paused, buried to the hilt, and let out a low groan that was almost human. Almost tender. Then he began to move.
Not fast. Not yet. He fucked you slowly, deliberately, with a cruelty that made every inch of the motion deliberate. He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in with excruciating leisure, watching your face contort with each stroke. His eyes were locked on yours, challenging you to look away.
You did. You turned your head, pressing your cheek against the cold stone, staring at a crack in the floor until your vision blurred. But he would not allow that. He grabbed your jaw, forced your face back to his.
"Watch," he commanded. "Watch me take what is mine."
His pace increased. The slow, torturous rhythm gave way to a sharp, punishing fucking that drove the air from your lungs with every slam of his hips. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed off the walls, mingling with your ragged breaths and his grunts. He leaned down, his chest pressing against yours, and bit your shoulder, not a kiss, a bite, hard enough to break skin. You cried out, and he licked the blood, humming in satisfaction.
"That's it," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "Make sound for me. Let the whole castle hear how much you hate it. Let them know who you belong to."
He drove deeper, harder, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that made your back arch despite yourself. A spark of unwanted pleasure shot through your pelvis, and you bit your lip so hard you tasted copper. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He slowed down, grinding against that same spot, watching your body betray you as your hips began to rock in counterpoint to his thrusts.
"There she is," he breathed, almost reverent. "There's the whore underneath. You can't hide her from me. She wants this. She needs this."
"No," you gasped, but your body said yes, clenching around him, drawing him deeper. Hot shame flooded through you, hotter than the pain, as your cunt began to slick with something that was not blood. He felt it too, he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip on your hips tightening.
"I'm going to fill you," he snarled, his composure cracking. "I'm going to pour every drop of my seed into this worthless hole until you're pregnant with my heir, a son this time, and then I'll do it again. And again. And—"
He came without warning, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he shoved himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the hot flood of his cum, felt it spill out around him, felt it mix with the blood and your own unwanted wetness. He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the stone, his breath hot and ragged against your neck.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he shifted, pulling out with a wet sound that made you flinch, and rolled onto his back beside you. The moonlight had moved, illuminating his face now haunted gleam in his violet eyes that looked almost like regret.
But you knew better. You knew he would do it again. And again. And again. Because in his world, you were already dead. You just hadn't stopped breathing yet.
He did not speak. Neither did you. You lay on the cold stone floor with your torn dress twisted around your body and your wrists still aching from his grip and your thighs slick with the evidence of what he had done, and you stared at the ceiling, and you thought of nothing at all.
After a long time Aerion rose to his feet. He straightened his clothes with mechanical precision, adjusting his doublet, smoothing his hair back from his face. He did not look at you. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He did not speak a single word of apology or comfort or explanation.
"Your brother will stand trial," he said, and his voice was the voice of a stranger, flat and cold and utterly devoid of the passion that had consumed him moments before. "For striking a prince of the blood. The sentence will be severe. How severe depends entirely on you."
He paused at the door, his hand on the latch, his back to you.
"If you try to see him again," he said, "if you try to contact him, if you so much as speak his name in my presence, I will have him executed. Do you understand? His life is in your hands. Remember that."
The remainder of the night passed in darkness. You did not move from the floor. You could not move from the floor. The torn silk of your dress had dried stiff and crusted against your skin, and you had not bothered to cover yourself. There was no one to see. There was no one to care. The moonlight crawled across the stone floor inch by inch, and you watched it the way a corpse might watch the shifting of its own shroud, with a detachment that went beyond despair into something vast and empty and still.
Morning came grey and cold through the narrow window. The sky outside was the color of old iron, heavy with clouds that had not yet decided whether to rain. You heard the castle waking around you. Footsteps in the corridor. The distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. Servants calling to one another in voices too muffled to understand. The tourney, you remembered dimly. The tourney was still happening. Lord Ashford's daughter still needed her champion. The world was still turning, indifferent to the ruin of your life.
Someone brought food. You heard the door unlock, heard the tray scrape against the stone as it was pushed inside, heard the door lock again. You did not get up to look at it. The smell of bread and broth turned your stomach. You had not eaten since the puppet show, since before the puppet show, since the garden when Rhaenyra had found the pink flower and you had believed, foolishly and desperately, that everything would be all right.
The morning wore on. The light shifted. The clouds outside the window thickened and darkened and began to spit a thin, miserable drizzle that streaked the glass like tears.
And then, sometime in the afternoon, you heard the commotion.
It started as a distant murmur, a disturbance somewhere in the lower levels of the castle that grew louder and more urgent as it climbed toward your door. Shouts. Running footsteps. The clash of something metallic hitting stone. You lifted your head from the floor for the first time in hours, your neck aching, your vision swimming. Something was happening. Something was wrong.
The door crashed open. It was not Aerion who entered first but a maester, an old man in grey robes with a heavy chain around his neck and blood on his sleeves up to the elbows. Behind him came two guards, household men in the pale grey of Prince Maekar's service, carrying between them a litter on which lay a figure you recognized only by the silver gold of his hair.
Aerion. He was unconscious. His face was nearly unrecognizable. His lip had been split anew, a fresh gash that ran up toward his cheekbone. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the skin around it purple and black and glistening with some kind of salve. His chest was bare beneath a makeshift bandage that wrapped around his ribs, and the bandage was soaked through with blood, bright red and seeping, the color of life escaping. His right arm lay at an angle that was not natural, and his breathing was shallow and labored and made a wet, rattling sound that turned your stomach even as it ignited something else in your chest. Something you did not want to name. Something you did not want to feel.
You scrambled backward on the floor until your shoulder blades hit the wall. Your torn dress bunched around your knees. Your hands came up in front of you, a defensive gesture that was pure instinct, the instinct of a woman who had spent the night being broken and had no more pieces left to give.
"What," you said, and your voice came out as a croak, barely recognizable. "What happened? What is this?"
The maester did not look at you. He was directing the guards to lay the litter on the bed, his hands already reaching for the blood soaked bandages, already issuing orders about hot water and clean linen and milk of the poppy. But one of the guards, a young man whose face was pale and shocked and streaked with someone else's blood, paused long enough to answer.
"Trial of the Seven," he said, and the words meant nothing to you. "The prince demanded it. Against the hedge knight."
"Trial of the Seven?" The phrase was foreign, nonsensical, a collection of syllables that refused to resolve into meaning. "What are you talking about? What trial? What hedge knight?"
The maester looked up from his work at last. "The hedge knight," he said, and his voice was clipped and efficient, the voice of a man who did not have time for explanations. "Ser Duncan the Tall. The hedge knight demanded a trial by combat. The prince escalated it to a Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights in the lists. The hedge knight's side won, but the prince was wounded. Gravely wounded. We have done what we can for the immediate injuries, but when he regained consciousness briefly, he insisted, quite forcefully, that he be brought to you. He said he wanted you to be his primary caretaker."
The words washed over you in a tide of incomprehensible information. Trial of the Seven. Fourteen knights. The hedge knight's side won. Dunk's side. Dunk had won. Your brother had won. Your brother was alive and he had won his trial and he was free, he must be free, because if the hedge knight's side had won the trial then the gods had judged him innocent.
But Aerion was on your bed with his ribs crushed and his arm broken and his face beaten into something barely human, and he had asked for you. Even after what he had done to you on this very floor. Even after the things he had said, the things he had called you, the violence he had visited upon your body. He had regained consciousness long enough to demand that you, and no one else, be the one to care for him.
You stared at the maester. The maester stared back at you, and something in his expression softened, just slightly, at whatever he saw in your face. Perhaps it was the bruises on your wrists. Perhaps it was the torn dress. Perhaps it was the way you sat huddled against the wall like a wounded animal that had learned to expect only more pain.
"I have done what I can for the immediate wounds," the maester said again, more slowly this time. "The prince will live, though his recovery will be long and painful. But he needs constant care. Someone to change his bandages, to administer his medicine, to watch for fever. He asked for you. Given his condition and his royal status, we are not inclined to refuse him."
You looked at the figure on the bed. The man who had raped you on the stone floor less than a day ago. The father of your daughter. The monster you loved. The prince who had promised to execute your brother if you so much as spoke his name. He lay unconscious and broken, his breath rattling in his chest, and you were being told that you would be his caretaker. That you would sit by his bedside and change his bandages and mop his brow and listen to him breathe.
The absurd cruelty of it was almost beautiful, in its way. A kind of poetry written in blood and bruises and the particular viciousness of men who believed they owned the women they had purchased.
"Leave us," you said, and your voice did not sound like your own. It sounded like the voice of someone much older, someone who had survived worse things than this and would survive worse things still. "I will care for him."
The maester hesitated. "My lady, there are instructions I must give you regarding the dressing of his wounds. The risk of infection is significant, and the milk of the poppy must be administered precisely. Too much will stop his breathing. Too little and the pain will be excruciating. Do you understand?"
"I understand," you said, though you understood nothing. You understood only that your brother was alive and free, and the man who had destroyed you was lying broken on your bed, and you were supposed to heal him. You were supposed to sit beside him and tend his wounds and keep him alive so that he could continue to own you, continue to threaten you, continue to hold your brother's life in his hands like a coin he might spend on a whim.
The maester gave you his instructions. You listened with half an ear, nodding in the appropriate places, filing the information away in a part of your mind that was still functioning, still capable of processing data and making decisions. Change the bandages every four hours. Watch for red streaks radiating from the wounds. Administer the milk of the poppy in doses measured by the small copper cup on the bedside table. If he wakes, give him water. If he develops a fever, send for the maester immediately.
And then they were gone, the maester and the guards, and the door was closed, and you were alone with him.
You stood in the center of the room for a long time, staring at the bed. At the rise and fall of his chest beneath the bloodied bandages. At the hand that lay limp and pale against the silk sheets, the hand that had struck you across the face, the hand that had pinned your wrists above your head, the hand that had held your chin and forced you to look into his eyes while he destroyed you.
You could let him die.
The thought came to you fully formed, as if it had been waiting in the back of your mind all along, biding its time. You could let him die. The maester had left you with the milk of the poppy and precise instructions about dosage. You could administer too much, or too little. You could neglect to change his bandages and let the infection take hold. You could hold a pillow over his face while he slept and press down until the ragged breathing stopped forever. There was no one else in the room. There were no guards at your door, not anymore. You could end this. You could end him. You could free yourself and your daughter and your brother with a single act of will.
You looked at the copper cup on the bedside table. You looked at the pillow beneath his head. You looked at your own hands, still bruised, still crusted with your own blood, still capable of doing what needed to be done.
And then you crossed the room, and you sat down in the chair beside his bed, and you began to prepare the first dose of milk of the poppy with hands that did not tremble at all.
If you let him die now, his father would investigate. There would be questions. There had been a maester here, and guards, and they had seen you alone with him. If Aerion died under your care, the blame would fall on you. You would be executed, or worse. And Rhaenyra would have no mother at all.
Not yet. But the knowledge was there now, a small cold seed planted in the dark soil of your heart. Not yet. But someday, perhaps. Someday, if the opportunity presented itself, if the circumstances aligned, if you could be certain of escaping the consequences. Someday, you might be free of him.
—
The days that followed blurred together like watercolors left in the rain. You were not permitted to leave the room. Aerion made that clear the first time you asked, your voice carefully neutral, your eyes on the floor. He had been awake for perhaps an hour, propped up on pillows that you had arranged behind his back with your own hands, his broken arm splinted and bound, his ribs wrapped tight in fresh linen. His face was still a ruin of purple and black and sickly yellow green, his lip still split, his eye still swollen half-shut. But his voice had lost none of its edge.
"Leave?" He had laughed, a humorless sound that turned into a wince as his ribs protested. "Why would you need to leave? Everything you require is here. Food will be brought. Water for washing. Fresh bandages from the maester. You have no reason to go anywhere."
"Aerion, please. I only want to see Rhaenyra. Just for an hour. Just to hold her and know she's all right. She must be so frightened. She's only two years old. She doesn't understand why her mother disappeared."
His expression had darkened, a cloud passing over the sun. "The child is fine. She is being cared for by the nurses. She does not need you hovering over her like a hen with one chick. What she needs is a father who is not an invalid, and what I need is a caretaker who does not spend every waking moment asking to leave."
"Aerion..."
"Enough." The word was a door slamming shut. "You will stay here. You will tend to my wounds. You will keep me company. You will not leave this room unless I give you permission. Is that understood?"
So you stayed. You woke when he woke, which was often, his sleep broken by pain and fever and the strange, feverish dreams that made him thrash and cry out in the darkness. You changed his bandages with the careful precision the maester had taught you, peeling back the old linen, examining the wounds for signs of infection, applying the salves and poultices with gentle fingers. You fed him broth when he could eat, spooning it into his ruined mouth one careful measure at a time. You helped him with the bedpan when he needed it, a humiliation that made his jaw tighten and his eyes go cold, as if his body's weakness were a personal insult you had somehow engineered.
You did all of this in silence, for the most part. He did not want conversation. He did not want to be soothed or coddled or reassured. The man who had craved praise like a drug, who had turned toward your words like a flower toward the sun, was gone. In his place was a creature of pure, distilled bitterness, a man whose humiliation had curdled inside him until it became something toxic.
He had lost. That was the core of it, the wound beneath the wounds. He had been beaten by a hedge knight in front of half the nobility of the Reach, and then he had demanded a Trial of the Seven, the most sacred and dramatic form of combat the gods permitted, and he had lost that too. His side had lost. The gods themselves had declared against him, had declared in favor of the dirt-smeared giant who had loosened his tooth and spilled his blood and stolen his dignity. Aerion Targaryen, the prince who had burned a man alive for making a joke, the prince who had broken a puppeteer's fingers for telling the wrong story, the prince who believed with every fiber of his being that he was a dragon in human form, had been brought low by a nameless hedge knight with hay in his hair and dirt under his nails.
And you, who had witnessed the beginning of that humiliation, had become the vessel into which he poured all his bile.
"I should have you hanged for being related to that oaf." His hand shot out and closed around your wrist, hard enough to make you freeze. "Why would a brother fight like that? Why would a brother look at a sister like that? Tell me the truth. Was he your lover before he was your brother? Did you share a bed in the slums of Flea Bottom, before I found you?"
The accusation was so vile, so utterly, grotesquely wrong, that for a moment you could not speak at all. You could only stare at him, at his swollen face and his blazing eyes and the jealousy that was consuming him from the inside out like a fire that would not be quenched.
"He is my brother," you said, and your voice was quiet and steady and utterly without the rage that was boiling in your chest. "My brother. My blood.Nothing more. Nothing less. I have never lain with him. I have never wanted to. The very thought is disgusting to me, and it should be disgusting to you too."
Aerion held your gaze for a long moment. Then he released your wrist and turned his face away.
"Finish the bandage," he said, and said nothing more for the rest of the day.
Sometimes, rarely, they brought Rhaenyra to see you. It was never for long. Ten minutes, fifteen, never more than half an hour. A servant would bring her to the door, and she would run across the room on her unsteady two year old legs, bewildered relief of a child who did not understand why her mother had vanished from her life. You would scoop her up and hold her against your chest and breathe in the smell of her, that particular sweetness of soap and milk and sunshine that you had missed like a severed limb.
"Mama," she would say, her small hands patting your face, your hair, your shoulders, as if reassuring herself you were real. "Mama, where did you go? I looked for you. I cried and cried but you didn't come."
"Mama was taking care of your father," you would say, and your voice would be steady even though your heart was breaking. "Your father is very sick, sweetling. He needs Mama's help. But Mama loves you. Mama thinks about you every moment. Do you understand? Every single moment."
She would nod, her small face solemn, and then she would launch into a breathless account of everything she had done since she saw you last. The bird she had seen on the windowsill. The game the nurses had taught her. The dreams she had dreamed. You drank in every word like water in a desert, memorizing the cadence of her voice, the animation of her expressions, the way her tiny hands moved when she was telling a particularly exciting part.
And then Aerion would stir in the bed behind you, and the servant would step forward, and Rhaenyra would be lifted from your arms.
"No," you would say, every time, reaching for her even as the servant pulled her away. "Please, just a few more minutes. Just a little longer. She's only just arrived."
"Prince's orders," the servant would say, and the door would close, and you would be alone with him again.
The nights were the worst.
During the day, Aerion was mostly manageable. Irritable, demanding, prone to dark silences and darker accusations, but manageable. You could distract yourself with the work of caring for him, the constant rhythm of bandages and medicine and meals. You could count the hours until the next time Rhaenyra might be brought to you. You could lose yourself in the small, finite tasks that kept your hands busy and your mind from wandering to places it should not go.
But at night, when the candles burned low and the fire died to embers and the only sound was the soft, labored rhythm of his breathing, the monster in him stirred.
It started on the fourth night. You had been dozing in the chair beside his bed, your neck cricked at an awkward angle, your body aching for the comfort of a proper mattress. You were dreaming of the garden, of Rhaenyra's laughter, of pink flowers crushed beneath bare feet. And then a hand closed around your forearm, and you were jolted awake with a gasp.
Aerion was looking at you from the bed. His eyes were fever bright in the near darkness, and his hand was hot and dry against your skin. The blanket had slipped down to his waist, and you could see the bandages around his ribs, the splint on his arm, the bruises that spread across his torso like storm clouds. But you could also see, in the shadows beneath the blanket, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.
"Come here," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough with pain and desire in equal measure. "I need you."
"Aerion," you said carefully, "you're injured. The maester said you need to rest. You could reopen your wounds. You could..."
"I don't care what the maester said." His grip on your arm tightened. "I've been lying in this bed for four days. I've lost everything. My pride. The hedge knight walks free, and I am trapped in this room like a cripple. The least you can do," and his voice hardened on the words, "is give me this."
"You're not well. Please, just wait until you're stronger. I promise, when you're healed..."
"When I am healed, I will take what I want anyway." He pulled you closer, and you could smell the sourness of his breath, the stale sweat of his unwashed body, the cloying sweetness of the milk of the poppy that still lingered on his tongue. "But I want it now. I have spent four days flat on my back like a turtle overturned, watching you flutter around me with your careful hands and your careful voice and your careful eyes that never quite meet mine. I know what you think of me. I know what you think when you look at me. You think I'm a monster. You think I got what I deserved."
"No," you whispered, but it was a lie and you both knew it.
"Yes," he said. "You do. And I don't care. You can hate me all you like, in the privacy of your own mind. But you are mine.Now. Come. Here."
He could not be rough with you, not in his condition. His broken arm lay useless at his side, and his bandaged ribs prevented any sudden movement. But he did not need to be rough to make you feel the weight of your captivity. He directed you with his voice, that voice you had once praised and soothed and loved, telling you where to touch him, how to move, what he wanted from you. He could not take you the way he had on the stone floor, could not pin you down and force himself inside you while you sobbed and pushed at his chest. But he could make you take him in your mouth while he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half closed and his hand tangled in your hair. He could make you straddle him carefully, carefully, moving with the slow precision his injuries demanded, while his one good hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with pleasure and pain and the strange, twisted satisfaction of ownership. "That's my good girl. My sweet girl. You know what I need. You always know what I need."
"Now you should rest." He was already drifting, the exertion combined with the milk of the poppy pulling him back toward unconsciousness.
"You're the only one," he mumbled, his voice slurring with sleep. "The only one who stays. The only one who doesn't leave. Don't leave me. Promise you won't leave."
You did not promise. You dried your hands on a cloth and returned to the chair beside his bed, and you watched him sleep, and you thought about the copper cup of milk of the poppy on the bedside table, and you thought about what it would be like to be free.
—
The servant came for you on the seventh day. You were sitting in the chair beside Aerion's bed, your hands idle in your lap for the first time in what felt like years. He was sleeping deeply, the milk of the poppy dragging him down into a place where even his dreams could not reach him.
The door opened without a knock. You turned, expecting another servant with a tray of food, another maester with fresh bandages, another summons from the nurses saying Rhaenyra was crying for you and would not be soothed. But the woman who stood in the doorway was not a servant you recognized.
"Prince Maekar requests your presence," she said. Her voice was flat, neutral, the voice of a woman delivering a message she did not fully understand. "You are to come with me immediately."
You stared at her. Prince Maekar. The man who had called you a whore to your face, who had forbidden you from speaking to his children, who had looked at you for years with an expression of cold, unwavering contempt. He had never once spoken to you directly, had never acknowledged your existence except as a problem to be managed. And now he was summoning you?
"Prince Maekar," you repeated, and your voice came out uncertain, almost afraid. "Why would Prince Maekar want to see me?"
The servant's expression did not change. "I was not told, my lady. Only that you are to come at once. Prince Aerion is sleeping. He will not miss you. Please, follow me."
You looked back at the bed. Aerion's chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. His good hand was curled loosely on the pillow beside his face, his fingers twitching slightly as he dreamed. If you left and he woke to find you gone, there would be consequences. There were always consequences. But the servant was watching you with her sharp grey eyes, and something in her manner told you that this was not a request. This was an order, delivered with the full authority of the man who ruled Summerhall.
You rose from the chair. Your legs were unsteady beneath you, your body still aching from the nights of sleeping in chairs and on pallets, from the strain of lifting and turning and tending a man who outweighed you by half.
The castle was quiet at this hour. The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. You had not been outside Aerion's room in seven days. The world seemed larger than you remembered. Brighter. More dangerous.
The servant led you through corridors you did not recognize, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor, until you stood before a heavy oak door banded with iron. She knocked twice, a sharp, deliberate rap that echoed in the silence.
"The woman is here, my prince," she said.
A voice from within, muffled by the door, said something you could not make out. The servant pushed the door open and gestured for you to enter.
You stepped inside. The room was small, sparsely furnished. A table. A few chairs. A narrow window that looked out over the castle's eastern wall. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the room in shadow and flickering orange light. And standing near the window, one hand braced against the wall for support, a thick piece of wood tucked under his other arm to hold him upright, was your brother.
Dunk.
You stopped in the doorway as if you had walked into a wall. Your heart seized in your chest. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands flew to your mouth, pressing against your lips as if to hold in the sound that was trying to escape, a sound that was half sob and half scream and half something that had no name at all.
He looked terrible. His face was a mess of bruises, purple and black and yellow-green, one eye swollen nearly shut, a gash across his cheekbone held closed with clumsy stitches. His lip was split in two places. His left arm was wrapped in a sling, and the piece of wood under his right arm was a crutch, crude and hastily made, the kind a maester might fashion for a patient who refused to stay in bed. He was leaning heavily on it, his massive frame listing to one side, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion and pain. He looked like a man who had been through a war and had only barely survived.
"Y/N," he said, and his voice was exactly the same as it had been when he was eight years old and lifting you from your mother's deathbed. Cracked. Hoarse. Full of a desperate, aching tenderness that made your chest splinter into a thousand pieces.
One moment you were standing in the doorway with your hands pressed to your mouth, and the next you were in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your shoulders shaking with sobs you had been holding back for years. His good arm wrapped around you, pulling you against him, and you felt the crutch fall away, felt him stagger and brace himself against the wall so he would not fall. He was so big. He had always been so big. Even broken and bruised and barely able to stand, he surrounded you, enveloped you, made you feel for the first time in longer than you could remember that you were safe.
"I've got you," he said into your hair, and his voice was breaking, splintering, cracking into pieces that sounded like your mother's laugh and your father's name and every promise he had ever made you. "I've got you. I've always got you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I looked for you. I looked everywhere. They told me you were dead. They told me they found your body in the river. They said you were burned beyond recognition. I believed them. Gods forgive me, I believed them."
"I didn't know," you sobbed into his chest. Your fingers were twisted in his tunic, gripping the rough wool as if he might disappear if you let go. "I didn't know they told you that. I thought you were still looking. I thought you would find me. I waited for you. Every night, I waited for you. I never stopped believing you would come."
"I'm sorry, i believed them. I believed you were dead, and something inside me died with you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, little sister. I should have kept looking. I should have known. I should have..."
"Stop." You pulled back just enough to look up at his face, at the tears that were cutting tracks through the blood and the bruises. "Stop apologizing. You searched for me. You believed what they told you. Any man would have believed it. I don't blame you. I have never blamed you. I only ever wanted you to know I was alive. I tried to send word. I tried so many times. But Aerion..."
You stopped. The name hung in the air between you like a curse. Dunk's expression darkened. His good arm tightened around your shoulders. "Aerion," he repeated, and the word came out like a growl. "What happened to you, Y/N? Where have you been all these years? How did you end up here, with him?"
You pulled away from him gently. Your legs were shaking. You found a chair and sank into it, and Dunk lowered himself awkwardly onto the edge of the table, his injured leg stretched out in front of him, his crutch clattering to the floor. He did not take his eyes off you. He watched you the way he had watched you when you were children, with that fierce, protective intensity that had once been the only thing standing between you and the darkness of the world.
"They sold me," you said, and your voice was quiet and hollow and did not sound like your own. "The men who took me. They sold me to a brothel on the Street of Silk. A high end place, for lords and merchants. The madam... she was cruel. She said I was special. She said I would make them very rich."
Dunk's hands tightened on your shoulders. His face had gone very pale beneath the bruises, and his jaw was clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin.
"And then," you continued, "Aerion came, he bought me and never left me"
And then you told him about Rhaenyra.
"Her name is Rhaenyra," you said, and your voice softened on the name, the way it always did. "She's two years old. She looks like her father. But she's kind. She's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She's the only good thing that has come out of any of this. And she's the reason I can't leave."
Dunk was silent for a long moment. His face was unreadable, a mask of bruises and exhaustion and something that might have been grief. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough.
"I'll take you away," he said. "Both of you. You and the little girl. I'll find a way. I have friends now. A prince and a lord. We can protect you. We can hide you somewhere Aerion will never find you."
You shook your head. The tears were streaming down your face again, hot and silent, dripping off your chin and onto your hands. "You don't understand. He would never let me go. He would hunt me down like a dog. He would burn cities to the ground to find me. He told me... the night after the puppet show, when he came to my room, he told me the only way I would ever leave him was in a shroud. He meant it, Dunk. I have seen what he does to people who defy him. I have seen him cut a servant's hand for spilling wine on him. I have seen him laugh while a man burned alive. If I tried to run, if I took Rhaenyra and disappeared, he would never stop looking. And when he found me, and he would find me, he would kill me. He would take my daughter and he would kill me, and Rhaenyra would grow up without a mother, raised by a monster who would teach her that cruelty is strength and kindness is weakness and love is just another word for ownership."
"He would have to go through me first," Dunk said, and his voice was hard, the voice of a man who had faced seven knights in single combat and emerged victorious. "I lost you once. I believed you were dead for years. I mourned you, Y/N. I sat in that alley and I let the darkness take me because there was no light left in the world. And then I found you again, alive, here, in this place, with that man. I am not going to lose you again. I don't care if he is a prince. I don't care if he has a hundred Kingsguard. I will find a way to get you out of here. I will find a way to keep you safe. I swear it. I swear it on our mother's grave. I swear it on everything I am."
"Dunk." You reached out and took his enormous hand in both of yours. His knuckles were swollen and bruised, the skin split and scabbed over. The hands that had lifted you from the mattress where your mother had stopped breathing. The hands that had carried you into the cold morning while the other whores watched with pity. The hands that had promised you silk and lemon cakes and a world where no one would hurt you. "I want to believe you. I want to believe there is a way out of this. But you have to understand what you're risking. He will kill you. He will kill you without hesitation, without a trial, without anything but the cold satisfaction of removing an obstacle. And if you die, if you die trying to save me, I will have nothing left. Nothing. Do you understand? You are my brother. You are the only family I have in this world besides my daughter. I cannot lose you again."
He squeezed your hands. His grip was gentle, impossibly gentle for a man who had killed knights and broken bones and fought his way through horrors you could only imagine. "You won't lose me," he said. "I promise you, little sister. You won't lose me."
—
You ran. Egg had barely finished speaking before you were out the door and flying down the corridor, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth, your lungs burning with every breath. You did not care if anyone saw you. You did not care if there were questions. All you cared about was getting back to Aerion's room before he woke, before he realized you were gone, before the fragile illusion of your obedience shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.
You reached the door to Aerion's chamber and paused, pressing your palm flat against the wood, forcing yourself to breathe. You could not go in looking like a woman who had just run across half the castle. You could not go in looking like a woman who had been crying in her brother's arms. You smoothed your hair with trembling hands. You wiped the tears from your cheeks. You arranged your face into the careful mask you had worn for years, and you pushed open the door.
Aerion was still asleep. He had not moved since you left. His breathing was slow and steady, his bruised face relaxed in the depths of his drugged slumber. The milk of the poppy still held him in its grip. The bandages on his ribs were unrumpled. His splinted arm lay exactly where you had arranged it. He had not woken. He had not called for you. He had not noticed your absence at all.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your legs threatening to give way beneath you. You had made it. You had made it, and he did not know, and you were safe. For now. For this moment. For as long as you could keep the mask from slipping.
You returned to the chair beside his bed and sat down, and you waited.
Days passed. Aerion healed. Slowly at first, then with the stubborn, grinding determination of a man who refused to be seen as weak for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. The bruises faded from black to purple to yellow-green. The swelling around his eye went down until he could open it fully again. The split lip closed, leaving a thin white scar that tugged at the corner of his mouth when he spoke. The ribs were slower to mend, the maester said, and he would need to be careful for weeks yet, but the splint came off his arm and he began to flex his fingers, to test the range of motion, to push against the limits of his own body the way he pushed against everything else in his life.
By the end of the second week, he could walk with a stick. You were the one who helped him take his first steps. His arm draped over your shoulders, his weight pressing down on you until your knees buckled, his breath harsh and labored against your ear. You walked him across the room and back again, step by agonizing step, your body bearing the burden of his in a way that felt like a metaphor for everything your life had become.
"Good," he said through gritted teeth when he finally lowered himself back onto the bed. “That's good. I'll be out of this room by the end of the week.”
"My father is sending me away," he had said, and his voice was flat, toneless, drained of its usual fire. "Lys. A city of whores and perfumed merchants. He calls it self reflection. A chance to contemplate my actions and return a better man. But we both know what it really is. Exile. He cannot bear to look at me. He blames me for Baelor's death, even though it was his own blow that killed him. He blames me for everything."
You had not known what to say, so you had said nothing. That was safest. That had always been safest.
"You and the girl will come with me, of course, Lys is said to be beautiful. Warm. The sea is the color of sapphires, and the women walk around in silks so fine you can see their skin through the fabric. You will like it there."
You would not like it anywhere he was. But you had smiled, because that was what you did, and you had told him that Lys sounded lovely, and you had turned away to prepare his next dose of medicine so he would not see the despair in your eyes.
After that, things shifted slightly. Perhaps Aerion felt guilty for uprooting you. Perhaps he was simply trying to secure your loyalty before the journey. Whatever the reason, he began to allow you to visit Rhaenyra in the nursery. Not for long, not unsupervised, but every day. Every single day, you were permitted to leave his chamber for an hour and go to your daughter.
It was the only thing that kept you sane. You would sit in the nursery with Rhaenyra on your lap, her small body warm and solid and alive against your chest, and you would listen to her chatter about the games she had played and the songs she had learned and the dreams she had dreamed. You would brush her hair and sing to her in the soft voice you used for no one else. You would tell her that you loved her, that you would always love her, that there was nothing in the world she could do that would make you stop loving her. And you would try very hard not to think about the fact that in a few weeks, a few months at most, you would be on a ship to Lys, and the only world Rhaenyra had ever known would disappear behind her forever.
It was on one of these days, when you returned from the nursery with Rhaenyra's laughter still echoing in your ears, that everything fell apart.
You pushed open the door to Aerion's chamber and stopped dead in the doorway. There were two guards in the room. Between them, kneeling on the stone floor, was the servant. The one who had come to you days ago. The one who had said Prince Maekar requests your presence. The one who had led you through the corridors to the room where Dunk was waiting.
She was barely recognizable. Her face was a swollen mass of bruises, her lips split in three places, her nose broken and crusted with dried blood. One of her eyes was swollen completely shut, and the other stared at the floor with the glassy, unfocused gaze of someone who had retreated so far inside herself that she might never find her way back out. Her dress was torn, stained dark with blood and sweat and things you did not want to name. Her hands, folded limply in her lap, were missing three fingernails.
You knew, in that moment, that you were going to die.
Aerion was standing by the window, leaning on his stick, his back to you. He did not turn when you entered. He simply stood there, silhouetted against the grey afternoon light, his shoulders rigid, his free hand clenched into a fist at his side.
"Close the door," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The calm of a sea that had gone flat and glassy in the moment before a tidal wave.
You closed the door. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely grip the latch.
"Aerion," you said, and your voice came out as a whisper, thin and reedy and full of the terror you could not hide. "What is this? What happened to her?"
Now he turned. His face was the face you had seen on the stage of the puppet show, cold and cruel and utterly without mercy. His violet eyes were dark with a rage that had been simmering for days, waiting for this moment, and his mouth was a thin hard line that made the scar at the corner of his lip stand out white against his skin.
"Is it true?" he asked. His voice was still calm. Still quiet. Still terrible. "Did you betray me? Did you see that treasonous bastard of your brother?"
Your heart stopped. Your blood turned to ice. The world narrowed to the space between you and him, the fire in the hearth, the broken woman on the floor.
"Aerion, please, let me explain..."
"Did you see him?" He did not shout. He did not raise his voice at all. But each word was a hammer blow, driving the breath from your lungs, the strength from your legs. "This woman, this servant, has told me everything. How she came to you while I was sleeping. How she led you through the castle. How my father, my own father, arranged for you to meet your brother in secret behind my back. Is it true? Answer me. Is it true?"
Your mind raced, scrambling for a lie, a deflection, anything that might save you. But the servant was kneeling on the floor with her fingernails torn out and her face beaten to pulp, and you knew that whatever you said, whatever excuse you offered, he had already made up his mind.
"It was not my choice," you said, and your voice cracked on the words. "The servant came and said your father wanted to see me. I did not know it was a trick. I did not know Dunk would be there. I went because I was afraid to refuse. Please, Aerion, you have to believe me. I did not seek him out. I would never..."
"Liar." He spat the word like a curse. "You have been lying to me since the moment you saw his face in the pavilion. You have been lying to me while you changed my bandages and brought my medicine and performed your little duties like the devoted whore you pretend to be. All this time, you have been dreaming of him. Planning with him. Scheming behind my back. Did you think I would not find out? Did you think I would not have you watched? Did you think I was stupid?"
"No, I never..."
"Be silent." He took a step toward you, and the stick thumped against the stone floor like a death sentence. "I have listened to your lies for years. I have listened to you whisper that you loved me while your eyes were always looking somewhere else. I have listened to you promise that you were mine while your heart belonged to another. I am done listening. Now you will listen to me."
He gestured to one of the guards. The man stepped forward, his face still grim and impassive. You barely had time to register the movement before his gauntleted hand cracked across your face.
The blow sent you sprawling to the floor. Your head hit the stone with a crack that made stars burst across your vision. The taste of blood filled your mouth. Your ears rang with a high, thin whine that drowned out everything else. You tried to push yourself up, but your arms would not hold you, and you collapsed back onto the cold stone, gasping.
"Take her away," Aerion said, and for a moment you thought he meant you. But the guard was already hauling the servant to her feet, dragging her toward the door, her head lolling on her broken neck. The other guard followed, and then the door closed, and you were alone with the dragon.
Aerion stood over you. The stick thumped against the floor as he took another step closer. You could see his boots from where you lay, the fine black leather, the silver buckles shaped like dragon wings.
"Let me tell you what happens now," he said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle, the voice of a man explaining something to a child. "You are going to Lys with me. You are going to share my bed and warm my sheets and perform your duties as you have always done. You are going to smile and praise me and tell me that I am magnificent. You are going to be exactly what you have always been. My whore. My property. My thing."
He lowered himself slowly, painfully, until he was crouching beside you. His hand came down and gripped your chin, forcing your face up toward his. His fingers were cold and hard and utterly without tenderness.
"If you ever see your brother again," he said, "if you ever speak to him, if you ever so much as learn his whereabouts and fail to tell me, I will not kill you. No. Killing you would be a mercy, and I am not feeling merciful. What I will do is make you pray for death. Every single day, you will pray for it, and it will not come. Do you understand?"
You tried to speak. No words came out. Only a thin, animal whimper that you barely recognized as your own.
"And Rhaenyra," he continued, and your blood turned to ice water. "If you betray me again, if you give me even the slightest reason to doubt your loyalty, I will take her from you. Not just for a few days. Not just to the nursery. I will sell her. Do you understand? I will sell her to a brothel the moment she has her first bleeding. She will spend her life on her back with strange men between her legs, just like her mother before her. Just like the whore who whelped her. That is what happens to the daughters of traitors. That is what happens to the children of women who forget who they belong to."
"No." The word tore out of you, a desperate, animal sound. "Aerion, no, please, she's your daughter, she's your blood, you can't..."
"I can do whatever I want." His voice was flat. Final. The voice of a god passing judgment. "She is mine. You are mine. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because I allow it. Your life is a privilege. Your motherhood is a privilege. Your identity as a mother, as a daughter, as anything other than what I tell you to be, is a privilege. And privileges can be revoked."
He rose to his feet with a grimace of pain, leaning heavily on his stick. He looked down at you, crumpled on the floor at his feet, and his expression was utterly without pity.
"Your only duty is to me," he said. "You are not a mother. You are not a sister. You are not a person with a past or a family or a soul. You are my whore. That is all you have ever been. That is all you will ever be. Everything else, every moment you have spent with Rhaenyra, every breath you have taken as a free woman, has been a gift. A gift that I gave you. A gift that I can take away."
He turned to the guard who remained. The man had been standing motionless by the door, his face a mask of professional indifference. He had watched the whole thing without flinching. You wondered, distantly, how many women he had seen broken on the orders of the men who paid him.
"Incapacitate her," Aerion said. "I want her unable to walk. Not permanently. I still need her to be able to perform her duties. But I want her to remember, every time she takes a step, what happens when she forgets who she belongs to."
The guard stepped forward. You saw him coming, saw the purpose in his eyes, and you tried to scramble backward on the floor, your heels slipping against the stone, your hands clawing for purchase. It did not matter. He was on you in three strides, his hands closing around your ankle, and you heard yourself screaming, heard Aerion's voice saying something you could not understand, and then there was a sound like a branch breaking in deep winter, and your leg exploded into white-hot agony.
The world went away for a while. When it came back, you were still on the floor. The guard was gone. Aerion was still standing over you, leaning on his stick, watching you with an expression that was almost curious. As if your pain were an experiment he had conducted and he was evaluating the results.
"The maester will come to set the ankle," he said. "You will tell him you fell down the stairs. You will not mention the guard. You will not mention this conversation. You will not mention your brother or your disobedience. You will smile, and you will thank me for my concern, and you will continue to perform your duties. Is that understood?"
You could not speak. The pain was too much. Your leg was a column of fire, and every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of agony through your body. But you managed to nod, a tiny, jerky motion of your head, and that seemed to satisfy him.
"Good," he said. "I am glad we understand each other."
He limped to the door, his stick thumping against the stone with every step. He did not look back at you as he left. He did not offer you a hand to help you up. He simply opened the door and disappeared into the corridor, and you were alone.
Dunk had promised. Dunk had sworn on your mother's grave, on everything he was. And Dunk had never broken a promise to you. Not once. Not ever.
You held onto that ember as the darkness closed in. You held onto it as the pain in your ankle pulsed and throbbed and dragged you toward unconsciousness. You held onto it as the door opened and the maester's voice exclaimed in shock and you heard yourself saying, over and over, the lie Aerion had given you. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs. Fell down the stairs.
And when the maester's hands began to work on your ankle, when the world went white with pain and then mercifully black with oblivion, you held onto it still.
Cop!Aerion’s POV on how he found her and how he planned the whole thing out🚨
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
Forget Me Not
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆
tags: yandere, obsessive behavior, stalking, possessiveness, dub con mentions, explicit sexual content, manipulation, bullying, corruption, cop!aerion, dark romance
Mine.
Mine.
That was the only word Aerion had when it came to you.
Since the day you skipped into that damn classroom wearing those damn pigtails tied up with pretty pink ribbons, he knew.
You were made for him.
He watched you. Incessantly.
How you'd share your toys with the other kids, help the teachers at clean-up time.
It made him sick.
That kindness, that softness, everything you were -
It was his.
How dare you share it so carelessly with everyone else.
He marched right up to you at recess while you giggled playfully rocking back and forth on a swing.
Your voice sounded like sweet iced tea pouring into his ears, extinguishing the fire that tore him apart inside.
He hated it. He hated you.
"Aerion!"
Your face lit up with a bright smile, big eyes staring down at him. He could've sank onto his knees and cried right there on the gravel from how beautiful you looked.
"Come push me! Then you can have a turn!"
You were brighter then, so full of promise, so full of hope. The years had made you colder, peeled away that childlike innocence - but he knew you. You still had the same heart.
He walked up behind you, a playful grin stretching from ear to ear, ready to play - but then he noticed. The eyes. The other boys watching you with longing. Watching what was already his. The flames started to reignite, tension building rapidly throughout his whole body.
He turned, gaze fixed on you now. You were too pretty that day. Your white dress, your Mary Janes, those fucking little ribbons. Of course all the other boys would be staring at you, feasting their greedy little eyes on his girl, his princess.
The rage overtook him, the fire boiling from his soul into his body. He grabbed both ribbons and pulled, pulled as hard as he could, yanking you off of the swing and into the gravel.
He didn't mean to hurt you. In fact, that was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted them to stop looking. Because none of those other boys would want you like he would, take care of you like he would, love you like he would.
He couldn't understand why you started crying, blood trickling down your pretty little head. Maybe he pulled too hard. Maybe the gravel was too course. But whatever it was, it was their fault.
He was protecting you from them, from their hungry eyes and impure intentions.
The dragon whisking away the princess from the evil knights.
His little heart broke as he watched the tears fall from your face.
And among the pieces he found the purest form of anger. Raw, unadulterated hatred flooding out of his skin.
"Crybaby."
He huffed in complete denial, walking away from you and into the soccer field where the other boys played.
He rushed every boy he'd witnessed looking at you, pushing them to the ground, throwing punches left and right, until everyone ran inside bloody and terrified.
From that moment on, he knew what he had to do.
Who he had to be to keep you safe, keep you in his reach -
A dragon.
Aerion hadn't stopped tormenting you in the years that followed.
Whether it was shoving you into lockers in middle school or slapping your ass whenever you tried to scurry by him in high school, the effect was the same.
"What's wrong, crybaby?"
He'd lick his lips in a twisted smile as you tried to collect yourself from whatever mess he'd made of you.
None of the other boys dared to breathe anywhere near you.
And that's exactly how he liked it.
At first, he was baffled at your tremendous fear of him. The way you'd shake whenever he'd walk by, the way your breath would change whenever you heard his voice from far away.
He loved you. There was nothing for you to fear. Just as long as you remembered who you belonged to.
The real trouble came at the rare times you forgot.
Aerion kept more than an eye on you. He'd sneak into your locker every day, smelling the perfume you kept on top of the stacked books. So sweet. His.
One day junior year, he found a note. A note not in your handwriting. Asking you to go to the movies that Friday at 8:15. He drove his fist into the locker, knuckles denting the metal door.
Who dared to try and take what was his?
Who dared to challenge the dragon?
Aerion sat in the parking lot of the movie theater, cigarette between his lips, a black cap covering his face, since 6 pm that day. And after two hours of waiting, he saw him.
A boy from your class, ugly and stupid, aimlessly carrying around a bouquet of roses. Pathetic fool.
Your favorite was Forget-Me-Nots, anyone would know that. Well, at least Aerion did.
He hopped out of the car, slipping on a pair of brass knuckles before striding onto the sidewalk.
"If you don't go home right now, I'll fucking kill you right here on this sidewalk. And if you ever speak to her again - conversations, little fucking notes - I'll break your neck without a second thought."
It took barely a second for the little mouse to scurry back into his hole, dropping the roses onto the pavement as he ran from Aerion's wrath.
He threw them straight into the trash, right where they belonged.
Lousy roses weren't good enough for his little princess.
He leaned against a pillar, lighting another cigarette as he waited.
You took his breath away the second you walked in, causing him to cough like an idiot on his most recent drag.
You wore little jean shorts that left next to nothing to the imagination and on top a sweet tank adorned with lace gently tracing the outline of your breasts.
Aerion's mouth watered. You never dressed like this at school. You had learned very quickly that the way to avoid Aerion's attention was to dress plainly, conservatively. And you couldn't afford it, anyway.
Aerion knew about your family's financial situation. That made your aversion to him all the more painful. He could help you, pull you out, give you everything you wanted.
You just had to trust him.
You must've borrowed the clothes. And the makeup. You never wore makeup, couldn't afford that either. He liked you like that - bare, pure. But today someone must've helped you. Your cheeks were pink with blush and your doe eyes blinked up at him, lashes covered in mascara.
As he studied you, he recognized that look - a look he’d seen much too often.
You were about to cry again. Great.
"You - you!"
You stuttered out, tears starting to fall down your cheeks.
"Why can't you just leave me alone? What have I done to you to make you take such pleasure in hurting me?"
You ran from him, new makeup now ruined, before he could find the right words to say.
He trudged back to his car, shoulders heavy with aggravation, as he threw the Forget-Me-Nots he'd purchased earlier that day from the dashboard and into the parking lot.
Why did you run? Stupid fucking girl.
He had it all planned. He'd take you to the movie instead. Let you pick whatever you wanted to see. Then after, he'd take you to get ice cream.
He remembered how much you loved ice cream. The way your face lit up every time they announced it would be served at lunch.
And you ruined it. You spoiled everything.
You scared easily. And you didn't understand him as he understood you.
That's fine, he thought. That's alright.
He'd have to change his approach - train you. Break you in. But the next day he looked for you at school, you were already gone.
And the day after that.
And every day until a month ago.
_______________
Those few years were a long drag of endless suffering for Aerion. You had disappeared without a trace. It was like you never existed.
And maybe you hadn't. You were too perfect, too pure for this world. Maybe everyone was right - he was mad. And he'd imagined you, too.
For the first few months, Aerion lived in a state of complete denial.
She's coming back. She always does.
He'd tell himself. Every school day that passed, every time he'd drive by your house and see your mother and father, but not you or your brother, something died inside of him.
Then came the booze. By the time he finally accepted you weren't coming back, Aerion was a shell of a person. He'd lost the remaining bits of his humanity in something far more misguided than his cruelty - his hope.
He spent years drinking till he couldn't feel anymore, fucking girls he didn't care about so he could picture your face instead.
He'd always planned on taking your virginity. When you were ready, of course.
He wanted to know what you felt like, how you tasted, the noises you'd make when he was inside of you. He imagined tracing every inch of you with his tongue - your neck, your nipples, the skin between your thighs and your pussy.
It was all his.
He already knew. There was no need to force it.
One day after driving home from some terrible family trip, his brother Daeron passed out smelling like a whiskey factory in the passenger seat, he could've sworn he saw you.
Your hair was longer. Your face was painted in makeup. The dress you were wearing it was - vulgar. Stumbling around in six-inch heels.
He whipped the car around, recklessly U-turning just to make sure he'd made a mistake.
"Dude, what the fuck?"
Daeron whispered out, head banging onto the car door.
Aerion hadn't heard it. He hadn't heard anything except the pounding of his heart against his chest since he saw you.
By the time he drove back to your original spot, you'd already started running. Whoever was in this car, cop or not, nobody with that kind of urgency could have good intentions.
The clamping of your heels hit the pavement as you staggered away from the unknown madman in the cherry red convertible.
But he saw it. In the chaos, in the blur of girls in short dresses running out every which way - a leg. With skin smooth like silk and a Forget-Me-Not tattoo.
Aerion spent the next twelve hours driving around that neighborhood, Daeron groaning with agony next to him.
"What the fuck are you looking for, man? Can't we just go home?"
"Shut the fuck up, Daeron!"
That was all Daeron needed to hear before returning to his liquor-laced slumber.
He didn't find you that night. Or any other night for the rest of the month.
It was like you'd disappeared again, disintegrating into a cloud of the smoke from one of his cigarettes like that first time.
What were you doing out there?
And more importantly, what were you doing dressed like that?
He had to find you know, no matter the cost. He had to rescue you from whatever trouble you'd gotten yourself into without him.
You needed him. It was clearer now more than ever.
Aerion didn't let himself fall into the same self-destructive cycle of pity he had the first time he let you go.
He pushed the brakes - hard. Whatever he had to do, he'd do it.
College. Careers. Futures. Those were things people pursued when they had dreams. Aerion only had one.
If you wanted to find someone, and, from the looks of you, someone in trouble with the law, there wasn't any better way than becoming a policeman.
___________
"What the fuck?"
Maekar Targaryen nearly spat beer across the kitchen.
"The police academy," Aerion repeated, like the words made any more sense the second time.
Maekar stared at him. Aerion was many things. Violent. Stubborn. Occasionally criminal. A public servant was not one of them.
"You hate cops."
"People change."
"No they don't."
They held each other's gaze for one cold moment.
"What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"What are you planning to do?"
"Nothing."
Maekar narrowed his eyes.
"It's her, isn't it?"
Aerion's jaw tightened.
That was answer enough.
Maekar sighed heavily and took another drink. Of course it was the girl. It was always her whenever Aerion decided to ruin his own life. Any time the teachers called, it was because of her. Any time the police had him for fighting, it was her. It was always fucking her.
Still, it beat the drinking. It beat the fighting. It beat the late-night phone calls from lawyers.
Whatever this was, it was keeping him out of prison.
"Fine," Maekar grunted. "I'll make a few calls."
A slow smile spread across Aerion's face.
Immediately, Maekar regretted it.
Aerion had passed the written and physical exams with ease. He was wild, but he was smart and strong when he had the will to focus. The help from his father made sure his applications got pushed to the top of the pile. He couldn't waste another second.
He couldn't afford to waste time.
The psychological evaluation went smoothly too, funnily enough.
People always assumed men like Aerion looked crazy.
They didn't.
He showed up early. Maintained eye contact. Spoke clearly. Answered every question exactly how he was supposed to.
The psychologist shook his hand at the end of the interview and congratulated him.
Aerion smiled and thanked him.
Then he got back in his car and spent the next six hours driving through neighborhoods looking for you again.
That was made him so dangerous - his versatility.
Nine grueling months passed. Months spent writing applications, studying laws, qualifying at the range, and learning how to wear a badge without looking like a criminal. The nights were worse. Every spare second was spent looking for you.
Aerion barely slept. His features, still handsome, had sharpened into something harsher, hollowing his cheeks and darkening the skin beneath his eyes.
But it was worth it.
The day he got his badge, the day he finally climbed into a patrol car, it was worth it.
Because now he had access.
His field training officer was an older man who'd stopped caring years ago. The kind of cop who spent half his shift drinking coffee and complaining. A few free donuts and a willingness to listen to the same stories over and over again was all it took to earn his trust.
People liked being liked.
One afternoon, while they sat parked in an empty lot, Aerion casually asked how officers pulled information on people connected to previous calls. His partner launched into a long-winded explanation without a second thought.
Idiot.
Months of searching finally paid off a few weeks later.
Aerion sat frozen in front of the computer screen, staring at the name.
Your name.
He reared his head back in a dark cackle.
You were real. You'd been real all along.
And now he knew exactly where to find you.
____________
The victory only lasted mere seconds.
The soliciting charges hit him like a punch to the stomach. He'd suspected it the last time he saw you.
But he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth.
Someone else's hands had felt your skin. Someone else's mouth had tasted your lips. Someone else had finally discovered what that little pussy felt like wet and pulsing. All before him.
His pale face turned red as he scrolled to your nearest charge. It was a different town. Thirty minutes away from here. You circulated around the same five cities every few months to keep from running into the same police officers.
Only this time, the officer would be familiar in a very different way.
Aerion nearly threw up as he imagined it. The other men you had been with. The way they would smile as they took you. The way you'd pretend to enjoy it. The horrible question of whether you did actually enjoy it.
He'd waited too long. He'd been too gentle with you, too patient. And look at the fucking mess you'd made of yourself.
His girl, his little flower, selling herself on the street.
That beautiful face giggling on the swings now a dirty prostitute.
He loved you. So much.
And he wasn't gonna wait for you to fuck things up further.
It was up to him now to save you. You were his destiny. And he was yours.
He ran into the police car, his partner slipping him the keys after taking off early to go to sleep.
He turned on the siren speeding on the highway all the way to your town.
People would say it was silly, call him crazy, but he could feel you.
He parked in a dark alley pulling his beanie over his head, tiptoeing into the streets as he observed every corner. He wanted to find you first. Memorize your routine, the way you moved, the hours you spent out here.
It wasn't enough to find you.
He had to keep you this time.
He heard your giggle, that same sweet sound from all those years ago, jingling like bells on Christmas from under a lamp post.
You'd gotten thinner. Clearly this was a matter of survival. His heart ached as he noticed the bones peeking out of your tiny tight red dress.
You looked beautiful still, but it wasn't you. He nearly jumped out of the shadows to hold you, to wrap you in his jacket and take you home and feed you.
But you'd wronged him. You'd betrayed him time and time again. And he couldn't let you get away now. You were too precious.
Aerion watched as you got into a car passing by. An older man. A nasty, disgusting fucking perv pawing at his princess.
Even though you smiled and flirted walking up to his window, Aerion could see the sadness in your eyes. You wanted to get out of here. You wanted him to save you.
He sat in the same corner every night watching you. He took notes on every detail - what time you showed up, what time you left, how many customers, what they looked like, their license plates, and most importantly - where you'd run when you thought you were in trouble.
A dingy alley. Just a trash can and some puddles. Smart girl.
Nobody would go looking for you in there.
Well, now nobody would go looking for us in there.
He'd mapped it out, tested it a few times. The timing, alternate routes, avoiding other people. And it was perfect. Fool-proof.
Tonight was the night.
Aerion flew through the street you worked, siren blaring, before pulling over quickly and running to the other side of your hiding spot.
He watched you stumbling in your heels, sheer dress showing him every delicious curve he was finally about to get his hands on.
He eyed that new tattoo you'd gotten on the back of your right thigh as he licked his lips. Forget-Me-Not. He laughed, a sick and twisted noise pouring out of his throat. He hadn't. And he would never.
He circled you in the darkness as you mindlessly slashed a knife. It wasn't anywhere near him. You had no idea where he was. He laughed.
Poor crybaby.
You were never good with the planning. You needed someone to take care of you, someone to rely on. You needed him.
And now he had you.
Right where he wanted you.
And he'd keep you.
For the rest of your life.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: ok so about that order... I lied. I'M SO SORRY GUYS I JUST LIKE RANDOMLY GET INSPIRED EVERY REQUEST I'VE GOTTEN SO FAR I'M WORKING ON AND SHOULD BE OUT SHORTLY I SWEAR. phew. Now I hope you guys enjoy this flipped POV. I lowkey really enjoyed writing cop Aerion and exploring how fucked his mind is. Lmk what you think (comments seriously seriously fuel me) and what you want to see next (this or something new but like please guys love writing for y'all). KISSES PEACE AND LOVE.
I need more Aerion fics where they use power imbalances, non con, dub con sorry not sorry ! No I don’t want to make him beg and cry like a little girl , I want it to be the other way around , I love a dominant man there is nothing more beautiful than a woman’s submission. 😩💋
Because why would I want a full grown man to do the crying , begging and moaning when I the woman should be the one doing it. Okay , well … maybe let’s keep the moaning part.😏😂
PAIRING. AERION "Brightflame" TARGARYEN X FEM! READER
WARNINGS: 18+, smut, enemies to twisted betrothed lovers, obsession from Aerion's side, grinding, fingering, reader being AFAB, Aerion being an expert with his tongue and fingers, p in v in the future chapters, kind of slow burn, etc.
The Prince POV | Pentos, 209 AC
The feast had bored him before it began.
That was the nature of magisters. They decorated their halls like they decorated themselves with excessive, airless, draped silks imported from places they had never been and would never go. Magister Ferrego Antaryon was no different. His manse on the hill above the bay smelled of rosewater and roasted boar with the desperation of men who needed a Targaryen in their hall to feel that the evening meant something.
Aerion stood near the far end of the loggia, a cup of Pentoshi red in his hand that he hadn't drunk from in an hour. His brother Daeron was somewhere inside, already half-drunk and laughing too loud at something one of the magister's daughters had said. His father was holding court near the high table, silver-haired, accepting compliments about the realm as though they were his due. Which aerion supposed, they were.
He had no interest in any of it.
He had been in the Free Cities three weeks. Pentos, Myr, back to Pentos again. It all ran together—the same warm evenings, the same flat sea, the same men in colored robes angling for favor. He had drunk too much. He had sharpened his sword until the edge could split silk. He had visited a woman in the harbor district twice, purely for the relief of it, and left both times feeling nothing.
He was, in a word, bored. And then you walked into the room.
He noticed you immediately with a kind of arrested attention that was almost involuntary. You were standing at the edge of the hall near the arched entrance, still in your traveling cloak despite the warmth of the evening, like you had arrived later than expected and not yet been absorbed into the room. Four men flanked you, your brothers from the bearing if not the faces, and one of them had his hand at the small of your back like he was keeping you in place.
You didn't look like you needed keeping.
You were looking around the hall with an expression. Aerion couldn't immediately name; that expression was not one of wonder or discomfort of a highborn young woman. He set his cup down on the balustrade.
You had traveled far. He could see it in the faint tension at your jaw, the way you held yourself with a careful stillness that wasn't composure so much as it was control. House Mantheon, it came to him a moment later. Word had circulated earlier in the week that Lord Mantheon's party had arrived in Pentos. Something about a betrothal arrangement, a match made by the Crown. He had paid very little attention then, but he was paying it now.
Your cloak moved as one of your brothers said something close to your ear, and Aerion caught a glimpse of the gown beneath. It was a deep jewel-toned fabric that did nothing to obscure the fact that the gods had been extraordinarily generous to House Mantheon. He was a prince. He had been to court. And so he had seen beautiful women in quantities sufficient to calibrate his standards. And yet some quality of the precise shape of you, the line of your throat, the way the candlelight fell across your features, and the set of your mouth that suggested you were thinking something you had chosen not to say made the boredom run out of him like water from a cracked vessel.
He stared at you for what was probably an inappropriate amount of time.
You hadn't noticed him yet. That was almost funny. Many in the room had noticed him within minutes of his arrival. That was simply the nature of being who he was. Yet, you stood twenty feet away, gazing at the frescoes on the ceiling. Your expression was one of detached curiosity, as if you had come to admire the architecture and found the party to be an inconvenient distraction.
Your arm was touched by one of your brothers. You looked at him, said something short, and let yourself be led toward the host.
Aerion picked up his wine again and drank.
He was introduced to you an hour later.
By then he had learned a few things. Your father had called off an earlier betrothal to Prince Valarr Targaryen upon Baelor's death, a thing noted at court, if not loudly, and had since been quietly seeking a new match befitting the status of House Mantheon. A rich house and old house. The kind of house that didn't need Targaryen favor but knew what it was worth to have it. Lord Mantheon had apparently brought you here personally to let the arrangement be seen as well as signed.
Aerion had been in a meeting with his father and the magister that afternoon. He had not paid enough attention.
When Magister Antaryon brought you into the small neighboring salon where the Targaryen party had retreated from the main hall — cooler, quieter, the fire burning low in the grate — you came in with two of your brothers and kept your eyes forward. You knew how to walk into a room. Aerion noticed that first, with the same accuracy that some men noticed weaponry.
His father spoke. The magister spoke. Lord Orson Mantheon, the eldest of your brothers apparently standing in for your father this evening, spoke. There was a great deal of talk about alliance, honor and the strength of both houses.
You had said nothing.
You stood at your brother's side with your hands folded, your face pleasant and utterly unreadable. Whereas your gaze was up upon the wall above Aerion's head in a way that was technically not a refusal to meet his eyes.
He found it fascinating.
"My lady," he said, during a pause in the men's negotiations. He hadn't planned to speak. It came out of him idly, the way cruelty sometimes did. It not from malice in the moment but from a simple desire to see what would happen.
You looked at him and there it was.
Your eyes met his and he watched the composure move through your expression, though it was quickly gone. He still caught it. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or the wariness of a person who has just identified a threat and is deciding how to respond to it.
He smiled.
"They tell me you were to be my cousin Valarr's," he said pleasantly. "Before."
A short silence.
"They tell me a great many things, my prince," you said. Your voice was even. "Most of them are not my concern."
One of your brothers moved elsewhere. Aerion didn't look at him.
"And is this your concern?" He left the question unanswered, allowing the room, the negotiation, and the clear implication to be encompassed by the gesture of his chin.
At the corner of your mouth, a smile moved, though not a grin.
"I go where my father sends me."
"Mm." He studied you. "That isn't an answer."
"No," you politely agreed. "It isn't."
He held your gaze for a moment longer than was strictly comfortable, but you didn't look away. He took note of that as well. Putting it away for later when he would be alone with a cup of wine and no one observing his expression.
"My lord father," he said without looking away from you, "I think the match has merit."
Aerion stood on the balcony off his chamber and gazed out at the bay later, after the Mantheon party had left. The fire had subsided, and Daeron had fallen asleep somewhere in the guest wing. The lights of Pentos scattered across the dark water like embers.
He remembered how you had looked at him with the calculating eyes and deference of women who wanted something out of the connection. There was no wide-eyed fascination of a woman who had heard too many stories about him and couldn't separate the man from the myth. Alas it was something that had looked at him and either hadn't been impressed or had decided not to show it.
He turned his wine cup slowly in his fingers.
He had been told he was beautiful his whole life. It was true, as far as it went. He had the Targaryen look with the clean silver and extraordinary features. And he knew how to wear it, just like how he knew how to wear a sword like it was simply an extension of himself, a fact of the world that needed no commentary. Women looked at him. Men looked at him. It had never particularly moved him.
You had regarded him as if weighing the value of a bargain.
He found, with some surprise, that he wanted to know what the answer was.
The arrangement would be signed by the end of the week. He had said as much to his father, who had seemed quietly pleased—House Mantheon was wealthy enough and well-placed enough that the match made sense on paper, and Aerion was not, at present, in a position to be choosy. He was in exile in all but name, kept in the Free Cities like a sword someone didn't know what to do with. The marriage served purposes he had been fully prepared to find tedious.
He didn't think he would find them tedious now.
You didn't want to be there. He had seen that clearly enough — the contained stillness and careful emptiness of your expression. You had answered him like every word was weighed before it left your mouth. You were there because your father had sent you and you were obedient enough or simply without options enough to come.
That should have made you like all the others, but it didn't.
He set his cup down on the balcony railing and looked at the water.
He thought about the line of your throat in the candlelight or when your gaze had found his and had not flinched. The precise, unhurried way you had said it isn't without fear.
Aerion Targaryen, Prince of the realm and son of the Morning Star, had been looked at in many ways. Though he didn't think anyone had ever looked at him like you were already planning the distance between you and the door.
He smiled at the dark water.
By the end of the week, you would be promised to him. Signed, sealed, and settled, the way these things were done. You would come to his household and belong to him. Whatever careful distance you were building inside yourself right now, behind those composed eyes and that precise mouth.
He would find it and luckily he had all the time in the world.
PAIRING. AERION "Brightflame" TARGARYEN X FEM! READER
WARNINGS: 18+, smut, enemies to twisted betrothed lovers, obsession from Aerion's side, grinding, fingering, reader being AFAB, Aerion being an expert with his tongue and fingers, p in v in the future chapters, kind of slow burn, etc.
The Prince POV | Pentos, 209 AC
The feast had bored him before it began.
That was the nature of magisters. They decorated their halls like they decorated themselves with excessive, airless, draped silks imported from places they had never been and would never go. Magister Ferrego Antaryon was no different. His manse on the hill above the bay smelled of rosewater and roasted boar with the desperation of men who needed a Targaryen in their hall to feel that the evening meant something.
Aerion stood near the far end of the loggia, a cup of Pentoshi red in his hand that he hadn't drunk from in an hour. His brother Daeron was somewhere inside, already half-drunk and laughing too loud at something one of the magister's daughters had said. His father was holding court near the high table, silver-haired, accepting compliments about the realm as though they were his due. Which aerion supposed, they were.
He had no interest in any of it.
He had been in the Free Cities three weeks. Pentos, Myr, back to Pentos again. It all ran together—the same warm evenings, the same flat sea, the same men in colored robes angling for favor. He had drunk too much. He had sharpened his sword until the edge could split silk. He had visited a woman in the harbor district twice, purely for the relief of it, and left both times feeling nothing.
He was, in a word, bored. And then you walked into the room.
He noticed you immediately with a kind of arrested attention that was almost involuntary. You were standing at the edge of the hall near the arched entrance, still in your traveling cloak despite the warmth of the evening, like you had arrived later than expected and not yet been absorbed into the room. Four men flanked you, your brothers from the bearing if not the faces, and one of them had his hand at the small of your back like he was keeping you in place.
You didn't look like you needed keeping.
You were looking around the hall with an expression. Aerion couldn't immediately name; that expression was not one of wonder or discomfort of a highborn young woman. He set his cup down on the balustrade.
You had traveled far. He could see it in the faint tension at your jaw, the way you held yourself with a careful stillness that wasn't composure so much as it was control. House Mantheon, it came to him a moment later. Word had circulated earlier in the week that Lord Mantheon's party had arrived in Pentos. Something about a betrothal arrangement, a match made by the Crown. He had paid very little attention then, but he was paying it now.
Your cloak moved as one of your brothers said something close to your ear, and Aerion caught a glimpse of the gown beneath. It was a deep jewel-toned fabric that did nothing to obscure the fact that the gods had been extraordinarily generous to House Mantheon. He was a prince. He had been to court. And so he had seen beautiful women in quantities sufficient to calibrate his standards. And yet some quality of the precise shape of you, the line of your throat, the way the candlelight fell across your features, and the set of your mouth that suggested you were thinking something you had chosen not to say made the boredom run out of him like water from a cracked vessel.
He stared at you for what was probably an inappropriate amount of time.
You hadn't noticed him yet. That was almost funny. Many in the room had noticed him within minutes of his arrival. That was simply the nature of being who he was. Yet, you stood twenty feet away, gazing at the frescoes on the ceiling. Your expression was one of detached curiosity, as if you had come to admire the architecture and found the party to be an inconvenient distraction.
Your arm was touched by one of your brothers. You looked at him, said something short, and let yourself be led toward the host.
Aerion picked up his wine again and drank.
He was introduced to you an hour later.
By then he had learned a few things. Your father had called off an earlier betrothal to Prince Valarr Targaryen upon Baelor's death, a thing noted at court, if not loudly, and had since been quietly seeking a new match befitting the status of House Mantheon. A rich house and old house. The kind of house that didn't need Targaryen favor but knew what it was worth to have it. Lord Mantheon had apparently brought you here personally to let the arrangement be seen as well as signed.
Aerion had been in a meeting with his father and the magister that afternoon. He had not paid enough attention.
When Magister Antaryon brought you into the small neighboring salon where the Targaryen party had retreated from the main hall — cooler, quieter, the fire burning low in the grate — you came in with two of your brothers and kept your eyes forward. You knew how to walk into a room. Aerion noticed that first, with the same accuracy that some men noticed weaponry.
His father spoke. The magister spoke. Lord Orson Mantheon, the eldest of your brothers apparently standing in for your father this evening, spoke. There was a great deal of talk about alliance, honor and the strength of both houses.
You had said nothing.
You stood at your brother's side with your hands folded, your face pleasant and utterly unreadable. Whereas your gaze was up upon the wall above Aerion's head in a way that was technically not a refusal to meet his eyes.
He found it fascinating.
"My lady," he said, during a pause in the men's negotiations. He hadn't planned to speak. It came out of him idly, the way cruelty sometimes did. It not from malice in the moment but from a simple desire to see what would happen.
You looked at him and there it was.
Your eyes met his and he watched the composure move through your expression, though it was quickly gone. He still caught it. A flicker of recognition, maybe. Or the wariness of a person who has just identified a threat and is deciding how to respond to it.
He smiled.
"They tell me you were to be my cousin Valarr's," he said pleasantly. "Before."
A short silence.
"They tell me a great many things, my prince," you said. Your voice was even. "Most of them are not my concern."
One of your brothers moved elsewhere. Aerion didn't look at him.
"And is this your concern?" He left the question unanswered, allowing the room, the negotiation, and the clear implication to be encompassed by the gesture of his chin.
At the corner of your mouth, a smile moved, though not a grin.
"I go where my father sends me."
"Mm." He studied you. "That isn't an answer."
"No," you politely agreed. "It isn't."
He held your gaze for a moment longer than was strictly comfortable, but you didn't look away. He took note of that as well. Putting it away for later when he would be alone with a cup of wine and no one observing his expression.
"My lord father," he said without looking away from you, "I think the match has merit."
Aerion stood on the balcony off his chamber and gazed out at the bay later, after the Mantheon party had left. The fire had subsided, and Daeron had fallen asleep somewhere in the guest wing. The lights of Pentos scattered across the dark water like embers.
He remembered how you had looked at him with the calculating eyes and deference of women who wanted something out of the connection. There was no wide-eyed fascination of a woman who had heard too many stories about him and couldn't separate the man from the myth. Alas it was something that had looked at him and either hadn't been impressed or had decided not to show it.
He turned his wine cup slowly in his fingers.
He had been told he was beautiful his whole life. It was true, as far as it went. He had the Targaryen look with the clean silver and extraordinary features. And he knew how to wear it, just like how he knew how to wear a sword like it was simply an extension of himself, a fact of the world that needed no commentary. Women looked at him. Men looked at him. It had never particularly moved him.
You had regarded him as if weighing the value of a bargain.
He found, with some surprise, that he wanted to know what the answer was.
The arrangement would be signed by the end of the week. He had said as much to his father, who had seemed quietly pleased—House Mantheon was wealthy enough and well-placed enough that the match made sense on paper, and Aerion was not, at present, in a position to be choosy. He was in exile in all but name, kept in the Free Cities like a sword someone didn't know what to do with. The marriage served purposes he had been fully prepared to find tedious.
He didn't think he would find them tedious now.
You didn't want to be there. He had seen that clearly enough — the contained stillness and careful emptiness of your expression. You had answered him like every word was weighed before it left your mouth. You were there because your father had sent you and you were obedient enough or simply without options enough to come.
That should have made you like all the others, but it didn't.
He set his cup down on the balcony railing and looked at the water.
He thought about the line of your throat in the candlelight or when your gaze had found his and had not flinched. The precise, unhurried way you had said it isn't without fear.
Aerion Targaryen, Prince of the realm and son of the Morning Star, had been looked at in many ways. Though he didn't think anyone had ever looked at him like you were already planning the distance between you and the door.
He smiled at the dark water.
By the end of the week, you would be promised to him. Signed, sealed, and settled, the way these things were done. You would come to his household and belong to him. Whatever careful distance you were building inside yourself right now, behind those composed eyes and that precise mouth.
He would find it and luckily he had all the time in the world.
summary - after your failure at extending the olive branch to your husband you are faced with more cruel silence from him, until one night you hear noises from below the door adjoining your chambers to his.
content - smut!, reader is a real big perv, voyeurism, watching through a keyhole, aerion cheating, prostitution, rough sex, pathetic!reader, aerion being the worst husband ever, loneliness and being ignored :( no use of y/n
author's note - this is my first time writing smut and i have not proof read it so please give me some grace. so sorry its taken ages to get this out, it's so hard to write sex scenes LOL its not my forte - but let me know your thoughts!
two days.
it was a small number, you knew. in the long and heavy history of the great houses of westeros there were women who had waited seasons, years, entire lifetimes for a husband to look upon them with anything approaching acknowledgement.
and yet, two days without sight of him. two mornings rising to a cold basin and a quiet room, two evenings walking through the red keep with your hands folded against your skirts and your eyes careful, not to betray how fervently you watched the corners at the end of every corridor for a flash of black and red that never came.
at breakfast on the first morning you had arrived at the long table to find his chair empty. no explanation for your husband’s absence was given, and you felt too ashamed to ask considering the way in which your last conversation had gone. you simply took your seat and unfolded your napkin, placed it delicately on your lap and ate three bites of buttered bread that tasted like dust in your mouth, and then folded the crumbed napkin back as though it had never been touched at all.
across the table, prince maekar had looked at you, his dark, heavy eyes had settled on your face with the kind of quiet knowing that made you want to excuse yourself from the table and not return. your hands became clammy once you caught his eyes on yours.
what if he knows, you thought, if he knows what a complete and utter failure i have been to his son. the idea that aerion may have informed his father of the pitiful attempt to gain his favour made a shiver travel down your spine.
you had not excused yourself. you had sat perfectly straight and asked the lady to your left whether she found king's landing humid at this time of year.
you could not recall her answer.
at supper on the first evening, aerion's chair was empty again.
this time you did not look at it. you had made a promise with yourself, with whatever single shred of dignity you had remaining: if you did not look at the chair, then it was not empty. it simply was not there. the evening was going well, you were poised and composed, and you sipped your wine in measured increments, and when princess rhae leaned over to whisper something to her sister, the shared glance that followed. the fleeting, pitying exchange that passed between them surely had nothing whatsoever to do with you.
you were certain of it.
or near enough.
the second day was no different. the chair was empty at breakfast. the chair was empty at supper. the family of your husband moved around the absence of him like cool water around a stone that had just been thrown into a river.
it was in the way they held their cups, violet eyes skimming to you and quickly away in a movement too fluid to be accidental. it was in the way prince daeron, red-nosed and loose-tongued as he was, had not made a single one of his low, shameful jokes at your expense that second evening, which was somehow worse than if he had. even the youngest boy, prince aegon, had watched you from across the table, all wide eyes and bitten lip.
it was pity.
you had been raised to be above it, your mother had combed your hair and dressed you in silks and taught you to hold your chin just so, and never, not once in her gentle teachings, had she prepared you for the particular shame of being pitied at a dinner table by people who were not even supposed to like you.
that was the part you could not name to jeyne, when she plaited your hair in the evenings and watched you in the glass with her kind, worried eyes.
it was not grief, exactly. you had not known him long enough to grieve. it was something smaller and more humiliating than grief. it was failure. the low, corroding certainty of it, settling in the spaces between your ribs like water finding its own level.
you had been made for this. the septas had said so. your mother had said so. your father's silent, nodding approval on the morning of your wedding had said so more clearly than any words could. you had been shaped, carefully and entirely, for the purpose of being a wife. a good wife, a faithful wife, a wife who brought grace to her husband's house and peace to his chambers and sons to carry his name into another generation.
and on the second night of aerion's absence, sitting on the edge of your too-large bed and pressing the tips of your fingers one by one into the fading red mark on your palm, you understood with a quiet, sickening clarity that you did not know how to be a wife to a man who did not want one.
the gods had not prepared you for that.
you had prayed, of course. both mornings, both evenings, and twice in the long pale hours between, kneeling at the little carved alcove in your chamber until your legs ached from the cold stone with your bandaged hand pressed flat against the cold stone. you had asked for patience, and you had asked for wisdom and you had asked for something, anything, that might tell you what a dutiful woman was meant to do when her husband could not care less for her presence.
the waxy candle had only flickered slightly in response and carried on burning.
on the evening of the second day you returned to your chambers early.
there was no shame in it, you told yourself. you had a slight headache; you had mentioned this quietly to no one in particular and risen from your chair and made your exit with the same measured grace your mother had spent sixteen years teaching you. no one had tried to stop you. when you reached the corridor outside the great hall and heard the low hum of voices and music fading behind you, you let the breath go from your chest all at once.
jeyne had already turned your bed down, the silken sheets folded open and waiting for you to crawl in once more and lay awake until the pastel shades of dawn peeked through the curtains.
the evening light had long since turned dusky and the colour of wine echoed along the walls. the torches in the corridor had been lit in your absence, their glow casting long amber lines beneath the heavy wooden door of your chamber, spilling beneath the door of aerion's chamber. the adjoining door. the one you never looked at directly, the one that sat in the wall between your two rooms like a held breath.
you changed yourself, slowly. unlaced your bodice without jeyne's help, though it took longer than it should have and left your fingers raw at the knuckles. pulled the soft sleep shift over your head and sat at the edge of the bed in the quiet.
the red keep settled around you. the distant sound of the city below the hill, the occasional step of the night guard in the passage outside. the low, almost musical groan of old stone contracting in the evening chill.
you were composing yourself for sleep, hands flat in your lap and eyes lowered, when you heard it.
a sound.
from his room.
not the sound of footsteps or of a man moving about his chambers in the late evening. not the creak of a chair or the clink of a cup or the shift of boots being pulled from tired feet.
something else.
a low voice. muffled, but present, unmistakably present, filtering through the thick stone and the carved wood of the joining door.
you stilled.
your hands were very still in your lap as your heart began to beat loudly against your ribs.
it could be anything. you told yourself this as you sat there unmoving. a servant, delivering something. a page with a message. a guard. there were any number of reasonable explanations for the presence of another voice in your husband's chambers, and a composed woman, a good wife, a woman of faith and sense and dignity, would not trouble herself about it.
but the sound came again.
softer this time. and then a low, short noise that you could not rightly name, the kind that lives in the throat and escapes before it can be shaped into words.
slowly, without quite meaning to, you rose from the bed.
your feet were bare on the plush rug and dragged through the threads as your body moved of its own accord. the chamber air was cool, and you folded your arms across your chest as you moved towards the joining door, nipples peaked against the thin fabric.
you stopped just before it, an arm’s length away from the locked barrier between your husband’s room and your own, the hair on the nape of your neck prickled slightly in the chill and worry quickly pooled in your stomach.
you reached out and pressed your soft palm against the door, as if as though you may feel his presence and know that everything is alright. the carved wood was dark and old and smooth with age. the brass keyhole was very small with a thin line of amber light emitting beneath, you waited with bated breath as you paused, listening for signs of aerion beyond the wall.
your first thought was that he was ill.
your second thought was that he would not want you to check.
your third thought arrived with the low voice again, closer now, unmistakably from a mouth not far from the other side of the door, and it was not his voice at all.
it was a woman. you could hear it now, warm and low with a sort of practiced gentleness that you did not recognise.
the cold moved through you differently after that. not the cool evening air from the window, but something that started somewhere behind your sternum and spread outward into your arms, into your hands, into the tips of your fingers where they had gone very flat against the dark of the wood.
you should have moved away.
you were aware, in some distant and secondary part of yourself, that the correct action, the dignified action, the action that your mother and your septas and the seven themselves would have counselled, was to step back. return to your bed. fold your hands and pray. sleep if sleep would come. and in the morning rise and dress and go down to a table where his chair would be empty again, and smile, and not permit your face to say a single word about it.
instead you lowered yourself to your knees on the cold floor.
the stone was hard and sharp against your bones, and the hem of your sleep shift pooled around you as you brought your eye level with the brass keyhole. your heart was doing something very strange now, something with a tempo you could not regulate, hard and uneven, the way a horse sounds when it has been ridden too hard and too fast and hasn't found its footing yet.
you looked.
the keyhole was small and the room beyond was lit by the amber warmth of several candles and the picture it gave you was narrow, a sliver of the world he occupied, and yet it was enough.
it was more than enough.
aerion was there. he was not ill. he was not receiving a late message or conferring with his guard or doing any of the countless reasonable things you had tried to convince yourself might account for the presence of another person in his chambers. he was there and he was very much alive and the woman with him was not a servant, was not a maid, and the sounds you heard were not anything that required explanation.
your breath left you.
not dramatically, not in a great visible heave that might have brought footsteps to your door. just... quietly. a long, silent exhale that never quite became an inhale again.
the woman was beautiful in the way of women who are paid to be beautiful, adorned and deliberate about it, her dark hair loose across the pale linens of your husband's bed. she was laughing at something, very softly, and aerion's hand moved against her in a way that made the laughter catch and change.
you knew, in the way that sheltered daughters of noble houses know things without having been told them, the theory of what it was you were witnessing. it had been explained to you in the oblique language of the septas, in the careful metaphors your mother had employed the night before your wedding while holding both your hands in hers and saying this is what is required of a wife, and what is required is not difficult, and what is required will not be unpleasant.
and yet the knowing of it as a theory and the seeing of it were not the same thing at all.
it was the sounds, mostly.
you had not known about the sounds.
low and intermittent and human in a way that made something very strange happen in the bottom of your stomach, something you had no honest name for, something that coexisted, horribly and perversely, with the hot ache behind your eyes and the tightening of your throat and the very clear and present knowledge that you were crouched on your knees on a cold stone floor peering through a keyhole at your husband bedding a woman who was not you.
you did not move.
that was the part that would haunt you afterward, in the small hours when you lay straight and still in the dark and replayed it with the particular cruelty your own mind seemed to reserve for moments of private shame: you did not move away. not immediately. not for longer than you would ever confess to.
part of it was shock. the clean, white paralysis of it. the way the mind sometimes refuses to move the body when what has been understood cannot yet be made sense of.
but part of it, and this was the part you would spend the better portion of the night beseeching the seven to forgive, was something else entirely.
something that had no place in a woman of faith, in a princess of the realm, in a wife. something that twisted the sick grief of the moment into a shape that was far less simple and far more shameful. something that the woman you had been raised to be would not have looked at, let alone named.
yet you could not look away.
aerion and the woman were strewn across his bed, sheets and clothes draped over the end of his four-poster bed, and you took in their naked forms.
you knew what a woman's body looked like, of course you had one of your own, but you had never seen one in such a debauched position as this. she kneeled in between aerion's pale legs, face hovering just above his manhood blocking it from view, her bronzed skin shimmered in the candlelight and from where you crouched, you could see a small tuft of dark hair covering her nether region.
her back arched to give aerion a direct view of her oiled bottom as he sat lazily back on the mound of pillows behind him. she began to move and your throat tightened in anticipation, her head dipped low and through lidded eyes she began to softly lick the pink tip of your husband's member.
aerion's face tightened into a smug smirk as the woman's ministrations continued, she bobbed her head gently up and down his hard shaft as your knees began to ache pressed against the stone.
what is she doing? you questioned, the brief explanations of what you would be required to do with your new husband to bring him an heir had never mentioned such an act.
perhaps this type of behaviour was reserved only for the girls who frequented the street of silk. that was presumably where aerion had found this woman, you thought. of course he would bed with cheap whores instead of his dutiful wife who slept only footsteps away from him each night, his arrogance and shamelessness would allow for it.
the more you watched your husband's face twist with pleasure the more confused you started to feel; you were aware how improper this all was. watching as your new husband took another woman in the bed that you were supposed to be lying in. but you could not peel your eyes away from the smooth curves of her naked form, the rosy blushes of pink lips and cock as she worked her neck, the dark hair that curled down her slender back and bounced with each movement.
the room around you felt incredibly small, racing heartbeat and sweaty palms pressed against the wood as your head spun with an almost dizzy force.
a deep groan left aerion's throat and instinctively your thighs pressed together.
it was all too overwhelming, your brain overcome with emotion. anger, betrayal, disgust, jealousy twisting knots into your stomach as you watched his hand reach out and plant itself firmly in her brown hair.
but worst of all. most shamefully of all, there was desire.
a deep ache bloomed from your core and travelled lowly to your thighs, warm and throbbing in slow shocking pulses.
please stop. you begged internally, reaching with one hand to grip the fabric of your dress tightly in your fist. whether it was to aerion or yourself you could not answer.
inside the chamber aerion's noises grew louder, he gripped the woman's hair with such force his knuckles had whitened and yanked her head along his shaft with such roughness she began to choke and spit, dribbling saliva down her chin and onto the dark sheets below.
the vulgarity of his actions was shocking.
and it brought further shame upon your soul as you shifted against the uncomfortable stone and felt a warm slickness sticky between your legs.
your breath caught.
leave. move away from the door now and pray. pray that you will be granted forgiveness for watching this debauchery.
but you could not. your body simply did not want to listen to your harsh commands, what it wanted was to feel something.
and something felt a world better than the nothing it had been feeling the past few weeks spent alone.
the wet sound of aerion pulling the woman off his length brought you back to the scene in front of you.
his hand gripped her face tightly, squeezing her full cheeks together as he moved her at his will. "get on all fours." he grunted, pushing her face back with force.
she wobbled for a moment, her face angling itself slightly. you could see her properly now, rounded chestnut eyes heavy with lust and lips flushed with a deep red stain, she was beautiful you could not deny. her softly angular face was spattered with moles in perfect places, and her thick, dark brows worked to highlight her glossy doe-eyes.
"move." aerion spat, patience waning thin.
she nodded slyly and turned, full breasts swaying slightly as she bent over in front of your kneeling husband and arched her back so that her chest was resting upon the bed.
from here you could see aerion fully, his skin pale and glistening from the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body. you dragged your eyes from one part of his body to the next, his muscles pulled taught as he used his hand to stroke his length slowly.
the heat between your legs was almost unbearable, slick dripping unceremoniously down your thighs as your linen shift clung to your back.
you had never seen a man in such detail before, especially not in such a state like this.
it was scandalous, what would mother think, you lamented and quickly pushed to the side. it was utterly devious that you were crouched at your husband's door watching him pleasure himself with another woman's cunt.
how sick you felt at your own actions.
this was not like you, aerion you could rationalise, you knew him well enough by now that his infidelity did not come as a great surprise. you did not, however, predict that you would be watching it with your own eyes.
your eyes blinked quickly as a stinging bead of sweat dropped from your brow.
from the bed aerion continued working his cock, moving forward slightly to rub it along the woman's slit. how was it supposed to fit? you wondered breathlessly, you had gotten a glimpse of between her legs as she had moved to rest on all fours. surely aerion's length wouldn't be able to enter her, he was well endowed, you could see as he chubbed and hardened further in his hand.
your body was alight with nerves, each hair standing to attention as you took shuddering breaths in an attempt to gain a semblance of control. forehead resting against the thick wood of the door now, heated cheek beginning to press hard enough that you knew when you pulled away the knots of the wood would be engrained into your skin.
aerion shifted slightly forward, one hand reaching to grip and squeeze at the round globes of her bottom. he rubbed his length once, twice, and pressed forward until the angry red of his tip disappeared into her dripping cunt.
a thick wad of spit caught momentarily in your throat as you gasped at the sight, sending you unceremoniously into a coughing fit as you pressed your hand tightly against your cracked lips to hide the sound.
aerion moved forward suddenly, thrusting his hips into her, filling her up to the hilt. you watched as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and arms reached out to stabilise her on the bed.
you felt debauched and perverse. watching your husband pound into the whore on your bed. silently wishing that it was you instead.
the look on his face was something between pleasure and anger, his brows furrowed as he picked up his pace and sucked his bottom lip in with a hiss. his silver hair mussed and the angles on his face highlighted by the low glow of the candles.
he truly was a beautiful man.
no wonder the whore was groaning the way she was. at least someone is enjoying the presence of my husband, you thought, even though it sounds as though she is in a great deal of pain.
the heat between your legs had become too great to ignore now, wet skin slipping together as you clenched at nothing.
you had never touched yourself in that before. you had been told it was not proper for a young lady like to do.
but could it really be so bad? you rationalised, it was clear from the scene in front of you that it must feel good.
slowly, tentatively, you ran your hand down the front of your nightdress. clammy palm and fingers drifting across your chest and against your hardened nipples, shocks of excitement tingled over your needy flesh like lightning bolts.
with quickening breath you moved down past your soft stomach and to the apex of your groin, fingertips mixing with the soft tuft of hair that sat just above your dripping cunt. your heart knocked loudly against your ribs as you watched aerion ram into the whore from behind.
jealousy and desire mixed dangerously in the pit of your stomach as you finally reached the puffy folds aching between your legs, and with a final breech in your restraint and a quiet, high-pitched sigh, you began tracing the weeping lips.
after a few hesitant seconds of teasing you could no longer resist the urge to uphold the dignity you valued so much in yourself. who were you fooling, you almost scoffed at yourself, you were crouched on the floor of your room watching through a keyhole as your husband defiled another woman, with a breath so heavy one would have assumed you had been running around.
there was certainly no turning back now, that thought cemented your shame as you dropped your head forward to push against the rough wood of the door, sweaty skin slipping slightly as you pressed your eye tight to the hole.
an animalistic groan escaped from aerion's throat and in one final motion you pressed your middle finger through the sticky wetness of your folds to press against the tight hole of your cunt.
it throbbed harshly in reaction to the intrusion, finger pushing gently in, meeting unexpected resistance. you gulped audibly and thrust your finger ever so slightly in attempt to lessen the nervous tightening of your slit; it stung a little, you noticed, and with furrowed brow you wondered if the woman on the bed in front of you was writhing from the sheer size of aerion's cock.
although the high-pitched squeals echoing against the stone walls quickly convinced you otherwise.
continuing your ministrations, you moved your finger in and out of yourself with a newfound confidence you felt was surely fed by the humiliating need invading your body. you thrust into yourself in a slow rhythm that became easier as the minutes drew on, slick dripping down and coating your fingers as you began to chase the warm feeling stirring down below.
the ache flowed from your crotch and spread through the surrounding flesh, sweat beginning to sheen across your desperate skin. you needed more.
the perverse shame possessing you as you wished to be the woman aerion was pounding into this very moment. you wanted to feel him. feel as his cock stretched your virgin cunt out around him.
you wanted to be the cause of his pleasure. it was your right as his wife.
quickening your movements, you felt the sticky warmness of your envy dribble down your wrist.
this is so wrong, you thought, as you moved your index finger to join in the breech of your womanhood. the sting appeared again, not as clear as before, but you sunk your incisors into the chapped skin of your swollen lip as you pushed two fingers inside. a broken moan escaped you as you leaned forward fully.
face pressed ungracefully against the door; you removed the hand supporting your limp body and traced it against the curves of your skin beneath your nightgown. you squeezed your breasts as you imagined aerion's slender fingers as your own, waves of pleasure crashed through your body as your fingers tweaked at your pebbled nipples.
from beyond the door your husband was beginning to reach his climax, he pulled himself from out of the whore's cunt and forcefully pressed his hands into the small of her glistening back. her knees gave out as she slumped against the sheets, whimpering quiet moans from the absence of his member.
he climbed atop her body pressed flush against the bed and pushed back into her with no pause, a loud yelp left her as he thrust quickly and unforgivingly down into her. she turned her rosy face back to look at him, lids hooded in pleasure, and he jerked his hand forward to grip over her head pushing it down into the mattress below.
your cunt clenched harshly around your fingers, the obscene sight of aerion's dominance spurred your movements to quicken.
hastily you pinched at your nipple, the pain bringing pleasure you knew you would be ashamed of once this moment had ended. with rough thrusts you fucked yourself with no restraint, the slick sounds of your palm making contact with the skin above your hole making you chase your release desperately.
"if only he could see me", you whispered to no one, the vulgar image of aerion stalking over to the door to pull it open and find you slumped and sweaty with your hand between your legs made your eyes roll to the back of your head.
the ache in your cunt was reaching its peak now, hole fluttering in pleasure around your soaked fingers, whimpers leaving your dry throat with every movement.
as you humped your slick fingers you felt filthy, chasing the release you felt building up through every fibre of your being.
through the keyhole aerion was destroying the woman trapped beneath him, beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and each grunt he made was punctuated with a heavy breath in.
watching as his muscles flexed and clenched as he reached his peak, you squeezed your eyes tight as you reached your own. hips twitching and knees scraping against the cold floor below, white hot pleasure coursed through your veins as your throat closed with a high-pitched squeak of air.
the sight of aerion pulling out of her with his leaking tip made your legs squeeze together tightly as you stuttered against the door, fingers buried deep within you. he flopped backwards against the pillows and closed his eyes as his still hard length slapped up to meet his stomach.
the woman remained lying there, twitching and whimpering against the sheets, aerion paid her no mind as he relaxed into the bed.
a shaky breath left your lips as you finally stilled, the cool breeze from the night outside alerting the hairs along your arms to prickle up and stand to attention. you blinked twice, slowly, drawing you back into your body as fresh waves of shame and regret crashed in the pit of your stomach.
gently you pulled your fingers from between your folds, quickly wiping the sticky proof of your defilement against the fabric of your gown to remove it. leaning back on your heels you peeled your face away from the door and looked down at your hands.
a small, red sheen covered one of them and moving your eyes to the hem of your shift you could see smeared blood covering the thin fabric. the bright evidence of what you had done filled your eyes with embarrassed tears.
you looked away.
you let your head hang heavily now, chin resting against the clammy skin of your chest. questions of why and how fought against each other in your cloudy head, too tired to identify them you rose from the cold floor on unsteady legs, one hand pressed flat against the stone wall to keep yourself from listing sideways. your knees ached. your wrist ached. the guilt began to make you feel sick.
you moved back to your bed in the dark without letting yourself think about what you had just done. laying down atop of the cold, empty mattress, and curling into yourself.
you pressed your burned hand very firmly against the linen sheet beneath you and fixed your gaze on the ceiling above and listened to the old stone of the red keep settling around you, and the city below the hill, and the night guards in the corridor, and the faint sounds from the other side of the wall that you attempted to ignore.
you did not pray.
or rather, you tried to and found that the words would not arrange themselves into anything the gods deserved to receive.
the candle in your alcove had burned itself out.
you noticed that, in the dark, and thought it was perhaps appropriate.
and when at last the sounds from his room went quiet, and the line of amber light beneath the joining door went dark, and the only thing left was the silence and you in it, you turned onto your back and pulled the sheet up to your shoulder and told yourself, firmly and without any particular conviction, that this did not mean what you were afraid it meant.
but you couldn't help but feeling just as a filthy as the whore lying beside your husband, filled with his spend, in your marital bed.
summary - after your failure at extending the olive branch to your husband you are faced with more cruel silence from him, until one night you hear noises from below the door adjoining your chambers to his.
content - smut!, reader is a real big perv, voyeurism, watching through a keyhole, aerion cheating, prostitution, rough sex, pathetic!reader, aerion being the worst husband ever, loneliness and being ignored :( no use of y/n
author's note - this is my first time writing smut and i have not proof read it so please give me some grace. so sorry its taken ages to get this out, it's so hard to write sex scenes LOL its not my forte - but let me know your thoughts!
two days.
it was a small number, you knew. in the long and heavy history of the great houses of westeros there were women who had waited seasons, years, entire lifetimes for a husband to look upon them with anything approaching acknowledgement.
and yet, two days without sight of him. two mornings rising to a cold basin and a quiet room, two evenings walking through the red keep with your hands folded against your skirts and your eyes careful, not to betray how fervently you watched the corners at the end of every corridor for a flash of black and red that never came.
at breakfast on the first morning you had arrived at the long table to find his chair empty. no explanation for your husband’s absence was given, and you felt too ashamed to ask considering the way in which your last conversation had gone. you simply took your seat and unfolded your napkin, placed it delicately on your lap and ate three bites of buttered bread that tasted like dust in your mouth, and then folded the crumbed napkin back as though it had never been touched at all.
across the table, prince maekar had looked at you, his dark, heavy eyes had settled on your face with the kind of quiet knowing that made you want to excuse yourself from the table and not return. your hands became clammy once you caught his eyes on yours.
what if he knows, you thought, if he knows what a complete and utter failure i have been to his son. the idea that aerion may have informed his father of the pitiful attempt to gain his favour made a shiver travel down your spine.
you had not excused yourself. you had sat perfectly straight and asked the lady to your left whether she found king's landing humid at this time of year.
you could not recall her answer.
at supper on the first evening, aerion's chair was empty again.
this time you did not look at it. you had made a promise with yourself, with whatever single shred of dignity you had remaining: if you did not look at the chair, then it was not empty. it simply was not there. the evening was going well, you were poised and composed, and you sipped your wine in measured increments, and when princess rhae leaned over to whisper something to her sister, the shared glance that followed. the fleeting, pitying exchange that passed between them surely had nothing whatsoever to do with you.
you were certain of it.
or near enough.
the second day was no different. the chair was empty at breakfast. the chair was empty at supper. the family of your husband moved around the absence of him like cool water around a stone that had just been thrown into a river.
it was in the way they held their cups, violet eyes skimming to you and quickly away in a movement too fluid to be accidental. it was in the way prince daeron, red-nosed and loose-tongued as he was, had not made a single one of his low, shameful jokes at your expense that second evening, which was somehow worse than if he had. even the youngest boy, prince aegon, had watched you from across the table, all wide eyes and bitten lip.
it was pity.
you had been raised to be above it, your mother had combed your hair and dressed you in silks and taught you to hold your chin just so, and never, not once in her gentle teachings, had she prepared you for the particular shame of being pitied at a dinner table by people who were not even supposed to like you.
that was the part you could not name to jeyne, when she plaited your hair in the evenings and watched you in the glass with her kind, worried eyes.
it was not grief, exactly. you had not known him long enough to grieve. it was something smaller and more humiliating than grief. it was failure. the low, corroding certainty of it, settling in the spaces between your ribs like water finding its own level.
you had been made for this. the septas had said so. your mother had said so. your father's silent, nodding approval on the morning of your wedding had said so more clearly than any words could. you had been shaped, carefully and entirely, for the purpose of being a wife. a good wife, a faithful wife, a wife who brought grace to her husband's house and peace to his chambers and sons to carry his name into another generation.
and on the second night of aerion's absence, sitting on the edge of your too-large bed and pressing the tips of your fingers one by one into the fading red mark on your palm, you understood with a quiet, sickening clarity that you did not know how to be a wife to a man who did not want one.
the gods had not prepared you for that.
you had prayed, of course. both mornings, both evenings, and twice in the long pale hours between, kneeling at the little carved alcove in your chamber until your legs ached from the cold stone with your bandaged hand pressed flat against the cold stone. you had asked for patience, and you had asked for wisdom and you had asked for something, anything, that might tell you what a dutiful woman was meant to do when her husband could not care less for her presence.
the waxy candle had only flickered slightly in response and carried on burning.
on the evening of the second day you returned to your chambers early.
there was no shame in it, you told yourself. you had a slight headache; you had mentioned this quietly to no one in particular and risen from your chair and made your exit with the same measured grace your mother had spent sixteen years teaching you. no one had tried to stop you. when you reached the corridor outside the great hall and heard the low hum of voices and music fading behind you, you let the breath go from your chest all at once.
jeyne had already turned your bed down, the silken sheets folded open and waiting for you to crawl in once more and lay awake until the pastel shades of dawn peeked through the curtains.
the evening light had long since turned dusky and the colour of wine echoed along the walls. the torches in the corridor had been lit in your absence, their glow casting long amber lines beneath the heavy wooden door of your chamber, spilling beneath the door of aerion's chamber. the adjoining door. the one you never looked at directly, the one that sat in the wall between your two rooms like a held breath.
you changed yourself, slowly. unlaced your bodice without jeyne's help, though it took longer than it should have and left your fingers raw at the knuckles. pulled the soft sleep shift over your head and sat at the edge of the bed in the quiet.
the red keep settled around you. the distant sound of the city below the hill, the occasional step of the night guard in the passage outside. the low, almost musical groan of old stone contracting in the evening chill.
you were composing yourself for sleep, hands flat in your lap and eyes lowered, when you heard it.
a sound.
from his room.
not the sound of footsteps or of a man moving about his chambers in the late evening. not the creak of a chair or the clink of a cup or the shift of boots being pulled from tired feet.
something else.
a low voice. muffled, but present, unmistakably present, filtering through the thick stone and the carved wood of the joining door.
you stilled.
your hands were very still in your lap as your heart began to beat loudly against your ribs.
it could be anything. you told yourself this as you sat there unmoving. a servant, delivering something. a page with a message. a guard. there were any number of reasonable explanations for the presence of another voice in your husband's chambers, and a composed woman, a good wife, a woman of faith and sense and dignity, would not trouble herself about it.
but the sound came again.
softer this time. and then a low, short noise that you could not rightly name, the kind that lives in the throat and escapes before it can be shaped into words.
slowly, without quite meaning to, you rose from the bed.
your feet were bare on the plush rug and dragged through the threads as your body moved of its own accord. the chamber air was cool, and you folded your arms across your chest as you moved towards the joining door, nipples peaked against the thin fabric.
you stopped just before it, an arm’s length away from the locked barrier between your husband’s room and your own, the hair on the nape of your neck prickled slightly in the chill and worry quickly pooled in your stomach.
you reached out and pressed your soft palm against the door, as if as though you may feel his presence and know that everything is alright. the carved wood was dark and old and smooth with age. the brass keyhole was very small with a thin line of amber light emitting beneath, you waited with bated breath as you paused, listening for signs of aerion beyond the wall.
your first thought was that he was ill.
your second thought was that he would not want you to check.
your third thought arrived with the low voice again, closer now, unmistakably from a mouth not far from the other side of the door, and it was not his voice at all.
it was a woman. you could hear it now, warm and low with a sort of practiced gentleness that you did not recognise.
the cold moved through you differently after that. not the cool evening air from the window, but something that started somewhere behind your sternum and spread outward into your arms, into your hands, into the tips of your fingers where they had gone very flat against the dark of the wood.
you should have moved away.
you were aware, in some distant and secondary part of yourself, that the correct action, the dignified action, the action that your mother and your septas and the seven themselves would have counselled, was to step back. return to your bed. fold your hands and pray. sleep if sleep would come. and in the morning rise and dress and go down to a table where his chair would be empty again, and smile, and not permit your face to say a single word about it.
instead you lowered yourself to your knees on the cold floor.
the stone was hard and sharp against your bones, and the hem of your sleep shift pooled around you as you brought your eye level with the brass keyhole. your heart was doing something very strange now, something with a tempo you could not regulate, hard and uneven, the way a horse sounds when it has been ridden too hard and too fast and hasn't found its footing yet.
you looked.
the keyhole was small and the room beyond was lit by the amber warmth of several candles and the picture it gave you was narrow, a sliver of the world he occupied, and yet it was enough.
it was more than enough.
aerion was there. he was not ill. he was not receiving a late message or conferring with his guard or doing any of the countless reasonable things you had tried to convince yourself might account for the presence of another person in his chambers. he was there and he was very much alive and the woman with him was not a servant, was not a maid, and the sounds you heard were not anything that required explanation.
your breath left you.
not dramatically, not in a great visible heave that might have brought footsteps to your door. just... quietly. a long, silent exhale that never quite became an inhale again.
the woman was beautiful in the way of women who are paid to be beautiful, adorned and deliberate about it, her dark hair loose across the pale linens of your husband's bed. she was laughing at something, very softly, and aerion's hand moved against her in a way that made the laughter catch and change.
you knew, in the way that sheltered daughters of noble houses know things without having been told them, the theory of what it was you were witnessing. it had been explained to you in the oblique language of the septas, in the careful metaphors your mother had employed the night before your wedding while holding both your hands in hers and saying this is what is required of a wife, and what is required is not difficult, and what is required will not be unpleasant.
and yet the knowing of it as a theory and the seeing of it were not the same thing at all.
it was the sounds, mostly.
you had not known about the sounds.
low and intermittent and human in a way that made something very strange happen in the bottom of your stomach, something you had no honest name for, something that coexisted, horribly and perversely, with the hot ache behind your eyes and the tightening of your throat and the very clear and present knowledge that you were crouched on your knees on a cold stone floor peering through a keyhole at your husband bedding a woman who was not you.
you did not move.
that was the part that would haunt you afterward, in the small hours when you lay straight and still in the dark and replayed it with the particular cruelty your own mind seemed to reserve for moments of private shame: you did not move away. not immediately. not for longer than you would ever confess to.
part of it was shock. the clean, white paralysis of it. the way the mind sometimes refuses to move the body when what has been understood cannot yet be made sense of.
but part of it, and this was the part you would spend the better portion of the night beseeching the seven to forgive, was something else entirely.
something that had no place in a woman of faith, in a princess of the realm, in a wife. something that twisted the sick grief of the moment into a shape that was far less simple and far more shameful. something that the woman you had been raised to be would not have looked at, let alone named.
yet you could not look away.
aerion and the woman were strewn across his bed, sheets and clothes draped over the end of his four-poster bed, and you took in their naked forms.
you knew what a woman's body looked like, of course you had one of your own, but you had never seen one in such a debauched position as this. she kneeled in between aerion's pale legs, face hovering just above his manhood blocking it from view, her bronzed skin shimmered in the candlelight and from where you crouched, you could see a small tuft of dark hair covering her nether region.
her back arched to give aerion a direct view of her oiled bottom as he sat lazily back on the mound of pillows behind him. she began to move and your throat tightened in anticipation, her head dipped low and through lidded eyes she began to softly lick the pink tip of your husband's member.
aerion's face tightened into a smug smirk as the woman's ministrations continued, she bobbed her head gently up and down his hard shaft as your knees began to ache pressed against the stone.
what is she doing? you questioned, the brief explanations of what you would be required to do with your new husband to bring him an heir had never mentioned such an act.
perhaps this type of behaviour was reserved only for the girls who frequented the street of silk. that was presumably where aerion had found this woman, you thought. of course he would bed with cheap whores instead of his dutiful wife who slept only footsteps away from him each night, his arrogance and shamelessness would allow for it.
the more you watched your husband's face twist with pleasure the more confused you started to feel; you were aware how improper this all was. watching as your new husband took another woman in the bed that you were supposed to be lying in. but you could not peel your eyes away from the smooth curves of her naked form, the rosy blushes of pink lips and cock as she worked her neck, the dark hair that curled down her slender back and bounced with each movement.
the room around you felt incredibly small, racing heartbeat and sweaty palms pressed against the wood as your head spun with an almost dizzy force.
a deep groan left aerion's throat and instinctively your thighs pressed together.
it was all too overwhelming, your brain overcome with emotion. anger, betrayal, disgust, jealousy twisting knots into your stomach as you watched his hand reach out and plant itself firmly in her brown hair.
but worst of all. most shamefully of all, there was desire.
a deep ache bloomed from your core and travelled lowly to your thighs, warm and throbbing in slow shocking pulses.
please stop. you begged internally, reaching with one hand to grip the fabric of your dress tightly in your fist. whether it was to aerion or yourself you could not answer.
inside the chamber aerion's noises grew louder, he gripped the woman's hair with such force his knuckles had whitened and yanked her head along his shaft with such roughness she began to choke and spit, dribbling saliva down her chin and onto the dark sheets below.
the vulgarity of his actions was shocking.
and it brought further shame upon your soul as you shifted against the uncomfortable stone and felt a warm slickness sticky between your legs.
your breath caught.
leave. move away from the door now and pray. pray that you will be granted forgiveness for watching this debauchery.
but you could not. your body simply did not want to listen to your harsh commands, what it wanted was to feel something.
and something felt a world better than the nothing it had been feeling the past few weeks spent alone.
the wet sound of aerion pulling the woman off his length brought you back to the scene in front of you.
his hand gripped her face tightly, squeezing her full cheeks together as he moved her at his will. "get on all fours." he grunted, pushing her face back with force.
she wobbled for a moment, her face angling itself slightly. you could see her properly now, rounded chestnut eyes heavy with lust and lips flushed with a deep red stain, she was beautiful you could not deny. her softly angular face was spattered with moles in perfect places, and her thick, dark brows worked to highlight her glossy doe-eyes.
"move." aerion spat, patience waning thin.
she nodded slyly and turned, full breasts swaying slightly as she bent over in front of your kneeling husband and arched her back so that her chest was resting upon the bed.
from here you could see aerion fully, his skin pale and glistening from the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body. you dragged your eyes from one part of his body to the next, his muscles pulled taught as he used his hand to stroke his length slowly.
the heat between your legs was almost unbearable, slick dripping unceremoniously down your thighs as your linen shift clung to your back.
you had never seen a man in such detail before, especially not in such a state like this.
it was scandalous, what would mother think, you lamented and quickly pushed to the side. it was utterly devious that you were crouched at your husband's door watching him pleasure himself with another woman's cunt.
how sick you felt at your own actions.
this was not like you, aerion you could rationalise, you knew him well enough by now that his infidelity did not come as a great surprise. you did not, however, predict that you would be watching it with your own eyes.
your eyes blinked quickly as a stinging bead of sweat dropped from your brow.
from the bed aerion continued working his cock, moving forward slightly to rub it along the woman's slit. how was it supposed to fit? you wondered breathlessly, you had gotten a glimpse of between her legs as she had moved to rest on all fours. surely aerion's length wouldn't be able to enter her, he was well endowed, you could see as he chubbed and hardened further in his hand.
your body was alight with nerves, each hair standing to attention as you took shuddering breaths in an attempt to gain a semblance of control. forehead resting against the thick wood of the door now, heated cheek beginning to press hard enough that you knew when you pulled away the knots of the wood would be engrained into your skin.
aerion shifted slightly forward, one hand reaching to grip and squeeze at the round globes of her bottom. he rubbed his length once, twice, and pressed forward until the angry red of his tip disappeared into her dripping cunt.
a thick wad of spit caught momentarily in your throat as you gasped at the sight, sending you unceremoniously into a coughing fit as you pressed your hand tightly against your cracked lips to hide the sound.
aerion moved forward suddenly, thrusting his hips into her, filling her up to the hilt. you watched as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and arms reached out to stabilise her on the bed.
you felt debauched and perverse. watching your husband pound into the whore on your bed. silently wishing that it was you instead.
the look on his face was something between pleasure and anger, his brows furrowed as he picked up his pace and sucked his bottom lip in with a hiss. his silver hair mussed and the angles on his face highlighted by the low glow of the candles.
he truly was a beautiful man.
no wonder the whore was groaning the way she was. at least someone is enjoying the presence of my husband, you thought, even though it sounds as though she is in a great deal of pain.
the heat between your legs had become too great to ignore now, wet skin slipping together as you clenched at nothing.
you had never touched yourself in that before. you had been told it was not proper for a young lady like to do.
but could it really be so bad? you rationalised, it was clear from the scene in front of you that it must feel good.
slowly, tentatively, you ran your hand down the front of your nightdress. clammy palm and fingers drifting across your chest and against your hardened nipples, shocks of excitement tingled over your needy flesh like lightning bolts.
with quickening breath you moved down past your soft stomach and to the apex of your groin, fingertips mixing with the soft tuft of hair that sat just above your dripping cunt. your heart knocked loudly against your ribs as you watched aerion ram into the whore from behind.
jealousy and desire mixed dangerously in the pit of your stomach as you finally reached the puffy folds aching between your legs, and with a final breech in your restraint and a quiet, high-pitched sigh, you began tracing the weeping lips.
after a few hesitant seconds of teasing you could no longer resist the urge to uphold the dignity you valued so much in yourself. who were you fooling, you almost scoffed at yourself, you were crouched on the floor of your room watching through a keyhole as your husband defiled another woman, with a breath so heavy one would have assumed you had been running around.
there was certainly no turning back now, that thought cemented your shame as you dropped your head forward to push against the rough wood of the door, sweaty skin slipping slightly as you pressed your eye tight to the hole.
an animalistic groan escaped from aerion's throat and in one final motion you pressed your middle finger through the sticky wetness of your folds to press against the tight hole of your cunt.
it throbbed harshly in reaction to the intrusion, finger pushing gently in, meeting unexpected resistance. you gulped audibly and thrust your finger ever so slightly in attempt to lessen the nervous tightening of your slit; it stung a little, you noticed, and with furrowed brow you wondered if the woman on the bed in front of you was writhing from the sheer size of aerion's cock.
although the high-pitched squeals echoing against the stone walls quickly convinced you otherwise.
continuing your ministrations, you moved your finger in and out of yourself with a newfound confidence you felt was surely fed by the humiliating need invading your body. you thrust into yourself in a slow rhythm that became easier as the minutes drew on, slick dripping down and coating your fingers as you began to chase the warm feeling stirring down below.
the ache flowed from your crotch and spread through the surrounding flesh, sweat beginning to sheen across your desperate skin. you needed more.
the perverse shame possessing you as you wished to be the woman aerion was pounding into this very moment. you wanted to feel him. feel as his cock stretched your virgin cunt out around him.
you wanted to be the cause of his pleasure. it was your right as his wife.
quickening your movements, you felt the sticky warmness of your envy dribble down your wrist.
this is so wrong, you thought, as you moved your index finger to join in the breech of your womanhood. the sting appeared again, not as clear as before, but you sunk your incisors into the chapped skin of your swollen lip as you pushed two fingers inside. a broken moan escaped you as you leaned forward fully.
face pressed ungracefully against the door; you removed the hand supporting your limp body and traced it against the curves of your skin beneath your nightgown. you squeezed your breasts as you imagined aerion's slender fingers as your own, waves of pleasure crashed through your body as your fingers tweaked at your pebbled nipples.
from beyond the door your husband was beginning to reach his climax, he pulled himself from out of the whore's cunt and forcefully pressed his hands into the small of her glistening back. her knees gave out as she slumped against the sheets, whimpering quiet moans from the absence of his member.
he climbed atop her body pressed flush against the bed and pushed back into her with no pause, a loud yelp left her as he thrust quickly and unforgivingly down into her. she turned her rosy face back to look at him, lids hooded in pleasure, and he jerked his hand forward to grip over her head pushing it down into the mattress below.
your cunt clenched harshly around your fingers, the obscene sight of aerion's dominance spurred your movements to quicken.
hastily you pinched at your nipple, the pain bringing pleasure you knew you would be ashamed of once this moment had ended. with rough thrusts you fucked yourself with no restraint, the slick sounds of your palm making contact with the skin above your hole making you chase your release desperately.
"if only he could see me", you whispered to no one, the vulgar image of aerion stalking over to the door to pull it open and find you slumped and sweaty with your hand between your legs made your eyes roll to the back of your head.
the ache in your cunt was reaching its peak now, hole fluttering in pleasure around your soaked fingers, whimpers leaving your dry throat with every movement.
as you humped your slick fingers you felt filthy, chasing the release you felt building up through every fibre of your being.
through the keyhole aerion was destroying the woman trapped beneath him, beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and each grunt he made was punctuated with a heavy breath in.
watching as his muscles flexed and clenched as he reached his peak, you squeezed your eyes tight as you reached your own. hips twitching and knees scraping against the cold floor below, white hot pleasure coursed through your veins as your throat closed with a high-pitched squeak of air.
the sight of aerion pulling out of her with his leaking tip made your legs squeeze together tightly as you stuttered against the door, fingers buried deep within you. he flopped backwards against the pillows and closed his eyes as his still hard length slapped up to meet his stomach.
the woman remained lying there, twitching and whimpering against the sheets, aerion paid her no mind as he relaxed into the bed.
a shaky breath left your lips as you finally stilled, the cool breeze from the night outside alerting the hairs along your arms to prickle up and stand to attention. you blinked twice, slowly, drawing you back into your body as fresh waves of shame and regret crashed in the pit of your stomach.
gently you pulled your fingers from between your folds, quickly wiping the sticky proof of your defilement against the fabric of your gown to remove it. leaning back on your heels you peeled your face away from the door and looked down at your hands.
a small, red sheen covered one of them and moving your eyes to the hem of your shift you could see smeared blood covering the thin fabric. the bright evidence of what you had done filled your eyes with embarrassed tears.
you looked away.
you let your head hang heavily now, chin resting against the clammy skin of your chest. questions of why and how fought against each other in your cloudy head, too tired to identify them you rose from the cold floor on unsteady legs, one hand pressed flat against the stone wall to keep yourself from listing sideways. your knees ached. your wrist ached. the guilt began to make you feel sick.
you moved back to your bed in the dark without letting yourself think about what you had just done. laying down atop of the cold, empty mattress, and curling into yourself.
you pressed your burned hand very firmly against the linen sheet beneath you and fixed your gaze on the ceiling above and listened to the old stone of the red keep settling around you, and the city below the hill, and the night guards in the corridor, and the faint sounds from the other side of the wall that you attempted to ignore.
you did not pray.
or rather, you tried to and found that the words would not arrange themselves into anything the gods deserved to receive.
the candle in your alcove had burned itself out.
you noticed that, in the dark, and thought it was perhaps appropriate.
and when at last the sounds from his room went quiet, and the line of amber light beneath the joining door went dark, and the only thing left was the silence and you in it, you turned onto your back and pulled the sheet up to your shoulder and told yourself, firmly and without any particular conviction, that this did not mean what you were afraid it meant.
but you couldn't help but feeling just as a filthy as the whore lying beside your husband, filled with his spend, in your marital bed.
Sooo what would happen if the former bethrothed of wife!reader who is now a widow because his lady wife died, visited her in summerhall and at first Aerion wasn’t even aware that there was a guest because he is just too busy with lyra but when the servants starts to whispers of this same handsome lord courting her and suggesting her an annulment, and he sees how she is smiling and she looks so pretty again what would he do? Because I think the situation would stress him even more because she seems to not care anymore about him, and each time they interact he is crueler than before and his father is not against letting her go through with the annulment… 😝
I love the way your brain works, ahhhhh
but let’s make it more interesting and have her old betrothed propose the annulment behind her back— just for the plot
husband!Aerion x wife!Reader
summary: For days now, your old betrothed has been walking the halls of Summerhall— and you seem to be blooming again, truly enjoying his presence. But it doesn't last long, because your husband quickly steps in to ruin it. Eventually, you let your lust take over you.
cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, power imbalance, cheating, abusive relationship, manhandling, fingering(f!receiving), graphic violence, voyeurism & exhibitionism, dub-con, mentions of grief/childbirth loss(not the main characters/reader)
wc: 4k
For the past few days, Gerold Lannister has been a constant presence in the hallways of Summerhall, brightening the gloomy rooms with his warm, easy charm. More than anything, you are overjoyed to have a familiar face nearby—someone completely untainted by the suffocating, toxic atmosphere of the castle. It is a breath of fresh air.
A few weeks ago, you received word that his wife had tragically passed away in childbirth, taking their newborn babe with her. Unable to fathom the depths of such grief, you began writing to him. What started as a simple letter of condolence quickly blossomed into a meaningful correspondence, eventually prompting the man to pay a visit to Summerhall. Officially, of course, his journey is a diplomatic one—an opportunity to strengthen political ties and get to know Prince Maekar a little better.
In reality, he has spent far more time with you over the last few days than he has with the Prince. Your mornings have settled into a comforting routine: a quiet stroll through the gardens followed by hours spent talking on a secluded bench, as if neither of you carried the heavy burden of royal expectations. For the first time in years, you are actually happy. Usually, the people around you are either bound to you by duty or choose to ignore your existence entirely.
Your sudden happiness hasn't gone unnoticed. You are blooming; your hair has regained its luster, you’ve begun wearing your finest silks and jewelry again, and the hollow expression on your face has been replaced by a frequent, genuine smile.
At first, Aerion paid no attention to the change—ignoring how you sat at your vanity for hours while your ladies-in-waiting dressed you, how you rose at dawn just to walk before breakfast, or how you suddenly took an interest in buying vibrant new fabrics from the market.
He only realized something was wrong when he caught sight of you sitting alone on a bench with the Lannister heir. He watched from afar as your bodies leaned in close, noting how you shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—a nervous habit you used to have around Aerion when you were freshly in love. He used to call that your "tell"; it was how he always knew he had won your affection.
It is no surprise that you are drawn to Gerold. He was, after all, your former betrothed—before Aerion decided to tear the match apart before it could even begin. Years ago, Aerion had called off your engagement faster than you could blink, ensnaring you instead with empty promises and a hollow affection that drew you helplessly under his spell. Even now, the memory of the absolute chaos you two caused—and how furious your parents were over those reckless, impulsive choices—lingers in the air.
But all Aerion sees now is you slipping through his fingers, craving another man's warmth. A sickening, sharp pang of jealousy flares in his chest. He wants nothing more than to punish you for looking at someone else with such passion. He forces himself to stay in control, knowing that reacting too violently would expose his weakness, but God only knows how utterly unhinged he feels in this exact moment.
Stepping out from the shadows, he casually slides onto the bench right beside you, draping a heavy arm over your shoulder with a practiced, hollow smile. "Good morning, wife. Aren't you going to introduce me?" he asks cheerfully, his voice entirely devoid of the malice burning inside him.
The easy atmosphere vanishes instantly, and your posture stiffens under his touch. "Husband," you murmur politely, "this is Gerold Lannister—"
"—perhaps you remember me from before you intervened, back when I still intended to make your wife my bride," Gerold cuts in, his tone sharp. The corner of Aerion's mouth twitches, his fake smile dropping instantly to reveal his usual cold, hardened expression. His grip tightens painfully against your shoulder. Yet, despite the tension, you can't help but look down, a small, subtle smile playing on your lips.
"Ah, yes. I heard your wife passed recently. You have my condolences," Aerion replies, though his words drip with a cruel, mocking sarcasm rather than genuine sympathy. Gerold flinches slightly at the jab. For the rest of the morning, you are trapped between two men locked in a silent war of egos. Aerion sits beside you with an aggressive, dominant stance, his leg deliberately brushing against yours at every opportunity.
When a maid finally approaches to call you away, you practically leap from the bench. Following her toward the dining hall, you feel the suffocating weight lift from your chest with every step of distance you put between yourself and your husband.
For the days that follow, Aerion becomes crueler than ever before. If once you believed his neglect to be the worst punishment he could inflict, you soon discover how mistaken you are. Indifference is a mercy compared to obsession— now his eyes never leave you. Where once he treated you as though you were invisible, he now watches your every movement with unnerving attention. Wherever you go, he is there. If you walk through the halls, his presence lingers somewhere behind you. If you dine, his gaze finds you across the table. If you ride, he appears nearby beneath one excuse or another— it is as though a shadow has attached itself to your heels. The constant scrutiny becomes unbearable.
At least the nights remain your own. Aerion still spends them in the chambers of his beloved, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the silence of your rooms. There is something almost laughable in the arrangement when viewed from afar. The mornings belong to you, the nights to her— neither woman receives the whole of him, and yet somehow both are burdened by his presence. Worse still, Gerold becomes increasingly difficult to see. Since the incident, opportunities for private conversation have nearly vanished. Every corridor seems watched. Every gathering feels observed.
One night, unable to endure it any longer, you make a decision. If Aerion is elsewhere, then you intend to make use of his absence. Sleep refuses to come regardless— for hours you toss restlessly beneath your blankets, staring into darkness while thoughts churn endlessly within your mind. At last, with a quiet sigh of frustration, you rise from your bed. A light mantle is thrown over your nightdress, concealing it from curious eyes.
Then you slip from your chambers. The guard stationed outside your door immediately straightens, “my lady?”, “I need a breath of fresh air,” you reply. The man takes a step forward, clearly intending to accompany you— you stop, “alone.” The single word leaves little room for argument. Reluctantly, he bows his head.
You move through the sleeping castle with careful steps, your heart beating faster than it should. Moonlight spills through narrow windows, painting silver paths across the stone floors. Finding Gerold’s chambers proves easier than expected. Soon enough you stand before a familiar door. Fortune favors you tonight. No guards stand watch outside. For several moments you simply stare. Then you raise your hand and knock.
Only once.
The sound feels impossibly loud. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your mantle as you wait. Seconds later, the door opens. And there he is— the very man your thoughts have sought countless times these past weeks.
His hair is tousled from sleep, dark strands falling carelessly across his brow. His chest is bare, illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight spilling from the room behind him. The sight catches you off guard. “I am sorry,” you say quickly, lowering your gaze. “I did not mean to wake you.” You focus desperately on anything but the exposed skin before you— the floor, the wall, the doorway— anywhere else.
“No, no,” he replies with a warm smile. “Come inside. I was simply unprepared for visitors”, his voice remains rough with sleep, deeper than usual. Stepping aside, he gestures for you to enter. Once the door closes behind you, he retrieves a shirt and pulls it over himself, sparing you further embarrassment. The room falls quiet.For a moment neither of you knows what to say— then you gather your courage.
“I feel alone,” you admit softly. “More alone than I have in a very long time.” Your fingers twist together before you. “Until you returned to my life.” He says nothing— you continue. “I am grateful for all the kindness you have shown me these past weeks. Truly grateful.” Silence settles between you— not an uncomfortable silence. A gentle one. The kind that exists only between people who understand one another.
Gerold studies you carefully. For him, the moment feels almost unreal. Like the fulfillment of a dream long abandoned. A smile appears upon his face before he can stop it. “I confess,” he says quietly, “I have cherished our time together as well” his gaze softens. “You have helped me forget many things I would rather not remember.” Slowly, he steps closer.
Then another.
And another.
The distance between you diminishes until his presence surrounds you completely. There is an intimacy in that simple closeness unlike anything you have felt from Aerion in recent memory. Soon only inches remain. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough that your pulse begins to race. Gerold lifts a hand— slowly, carefully. His fingertips brush the side of your neck. The touch is impossibly gentle. A shiver races across your skin— goosebumps rises along your arms. Your breathing grows heavier.
Your heart pounds against your ribs with such force that you fear he might hear it. Without a word, he reaches for the mantle draped around your shoulders. Slowly he draws it away. The garment slips downward, no longer shielding the delicate nightdress beneath. Your breath catches, “we should not do this,” you whisper. The protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
“Hush now, Princess. I would grant you a kindness in return for all the comfort you have shown me these past weeks,” the man says softly. As he speaks, his hand drifts ever lower, gliding from the swell of your breast, over the curve of your belly, and at last between your thighs. He draws aside the delicate garment that shields your modesty, though little distance remains between the two of you now. His brow rests near your neck, and he scatters tender kisses along your throat— kisses gentler by far than any Aerion has ever bestowed.
Slowly, yet with unwavering purpose, his fingers find the small, sensitive pearl hidden between your legs. They move in careful circles, coaxing pleasure from your body until your breath grows unsteady. One of your arms slips around his neck, drawing him closer as you press yourself against him. Gerold lifts you with surprising ease and settles you upon the table behind you. All the while, his lips continue their pilgrimage across your throat, and his hands work their quiet sorcery, never ceasing, never faltering.
Before long, you feel him ease himself from your embrace. He lowers himself to his knees before you and gently parts your legs with both hands. His lips begin to wander across the soft flesh of your inner thighs, placing reverent kisses there as though worshipping at a sacred altar.
“Do you trust me?” he asks between those kisses, his voice rich with temptation. All you can offer in reply is a desperate nod. You feel his mouth drawing ever nearer to your most intimate flesh. Your head falls back. Your breathing trembles, caught between nervousness and longing. Somewhere within, you know what passes between you is wrong— yet you have hungered for the touch of a man for so long that you cannot bring yourself to ask him to stop.
Then his mouth finds you. You feel him suck gently at your most sensitive place while his tongue labors to draw more pleasure from you. Two fingers move within you, slow and steady, sliding in and out with maddening precision. Your hands seem to belong to someone else. Again and again, they find his hair, tugging at it— whether you wish to push him away or pull him closer, even you cannot say. Your lips part into a silent circle. A moan swells within your throat, too much to remain hidden.
It has been so long since you have felt this desired. So long since you have felt worthy of devotion and attention. Strange that such feelings come only through the hands of another man. A heat begins to gather deep within your belly. It grows stronger with every passing moment until it bends your back and tears a helpless cry from your lips. You press his head closer still, drunk upon desire as though it were the strongest wine ever poured.
So intoxicated are you that you fail to notice the figure standing in the doorway.
Your husband.
Aerion watches in utter silence— his face is carved from stone. Your heart stumbles within your chest. Your first instinct is to shove the man away— yet the aching need for release has wrapped its claws around you and will not let go. Instead, you find yourself looking directly into Aerion’s eyes while another man’s tongue and fingers continue their work upon your body.
He is testing you. He wishes to see whether you will cast the man aside— or continue. Aerion stands motionless, as though frozen in place. His eyes cling to the sight before him with a terrible fascination. His irises appear nearly black, swallowed by pupils widened despite the bright chamber— they have widened from desire, a desire he struggles with all his strength to suppress.
He stares at you— perhaps he wishes to tear you apart. Perhaps he wishes to throw the man from the nearest tower. Perhaps both. The muscles of his face are drawn so tightly that it seems the vein upon his brow might burst. His jaw is locked. His brows are pulled together in furious restraint.
Your own breathing becomes ragged. Your chest rises and falls with hurried gasps. Against all reason, the knowledge that Aerion watches and does nothing only deepens your arousal. In your thoughts, it is not Gerold upon his knees. It is Aerion.
You imagine his tongue upon you. You imagine his hand gripping your thigh, fingers digging firmly into your flesh to keep you still. You imagine his lips wandering across every inch of your body, warm and demanding.
Then it comes— your body erupts with bliss. A loud moan escapes you. The sensation is overwhelming, a flood of pleasure so fierce that it steals the strength from your limbs and tears a hoarse cry from your throat. You cling to the man before you, fearing that if you let go, reality itself will come crashing down around you.
Aerion watches every detail. He sees your trembling legs attempting to close. He sees your eyes roll back. He sees your nails buried in the man’s hair. He notices the sheen of sweat upon your upper lip and every sound that escapes your mouth. He notices everything— so much so that even he can no longer deny the effect the sight has upon him.
At last, the man withdraws his fingers and gazes up at you in admiration. To him, you are a masterpiece. His eyes linger upon his glistening hand, slick with evidence of your pleasure. A faint smile touches his lips. Slowly, he raises those fingers and smears their moisture across your mouth like paint upon a canvas— You part your lips and he slides his fingers inside. And you clean them with your tongue while never once breaking eye contact— the chamber falls silent.
Then Aerion speaks, “I see you have been enjoying the company of my wife, Gerold.” The words strike like a hammer. The man jerks upright and turns. You hastily wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your gown and tug your garments back into place. “My Prince—” “Shhh.”, Aerion is suddenly beside him. One finger rests against the man’s lips, “say nothing.” His voice is calm— far too calm. The courage that filled you only moments ago vanishes like mist before the sun.
“You know,” Aerion says, pacing slowly across the chamber, “I believed my wife capable of many things. Yet a whore…” a dark laugh interrupts his own sentence. The sight of him moving back and forth only deepens the dread gathering in your stomach. Then he stops and raises a finger. “Though perhaps the fault lies with me. I have neglected her of late. Yes. Neglected. That seems the proper word.”
His gaze never leaves Gerold. “And she believes herself entitled to share her bed with another man. Is that not so, Wife?” The final word is spoken like an insult— the air in the room grows heavy. You attempt to hold his gaze, but anger forces you to look away.
Aerion studies the man before him. He sees the fear hidden beneath the bravado. At length, he exhales a quiet laugh. “With which hand did you touch her?“, “My Prince—”, “Which hand?”
The question cracks through the room like a whip. Aerion takes a step forward. “Or was it both?” The whisper carries the weight of a threat. “The right, my Prince.” Aerion nods—nothing more. Then he steps back. “Ser Harys. Enter.” The guardsman immediately obeys.
Suddenly, realization crashes over you like icy water— “No,” you whisper. No one hears. The guard waits for his command.
“Remove the boy’s right hand,” Aerion says. “He has laid hands upon a member of the royal family.” The words are spoken without emotion— the room darkens around you. “Ser Harys, you cannot— Prince Maekar would never permit such a thing—” you try to protest. “Do not listen to her,” Aerion snaps. “I am your prince.”
The guard hesitates only a moment. Then duty prevails— steel flashes. The man struggles to maintain his pride until the final instant, but when the blade bites through flesh and bone, a scream bursts from him. A terrible scream. One that seems to tear straight through your heart— you cry out as well.
The sight is unbearable. Blood spills across the table. The severed hand tumbles to the floor. The man collapses, begging for help. And all of it feels like your fault. You leap forward, desperate to reach him, desperate to ease his suffering— however, Aerion catches your arm. He drags you back so sharply that you stumble against his chest. “Fetch the maesters!” you cry. “Help him!” The guard rushes to obey.
“Look well, Wife,” Aerion murmurs into your ear. He stands so close that his breath brushes your skin. “This is what becomes of men who draw too near to you.” A chill races through your body. “You should think carefully before repeating such mistakes,” he continues. “Perhaps five times carefully. That is how many fingers he has lost today, is it not?” You can scarcely breathe.
Blood stains the chamber. The wounded man whimpers in agony. His severed hand lies abandoned upon the stones. You turn your head away. At last, Aerion releases you— the moment freedom is granted, you flee. You rush from the chamber and nearly collide with a maester hurrying inside. “Forgive me,” you manage to say.
Behind you, Aerion remains where he stands. And deep within him some dark and pathological hunger has— for the moment, been satisfied.
·༻𐫱༺·
“Have you lost what little wits the gods granted you, boy?!” Maekar’s voice crashes through the chamber like thunder. At the far end of the table sits Aerion, silent and unmoving, while his father paces before him like a caged beast. For what feels like an eternity, the older man has stalked the length of the room without rest, turning sharply at every corner— his boots striking the stone floor with enough force to shake the very air.
The sight would almost be comical were it not for the fury written across his face. “As though it were not enough that you shame this family with your endless scandals,” Maekar continues, his voice no softer despite the minutes that have already passed, “you have now commanded a royal guard to sever the hand of a nobleman!” His words echo from the walls— Aerion says nothing.
For nearly a quarter of an hour the tirade has continued uninterrupted. Complaint after complaint pours from Maekar’s lips while Aerion remains seated, listening in grim silence. Whether it is patience or stubbornness that keeps him rooted to that chair, even he may not know. “How is it possible,” Maekar demands, throwing his hands into the air, “that a man of your age can still behave with such astonishing foolishness? Did I not raise you with my own hands? Did I not teach you better than this?”
The prince finally halts his pacing. With long strides he approaches the table until he stands directly before his son. “Do you possess the slightest understanding of what this may cost us?” he asks. “Do you understand what sort of scandal you have unleashed upon this house?” Aerion merely shakes his head— “No. He laid hands upon my wife. He crossed a boundary no man should cross. Now he suffers the consequences of his actions.”
A sharp crack resounds through the chamber as Maekar slams his palm against the table. “Your wife?” he roars. “You speak of your wife as though you have shown her any honor! You stained that marriage from its very beginning!” The words strike true and Aerion’s jaw tightens. The muscles along his neck draw taut, yet he offers no answer.
“Lord Lannister will demand justice,” Maekar continues. “The man will demand your hand in payment for the one his son has lost—“ “Then perhaps his son should tell him precisely what he was doing,” Aerion replies coldly. “Perhaps then the Lannister boy would cease questioning the honor of House Targaryen.”
The older man stares at him in disbelief. For a long moment, only silence remains between them. At last Maekar exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his face. “Boy,” he says, the fire in his voice giving way to weary resignation, “you should pray that young Lannister does not seek vengeance for this. Pray harder than you have ever prayed in your life.”
The strength seems to leave him all at once. He sinks into the nearest chair as though carrying the weight of the realm upon his shoulders. For several moments neither man speaks.
Then Maekar leans back and studies his son. “There is something else you should know.“ Aerion finally lifts his gaze. “Several days ago, he came to me seeking an annulment“ the words hang in the air. “He spoke of ending this marriage entirely. In fact, he offered the suggestion gladly enough— the boy proposed binding you instead to that little whore you have been keeping company with and allowing her to go free.”
Aerion’s expression darkens, Maekar notices. He continues nonetheless, “as compensation, he offered to persuade his father to provide substantial payment to the Crown. Enough to smooth over the matter and preserve appearances“ a bitter laugh escapes him. “And I very nearly agreed“ the confession causes Aerion’s eyes to narrow. “Of course,” Maekar adds, “I would have spoken with you first. Yet somehow I knew you would never accept such an arrangement.”
His gaze drifts toward the window. “Not because of honor. Not because of duty.” His eyes return to his son, “but because you cannot bear to be without her.” Aerion remains silent. The accusation lands harder than any shout. “You forget,” Maekar says quietly, “who begged for this marriage”, his voice is calm now, stripped of all anger. “You were the one who came to me. You were the one who pleaded with me to arrange the match despite her betrothal to the Lannister heir.”
The room grows still, “so do not stand before me now and pretend she means nothing to you.” For a long moment, Maekar simply looks at him— Gods above, where had he failed? What mistake had he made that this man sat before him as his son? The thought alone exhausts him. At last he shakes his head, “I am ashamed of you,” the words are not shouted— they are spoken softly. Yet they cut deeper than every accusation that came before.
Aerion rises so suddenly that his chair scrapes violently across the floor. For the first time that evening, genuine emotion flashes across his face— not anger, not arrogance, something far more wounded. Without another word, he turns and strides from the chamber, the doors slam shut behind him. Maekar is left alone with the echo.
a/n: just so you guys know, this is what happens when another man touches what’s his… so let’s rethink about her cheating again
Dark perverted Aerion Drabble please ! where he manipulates baby sis .. 🥺😩
Yes I’m a sickoo guys lock me away.
#targcest4eva
we're sickos together diva, that padded room is big enough for the both of us. okay targcest look away look away.
aerion had been the only one of your kin to show true interest in you. your father had been so taken by his princely duties, your eldest brother kissed by madness, your other siblings far too young to be of their own interest. but aerion doted after you, believed you shared that same fire as he did.
"father does not understand you as i do, sweet sister." he would whisper into your ear, late at night when you would crawl into his bed after a fearsome dream. you were both grown adults, far too old to be sleeping aside one another.
but aerion allowed it, for it was exactly how he wanted you. his iron grip around you as you slept, he would make you his. he would twist your mind until it resembled his own. he made habit of stroking your hair, dragging his finger over your features as you slept beside him.
you were perfect, and you were his. you fed into his every delusion, and he fed it right back to you. sleeping in his bed at night and letting him calm you down, was only pushing you both closer.
"we shall fly on dragonback one day," he would kiss the side of your mouth, as you stirred in your sleep, "you and i."
SUMMARY - Aerion convinces you that you two are the solution to keeping the bloodline pure.
CONTAINS - SMUT, targcest, aerion is a sweet talker (my way of saying manipulative but hot), reader is a virgin
A/N - still busy as fuck but i see the requests and WILL get to them hehe
The latch on your door clicked.
You looked up from a book you had taken from the library, eyes trailing from his boots up to his face.
“Still awake, my sweet girl?” Aerion’s voice drifted over you, a honeyed purr that carried the faint scent of rich wine.
You set the book down as he stepped closer, your heart still doing that familiar flutter despite all those years.
Aerion closed the distance, his fingers reaching out to cup your chin, tilting your face up.
“You look so small in this massive bed,” he murmured, pointing out the change in furniture. “And so terribly lonely. Did you think I wouldn’t come to you tonight?”
“I didn’t know if you would be occupied with father, or… your training,” you replied, voice softer than you intended, showing just how easily your resolve melted the second he touched you.
Aerion let out a chuckle, tapping your cheek lightly before pulling his hand away to pace the length of your mattress.
“Father concerns himself with tedious matters of state, and the knights in the yard are dullards. None of them understand what truly matters.”
He stopped, turning his gaze back to you.
“But you understand, don’t you?” He stepped closer, the fabric of his doublet rustling as he leaned down, placing his hands on either side of your thighs, effectively pinning you into your own bed.
“Or have you been listening to the idle gossip of the septas again? Tell me you haven’t let those foolish people fill your pretty little head with their nonsense.”
You swallowed, gaze flickering back to his eyes. The weight of his presence was already making it hard to think straight. Your body instinctively curved into the space he occupied.
“They only speak of duty, brother. Of what is expected of a lady of our house when she comes of age.”
“Duty?” Aerion scoffed, shifting his weight so that his knees would sink into the soft mattress right between your thighs, parting them just enough to spark heat deep in your stomach.
“They know nothing of our duty. They worship a new god and preach to the common filth. They want to break us until we are nothing more than their ordinary selves.”
He reached out, fingers tangling into your hair, tugging it gently to force your head back.
His expression softened in a way that always made your chest ache with a desperate need to please him.
“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” Aerion whispered, his free hand coming down to stroke your thigh. “The thought of duty… being given away to some Lord. To have a man with foul blood touch you.”
You shivered, a small whimpering breath escaping your lips. You shook your head slightly against his grip. “I don’t want that. You know I don’t. I want to stay here with you.”
“I know you do, my clever girl,” Aerion murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed yours, leaving you breathless. “Your blood cannot be tainted. It is meant to stay pure, inside these walls. You know you are meant for me.”
But then the tender air vanished.
His hand on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in with bruising pressure that caught you off guard. His eyes darkened, a sudden cutting edge of disappointment slicing through his voice.
“Yet you still keep that final piece of yourself guarded,” he hissed softly, “you let the words of other people linger in your mind. I give you everything, and yet you withhold the one thing that ensures our bloodline remains pure. You do not live up to your claims. It wounds me, sister.”
The accusation cut straight through you.
The mere thought of displeasing him just because you didn’t understand the full weight of his demands made your chest tighten. You couldn’t bear his disappointment.
“No, Aerion, that’s not true,” you pleaded softly, hands automatically reaching up to grip his forearms. “I love you, more than anything.”
Aerion didn’t relent. He kept his gaze heavy and punishing as he looked down at your wide eyes.
“Do you?” he titled his head, a skeptical drawl that made tears prick the corners of your eyes.
“Words are easy, little sister.” He moved closer, his intoxicating scent engulfing you entirely. His lips brushed against the tip of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
“You said you love me?” he whispered filthily against your skin, the tone of his voice making your body ache in that foreign way.
“Of course I do,” you choked out, instinctively tilting up toward his knee as you practically begged for him to stop being angry with you. “Aerion, please, I do…”
You were instantly at his mercy, unraveled by nothing but your big brother’s words.
Aerion pulled back to look into your glassy eyes, a satisfied smirk finally breaking across his features.
“Then show me,” he commanded, his chin nodding upwards in your direction.
You didn’t even have time to nod before Aerion’s mouth slammed into yours. It was anything but gentle, his tongue forcing its way inside.
You whimpered into his mouth as his hands moved to the laces of your gown.
He didn’t tear them—not yet, but his fingers were slick and impatient, loosening the fabric until it pooled around your shoulders, exposing the curve of your breast.
His eyes raked over your skin. “Beautiful,” he purred, “So pure. So untouched.”
He leaned down, his hair brushing your cheek as his lips found the skin beneath your jaw. You made a light gasp, hands latching onto his shoulders.
Aerion chuckled softly against your skin, clearly pleased by how easily you melted under his touch.
He trailed a line of wet kisses down the column of your neck, his tongue tasting the frantic pulse ticking in your throat before moving lower.
When the fabric of your dress got in the way, he ripped it apart completely, throwing it somewhere onto the floor of your chamber.
Aerion paused at the sight of your naked body, his lips parting as his eyes explored every curve.
His mouth found its way back to your skin. Closing over the sensitive peak of your breast, his tongue began circling snd sucking, leaving marks.
A broken whimper escaped your lips, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He dragged his hands over your sides, smoothing over your waist before his fingers brushed your inner thigh, moving higher until he pressed against your center.
You were already slick, a needy wetness coating his fingers.
“See?” Aerion whispered, his eyes dilating with primal lust. “Your body knows exactly who it belongs to. You’re this wet and I haven't even touched you.”
The intensity in his gaze made your throat tight. He started undressing as you laid beneath him, chest heaving.
You couldn’t help but look down as he took his pants off, eyes trailing his every move.
You knew you desperately needed his approval, but as he positioned himself between your thighs, a sudden wave of panic hit you. You’d never felt anything so large pressing against your entrance.
“Aerion, wait,” you breathed, your voice small as you looked into his eyes. “I’m scared… It’s too.. it’s going to hurt.”
“It will,” he growled softly, “But you’re going to take it aren’t you? You’re not going to disappoint your brother, hm?”
He didn’t give you a chance to protest further. Placing one hand beside your head, Aerion pushed himself forward with heavy deliberation.
The barrier of your maidenhead gave way with a painful burning sting. A cry tore from your throat, tears immediately pricking your eyes as he drove deeper, breaching you completely until he was fully buried in.
The fullness was staggering, a deep ache forming around your walls as they stretched to make room for him.
Aerion stayed still for a moment, letting you absorb the size of him. He looked down at your tear stained face, a terrifyingly soft, mocking smile splayed on his face as he watched you tremble beneath him.
“Look at you,” he cooed, his voice a low, sweet purr of mock sympathy. “Crying over a little sting? My poor, fragile sister. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
You could only nod weakly as your hands clutched at his shoulders.
“But you bore it for your brother, didn’t you?” Aerion murmured, his tone shifting to give you the validation you so badly needed.
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your damp cheek. “Good girl. Such a loyal little dragon.”
Before you were able to process his words, his hands locked onto your hips. With a sudden roll of his hips, he began to move inside you.
The abrupt friction hit your freshly torn walls and you let out a needy wail, your head tossing back into the pillows.
The sensation was overwhelming. A blurry rush of heat and a sharp blinding pleasure began to form deep in your lower stomach.
“Aerion–ah! Please, it’s too–”
“Too much?” he tutted, a breathy laugh escaping him as he quickened his pace, his thrusts getting deeper, harder, driving you into a euphoric state. “It’s exactly what you deserve. You belong to me now, you always have.”
You moaned, whimpering at the onslaught of his words and the brutal force of his thrusts. Your walls clenched frantically around him, pulling him deeper with every stroke.
Aerion’s features were taut, his jaw clenched as he stared down at you.
He was consumed by the sight of your submission, his eyes roaming all over your body while he delivered heavy strokes that hit the sensitive spot of your cunt.
A high, breathless cry broke from your throat. You clawed into the muscles of his back and your vision went blurry as your climax crashed over you.
You buried your face in his neck, sobbing his name into his skin as you drowned in the sensation.
“There it is,” Aerion praised as he felt you pulsing around him. He didn’t slow down, chasing his own release with ruthless friction.
It didn’t take long before his frame went rigid, his hips shuddering as he released his seed deep inside your freshly claimed warmth.
Aerion remained heavy and unmoving over you, his breathing slowly steadying against your neck.
He didn’t pull away, keeping you anchored under him, making sure you felt every ounce of his weight.
After a while, he shifted, lifting his head to look down at you. His fingers traced a lazy path up your arm, ignoring the way you still trembled.
“Look at what we’ve done,” he murmured as his thumb caressed your flushed cheek. “You were so frightened over nothing. All that worrying, and for what? You liked it, didn’t you, my sweet girl?”
A deeper blush burnt through your face, but you didn’t look away. “Because it was you,” you responded, still breathless.
Aerion grinned at that, thoroughly satisfied. “Never forget that, little dragon.”
A smile grew on your face and you leaned closer as he pressed a brief peck to your nose before claiming you in a lazy, possessive kiss that tasted of everything you desired.
