Because he never made you feel like a burden. He never looked at the bruises on your arms and asked what you did to provoke it. He never sighed when you flinched at loud noises, never rolled his eyes when you cried, never told you to “just toughen up, he’s your father.”
He never said that.
But your mother did. She sat on the couch, cigarette burning down to the filter, and said, "He's your dad. What do you want me to do?" while you stood there with blood drying in your hair.
Your mother, who watched it happen for years and said nothing. Your mother, who once handed your father the belt because you'd forgotten to wash the dishes. Your mother, who looked at your split lip at the dinner table and asked you to pass the salt.
Your friends did. "Maybe if you didn't talk back so much..." one of them said once, and you learned to stop telling them things.
Everyone did.
Everyone but him.
He just looked at you. That first time. You were sitting on the curb outside the convenience store, trying to stop your nose from bleeding with a crumpled napkin. He didn’t know you then. You were hiding from a house that hated you. He parked his truck, walked over, and crouched down right there on the dirty pavement. He didn’t ask what happened. He just handed you a clean handkerchief—soft white cotton, like something from an old movie—and said, “You okay doll?”
That was it. The first time you saw him.
He’s not that well off—he works at a garage on the edge of town, the one with the flickering sign and the pit bulls chained out back. His hands are always stained with grease, knuckles perpetually split, nails lined with a permanent crescent of black. He dropped out of school at sixteen to take care of his own shit, family stuff he never talks about except late at night when his voice goes hollow and distant.
But he always brought you the things you wanted. Things you never asked for, because you learned a long time ago that wanting things only led to pain. Wanting got you a fractured wrist. Wanting got you called a greedy, selfish, bitch just like your mother. So you stopped asking. You stopped looking. You stared at your shoes and never let your eyes linger on anything too long.
But he noticed.
Of course he noticed. He notices everything about you. The way your breath catches. The way your fingers twitch toward something before you shove your hands in your pockets. The way your gaze drifted—just for a second, just a flicker—toward the white dress in the thrift shop window every single time you walked past it.
You never said a word. But he knew.
He knew the exact shade of white. The tiny lace trim at the collar. The way it would sit on your shoulders, the way it would twirl around your knees if you ever let yourself spin in it. You'd never spun in a dress before. You'd never been allowed to be that kind of girl.
He got it for you.
He got it. For you.
He worked extra shifts. He skipped meals. You didn't know that then. One night, after another beating, he showed up at your door with a crumpled paper bag in his hand.
"It's not wrapped or anything," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't know how to do that fancy shit."
His voice was rough, almost embarrassed, like he was the one who should be grateful.
You wore it the next day and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon. No one had ever looked at you like that before.
Before him, you never saw the sea.
Your parents never took you anywhere. Vacations were for other families, the ones whose fathers didn't drink through their paychecks and whose mothers didn't disappear into their bedrooms for days.
Your friends would plan trips—bus tickets, shared hostel rooms—and you'd watch them go from your bedroom window, forehead still throbbing from the night before. They'd come back with sunburns and blurry photos and stories you weren't part of.
"Sorry, we just don't want you to be... uncomfortable. You know, with money and stuff. We didn't think your parents would let you."
Uncomfortable.
Right.
They meant they didn't want you to make them uncomfortable. With your bruises. Your empty wallet. Your nervous habit of saying sorry for existing.
Guess who took you there?
Him.
You mentioned it to him once, months later, in the truck with the windows down and the radio playing static between stations. A joke that wasn't really a joke. You do that sometimes—say things with a laugh tacked on at the end so no one feels obligated to care.
"You know, I've never seen the sea."
"Let's go then."
Just like that. He pulled over at the next gas station, checked the oil, bought you a pack of those gummy worms you like, and pointed the truck east.
It was a long way. Seven hours. The seats were cracked vinyl and the air conditioning was broken, so you drove with the windows down and the hot wind whipping your hair into knots. You fell asleep somewhere around hour four, your cheek pressed against the seatbelt, the vibration of the road humming through your bones.
You drifted in and out, and in that half conscious haze, you felt it—the warmth of his hand on your thigh. Just... there. Heavy. Calloused thumb tracing slow circles against the inside of your knee, barely moving, like he was trying not to wake you. You kept your eyes closed and didn't move. Your heart was pounding. You didn't know if it was fear or something else. You still don't.
When you finally stood on the sand and watched the waves roll in, you started shaking. You had spent your whole life in a cage, and this man had simply... unlocked the door. He stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
"You see?" he murmured into your ear. "There's a whole world out there. And I'm gonna show you all of it. Just you and me."
Just you and him.
That was the best day of your life.
He's the best thing that has ever happened in your life.
You always wanted to try alcohol and cigarettes. Normal teenage curiosities, the kind other kids explored at parties and bonfires, the kind your father beat out of you when you stole one of his beers. You were fifteen. He cracked your head open on the kitchen counter and told you he'd do worse if you ever touched his stuff again. Your mother held a dish towel to the wound and whispered, "Why do you always make him mad?"
But he let you try it. The first time, he sat you down on the back of his truck bed, legs dangling, the night sky smeared with stars. He handed you a bottle—something cheap, bitter—and watched you wince at the taste.
"It's okay if it's with me," he said, taking the bottle back, his fingers brushing yours. "But you shouldn't do it with other people. They will take advantage of you. Bad things happen."
Then he took a slow drag of his cigarette, leaned in, and kissed you. Smoke curled between your tongues. The taste was bitter and acrid and absolutely nothing like you'd imagined your first kiss to be.
You loved it. You loved it because it was him. Because he was giving you something your father tried to beat out of you.
He pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes. "You shouldn't do this with anyone else. Only me. Promise me."
"I promise."
You promised. You'd promise him anything.
He never lets you drink with anyone else. He's always there—leaning against the wall at the party you didn't really want to go, watching from the truck when your "friends" invite you out, texting you to check in, to remind you he's waiting, to ask if you're okay, if you need him, if anyone's bothering you.
Your friends don't like him.
They say he's broke. They say he's creepy, the way he just there, the way he never talks to them. They say he's too old for you—what does a grown man want with a girl like you? They say he didn't finish his education, that he's going nowhere, that he's dragging you down with him.
"Oh my god, why is he always there? It's suffocating."
Because he loves you.
That's why he's always around. That's why he waits outside your job at the diner to walk you home. That's why he knows your schedule better than you do. That's why he once followed a guy three blocks because he catcalled you and you never saw that guy again. You didn't ask what happened. You didn't want to know. You just felt safe.
People don't want to be around people they don't like, right? Your father never wanted to be around you. Your mother took extra shifts just to avoid the house. Your friends stopped inviting you places long before he came along.
"What do you mean he doesn't want you to drink with us? That's controlling."
Shut up.
You don't know shit.
You don't know anything.
Your so called friends are just a bunch of spoiled cunts who've never felt the weight of a grown man's fist. They've never hidden in a closet and prayed for the footsteps to pass. They've never learned to read the temperature of a room by the way a door slams. They don't understand what it means to be really alone, and they don't understand what it means to be saved.
He doesn't want you drinking with them because they don't know how to take care of you. They'd let you get sick. They'd let you wander off. They'd let someone slip something in your cup and then say "oh my god that's so crazy" the next morning while you piece yourself back together alone.
He would never let that happen.
So yeah. Controlling. Sure. If "controlling" means "would die before letting a single bad thing touch you ever again," then fine. Call the police.
They don't understand.
But he does.
He was the one who got rid of your dad's body after all.
You didn't mean it.
You really didn't mean it.
It wasn't even a conscious decision. It was an instinct. A flinch. A lifetime of fear exploding outward in one desperate motion. Your father was beating you again. With his belt. The iron buckle caught the light every time he raised his arm, and it came down on your back like a brand. It made your back bleed. You could feel the wetness soaking through your shirt, sticky and hot.
He had you by the hair. Ripping it out in chunks. Your scalp screamed. You couldn't see straight. You couldn't breathe. You never understood why he hated you this much. You still don't. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe some people are just born into the world already burning, and the flames have to go somewhere.
And you were so tired.
You'd had a headache all day. A migraine, probably, from stress and hunger and the fact that you hadn't slept more than three hours in two days. And he kept ripping your hair out, and the pain was everywhere, and your vision was going white—
So you pushed him.
Not hard. Just a shove. Just a desperate, flailing attempt to make it stop.
But he was drunk. He was always drunk. And he was standing at the top of the stairs. And his balance was gone.
And he fell.
He didn't even scream. Just a grunt of surprise, then the sound of his body hitting the steps one by one by one. Then silence.
He died.
Just like that.
The blood spread so fast. It painted the floorboards black in the dim hallway light. His neck was bent wrong, his eyes open and empty.
You couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in and your hands wouldn't stop shaking and the blood was still spreading, creeping everywhere like a living thing.
So you called him.
You didn't even think. Your fingers dialed his number before your brain caught up. He answered on the first ring. He always does.
He didn't ask questions. He didn't panic. He just said "I'm on my way." and hung up.
He came in through the back door. He saw the body. He saw you, trembling, still holding the phone. And he didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He just walked over, stepped carefully around the blood, and pulled you into his chest.
"Hey. Look at me. Look at me."
You couldn't. You were staring at the body. At what you'd done.
"No," he said, and his hands cupped your face, forced your eyes to his. "Don't look at him. Look at me. Only me. Okay?"
Okay.
"Good girl. Now listen. You're going to go upstairs and take a bath. Lock the door. Don't come down until I tell you. Can you do that?"
You nodded. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered.
"Good. Go."
But your legs were giving out and your vision was blurring and he had to carry you.
He ran the bath himself. Checked the temperature with his elbow—gentle, so gentle—and helped you out of your ruined shirt. You were too numb to be embarrassed. He didn't look at you with pity or disgust. He looked at the gashes on your back, the old scars layered beneath the new ones, and his jaw tightened so hard you could hear his teeth grinding. But his hands were feather light when he cleaned the wounds, when he helped you into the warm water and told you to stay there until he came back.
"I'll take care of everything," he said, and kissed your forehead. "Everything's alright."
Then he went downstairs.
You heard things. Sounds. Thumps. The back door opening and closing. The truck engine starting, then fading into the night. And then nothing. Hours of nothing while you sat in the cooling water and shivered and prayed—to God, to the universe, to anything that might be listening.
Please don't let them find out.
Please don't let them take me away.
Please don't let him get caught.
Please.
Please.
Please.
When you came back downstairs, the body was gone. The floor was clean. The bleach smell was so strong it burned your nose, but there was no blood. Not a single drop. Your father had vanished from the world like he'd never existed.
Your mother asked you where your dad was and you said you don't know. She looked at you for a long moment—too long—and you felt your stomach drop, but then she just nodded and went back to her phone. She didn't ask again. Not the next day, and not the day after. Maybe she knew. Maybe she was just grateful. You never found out.
You couldn't sleep for days. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the fall. The sound. The way his neck bent. So you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, praying to gods you didn't believe in.
And then one day, he came back. Like nothing had happened.
He wrapped his arms around you, pulled you into the heat of his chest, pressed his lips to your hair.
"Look," he whispered.
You looked.
Huh?
"I got you the shoes you wanted."
That made you break down—heaving sobs that tore out of your throat like they'd been waiting years to escape. He held you. He didn't shush you. He just let you soak his clean shirt with tears and snot, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressed flat against your spine, careful to avoid the bandages.
"I've got you," he whispered against your hair. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. No one."
You believe him. Because he's the only person who's ever protected you.
Your friends still don't understand. They send you texts about "red flags" and "power imbalances." They don't know that he's the only reason you're still alive. That if he hadn't picked up the phone that night, you might have just lain down beside your father's body and let the cold take you too.
But he did pick up. He always picks up.
He's the only one who loves you like this. The kind of love that wraps around your throat like a warm scarf and you can't tell if it's keeping you safe or cutting off your air. But the truth is, you don't even care.
It's been two years now. Your father's case is still open, technically, but no one is looking very hard. The house got sold. Your mother moved away. You moved in with him, into that tiny studio with the broken ceiling fan and the mattress on the floor. It's not much. But it's yours.
You have a ring on your finger now. It's not a diamond—he couldn't afford that—but it's silver, tarnished, old. He found it at a pawn shop, he said. Something about the way he said it made you think maybe he didn't. Maybe it belonged to someone. Maybe he took it. You don't ask.
"I'll get you a real one someday," he promised, sliding it onto your finger with those grease stained hands. "When I've saved up. When things are settled."
You told him it was already real. You told him you didn't need anything else.
His smile almost reached his eyes that day.
He works during the day. You stay home. He says you don't need to work—he'll take care of everything. He's never been controlling about it, exactly. He just says it's safer this way. That the world is full of people like your father, people who will see your softness and try to crush it. He's protecting you.
You're not sure when "I love you" started to sound like "don't leave the apartment." You're not sure when "I'm the only one who understands you" started to feel less like comfort and more like a cage.
But maybe cages aren't so bad. Maybe safety is worth the bars.
Sometimes, when he's asleep, you think about leaving. You think about taking what little money you have and catching a bus to somewhere far away, somewhere you've never been, somewhere no one knows your name or what you did. You think about starting over. Being normal. Free.
But then he shifts in his sleep and reaches for you, even unconscious, his arm curling around your waist like you're something precious.
And you stay. You always stay.
Because you love him.
You love him so much it terrifies you.
Because if he ever left—if he ever decided you weren't worth the trouble—you would have nothing. Less than nothing. You would have the memory of what it felt like to be held, and the knowledge that you could never go back to the cold. He is your everything. And the most terrifying part, the thought that keeps you awake at night when he's not there, isn't that he might hurt you.
It's that you would let him.
If he wanted to. If he decided one day that you owed him more than gratitude. If his hands, which have only ever been gentle, turned into something else. You would let him. Because he's earned it. Because you owe him everything. Because after what you did, who else would ever want you? Who else could ever look at you and see anything but a murderer?
Only him.
Only ever him.
Your friends don't understand.
But it's okay.
You stopped talking to them months ago. With his help. He said it was better this way. He said they were toxic. He said they made you feel bad about yourself. He was right. He's always right.
summary: your husband pushes you further, and you near your breaking point
tw: abusive marriage, heavy violence, dubcon, child abuse
wc: 12.5k
********************************************
Your father often told you stories of his friendship with the Targaryen prince.
Prince Maekar, the extra spare, the fourth son of King Daeron II, the prince who would most likely never inherit the throne.
Because of his birth circumstances, Prince Maekar was not required to remain in the Red Keep the way his older brothers were. He was given free reign on where to receive education, and entertainment. He often wandered outside of King’s Landing during summers.
The Prince became especially fond of Duskendale.
Your father, Robert Darklyn II, was born the same year as Prince Maekar. More so, he was born the same month, as well as the exact same week. During Maekar’s summer trips to Duskerdale, your father was placed along with him as his companion. Their friendship grew stronger every year.
“A brother through everything but blood,” is how your father described him.
During your childhood, Maekar continued to visit House Darklyn each summer. You would see him often, though you did not speak to him. Your mother was very diligent in keeping you and your siblings away.
“He is a prince,” she would say to you, “He has no time for entertaining an unruly child such as yourself.” Your mother would say these things with a laugh, but you did not think they were a joke. She did find you unruly. Out of all your siblings, you were the one scolded the most often.
“Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak,” she would tell you, over and over. But it is a lesson you were slow to learn.
Maekar brought his sons to visit Duskendale very few times. Around the age of eleven, your mother tried to merge the families together in the dining hall for their visit. But your father decided your siblings were too disruptive, so you did not communicate with the princes any further.
When Maekar’s wife, Lady Dyanna, began declining in health, he requested your father’s presence at the castle, desperate for the company of the only man he knew he could trust. He spent several months as a guest at the Red Keep. You and the rest of your family would visit him for two days at a time every three weeks.
You did not care to keep royal company. Your mother let you wander outside if you had a guard with you, saying it was easier to keep you out of trouble if you were out of the castle.
As a girl, you enjoyed fishing. Most afternoons in Duskendale you spent near the water. During your trips to the Red Keep, you found yourself often seeking out the lakeside.
“It is not good for a girl your age to still be interested in these activities,” your mother would tsk. “It is high time you began learning embroidery.”
But sitting by the lakeside kept you quiet and out of the way, so when the family visited the Red Keep, they would allow you to do so.
Most days, however, you didn’t even try catching fish. You just wanted to linger by the water instead of by the royals. They made you wary. Especially the boys.
You did not like Maekar’s son.
Daeron Targaryen was the eldest of all the children. He made you feel unwell when he was around. His eyes tended to...linger. Though, he was quick in his looks, and part of you would always convince yourself you imagined it.
Until once, during a feast held to celebrate the birth of Rhae Targaryen, Daeron sought you out in a way that could not be ignored.
You had been standing behind your family’s table when he found you. You had neither seen, nor heard him. It felt like he had appeared out of nowhere.
“You are the only one of your family members to not be dancing.”
His voice started you, causing your shoulders to flinch. He laughed at it.
You smelt alcohol on him. He was only five and ten, four years your senior, yet he smelled like an old drunkard.
“I am not good at dancing,” you said to him, hoping that would send him off.
“Perhaps you should give it a try with me.”
You felt put under pressure. You were shy to answer, “Thank you, Prince Daeron, but perhaps another time.”
You felt wary when he didn’t make any move to leave.
“I insist.”
Your stomach dropped.
…Could he do that? Could he insist?
“I feel unfit for dancing at the moment,” you say, slow and unsure. “But thank you.” You shuffle back a step.
His hand falls on your shoulder, “I will help you.”
You pull yourself from his touch. “I must repeat my refusal, Prince Daeron.” You step back again. “Perhaps one of my sisters-”
His hand reaches out and latches onto you. A sharp gasp leaves your lips.
“Allow me just until the end of this song.” He pulled on you. “Try it with me.”
You panic, trying to push his hand off, “Wait-”
He yanks you, his drunkenness causing him to use more strength then he intended, making you stumble forward. “You will have fun, I promise.” A laugh. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
You try to pull away, but it only results in another yank. This time, you stumble so hard you almost fall. “Prince Daeron!”
“They are playing music from Darklyn, haven’t you noticed-?”
“Let go of her this instant,” a voice spits.
You are quickly released.
A hand darts out and grabs Daeron from the back of his collar, tearing him away from you.
“Dismiss yourself from the hall,” came the swift and stern voice of Prince Maekar, whose fist shook his son by the back of the shirt. “Take yourself to your chambers. Now.”
“Father, I was only hoping for a bit of fun-”
“Remove yourself immediately before you embarrass me any further.”
“No one is even looking this way-”
“Which I am lucky for. I would hate for more whispers of my drunken son being overly abrasive to our guests. Go wallow over dreams in your private chambers.”
Daeron ripped himself from his father’s hold. His face was tinted red from embarrassment. His eyes fell to you, then back to Prince Maekar.
“Worry not, father. I am done here anyway. Your guests are very...” His eyes fell on you coldly. “…unentertaining. I will take my leave.”
Daeron exits the hall. As he does, you feel he is too close. You take a step to the side, barely missing a brush of his shoulder.
“Lady (Y/N).” Prince Maekar’s voice is still stern. “Go find your mother. Do not loiter alone.”
“I did not mean to loiter, Prince Maekar,” you are quick to say. “My-My father said to remain at our table, so that is where I have stayed.”
He exhaled loudly, like he was annoyed. You were not sure if the annoyance was at you, or his son. “Regardless, it is time to find your mother.”
Your eyes fell to the floor. You give an obedient nod. “Yes, Prince Maekar.”
You hurry to find your mother, but you feel too embarrassed to explain what happened.
At the end of the night, Maekar called a meeting with your parents and explained things himself.
After that day, you were kept at home with your young siblings when your family went to the Red Keep during the summer.
********************************************
There is a specific sound your husband makes when he is displeased with something his father has told him.
It is a low grunt, mixed with a scoff.
You hear this noise at breakfast the next morning, as food is being served around the table, and wine is already overflowing for the men.
“Daeron has been spotted,” Prince Maekar announces to the family.
Aerion was audibly disappointed.
Valarr frowns, leaning forward. “Spotted where?”
“At a tavern. It was a brief sighting from a guard. They claim the moment Daeron saw them, he took off, and they were unable to catch him.”
Baelor asks, “What of Aegon?”
“No sight of him yet.”
Aerion let out a low hum, bringing his third cup of wine up to his lips. “Perhaps Daeron killed the little rat and that is why he’s hiding.”
It is hard, but you manage to control your face from physically reacting to his words.
Maekar glares. “You will hold your tongue from making any further comments.”
“Apologies father, I am only trying to soften the blow for when Aegon’s body is found.”
You have never seen someone rile up another person the way Aerion riles up his father.
Or, perhaps you have. Perhaps this is what it looks like when people say you push Aerion to the point of striking you.
The maids whisper of your ‘uncontrollably tongue’. Just this morning, when Aerion ordered them into the tent to apply your makeup and hide any lingering bruising, you heard them gossip about you beneath their breath. “She enjoys his rage,” you heard one say. “She does not care who pays for it.”
You hate them, you realized just today. You hate the serving girls. They pull your hair too hard when braiding, they yank the brush too hard when brushing, they pull your corset too tight because they are angry with you.
They take their anger out on you, yet they do not dare harm a single hair on Aerion’s head.
Aerion, the one who sliced one of their faces open. He is not punished for it, you are punished for it, even though you have remained merciful to them. You do not make sounds when they hurt you, because you know Aerion would react badly to it. You let them mistreat you without complaint, because you know he would strike them if you made a complaint. You have protected them, yet they still lie about you, spreading rumors that you are as sadistic as your husband.
Even here, in the breakfast hall, you notice the way the cupbearer refuses to meet your eye as she pours more water into your glass, yet she smiles at the Princes when she fills theirs. You wonder what lies Madam Pricher has fed her.
“The entire kingdom holds its breath for the safe return of Aegon,” Valarr says to his uncle. “I am sure if anyone finds him to be in trouble, they will give him shelter and food.”
“Yes, because Ashford is so respectful towards royalty,” Aerion hums. He holds his glass to be filled. Another cup of wine. His fourth. You become nervous. It is his fifth glass that brings out his more horrible behaviors. “The same animals that stormed the arena.”
Valarr eyed his cousin. “Hm. If only it were Prince Aerion who went missing, they would have stormed the streets in celebration.”
A small chuckles leaves Baelar. You quickly bite the inside of your lip. You glance at Aerion for his reaction, only to see he is again staring directly at you, his eyes casing your face. You wonder what would have happened if you had smiled. You recall his earlier threats of whippings, and pulling nails off. You recall the way he held your hand to a desk, and tried to cut your finger off. Your body turns cold, and you turn your eyes to your lap.
“I will not joke about the health of my sons,” Maekar grunts. “The guard who let Daeron out of his grasp has already been reprimanded. I have all others on high alert looking for them. They’re believed to both be in the city.”
You risk looking at Aerion’s cup. He is halfway though with the wine. You realize you may have less than an hour before his mood turns drunk and violent.
“(Y/N),” Maekar calls out.
Your eyes snap his way, startled by being spoken to.
“You have been wandering the city. Have you heard any whispers about the boys?”
You cannot help but look to Aerion, as he has specifically told you not to say a word during meals.
“She has heard nothing.”
“I did not ask you,” Maekar quipped.
“Have you heard anything?” Aerion tests you. “Speak if you have.”
You imagine answering him, and being punished with a breakfast plate being smashed over your head. You keeps your mouth shut.
“There,” your husband says. “She has heard nothing.”
Valarr scoffs. “Has anyone checked to see whether or not Lady (Y/N) still had her tongue? Or has he cut it out already-?”
Baelar makes a small tsking sound, and Valarr quiets.
Aerion straightens in his seat, his eyes narrowing the slightest on Valarr. “My cousin worries for you, (Y/N),” he tells you loudly. “Aren’t you lucky, to have the future king so concerned for your wellbeing?”
You try to take yourself out of your body. You clasp your hands together, and you try to think of how nice the day is outside. How the wind keeps it from being too hot. How the flowers are all in bloom-
“Show him there is nothing to worry about,” Aerion commands you. “Stick out your tongue for him to see.”
Your face flushes hot, eyes widening at the request.
“Go on,” Aerion says again. “Put his concern to rest.”
Surely, this was only a jest. Your husband would not make you stick your tongue out like some trained animal in front of his family?
Baelar sighs. “Aerion-”
“Valarr is worried, uncle, let us relieve him.” His hand falls to your knee, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Stick your tongue out. Now.”
Everyone stares at you, even the servants.
Humiliation makes your hands shake. His hold tightens on your knee. Slowly, you part your lips.
“I did not say open your mouth,” Aerion says. “I told you to stick your tongue out. If not, he’ll accuse me of planting a false one.”
“That is enough,” Valarr tells him.
Aerion brings his hand higher to your thigh, and you feel a pinch on your leg.
There is no getting out of this. And you suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is mundane in terms of things Aerion could demand of you to do.
So you obey him. You stick your tongue out, keeping your eyes on the wall to try to suppress some of the humiliation.
You shut your mouth quickly when Aerion begins to laugh. “Satisfied, Valarr?”
You do not look at him, but his voice is softer now. “I did not ask for that.”
Aerion pushes out his chair. There is still laughter in his voice. “Come, (Y/N). We are done here.”
You rise from your seat as fast as you can. You follow after him, face still hot with embarrassment.
When you exit the dining hall, you see Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty standing near the exit. They follow behind you and Aerion as you leave.
Your husband walks with a new strut. He chuckles. “How utterly bashful he became. He should know better by now than to make comments about things that belong to me.”
As a woman, you should have not been offended anymore by being told you ‘belonged’ to someone. Yet, it still irked you. To belong to a man was one thing, to belong to this man was your greatest shame.
A sigh leaves his lips. “At least he decided to hold his outburst until after I was done eating. It’d be a shame if he continued day after day ruining our meals.”
He ruined the meal?
Of course.
Valarr Targaryen. The future king. He was the one who ruined the meal.
You walk under a shaded archway of the castle. You are relieved to be in the cold shadow of the building. You risk wiping the sweat off your brow. Aerion remains walking with a fast pace, and he is hard to keep up with.
When you round a corner, Aerion grabs you and pulls you to a stop.
You quickly shift around, looking for any of the Ashford guards. Aerion has ledged you in a spot that has none. Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty still trail along, but they linger further back as they notice Aerion has stopped.
Your whole body tenses as Aerion brings his hand up to cup your face.
What does he want? What the fuck does he want from you?
“You know that’s what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted to see you open your mouth on command, and that’s why I gave him what he wanted.”
You swallow. You give a quick, obedient nod.
“No,” he drawls beneath his breath. “You don’t see it the way I do. You think of him as the good son. The courageous heir to the throne.” His hand moves to grip your jaw. “He is not as innocent as he pretends. Best believe the only reason he thinks of your tongue is to picture it running up and down his cock-”
You rip yourself from his grip, disgust on your features.
Ha laughs again. “Don’t be so naive to think it false.”
You physically bite your tongue so hard it hurts.
He is quiet, as if waiting for you to say something. When you do not, he presses further. “Unless you know it to be true? And perhaps you find enjoyment in it?”
You grip your skirts in fists, and you glare at him. He waits again. But you know better now. You do not speak.
But is he unrelenting. As if he wants you to speak. Because he wants to correct you.
“It seems my whorish wife gets excited at the thought of other men stroking their cocks to the thought of her.” He notices the way you flinch at the brazen words. He worsens his behavior. “Next dinner, I should give them something to really look at. I should just order you to pull up your skirts and show them your cunt-”
You shove his chest away from you, disgust drenching you.
He breaks out with laughter. His laugh, which you hate most out of anything in the world, is what finally makes you snap.
“How dare you speak to me with such crudity?” you spit at him, unable to handle the seething rage you feel.
“Crudity.” The word amuses him. “My, my, how sensitive you are for someone that enjoys whipping naked women.”
You turn away from him sharply. “Ser Thenty, I wish to be escorted to my tent-”
Aerion grips your upper arm and yanks you back to him. He is still amused. “Settle, woman.”
“You are barbaric,” you spit at him.
A laugh. “Barbaric?”
“I am your wife,” you whisper in a hiss, trying to rip your arm from him. He does not let go.
“I am aware.”
Your rage seeps through your words. “Yet you debase me so openly.” Your fists open and close on the fabric of your skirt. “Is it not bad enough to have me humiliated in front of so many spectators in the city, you must do so in front of the royal family?”
“I forgot how much my cousin’s opinion mattered to you.”
Aerion is jealous of his cousin, you remind yourself.
So you taunt him with the things he envies.
“The opinion of the future king will always matter over yours-”
Aerion hits you so hard that you fly back against the stone wall, barely catching your balance on it. Pain hinders you as you clutch your cheek.
“That is your only warning,” Aerion says to you.
Your hair falls in front of your face. You let it stay so that you do not have to see him anymore.
You make a quick attempt to get to Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher, who stand at the end of the small courtyard, watching. You manage to stumble only a few steps towards him before Aerion’s finger grip around your arm.
“Barbaric,” he repeats. “You find your own husband barbaric. Do you know how barbarians behave?”
“Let me go,” you say, your voice feeling raw as you hold back the tears forming in your eyes from the stinging slap.
“I will show you what it means to be debased so publically,” he tells you. “So that next time you will be more appreciative of the husband you have.”
He yanks you towards the willow tree.
“Stop it,” you whisper. You try to pull back, grounding your feet in the dirt. “Aerion-”
He flings your body towards the tree.
Your blood freezes as you watch his hands fall to his belt, and he unfastens the buckle.
No.
No.
He did not mean to do that here.
He would not abuse your body here. In someone else’s home. In someone else’s courtyard.
He was more than barbaric. He was a barbaric, hateful, spoiled, evil bastard.
You take a quick step back as his belt is dropped to the ground, and he begins to unbottom his britches.
“Behind the tree,” he orders you.
You do not move.
“Or not,” he says. “Who am I to care if we have more onlookers?”
“This is the Ashford’s castle-”
“It all belongs to the Targaryens.”
Your hands are shaking again, and your eyes dart to a single guard you see up ahead. “They-They will not forget this disrespect if word of it reaches them.”
You could picture the gossip now. The uncontrollable Targaryen son fucked his wife publically in an Ashford courtyard.
His whorish wife, they would call you.
Your eyes sting as you imagine what else they will say. You look back at the guard. Will he watch?
“They will survive.”
“It will reach your father,” you tell him, flinching as he steps closer.
His voice remains uncaring as he unbuckles his top coat, carelessly letting the jacket fall to the ground. “Gods, whatever will I do if my father hears?”
This could not happen. Not out in the open. Not in such a beautiful place. “No, Aerion, this-this is unacceptable-”
“I know. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?” he taunted with another short laugh.
You are desperate as you call, “Ser Thenty!”
“They will wait behind the gate of the courtyard.” Aerion shoos them away. “Go. A husband requires privacy with his wife. You will wait beyond the gate.”
They obeyed. They both stepped on the other side of the stone wall as if you were not begging for help.
“Behind the tree. Now.”
“Okay,” you whisper, taking a cautious step back. “Okay. Okay.”
He nears you. You wait for him to come closer, and the moment he steps behind the tree with you, you dart out the small opening behind it. You force your feet against the ground and try to run to Ser Thenty.
Aerion snatches you fast, gripping your hair and yanking you back behind the treetrunm.
He is laughing still like he is having the time of his life. “How pitifully slow you are.” With a firm shove, you tumble to the ground. Aerion kneels over you. “The more noise you make, the more of an audience we will have-”
“Get off of me!” you scream at him.
You writhe on the ground, using all your strength to try to get out from under him. He pins your hands down with ease, and amusement covers his expression. “You can either give me your body, (Y/N), or I will take it. And believe me, I would have much fun in taking it.”
It was all just a game to him.
Your torture was a game to this horrid excuse of a man.
Fire burns in your veins. You spit in his face.
You hear half a laugh before you feel the blow to your face.
You shut your eyes tightly, the slap causing your head to spin.
Aerion’s hand moves down your legs, which you writhe and kick with all your might. He grabs your skirt and lifts it to your waist.
Aerion frees himself from his trousers, and with abruptness, and no thought to your dryness, he shoves himself into you.
The pain of the harsh intrusion causes you to cry out.
Your brain tries to shut itself down. Your mind tries to leave this place.
Your husband makes a low groan, his hands tightening on your dress, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
You should be protected. That is what Prince Baelor promised you. He said you would have a knight that protects you.
But Ser Thenty is useless.
You have no idea as to why he is not serving his purpose, so you flood your mind with ideas as to how to make him.
You can do nothing but scream. So you scream.
You open your mouth and scream as loud as you possibly, possibly can.
It works in the smallest of ways. It catches Aerion off guard, making him pull his face back. He reaches out and grabs a broken tree branch, snapping off the top, and shoving it against your lips to force you quiet.
An idea sparks immediately. Your hands flies out to feel the ground beside you. You find a different branch, smaller, but enough to grip onto.
You recall exactly where you stabbed Aerion nights prior. So you grab the small stick, and you jam it in the exact same spot.
“Ah!” Your husband hunches back. “You fucking whore-!”
You rip the stick from your mouth, and slam the pointed end against his face. You hit his cheekbone, and you see the blood as you shove him back from you.
Flipping over, you try to crawl out from under him. He grabs you, yanking you back to him. You reach for something new, and you find grab a rock this time. You turn and slam it against his forehead. You hope it kills him.
But he only hisses in pain, his hand finding your throat, squeezing it so hard you see stars. He lifts you up by the throat, and slams you back to the ground.
Your hand flies out again feeling for anything you can teach. Your luck reappears as you feel a large, fallen branch. It is almost too heavy to lift with one hand, but you are able. You bring it up and slam it against his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
He screams louder.
One hand still pins down your shoulder, so to get it off of you, you turn your head and bite his arm as hard as you can.
Aerion rips his hand away, and you force yourself out from under him. You snatch the large branch off the ground, and you slam it down to his body. Then again, and again.
You hear him laugh. A long, elated laugh. “I am going skin you alive, you stupid whore-”
You slam the branch down against his head. You scream as you do so.
Aerion catches your wrist, yanking you down and knocking you off your feet. It does not make you stop. You grab his hand, and bite his wrist once more, as hard as you can. When he rips it away, you raise the branch as high as you could and bring it down on his head.
You want him dead. You hit him again. You want him dead. And again. You want him dead and gone and burning in hell-
“Lady (Y/N)!”
The scream was so loud that your whole body jolts, your heart sinking to your stomach.
“Get off of him now!”
You flinch so violently the tree branch drops from your hands. You fly to your feet and whip around.
Ser Donnel of Duskendale stands with a face red with anger. “Get away from him, you stupid girl!”
Your body quivers as you grip onto your dress, patting yourself down and making sure you are not exposed. “Ser-Ser Donnel-”
“Step away from the Prince!”
You take fast steps away from your husband.
Aerion had been right, your screaming had eventually drawn a crowd. There are more than a dozen guards near the entrance of the courtyard now, Ser Donnel’s harsh command the only thing keeping them from entering.
Your body stays tense with panic, but a different kind now. You are no longer fearing for your safety, you are fearing your punishment.
They are going to punish you for this. Oh god, they were going to hurt you for this. You wanted to burst into tears.
“H-He was-” You gulped. “He was-”
“Quiet, woman!” Ser Donnel hollers at you. He kneels in front of your husband. “Prince Aerion, do you require a maester?”
A lazy smile formed on his face. “Not as much as I require my dagger. Hand it to me so that I am able to slice that bitch’s throat open.”
“Ser Donnel,” you choke, “I was only defending myself-”
“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps at you. “I just witnessed you beating the royal prince with a tree branch. Have you any fucking idea what this will cause for you?” He grabs hold of your husband. “Allow me to assist, my prince.”
He raises Aerion into his feet. Your husband sways, before resting an arm against the tree trunk, leaning over, and puking out red wine. Ser Donnel wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“He forced me behind the tree,” you try to say rapidly. “He-Ser Donnel-He was forcing himself on me, and-” You choke on your own panic. “He would not stop, I did not know what else to do.”
There is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. You see his anger subside the smallest amount, but his voice stays stern. “Yet it is you who will face punishment for this.”
You fall apart, breaking down right then and there.
“Quiet,” the knight orders you.
Aerion wipes his mouth, but stays resting on the tree with his eyes shut, wincing as he places a hand over his torn stitches. “Shove a fistful of dirt in her mouth to silence her.”
You wish you had the speed to grab Ser Donnel’s sword and kill Aerion with it.
Tears stream down your face. “Please, do not tell his father,” you beg the knight.
Ser Donnel places a hand on your jaw, turning your head back and forth. “Prince Aerion caused these markings?”
You did not know what your face looked like, but you assumed the slap to the face, hitting the ground, and having branches shoved into your mouth did some visible damage.
You shake from your crying. “I beg of you. I beg of you, do not tell Prince Maekar.”
“Prince Aerion, what was the cause of this?”
“My wife is excited by bloodshed-”
“He is lying!” you say to Ser Donnel. “He is a bastardly liar-!”
Ser Donnel hisses, “Hold your tongue!”
You had been trying.
All day, you had been trying your absolute hardest to hold your tongue. You stuck out your tongue on command, in front of the soon to be king.
You tried to hold your tongue but Aerion wouldn’t let you.
He escalated and escalated and escalated and you wish you had the strength to have driven that stick into his skull.
“I must take you to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar at once.”
A sob escapes your throat. “No-”
“You have been warned about this,” Ser Donnel spits beneath his breath. “What did you think would happen?”
“He will not understand,” you cry.
“You will put yourself at Prince Maekar’s feet, and you will beg for his forgiveness.” Ser Donnell snaps. He gestures for the guards to move forward. “And if he is merciful, perhaps you can save yourself from the same fate you saw after your incident with Prince Daeron.”
The incident with Prince Daeron. Your body still shudders at the memory from your maiden years.
“No,” you say again. “Please. Aerion-” You suddenly grasp onto your husband’s hand. “Aerion, do not let your father hear about this.”
Aerion drags his hand over his mouth, and he catches a drop of blood that comes from a cut just above his mouth. “And why should I defend the whore who so viciously attacked me?”
“Please,” you cry again. “I am sorry. I will never dare do something like that again. Aerion-Aerion, I-” You search your mind for anything you think might trigger some form of sympathy.
You recall how calm Aerion was in his armor tent, how tender his words became when you massaged him.
So you force yourself forward, clinging to him, burying your face in his chest. “I beg for you to forgive me.”
You dare not look at his face. You keep your face against his chest, gripping his shirt like he is your hero rather than your tormentor.
“Do not let him force me inside, my prince. Please, I am sorry.”
There is a moment where you hear nothing, and you can only imagine Aerion is exchanging words with Ser Donnell through looks alone.
“Lady (Y/N) is my lawful property,” Aerion eventually speaks. “What she does is no business of my father.”
“Prince Aerion,” Ser Donnel urges. “I must warn you, he may hear about this through gossip either way. There are guards witnessing this, and they will tell tall tales if no disciple is given to her.”
“The disciple comes from me, not my father. She is mine, not his.”
You can feel Ser Donnel’s agitation. Yet he holds back any further comment besides, “Very well.”
“Come, (Y/N),” Aerion commands, pulling you away. “Let us return to our tent.”
You cannot bear to meet Ser Donnel’s eye. Aerion holds your upper arm, and he leads you out of the courtyard.
As you pass the entryway, your blood freezes as you see Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher waiting exactly on the other side of the archway.
Standing there.
As if nothing was happening.
As if they had not so clearly heard you screaming.
They begin to follow after you, as if nothing had happened.
*******************************************
You do not return to the Red Keep until the death of Lady Dyanna.
Your entire family makes the journey as soon as your father hears the news.
Never in your life had you seen a grown man weep until the day you arrive at the castle, and Prince Maekar greets you father with tears still in his eyes.
The Prince loved his wife. And your father loved your mother. You were raised with this belief-that husbands and wives loved each other. It was a kind thought in the cruel world.
“You will be on your best, most respectful behavior,” your mother told you all before the funeral. “The Targaryens are grieving. They should be met with empathy and compassion only. Does everyone understand?”
Your siblings were obedient. You tried to be too.
Yet, when your siblings were sent out to begin their walk to the funeral cathedral, you were the one held behind.
“It is very important to your father that you remain silent today,” your mother tells you with both hands on your shoulders. “Can you do this for him?”
“I do not speak out of turn,” you tell her.
“Yes, but...a proper girl must bite her tongue even when insulted. Do you understand?”
You did not. Yet, you replied, “Yes, mother.”
“Be respectful to the princes. Even Prince Daeron-”
“Prince Daeron is the one without respect-”
“(Y/N),” she criticized. “He lost his mother. The only words you should speak are condolences.”
“…Yes, mother.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “Go and behave. I believe in you.”
The funeral was a somber event. The princes lined the front of the building as people drawled on about the will and plan of the gods.
When it was time to leave, you followed after your siblings to the front of the building. “We will offer our sorrows,” your father tells you.
You walk along with your siblings, each of them offering condolences to the princes as they passed.
Maekar’s children are there, even the babies held by wet nurses. You divert your eyes as you pass the sons, as to not make eye contact with Daeron.
You stand next to your father as he passes his friend. “She was a beautiful, kind mother, Maekar. The kingdom will miss her.”
You do not know how it tumbles from your mouth, yet it does. Maekar stands so tall, so noble like. You are so young, you are not smart or well versed in how a kingdom works.
Stupidly, you try to console him by saying, “She would have been a well loved Queen-”
Your father’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, silencing you. “Forgive her,” he says quickly. “She is ignorant to titles.”
“All is well,” Maekar dismays. “She...would have done wonders as a queen.”
You are pulled away, and your father hisses, “What were you thinking? Maekar is a fourth son, he will never take the throne, his wife would have never been queen.”
“That is not certain-”
“Go to your mother,” he demands. “You will stay by her side for the entirety of the feast.”
“Why is there a feast?” you ask him. “You said the castle is in mourning-”
“Enough. Go with Ser Donnel,” your father commands you.
Ser Donnel, one of the guards from your home in Duskendale, was now a knight of the Red Keep. He was still loyal to House Darklyn and was the escort to your father during his visits.
“Little Lady (Y/N),” Ser Donnel greets you with a short laugh. “Your father has already warned me to keep my eye out for you.”
“Take her to the feast. Ensure she does not linger with any company,” your father commands him.
You are sent away with a knight like you are a criminal at risk of escape.
******************************************
What fucking use is he?
What use is that pathetic, empty-headed, cowardly, bastard of a knight.
There is rage in your eyes as you stare at Ser Thenty from across the room.
The feast was lively tonight. The first week of jousting had officially ended, and there was a city wide celebration thrown.
Aerion forced you along for it, despite your body aching from the earlier incident.
“You had been right not to involve my father,” Aerion had told you when the two of you got back to the tent. “He would have punished you publically. I will not.”
Aerion had settled on a…martial punishment.
It was brutal, but it was bearable. And you were grateful that he did not break any of your fingers as he so often threatened to.
You got off easier then you would have had Prince Maekar gotten involved.
“You were lucky for Ser Donnel arriving,” your husband told you. “I would have walked you back to the tent stripped naked had you hit me one more time.”
No, he wouldn’t have. That was something you were learning.
Aerion could not stand the thought of someone else seeing you naked. Your body belonged to him, and he wanted it to be only for him.
He would even force Ser Thenty to face the wall when he had his way with you.
Ser Thenty, who did nothing.
He was tasked to protect you, yet he would stand by and listen to you scream.
He would have allowed Aerion to continue to rape you right there in the courtyard. He heard you screaming and crying and begging for help, yet him and Madam Pricher stood by as if nothing happened.
You were wrong. Ser Thenty was not a good knight.
He was as evil as every other man.
You hated Ser Thenty.
You hated Madam Pricher.
You hated your husband.
You hated everyone at this feast.
Everyone was dancing and laughing like it was the time of their lives, and you were practically chained to your chair and living on the mercy of a tyrant.
You had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep you at peace.
Just...nothing.
Depression hits you with a numbness. You did not think, you only stared ahead, no thoughts in your mind. You sat empty headed and hoped you would die in the upcoming year.
You were numb to the point that when a cupbearer filled your cup with wine, you drank it.
And you kept drinking. You kept your cup to your lips, because it kept your husband from speaking to you.
Until Aerion suddenly snaps at you, “Slow down. You will be sick tonight if you continue that quickly. And I will not have patience with a sick woman.” He takes another chug of his own wine bottle, then wipes his face with his sleeve like an uncivilized child. “Pull yourself together or everyone will think low of you.”
Your insides twist. “They already think low of me for being your wife.”
“They would think low of you for being anyone’s wife, you do a horrible job at it.”
You stare blankly at the dancers that perform in the middle of the room. Aerion seems quite taken with them, yet part of you wonders if he only watches the women because he knows it get under your skin.
Aerion’s family sits far away from you two. You understand why. You take a moment to finally get a good look at Valarr, as you have never been able to before.
He is handsome, and perhaps that is why Aerion is so worried about you speaking to him.
Though, in another life, you would have found Aerion as the most handsome man in the world. But his attractiveness was ruined when he first opened his mouth.
Your eyes dart to Ser Thenty as he circles the room, before coming to Madam Pricher, who rests against the wall behind you.
“I will return in a moment, Madam Pricher,” you hear him tell her.
“Very well. Be swift.”
You glance behind you, and you see him leaving the feast hall.
Your anger blooms once more, spiking your heart rate.
“I feel as if I will vomit,” you tell Aerion.
“Hm.”
“I must step outside for air.”
“Convenient timing,” you hear him say, a hint of irritation in his tone. But your husband is angry about everything, always, so you do not care.
The room spins when you rise to your feet. You hold yourself still for a moment to make it stop.
You walk swiftly after Ser Thenty. He goes outside. In suspected privacy, he begins to lower his pants to urinate against the tree.
“Ser Thenty!”
He flinches, and quickly tucks himself away and recomposes himself. “Lady (Y/N), where is your chaperone?”
Anger bites in your voice, frustration deleting all your hesitation. “Is it not supposed to be you?” you accuse. “Were you not the one Prince Baelor charged with maintaining my safety?”
“What?” Ser Thenty fastens his pants as quickly as he can. “You should not be out here. Return to the feast inside.”
“What purpose do you have?” you drawl, the wine draining you of all common sense you had about decency. “What is the point of you following my husband and I if he is able to do whatever he pleases? Strike me whenever he pleases? Rape me whenever he pleases-”
“Lady (Y/N),” he cuts off sharply. “We are not meant to converse alone.”
“And you are not meant to witness my torture, you are meant to prevent it!”
“I apologize,” Ser Thenty tells you. “But there is little for me to do. Aerion is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. No matter my orders, I am forbidden from harming him.”
“So I was right in my doubt of you? You cannot do anything because you are a small, cowardly man?”
His tone loses patience. “You must return inside. We cannot be caught out here without a chaperone.”
You did not care for a chaperone. The wine gripped your heart and rid you of your common sense.
Your hand shoots out and you grab Ser Thenty, gripping his arm with a tight squeeze. “Are you not ashamed of yourself for this-?”
He shoves you, hard. So hard you stumble, your anger faltering as your mind reminds you this is a man capable of harming you.
“Do not touch me,” he snaps at you. “You know what your husband will do if he sees such a thing.”
“Of course I know what he will do! You are the one who ignores his actions-!”
“You are alive, Lady (Y/N). You are alive, without any broken bones. I am completing my duty.”
“You are a liar as much as a coward!” you scream. “You sat and did nothing as I called to you!”
“I would have went to you immediately if you were in actual distress, my Lady.”
Your heart spikes with blood curdling anger. “You walked away as my husband raped me!”
“He is your Lord husband,” Ser Thenty tells you. “A man cannot rape a woman that belongs to him.”
And there it was.
There was the answer right there, all along.
You do not get protection from a knight like a man would.
Because you are a woman, meaning you belong to someone.
Why would an object be valued over their owner?
Tears sting your eyes at the frustration of this life.
“You are a craven bastard!” you cry. “And I hope you are tortured in the pits of Hell for all you have allowed to be done to me!”
Heads are turning from the guards outside. More eyes have fallen on you too.
Ser Thenty appears flustered now, less bold under the attention.
“I am going back to the feast,” he tells you. “You should try to sober yourself. You are likely to upset your husband this night.”
You suddenly bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it at the coward.
Ser Thenty ducks it, his eyes widening.
You hear the insult he whispers. “Unrestful cunt.”
He leaves you alone with only the guards that pose along the tent.
You do not want to return inside. Inside is Hell. Outside is Hell. Everything is Hell.
So instead, you drop yourself on the ground with your back against the tree.
You hide your face, and you break down.
*******************************************
You pick at the food on your plate boredly as you watch the nobles dance their way around the hall. “Has a fourth son of a king ever become king himself?” you ask.
Ser Donnel stands beside your chair. He gives a nod as his eyes scan the room for trouble. “Aye. A few times in history. Though, is it not too common.”
“Could Prince Maekar be king one day?”
“It is possible. Though, not too likely.” He glances at you with curiosity. “For what reason do you ask?”
You lean back in your chair. “My father is angry that I told Prince Maekar his wife would’ve been a good Queen-”
“He told you not to speak,” came your sister’s voice from beside you. “You always have such stupid things to say-”
“Be silent,” you snap at her. “I am talking to my knight.”
“Your knight?”
You ignore her and say to Ser Donnel, “It would have been possible for Lady Dyanna to have been queen one day. And if she had been, she would have been well loved. What I said was not incorrect, why must I always be punished for speaking?”
“Because you don’t speak properly,” your sister tells you. “Mother says that is why they will have to arrange your marriage. You will never be courted because you are loud.”
“You will never be courted because you are nosy-”
“Girls, settle,” Ser Donnel chides. “We must keep respect on a day like this.”
“How is any of this respectful?” you ask. “People are drinking and laughing. They are meant to be crying.”
Your sister huffs. “You are still so very loud with your opinions-”
“Enough of you.” You push yourself to your feet. “I will be retiring for the night.”
“Your father requests you remain here until the feast is over,” Ser Donnel tells you.
You lean back in your chair with a heavy sigh.
“Prince Daeron is dancing,” your sister comments.
You say, “Prince Daeron is drunk-”
“(Y/N),” Ser Donnel chides again.
“He is stumbling,” you say. “He has stepped on his partner’s feet several times. She looks as if she is in pain from him. Should you not put a stop to it, Ser Donnel?”
“His mother has passed. Let him grieve how he needs to.”
A frown forms. You watch Prince Daeron, unimpressed.
Finally, the song ends and the girl he danced with rips herself from his grip and flees off the dance floor.
He is not able to find another partner by the time the next dance starts. So he returns to his table and slumps down in a chair beside his brother, Prince Aerion.
Prince Aerion is different then the others. There is a glare on his face as his eyes take in the events of the room. You wonder if he finds it all disrespectful as well.
His eyes continue to cross the room. Then, without warning, his eyes dart to you.
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly look away. You wonder if he noticed you staring. You risk a glance back, and see Prince Daeron whispering something to him. Both of them look at you. You quickly stare at the table, and try to convince yourself you did not see them.
But then the horrid unthinkable happens. You hear him.
Coming from your left, you hear his voice. “Lady (Y/N).”
Your head turns. Prince Daeron stands there, drunk as always, a smile too wide for his mother’s funeral feast.
“I was hoping to have that dance with you now.”
You look at Ser Donnel first, and it is clear this has caught even the knight off guard.
“Prince Daeron,” you slowly begin, “I am…still not well at dancing-”
“I do not mind.” He holds a hand out. “Shall we?”
His eyes are glazed over from drunkenness. You risk glancing at his shoes, which look heavy, and you imagine them stepping on your feet.
“I am very sorry, Prince Daeron, but my father has ordered me to stay seated-”
“Dance with the prince,” your sister urges you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It is his mother’s funeral. Why are you being so cruel?”
You are jolted as Daeron puts a hand on your chair, pulling it out. “Exactly. It is my mother’s funeral. You would not reject me for a dance at this time, would you?”
“I-” Before a word gets out, he grabs your arm, and pulls you up out of your chair.
“Prince Daeron,” Ser Donnel speaks, “You appear unsteady.”
“I am perfectly alright.”
“I think it would be best if you took a break.”
“Your concern is noted.” Daeron’s hand remains on your arm. His head jerks towards the dancing. “Shall we?”
You do not know what to do.
So you try to think of what your father would advise. He would surely tell you to be respectful, and not to embarrass him.
Placing your hesitation to the side, you agree, “Perhaps you can accompany me for…one dance.”
As you are taken to the dance floor, you feel a sweeping nausea that you must suppress.
Daeron is an awful dancer. He refuses to use any proper dance moves, and he refuses to let you do any either. Instead, he pulls you into him. Your body hits his with a startled gasp, and his hands fall to your waist. He sways with you, though his swaying feels more like stumbling.
Your closeness is inappropriate. Your eyes dart around, fearing your father will see it.
At least those around you look sympathetic rather than judgmental. They know you do not want this dance.
“I have not seen you in so long,” Daeron says to you.
You turn your head as you speak, the alcohol on his breath almost too strong to bear. “My father prefers traveling on his own when he visits the Red Keep.”
“No,” he mumbles. A short shake of his head. “I have not…seen you. I saw you so often before. It’s as if you are…hiding from me now.”
You do not understand him, and you do not want to.
Moments pass without anything said.
“I am very sorry about your mother,” you tell him, because you do not know what else to say. “I cannot imagine your grief right now. I will pray that you are able to get through it.”
“Yes, my mother.” A light smile. “She would have made a very good queen.”
Your shoulders slouch, and you think he is mocking you.
Until he says, “One night, I saw my father on the throne with the King’s crown on his head. He did not believe me.”
It confuses you. “You…saw him?”
“Dreamt of him.”
You do not know what to reply to that, so you say nothing.
A larger smile rises to his lips. “You know, my brother-” He pauses, and laughs. He does not continue.
The music comes to an end. You try to take a step back from him. He does not let you.
“Once more,” he says.
It would embarrass your father if anyone saw you argue with Daeron, so you stayed where you were, and allowed him one more dance.
“You are ten and three now?” he asks you.
“Yes. Ten and three.”
“Have you become a woman yet?”
The question startles you. Your face flushes hot. “P-Pardon?”
“Have you bled yet? And entered womanhood?”
Yes. You began bleeding almost a full year prior to this. But it was not his place to know. You refuse to meet his eye. “No.”
“You would not lie to your Prince, would you?”
You glance around the room to try to see if your father is watching. “We mustn’t speak of such things.” Your voice wavers with your desperation to get away from him.
“Why not?”
You feel choked with embarrassment. “It-It is improper.”
Your eyes search for Ser Donnel.
“And what of maidenhood?” he asks. “Are you still a maiden? Or have the men in Duskendale already seen to that?”
You try to rip yourself from his hold. He holds you tight.
“That is an abhorrent, s-sinful thing to ask,” you tell him. “Let me go at-at once.”
“It is a simple question.”
He grips tightens on your waist so hard it makes you shout a panicked, “Ser Donnel!”
Heads begin to turn your way.
Daeron keeps a tight hold on you. “You needn’t be embarrassed. It is only a question-”
“Let go of me,” you try again, but with no resolve. You feel hot and unable to breathe.
He pulls you against him harder. “Take it as a compliment that your beauty has stirred such scandal among royal princes.”
“Please, let me go,” you have resorted to begging. “I do not wish to dance any longer.”
“He speaks as if he already owns you, can you believe that?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yet he mocks me for my behavior. He mocks me as if I do not have the power to ruin what he wants.”
His drunken ramblings mean nothing to you. “Please, my prince, my mother will worry if she-”
Daeron leans down, and he places his lips against yours.
A hard, painful, brute of a kiss. His face slams so hard against yours that the inside of your lip is cut from your own tooth.
You are struck with panic. Instinctively, you stomp your foot down onto his, you shove his chest away, and you slap him in the face as hard as you can.
The hall falls hauntingly quiet. The band has stopped playing, all conversations cease in an instant.
You have struck the King’s grandson, and everyone has seen it.
********************************************
“What has happened, Lady (Y/N), are you hurt?”
It is Ser Donnel that approaches you.
He has heard your cries from his post at the front of the feast, and he recognized them. Hearing you crying so often in your childhood, the tears ring as familiar as your voice.
You hide your face from him.
“Lady (Y/N), please, tell me. Has someone hurt you?”
“You know who hurts me,” you whisper.
“Do you require a maester?”
The words cause you to cry harder. “I require a divorce!”
“Lady-”
“I require a jousting accident that makes me a widow!”
“You should not say these things aloud,” Ser Donnel tells you.
“I do not care who hears!” you weep. You place your face in your hands and cry harder. “I wish for a window to jump out of and end my misery!”
A somber sigh leaves the knight. His hand falls on your shoulder. “The days will get easier, my lady.”
“No, they will not!” Your tears stream down your chin. “They get worse every day that passes! My husband ripped me from my home and forced me into marriage! Then he threw me into solitude for months! Now he has decided to use every waking minute to break my soul!”
You are so swept up in your emotions that for the first time in your life, you have no room to be embarrassed. You are a horrible wreck of a crying woman and you do not care.
“I am doing nothing but awaiting my death!” you scream with hot tears leaving your eyes. “I hate that evil man! I hate him! I-I-!” You cut yourself off by choking on your own son. You bury your face further in your hands. “I wish to never see his face again!”
Ser Donnel is silent. You cry beside him as if he was a confidant. You did know if he was, if anyone was, but you appreciated that he did not force you back to Aerion.
“I will write to your father,” he eventually tells you. “I will have a letter sent this very night, letting him know that there is…concern to be raised about your treatment. I will request his immediate visit to the Red Keep. He is sure to get there by the time we return from the tourney.”
“Aerion will have me dead by then,” you sob. “He will have sliced my throat and thrown my body to the wolves-”
“He will do no such thing, Lady (Y/N).”
“You have no idea what he is capable of.” You choke on your own tears. “He wants me dead, Ser Donnel. He wants to rip me to pieces and burn me to ashes.”
“He does not.”
“He despises me.” Your words are muffled. “And he wants every person to know it.”
“Have I not told you what he wants from you?” Ser Donnel asks. “He wants an obedient woman-”
“He does not!” You finally pull your hands from your face. “He riles me! You do not believe me, but he does! He wishes for me to speak out of turn because he wants to punish me in the most despicable ways!”
“Aerion was most insistent on your wedding. He would not go through such great lengths only to have you die by his hand.”
His words cause a stir in your body. They begin to sober you. “…What great lengths?” you whisper.
Ser Donnel seems to hesitate, as if unsure if he is spilling a secret.
“Aerion claims I was chosen by him,” you say. “But-My mother said it was his father who insisted on such a marriage between houses.”
“Prince Maekar, nor your father, would have ever wanted the houses bridged through Aerion.”
“What?” You do not understand, and the confusion makes your head ache even more. “Why-Why then was the marriage permitted?” Why were you given to that monster?
Ser Donnel glances towards the knights at the entry way. He lowers his voice. “…It was not permitted. Not by Prince Maekar, not by your father. Aerion went to his grandfather, the King, for permission.”
Your blood runs cold. “…The king?”
Ser Donnel seems uncomfortable now. “I fear I have said more than I should have.”
He stands, and you quickly reach out to grab his arm. “No. No, don’t go. Why did he go to the King-?”
“I have no authority to answer such questions,” he tells you.
“My life is on the line, Ser Donnel-”
“It is not,” he insists sternly. “Lady (Y/N), if your husband meant to kill you, do you think he would have spared you from facing his father after your violent actions against him this morning?”
“My violent actions were justified-”
“I have no doubt they were. He has always been a cruel boy, and I’m sure he wants you scared, but he does not want you dead. You will live through this. But be better about it.”
“What am I to do?” you ask him with a pitiful cry in your tone. “What will make him stop?”
“Perhaps obedience is not all he wants,” Ser Donnel tells you. “He is a jealous man, as I am sure you’re aware. He wants a good wife, but perhaps most of all a wife who knows she is his. Let yourself belong to him.”
Belong to him. Belong to Aerion. Is that not death itself?
Another long sigh from Ser Donnel. “I am sorry about this marriage, (Y/N). I warned your father about this. I told him that your sisters were the ones who were wifely, that you were the more troublesome. He had said himself that you were not meant for any marriage, with any man, especially not a man that is so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But it is done now. And I will ensure your father is made aware of your mistreatment.”
You stare at him, his words falling heavy on you. “…My father said I was not meant for marriage?”
He looked at you as if he pitied you. He probably did. “Do not lament over such things. Come, step inside. It is time to return to your husband before he notices your absence.”
*******************************************
Your mother holds you against her, pleading, “I will send her home immediately, my Prince. You will never see her here again.”
The hall is quiet, sounded by only harsh whispers that have spread through the room like fire.
“I apologize for her, she will be punished-”
Prince Maekar silences her. “Do not speak.”
Your body trembles, and your mother holds you tighter.
Maekar talks only to your father. “Your daughter has struck my son.”
“She will be punished for this greatly.”
“Mama,” you whisper, “He forced a kiss upon me-”
“Do not speak!” Your father shouts at you, his anger louder than Prince Maekar’s.
You hide your face in your mother’s dress.
Maekar’s voice is so cold it gives you shivers. “Your daughter has struck my son on the day of his mother’s funeral.”
Another man steps up to speak. You do not know, nor recognize him. “Perhaps this should be settled privately.”
“Perhaps not,” Maekar spits. “It was done publically.”
“She is a child, brother, and your son is not known for being gentle with girls.”
“The consequences of a woman striking a royal are stated clearly in the law book.”
Murmurs break out in the dining hall.
You’re confused by the voices jumping around. You keep your eyes shut tightly.
“Seven whippings.”
You hug your mother tighter. “I am sorry-”
“Shh,” she shushes.
“Please, my prince,” you hear your father say. “She is a stupid girl, but she is not a traitor to the crown. Give her a chance to correct this.”
There is more whispering done by your father and the prince, but you are too far to hear it.
Finally, Maekar announces, “A compromise has been made. She has the chance to bend the knee to Daeron. Here. Now. Bend the knee and ask for forgiveness.”
“(Y/N),” your mother whispers, pulling you away from her. “(Y/N), go to your father.”
You look around to see the crowded room stares directly at you. You walk to your father with shaky steps. Your eyes clouded with tears.
“Kneel down before Prince Daeron,” your father tells you. “Apologize for your sins and beg him for forgiveness.”
Your lips quiver. “Kneel?”
“Kneel.”
You finally lay eyes on Daeron again. He is slumped along a chair, but rises to his feet with a look of smugness. “Beg for forgiveness,” he says, “And maybe I will give it to you.”
The amount of people watching you makes you feel sick.
Your eyes return to your father. “...He was improper to me-”
“Kneel and apologize,” your father stresses through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”
Taking hold of your shoulder, he forcibly turns you and forces you towards Daeron.
“Kneel,” you are instructed again.
You stare at Daeron.
And suddenly, the worry you feel-you fear you feel-is replaced by nothing but complete and utter outrage.
How dare he?
How dare he rip you from your seat, force you against his body, ask about your womanhood, and force a kiss on you?
This drunken, perverted bastard disgraced you.
And you were meant to apologize to this fool?
You would not.
To apologize would mean to say you were wrong. He was wrong. He deserved more than a slap, and you will not claim you are sorry for it.
You whip back around to your father. “I will not bend the knee to him.”
Prince Maekar’s eyes grow wide with anger.
Your father spits, “Get on your knees-”
“He spoke of the most abhorrent things,” you announce. “He asked about my bleeding, and my maidenhood, and he forced a kiss upon me-”
“(Y/N)!”
“He forced his hands on me, and I will not apologize for defending myself against him!” you cried to your father. “He does not deserve any apology! I do!”
Maekar snaps at your father, “She will kneel, or she will be whipped.”
You speak before your father does, “Then I will be whipped!”
And so it was.
Maekar grants his friend the sole favor of allowing your father to whip you himself.
So right there, in the middle of the feast hall, in front of nearly every noble in the realm, you are bent over a table and whipped seven times.
*******************************************
Ser Donnel coaxes you to your feet. He leads you inside, ushering a nearby servant to wipe your eyes and fix your powdered face.
The servant returns you to your seat beside your captor.
“You were gone for a long time,” Aerion comments. His eyes are on the entertainment, but all his attention seems focused on you. “Where did you go?”
“I was only getting fresh air.”
“With whom?”
“Myself. And two guards.”
“Which guards?”
“I do not know the names. I did not speak to them.”
“You were out for so long without speaking?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He snaps a finger in the air. “Madam Pricher.”
You feel a coldness as she steps forward. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
“Who was my wife outside with?”
“I only needed a moment alone-“
“She followed Ser Thenty out, Prince Aerion.”
His eyes finally settled on you. “Did she now?”
The urge to begin weeping fell upon you again.
“Ser Thenty,” he all but snapped. “What business was so important you had to discuss it with my wife?”
The knight’s eyes dashed between the two of you. “She followed me outside, my prince. I did not ask for it. I corrected her immediately and excused myself, reminding her there should never be a time we are alone without a chaperone.”
Aerion’s hand moves towards you. You flinch, even though he merely places a gentle hand on your wrist. “You so often forget the rules I have placed for you.” His thumb brushes your skin. “What was so urgent that you needed to run after him like a whore left unpaid?”
You stared at the table in front of you, wishing you could sink into the floor.
“Answer me or I’ll beat it out of him.”
The threat of harm caused Ser Thenty to quickly say, “She felt I was not doing my job properly. I disregarded her and returned inside immediately.”
Disregarded.
That is exactly how you felt.
And it made you feel so cold.
But the chills truly hit your body when Ser Thenty added, without prompting, “Ser Donnel is the one she was out there with.”
Your heart skips a beat, your head snapping in his direction to stare at him with widened eyes.
“There were other guards nearby, but they were sitting out of range of being heard,” he continued. “I do not know what they conversed about.”
You stare up at Ser Thenty with eyes of horrific betrayal.
He has thrown you to the wolves to save himself.
You watch as your husband’s eyes darken. You try to quickly tell him, “He was only consoling my distraught mood-” You hiss in pain as Aerion’s hand snakes up the back of your head, tugging tightly on your hair.
His thumb brushes the back of your ear, his fingernail pushing deep against the skin. “And what secrets were being whispered into my wife’s ear by dear Ser Donnel?”
“There were no secrets-” You flinch, your mouth shutting as you feel the sliver of something sharp on your skin.
Your husband’s dinner knife. It is in his hand, pressed against the back of your ear. Your hands fly to push him arm away. “Aerion-”
“Place your hands on the table. If you cause a scene, you will not like the outcome you find.”
Your hands are trembling now, yet you force them flat against the table. You look around, desperate for someone to have noticed already, but it seems nobody has.
“Shall I take an ear?” Aerion taunts you. “To punish you for continuously not listening?”
You shut your eyes tightly. “Nothing was done, the-the guards can vouch for me,” you quickly spudder out.
He gives a short, unconvinced, “Hm.”
Your whole body flinches as you feel the sting of a small cut against the back of your ear. Your hand flies out instinctively to try to push him away, “Aerion-”
“Hands flat on the table.”
You force yourself to do so. But he presses harder. Your eyes sting with tears from the sharp pain.
Aerion leans forward, his face painstakingly calm. He brings his lips to your ear. “Was I not the one who saved you from Ser Donnel’s wrath just this morning?” he asks you. His voice mimics being emotionless, yet...something was there. You could hear something in that tone, whether it was jealousy or hatred, you did not know. “He would have ripped you from my hands and delivered you to my father to be whipped.”
You try, once, to get out of the situation. “Ser Thenty, he is hurting me-”
He presses the knife harder. A sharp cry leaves your lips. It turns a few heads of those sitting beside you. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. The small batch of blood you felt now becomes a trickle down your neck.
“You think he wants to spare you from this?” Aerion scoffs. “Do you think Ser Thenty does not see what a disrespectful cunt you are?”
“I am sorry.” You do not know what else to say.
You feel defeated by this world.
There is no more fight left in your body, it is just...pain. It is always pain, and it will always be this way.
The tears in your eyes begin to spill over.
“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”
That is all you do anymore. Beg for forgiveness.
Your stomach churns with how sick you are of all of this.
“I-I did not call on Ser Donnel.” You try to keep your voice quiet and even. “He saw me in distress, because I was weeping. That is all. We spoke of my father. I-” The blood trickles down to your shoulder. “I would never call on him.”
His hold on you barely loosens. “You will repeat every word that was said when we return to the tent.”
“I will. I will repeat every word.” You are desperate for relief of this pain, so your hand moves to his thigh, and you clutch the material of his trousers. “I am sorry, husband, I did not mean to disrespect you, I-I know better. Forgive me.”
He is quiet a moment, but he finally pulls his hand away, the knife leaving with it. You shudder a long breath of relief.
He places a napkin in your hand, and pushes it against your ear. “Pull yourself together. The tears make you look so ugly.”
You hope you bleed out and die.
The edge of Aerion’s knife is coated in your blood, and it has dripped down to his wrist. He brings the knife to his mouth. You feel sick as you watch him draw the knife along his tongue, ingesting the crimson red until it is gone.
“Go clean yourself off,” he tells you. “The tears and blood will be gone when you return.”
You swallow. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
You push out the chair quickly.
When you turn around, you see those two bastards just staring at you.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher watch you like nothing has happened. As if they were not your protectors that have been carelessly witnessing your torture.
A rage builds in your soul and you are unable to swallow it down.
You have been held hostage by your husband, living only by his mercy. And this pitiful excuse of a knight seems to think you deserve it? That it is your role of wife, that being beaten without complaint is you staying in your place?
Perhaps Ser Thenty would see his sins for what they were if he were the one forced to survive Aerion’s rage.
He threw you to the wolves. Did he not deserve for the same to be done to him?
“Ser Thenty,” you announce. There is an expression of guilt on his face. But you have seen enough guilt. That will not save him now. “You have failed me.”
His shoulders slouch. You hear the slightest chuckle from Aerion.
You wish to wipe that smile off your husband’s face with violence. But you have no violence that will harm him.
So you aim to harm that pathetic heart of his.
You steady your breath, your hand still holding the napkin to your ear.
“But you are my favorite knight,” you say. “So I forgive you.”
Ser Thenty’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. You can see your husband’s head turn to stare directly at you now.
With Aerion’s eyes on you, you take a step toward Ser Thenty, you raise yourself higher, and you place a kiss on his cheek.
The squealing of Aerion’s chair is so instant and loud it makes you flinch away.
Then you flee. You take off out of the dining hall, walking quickly down the hall as the door shut behind you.
Suddenly, there is screaming. More than one person screaming.
You heard Madam Pricher’s voice. “Prince Aerion! Prince Aerion, please-”
There is commotion so loud that all you make out is more screaming. Then the door slams open again, and billowing footsteps follow as guests storm out of the hall.
People are leaving-no, evacuating.
You walk fast, but there are people running now. They hit your shoulders as the crowd begins passing you.
One hand still covers your ear with a napkin. As the screaming grows louder, you raise your other hand, and you cover both ears.
head empty, no thoughts. only cha woomin. cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin cha woomin
“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”
You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.
“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”
The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.
“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”
You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.
The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.
You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”
You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.
Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”
He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”
You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.
“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”
You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.
“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”
You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.
Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.
Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.
Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.
There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.
“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”
“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.
You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.
“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”
You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.
Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’
A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”
“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”
“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”
The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.
They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.
They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.
You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.
“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”
“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”
You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.
The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.
Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.
You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer
It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.
The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.
New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.
The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.
“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”
“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”
You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.
Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.
“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.
“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”
“Does he know any of the knights?”
“A few.”
“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”
“Never heard the name in my life.”
Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.
“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.
You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.
“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.
A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.
“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”
Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”
She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”
The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.
You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”
She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”
A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”
“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”
“He does not seem like a liar to me.”
You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”
Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.
A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”
“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”
“The Dorish tent?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”
“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”
That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.
But something else gnawed at you.
You knew what she was.
No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.
The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.
“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”
“How do you think?”
You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”
A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”
Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.
“I apologize. It is not my place-”
“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”
You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.
Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.
She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”
“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”
“Mhm.”
“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”
You do not need to leave your name. He will know.
She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”
As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.
Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.
“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.
“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”
You feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.
You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.
Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.
“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”
One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”
“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”
“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”
Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.
“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”
Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.
Who didn’t?
They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.
It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.
You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.
It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working
She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”
You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.
But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”
“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.
“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”
You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”
“He is having you paint a shield for him?”
She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”
“How much are you charging him?”
She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”
“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”
“…You do?”
“What is the price?”
She tells you what she is charging him.
You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”
She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”
“He is a friend of mine.”
Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”
You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”
“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”
Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?
“I am no princess.”
She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”
You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.
You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.
She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”
“Do you know what?”
“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”
Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.
The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”
Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.
Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.
“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”
You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.
She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.
Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.
The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.
Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.
You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.
“I hope you like it-”
“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”
Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”
“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”
“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”
“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”
She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”
“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”
“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”
*****
You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.
You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.
If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.
A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.
‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’
Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.
You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.
You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.
“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”
“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”
“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”
You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.
Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.
“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”
You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.
Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.
You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”
“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.
The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”
“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”
Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.
“You will not bother my husband with such things.”
“I certainly will.”
You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”
“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”
In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.
You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.
“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”
You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.
“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”
“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”
“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”
You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.
You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.
Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”
You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”
Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.
Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”
She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.
You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.
Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.
Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.
Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.
“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.
You despise him.
Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.
Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.
His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.
Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”
You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.
Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”
“I poured a cup,” you tell him.
He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”
You lie, “I liked it-”
“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”
Your heart drops.
Aerion pauses.
Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.
Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”
“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”
His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”
A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”
Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”
He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.
“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.
“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”
He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”
You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”
He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”
“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”
“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”
“They are...interesting.”
“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”
He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?
“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”
He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”
Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”
He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”
“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”
You stand straighter.
“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”
Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.
He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”
He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.
“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.
To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”
A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”
You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.
“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”
You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”
He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”
You truly do not understand him.
Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?
You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.
You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.
The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.
“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”
You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.
It is an eight seat table.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.
Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.
“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”
Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.
“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”
“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.
Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.
“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”
“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”
Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”
“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.
“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”
“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”
Your blood runs cold.
Another week?
Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?
The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.
“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”
“Every rightful knight.”
“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”
“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”
“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”
The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.
“Regardless, he is entered.”
“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”
Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”
“Ser Thenty, is it not?”
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.
“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”
Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”
A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”
“No. Serve the food now.”
“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”
Maekar slams his hand on the table.
Valarr falls silent.
The whole room falls silent.
It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.
“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.
Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.
Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.
Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.
Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.
Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”
You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.
Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”
He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.
“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”
You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.
Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”
You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.
You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”
All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”
You have pleased him with the comment.
Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.
When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.
“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”
The reward he gives you is his mercy.
He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.
He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.
His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.
When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.
Aerion kisses you. And when he kisses you, you are able to flutter your eyes closed, and you pretend he is another man.
Warnings: angst, talks of pregnancy and post complications.
The key turned in the lock with a sound that had always meant home. Aerion Targaryen pushed open the door to the apartment, his shoulders tight from the flight, his mind already three steps ahead: to the shower he desperately needed, to the way you’d wrinkle your nose at the stale airplane air clinging to his clothes, to the warm weight of his son settling against his chest.
The apartment was quiet.
Not the quiet of naptime, carefully curated with white noise machines and blackout curtains. This was a hollow quiet, a still quiet. The kind that pressed against his eardrums.
He set his leather duffel down by the door. “I’m back,” he called, keeping his voice low in case Maekar was sleeping. Eight months old now, his son had finally started sleeping through the night, a victory hard-won and still precarious. Every sound in the apartment had been weaponized in those first few months: the creak of a floorboard, the rush of water through pipes. Aerion had learned to move like a ghost through his own home.
No response came. Not even the shift of weight on the floorboards above.
He moved through the foyer into the living room. Everything was in its place. The grey sectional, the glass coffee table wiped clean, the stack of baby books on the end table - The Whole-Brain Child, Precious Little Sleep, the one about French parenting you’d bought ironically and then read cover to cover, muttering under your breath the whole time. The play mat was neatly rolled and propped against the wall, the dangling felt stars and clouds motionless.
Something cold traced its way down his spine.
“Darling?” He used the name sparingly, a private thing, something that had once made you roll your eyes and smile at the same time. You’d called it his period-drama name. Who says darling in real life, Aerion? Him, apparently. He couldn’t seem to stop.
The kitchen was empty. Clean. The bottle warmer was still on the counter, a single clean bottle beside it. He touched the warmer with the back of his hand. Cold.
He took the stairs two at a time.
The nursery door was open a crack. He pushed it wider, his heart beginning to slam against his ribs in a rhythm that had nothing to do with exertion. The crib stood against the far wall, the mobile of silver dragons turning slowly in the draft from the vent. And inside, on his back, one arm flung out to the side, was Maekar.
Asleep. Recently fed, from the look of him: milk-drunk, lips slightly parted, the fine silver-gold hair damp at the temples. His small chest rose and fell with the steadiness that had taken months to achieve.
Aerion stood there for a long moment, one hand braced against the doorframe, waiting for his pulse to slow. The baby was fine. The baby was here. The baby was...
Where were you?
He checked the bedroom next. The door was open. The bed was made. Not the careless pull-up-the-duvet made that he did on his mornings, but properly made, hospital corners and all, the way you’d learned from some YouTube video during your nesting phase. The decorative pillows arranged. The closet door was ajar.
Your side of the closet was empty.
Not messy-empty, not the aftermath of a frantic packing job. Empty like a showroom. Empty like nobody had ever lived there at all. The hangers were evenly spaced. The shoe rack held only dust. The drawer where you kept your pajamas, the soft worn-in things you’d had since university, was bare.
Aerion pulled his phone from his pocket and called you. It rang once, twice, then clicked to voicemail. Your voice, bright and professional: Hello! Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Not your personal voice, the one you used with him, soft and a little scratchy in the mornings. Your work voice. He hadn’t even noticed when you’d changed the recording.
He ended the call without speaking. Called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
He stood in the middle of the bedroom, phone pressed to his ear, listening to your recorded voice over and over like it was a lifeline and he was already drowning.
It wasn’t until he went back downstairs, intending to grab his keys and drive to every hotel in the city if he had to, that he saw the note.
It was on the kitchen island, anchored under the weighted base of the baby monitor. The monitor’s screen was on, showing the grainy night-vision image of Maekar still sleeping peacefully. And on a sheet of paper torn from the magnetic notepad stuck to the fridge, the one you used for grocery lists, for pediatrician appointment reminders, was your handwriting.
I’ve taken a project abroad. I don’t know when I’ll be back. The baby is fed. I’m sorry.
No signature. No love. Just four sentences, the last two practical, the first one a lie.
A project abroad.
You hadn’t worked in over a year. You’d been forced to quit your job at eight weeks pregnant, laid flat by hyperemesis so severe you’d lost fifteen pounds before the second trimester. You’d cried when you submitted your resignation, not because you loved the work - fintech compliance, a job you described as “soul-crushingly boring but mine”, but because it was yours. Your career. Your independence. The thing you’d built while he was being handed vice presidencies in the family empire like party favors.
He’d offered, so many times, to help. To make calls. His father could have had you in a C-suite by Monday, his sister had connections at every major bank, there were strings he could pull with a single text message. And every time, you’d refused.
I don’t want it to be a holdover, you’d said, curled on the bathroom floor between bouts of vomiting, your voice raw. I don’t want my entire life to be a footnote in the Targaryen family ledger.
He’d argued, of course. He was a Targaryen; arguing was constitutional. But you’d held firm, the way you held firm about everything that mattered. The apartment. Your own apartment, a modest two-bedroom in a neighborhood his father had never heard of, paid for with your own money before the wedding. I need a place that’s mine, you’d said. Not an escape hatch. Just…mine.
He’d thought it was romantic at the time, this fierce independence, this refusal to be subsumed. He’d loved it about you. Loved that you weren’t impressed by the family name, that you called his father “Mr. Targaryen” with just enough irony to make Aerion grin, that you’d once described the Iron Throne, the actual multi-billion-dollar corporate headquarters he was supposed to inherit one day, as “aggressively phallic architecture.”
He’d loved it.
He’d loved it, and he’d missed every warning sign it was turning into something else.
The baby monitor let out a soft crackle as Maekar shifted in his sleep. Aerion looked at the screen, then at the note, then at the empty space on the kitchen counter where your laptop used to live.
He called your apartment. The one you’d kept, the one he’d teased you about, calling it the world’s most expensive storage unit. It rang until the building’s generic voicemail picked up. He hung up and called your mother.
“Aerion?” Her voice was surprised but warm. “Is everything alright? It’s late.”
He opened his mouth to ask if she’d heard from you, and then closed it. Because if you hadn’t told her, he didn’t want to be the one to frame this narrative. His wife left him. Left their son. Packed her things and disappeared while he was in another country, shaking hands and making deals, sending you texts you hadn’t answered for the last day of his trip. He’d thought you were tired. He’d thought you needed rest.
He’d known, on some level he was still too cowardly to examine, that you were not alright. Had known it for months. Maybe longer. The way your smiles had become performances, the way you flinched when he touched your shoulder unexpectedly, the way you’d started asking for the precise time his flights would land, the exact minute he’d walk through the door. He’d thought it was love, that meticulous accounting of his time. He’d thought it meant you missed him.
“Aerion?” your mother prompted.
“Sorry,” he said, and his voice came out steady, because he’d been trained since childhood to sound steady even when the ground was liquifying beneath his feet. “Wrong number. So sorry to disturb you.”
He ended the call before she could respond.
The first week was the hardest, and not for the reasons he’d expected.
He’d expected fury. Rage was a familiar landscape; he’d grown up in its shadow and its light, the Targaryen temper that burned hot and fast and left ash in its wake. But fury never came. What came instead was a hollow, scooping emptiness, like someone had reached into his chest and removed something vital, leaving the rest of his organs to shift around the space where it had been.
He didn’t tell his family.
He called his office and said there was a family matter, he’d be working remotely for the foreseeable future. His assistant, a terrifyingly efficient woman who had been with the company longer than Aerion had been alive, said “Of course, Mr. Targaryen” in a tone that suggested she knew more than she was saying and would take it to her grave.
He stayed in the apartment. Your apartment. Yours, not his, though he’d lived there for three years now. He’d never really thought about that distinction before, the way the space was yours even when he occupied it, the way the deed had your name on it in clean black ink. Not his. Never his. He was a guest here, and now he was a guest alone with an eight-month-old baby who didn’t understand why his mother had stopped existing.
The nanny came. Her name was Elena, a soft-handed woman in her fifties who had raised four children of her own and never flinched at anything, not even the day Maekar had a blowout so spectacular it had required a bath, a change of clothes, and the complete sanitization of the changing table. Aerion had asked her to come more often that first week, and she had, her dark eyes flicking around the apartment without comment, taking in the absence of you without asking a single question. He was pathetically grateful for that.
But he didn’t leave Maekar with her entirely. He couldn’t. Some part of him was terrified that if he let the baby out of his sight, he would disappear too, would vanish into whatever void had swallowed you. So he learned.
He learned how to mix formula at three in the morning, squinting at the instructions under the dim light of the range hood. The first few nights, he got the ratio wrong, and Maekar screamed with a fury disproportionate to his tiny body, and Aerion stood in the kitchen holding a bottle that was slightly too warm, slightly too watery, and felt like the most incompetent person who had ever lived.
He learned the difference between a hungry cry and a tired cry and the particular shriek that meant I have a wet diaper and I am personally offended by this. He learned that Maekar liked to be held facing outward, one tiny fist gripping Aerion’s thumb, so he could survey his kingdom with the imperious expression all Targaryens seemed to be born with. He learned the exact bounce-and-sway rhythm that would coax his son from fussing into sleep, a movement that made his lower back ache and his heart do something complicated.
He talked to the baby constantly. It started as a way to fill the silence, which otherwise threatened to swallow him whole.
“Your mother,” he said one night, pacing the nursery with Maekar drowsy against his shoulder, “is the most stubborn person I have ever met. And I grew up with my sister Daella, so that is a competitive field.”
Maekar made a soft sound, somewhere between a coo and a sigh.
“She once refused to speak to me for three days because I suggested she might enjoy a position at a hedge fund. Three days. We were already engaged at that point. I had to grovel. Me. Groveling.” He shifted the baby to his other shoulder. “I was terrible at it. Not enough practice. You should learn to grovel early, it’s a useful skill. I’ll teach you. Provided you don’t disappear on me too.”
The words came out rawer than he’d intended. Maekar, oblivious, drooled onto the collar of his shirt.
“She’ll come back,” Aerion said, to the baby, to the night, to the empty apartment. “She just needs space. A break. She’s been…tired. You’re a lot of work, you know. Worth it, but a lot of work. And she carried you for nine months, and she was so sick, and I don’t think she ever really…” He trailed off.
I don’t think she ever really recovered, he didn’t say. Because that would be an admission. That would be saying aloud that he’d watched his wife drowning and hadn’t thrown a life preserver, just stood on the shore and assumed she’d remember how to swim.
The second week, he found the folder.
He was looking for the pediatrician’s number, Elena had asked, and he’d realized he had no idea where you kept the medical records, when he came across a manila folder tucked between the baby books on the shelf. Inside were printouts. Articles about postpartum depression. Postpartum anxiety. Postpartum psychosis. A checklist of symptoms, some of them circled in your handwriting: persistent sadness, loss of interest, difficulty bonding, intrusive thoughts, feeling overwhelmed, feeling like you’re not yourself.
At the bottom of the folder was a brochure for a maternal mental health clinic. The appointment date on the back was three months ago.
He stared at it for a long time.
He thought about you at three in the morning, nursing a baby who wouldn’t latch, your face exhausted. He thought about how you’d stopped laughing at his jokes. He thought about how you’d flinched when he touched you, and how he’d stopped touching you, and how that distance had become a chasm neither of you seemed able to cross. He thought about the business trip he’d taken when Maekar was three weeks old, and the one at two months, and the one at five months, and how you’d asked each time for his exact itinerary, his flight numbers, the moment he’d be back.
He’d thought you were being thorough, organized. The same way you’d been organized about the engagement party seating chart and the wedding guest list and the nursery color scheme.
He’d been so, so stupid.
“I found your folder,” he said to the empty apartment. He was standing in the kitchen, the brochure in his hand. Outside, the city hummed with the sound of early evening traffic, everyone going home to their families, their lives intact. “The one about postpartum depression. You had an appointment. Did you go?”
Silence.
“Did you go, and it didn’t help? Or did you not go at all? Were you scared? I would have come with you. I would have…” He stopped. His voice had cracked.
He was a Targaryen. Targaryens did not crack.
He sat down on the kitchen floor, his back against the cabinets, and called you again. Voicemail. Your voice, still bright, still professional, still so perfectly fine. He hung up and called again just to hear it.
“I’m sorry,” he said after the beep. “I don’t know what I did, or didn’t do, but I’m sorry. Please. Just call me. Just tell me you’re alive. I don’t need you to come back, I don’t need you to…just tell me you’re okay. Please.”
He didn’t send it. He deleted the message and recorded another one.
“It’s me. I’m home. The baby’s fine. He’s started doing this thing where he scrunches up his face before he sneezes, it’s…you’d laugh. I hope you’d laugh. I hope you’re somewhere safe.” A pause. “I’m not coming after you. I won’t. If you needed to leave, if you needed to get away from…from me, from this, from everything, I won’t hunt you down. Just…a sign. A text. Anything. So I know you’re breathing.”
He sent that one. Then he sat on the kitchen floor until his legs went numb and Maekar woke up crying for his midnight bottle.
The third week, he took the baby to the park.
It seemed like the kind of thing a competent parent would do. Elena had the day off, he’d insisted, she’d argued, he’d won, or maybe she’d let him win because she could see he was two bad nights away from a complete breakdown, and the apartment walls were closing in.
He strapped Maekar into the stroller, a contraption that cost more than some people’s monthly rent and that you had spent three weeks researching before purchasing. If I’m going to push a tiny human around for the next three years, I want it to have good suspension, you’d said, and he’d laughed and kissed your forehead and said you could have whatever stroller you wanted, whatever made you happy, whatever you needed.
He’d thought that was enough. Saying yes. Giving you whatever you asked for.
He hadn’t noticed you’d stopped asking.
The park was crowded with families, children shrieking on the playground, parents slumped on benches clutching coffee cups. Aerion felt spectacularly out of place in his cashmere sweater and Italian leather shoes, pushing a stroller that probably cost more than the playground equipment. A woman with a toddler on her hip gave him a curious look, and he realized he was muttering.
“Sorry,” he said, and then didn’t know why he was apologizing.
He found a bench in a quiet corner, near a patch of flowers that had seen better days, and lifted Maekar out of the stroller. The baby blinked in the sunlight, his eyes the pale almost-purple that ran in the family, and grabbed for Aerion’s nose.
“No, that’s attached,” Aerion said, gently detaching the tiny fingers. “How about we look at the flowers instead?”
Maekar was not interested in the flowers. He was interested in Aerion’s watch, which he grabbed with both hands and attempted to shove into his mouth.
“That’s worth more than your nanny’s annual salary, do not put it in your mouth.” Aerion extracted the watch. Maekar’s face crumpled. “No, don’t...here, here, take my finger. Chew on my finger. Everyone chews on my finger lately.”
The baby gnawed contentedly on his index finger, and Aerion felt something shift in his chest. Something painful and warm. He was holding his son in a public park, alone, with no idea where his wife was or when she was coming back or if she was coming back, and he was somehow, improbably, doing okay.
Not well. Not good. Just…okay. The okay of a man who had learned to function on four hours of sleep. The okay of someone holding himself together with sheer force of will and the desperate, pathetic hope that if he just kept going, if he just stayed here, if he didn’t go back to the family estate and admit defeat, you might come home.
“Your mother has an apartment,” he told Maekar, who was not listening. “Did I ever tell you that? She bought it before we were married. Said she needed somewhere that was hers. I didn’t understand it at first. I grew up with everything handed to me, and anything I didn’t have, I just…took or asked for or demanded.” He shifted the baby on his lap. “But your mother, she needed to make things. Build them. Her career, her home, her life. She didn’t want to be a Targaryen acquisition. She needed to be her own person before she could be mine.”
He thought about the empty closet. The carefully made bed. The note, which he’d folded and put in his wallet like some kind of tragic token.
“I think I might have been suffocating her,” he said quietly. “Without meaning to. Without noticing. I think she’s been drowning for a long time, and I didn’t see it, because I was too busy…I don’t know. Being a Targaryen. Being busy. Being important.” He said the word like it tasted bad. “And now she’s gone and I’m here, and I’m coming to the deeply uncomfortable realization that I don’t actually know how to be a person without her. She was the one who did that. Made me a person. Made me someone who sat on the floor and changed diapers and worried about things that weren’t quarterly reports.”
Maekar pulled his finger out of his mouth and made a questioning sound.
“And before you ask, no, I’m not angry at her. I should be. My father would be apoplectic. Disappearance is not an acceptable exit strategy in the Targaryen family. We prefer dramatic confrontations, ideally in public, ideally with witnesses.” He paused. “But I’m not angry. I’m just...I miss her. That’s it. I miss her so much I can’t breathe, and I don’t know if missing her is enough.”
He didn’t go back to the Targaryen residence. His father called, twice, and Aerion let it go to voicemail. His sister Daella texted: Rumors are flying. Are you both okay? He texted back: We’re fine. Just taking some time. Daella, who had always been able to see through him like glass, sent back a single question mark. He didn’t answer.
Because going back to the estate would mean admitting something had gone wrong. That his wife had left. That the perfect Targaryen heir, the golden son, the one who was supposed to carry the family legacy into the next generation, couldn’t even keep his marriage together. Was it about the marriage? He didn’t know anymore. Maybe it was about something deeper, something that had started before the wedding, before the pregnancy, before the illness that had hollowed you out and left something brittle in its wake.
You’d always been so careful to maintain yourself. Your boundaries. Your space. He’d admired it, that unbreachable core of you that remained yours no matter how close he got. And then the pregnancy had stripped everything away. Your body. Your career. Your energy. Your control. And all he’d done was offer to fix it, offer to pull strings, offer solutions that were really just more ways of absorbing you into the Targaryen machine.
I don’t want it to be a holdover.
He hadn’t understood. He was beginning to.
He spent the fourth week in a strange limbo. Elena came three days a week, and Aerion did conference calls from the kitchen table, Maekar in a bouncer at his feet. The baby had started babbling, a stream of consonants that seemed to contain the secrets of the universe. Aerion talked back. He talked about everything. He talked about how he’d met you at a terrible bar near campus, both of you too overdressed for the venue, how you’d argued about the role of regulation in financial markets and he’d fallen in love with you by the end of the first hour. He talked about the wedding, a small thing that had driven his father to tears of frustration: a Targaryen wedding with only forty guests, Aerion, what will people think, and how you’d worn a suit instead of a dress and looked like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He talked about the day Maekar was born. How you’d labored for eighteen hours and then needed an emergency C-section, and how the sight of your face, gray with exhaustion and terror, had undone something in him he hadn’t known could be undone.
“I should have been there,” he told the baby one night, rocking him in the dark. “After. I should have stayed home. I should have noticed. She was asking for my flight times because she was terrified. Not because she missed me. Because she was clinging to the schedule, the predictability, the one thing she could control. And I just…left. Every time. Business trip after business trip. I thought I was providing. I thought that’s what a good husband did.”
Maekar was asleep, his mouth slightly open, his head a warm weight against Aerion’s chest.
“I am not a good husband,” Aerion said to the ceiling. “I’m trying to be a good father. I don’t know if I’m succeeding. But I’m trying.”
The message came on a Tuesday, six weeks and two days after he’d found the note on the kitchen counter.
He was making coffee, Maekar propped on his hip, when his phone buzzed. An email. From you.
He almost dropped the baby.
He fumbled the phone open, his heart hammering, and read:
Aerion. I’m alive. I’m safe. I’m getting help. I can’t explain everything yet. I needed to leave before I broke something I couldn’t fix. I didn’t want to break you. I didn’t want to break our son. I’m sorry. I don’t know when I’ll be ready. But I wanted you to know I’m not dead. Please don’t look for me. Please don’t send anyone. I need this. I need to get better. I need to know I can be a person again before I can be a mother or a wife. I know this isn’t fair. I know. I’m sorry.
Don’t let anyone call me a bad mother. I’m not a bad mother. I’m just sick. I’m trying to get well.
Tell Maekar I love him. Tell him every day. Even if he can’t understand it. Especially because he can’t understand it. Tell him his mother loves him, and she’s coming back, she just doesn’t know when.
He read it five times. Then he sat down heavily on the kitchen floor, his back against the cabinets again, Maekar balanced on his lap and reaching for the phone with grabby hands.
“That’s your mother,” Aerion said, his voice strange and cracked. “That’s your mother. She’s alive. She’s getting help. She’s...” He had to stop. His throat had closed up.
Maekar grabbed the phone and tried to put it in his mouth.
Aerion let him. It was waterproof. Supposedly. Then he remembered how you always worried about germs and had to extract it back.
He sat there for a long time, holding his son, the phone getting progressively slimier against his thigh. He thought about calling your mother. He thought about calling his father. He thought about getting in the car and driving to every hotel in the city until he found you, because you’d emailed him, you’d broken your silence, and he could trace the IP, he could hire someone, he could find you in a heartbeat if he wanted.
But you’d asked him not to. You’d said please. And he’d spent too long not listening to what you were actually asking for.
So he didn’t.
He replied instead.
Thank you for telling me you’re alive. I’ve been terrified. Maekar is fine. He’s perfect. He looks like you when he’s about to cry. I tell him about you every day. I’ll keep telling him. I won’t look for you. I won’t send anyone. I’ll be here when you’re ready. I’ll be here. However long it takes. I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t see how much you were hurting. I’m sorry I didn’t help. I’m sorry I left. I’m going to do better. I don’t know how yet. But I’m going to figure it out. Stay safe. Get well. I love you.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself. Then he picked his son up under the armpits and held him at eye level.
“Your mother is coming back,” he said. “I don’t know when. But she’s coming back. And until then, you and I are going to hold down the fort. Can you do that? Can you hold down the fort with me?”
Maekar drooled. It was, Aerion decided, probably an affirmative.
The months that followed were not easy. Nothing about them was easy. There were nights when Maekar woke up every forty minutes for no discernible reason, and Aerion paced the nursery with bloodshot eyes and a running monologue of despair. There were days when the emptiness of the apartment was pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. There were moments when he almost called his father, almost packed up the baby and the bags and retreated to the estate where nannies and housekeepers and family fixers would descend and make everything smooth and easy and wrong.
But he didn’t.
Because this apartment was yours. This was the place you’d built with him, your own stubbornness, your own need to be something more than a Targaryen footnote. And if he left it, if he gave up and went home, it would be like admitting you were never coming back. It would be like closing the door on something that wasn’t finished yet.
So he stayed.
He learned to cook, badly. He learned to do laundry, and turned half of Maekar’s onesies pink before he figured out the whole separating-colors concept. He learned the names of every pediatrician in a ten-mile radius and the exact temperature at which a baby’s fever required an emergency room visit. He learned that the vacuum cleaner could soothe Maekar to sleep in under five minutes, a discovery that changed his life and also his electricity bill.
He talked to the baby constantly, a stream of consciousness narration that covered everything from stock market fluctuations to the plot of the book he was reading to whatever he remembered of his own childhood, which was mostly cold rooms and colder expectations.
“Your grandfather is not a bad man,” he said one afternoon, sitting on the floor of the nursery while Maekar did tummy time on the play mat. “He’s just…a product of a particular system. Targaryens have been running things for a long time, and we’ve gotten very good at it, and we’ve also gotten very bad at being people. I didn’t realize how bad until I met your mother. She looked at the whole thing: the money, the power, the legacy, and just…wasn’t impressed. It drove me insane. I wanted her to be impressed. I wanted her to think I was worth something.”
Maekar lifted his head, wobbled, and planted his face directly into the mat.
“Exactly my point,” Aerion said. “It’s all just posturing. She saw through it. She always saw through it.”
He thought about the apartment you’d kept, the one that was probably still sitting empty across town, your name on the lease like a declaration of independence. He hadn’t been there since you left. He didn’t have a key. He wasn't welcome. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between feedings and changings and conference calls, he imagined you there. Curled on a couch he’d never seen. Eating takeout from a container. Slowly, painstakingly, remembering who you were.
He hoped you were. Remembering. He hoped it was working. He hoped, with a desperation that had become as familiar as breathing, that you would come back.
And in the meantime, he waited.
He waited through Maekar’s first word, which was “da,” and which Aerion chose to interpret as “dad” rather than the more likely “random syllable.” He waited through first steps, wobbly and triumphant across the living room floor, captured on video he didn’t know if he should send you or not. He waited through the first birthday, a quiet affair with just him and Elena and a cake that Maekar mostly wore rather than ate.
And every night, after he put the baby to bed and the apartment settled into silence, he sat in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and re-read the email you’d sent. I’m getting help. I’m trying to get well. Tell Maekar I love him. He’d memorized it by now, every word, every comma. It was a lifeline. It was a promise.
I’m coming back, you’d said. I just don’t know when.
That was enough. It had to be enough. He would make it be enough, for as long as it took, because you were the one who had taught him how to be a person instead of a Targaryen, and now he was going to be the kind of person who deserved you. Who waited. Who stayed. Who did the work, even when it was hard, even when it was lonely, even when the only witness was an infant who didn’t understand a word he said.
He would be here. When you were ready. Whenever that was.
I’ll be here, he’d written back. And he meant it. Every word.
Even the ones he hadn’t said out loud yet. Even the ones he whispered to his sleeping son in the dark, a prayer and a plea and a vow all at once: Come home. Come home when you can. We’ll be waiting. I’ll be waiting. I love you. Come home.
SUMMARY: Everything you have ever wanted came wrapped in your acceptance to King's Landing University: prestige, opportunity, and a future worth fighting for. Yet, you never imagined the thing threatening it would look so much like love.
CW: RAPE/NON-CON, power imbalance, notions of poverty, nepotism, imposter syndrome, manipulation, jealousy, misogyny, forced pregnancy/baby trapping.
WC: 11.2 K
The suspense was killing you.
It wasn't an exaggeration. You felt it in every corner of your body: in the constant bounce of your knee beneath the desk, in your nails bitten down to nothing, in your absolute inability to focus on anything else over the past few weeks—months.
You checked the date. The response was supposed to arrive today.
Or tomorrow.
Or maybe in a week.
That was precisely the problem: nobody knew for certain.
The screen of your phone illuminated the room as you lay on your bed, staring once again at your application to King's Landing University. You knew it by heart. You had opened that page so many times that you could navigate every section with your eyes closed.
Your application was still there. Intact. Unchanging. Cruelly devoid of answers.
Application Status: Under Review.
The words seemed to mock you.
Under review.
Still.
After months of waiting. After countless nights studying until dawn filtered through your bedroom window. After exams, interviews, essays and recommendation letters, after nights spent wondering what the hell you had been thinking when you filled yourself with enough confidence to apply, crying until your eyes hurt and rebuilding yourself afterward.
After everything.
You let out a sigh and dropped the phone onto your chest. The ceiling returned a silent stare.
You had tried to distract yourself.
You really had.
You had read.
You had gone for walks.
You had even started a new book that you abandoned after three pages because you ended up imagining what your name would look like in an acceptance letter.
King's Landing University.
The dream. The opportunity. The future.
The most prestigious university ever known. The kind of place people spoke about with admiration and envy at the same time. The kind of place where the children of ministers, businessmen, judges, and nobles built the connections that would follow them for the rest of their lives.
And you wanted to be there.
No.
You needed to be there.
Because that acceptance meant far more than a university. It meant independence. It meant proving that all those years of effort had amounted to something.
It meant that the nights spent studying, the sacrifices, the extracurriculars, the humiliating pleading to Mrs. Betty for a recommendation letter, surviving on coffee and expectations would finally have a reward.
Now more than ever, you needed meritocracy to be real and not that social construct born as an incentive for the proletariat to serve capitalism. Please.
The phone vibrated against your chest.
The sound was so sudden that it startled you. For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stop. Your heart lurched violently against your ribs and all the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears. You remained still, staring at the illuminated screen as though any movement might make it disappear.
It couldn't be.
Or maybe it could.
Your hands trembled as you picked up the phone. Your fingers felt strangely clumsy, as if they had forgotten how to function. Part of you wanted to look immediately. The other wanted to delay the moment for a few seconds longer, clinging to the uncertainty before discovering whether all those years of effort had been worth it or not.
The notification occupied the center of the screen.
An email.
Sender: King's Landing University Office of Admissions.
For a moment, you stopped breathing.
You had imagined it so many times that the moment felt unreal. You had fantasized about opening that email during class, during dinner, before going to sleep and when you woke up. You had imagined hundreds of different scenarios, from tears of happiness to the devastation of a rejection. Yet now that it was actually happening, your mind seemed incapable of processing it.
Your eyes traced the university's name again and again.
King's Landing University.
King's Landing University.
King's Landing University.
It was real.
Real.
Your thumb hovered over the screen for several seconds before you finally gathered enough courage to open the message. The application took only a few moments to load, but they felt endless. You could feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you watched the white screen slowly appear. Every second stretched your anxiety to unbearable limits. And when the Wi-Fi, taking pity on you, decided to work, you saw it.
Office of Admissions
Dear Miss Y/N,
It is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance to King's Landing University for the upcoming academic year.
After careful consideration of an exceptionally competitive pool of applicants, the Admissions Committee has unanimously recognized your academic excellence, dedication, and remarkable potential.
We are delighted to offer you a place among the next generation of scholars at King's Landing University.
Your achievements have distinguished you as a candidate of uncommon promise, and we are confident that your contributions will enrich both our academic community and the legacy of this institution.
In recognition of your outstanding academic record and exceptional promise, it is also our honor to award you the King's Scholar Scholarship, the highest merit-based scholarship granted by King's Landing University.
Reserved for a select a student once a year, the King's Scholar Scholarship is awarded to individuals whose achievements exemplify excellence, leadership, and intellectual distinction.
The Admissions Committee would also like to acknowledge the historic significance of this award. Since the founding of King's Landing University, the King's Scholar Scholarship has been granted exclusively to male recipients. Your selection marks the first time in the institution's history that a woman has been chosen as a King's Scholar. This distinction reflects not only your extraordinary academic accomplishments, but also the exceptional determination, intellect, and character that set you apart from an already remarkable pool of candidates. We are confident that future generations of scholars will look upon this moment as a milestone in the history of our university.
As a recipient of the King's Scholar Scholarship, you will receive:
• Full tuition coverage for the duration of your undergraduate studies.
• A generous monthly stipend intended to support your academic pursuits and living expenses.
• Residence in the prestigious King's Scholar Hall, including a private suite among the largest and most distinguished student accommodations on campus.
• Priority access to academic mentorship programs, research opportunities, and university-sponsored events.
• Eligibility for exclusive internships, fellowships, and international academic programs through the university's distinguished partners.
• Complimentary access to university libraries, archives, laboratories, and scholarly resources beyond those ordinarily available to undergraduate students.
These benefits shall remain in effect for the entirety of your studies, provided that you maintain the academic standards and conduct expected of a King's Scholar.
The Admissions Committee believes that you possess the talent, determination, and character necessary to uphold the legacy of this prestigious award. We look forward to witnessing your achievements and contributions to our academic community in the years to come.
Welcome to King's Landing University.
Sincerely,
The Office of Admissions — King's Landing University
Knowledge. Duty. Legacy
You had done it.
The words repeated themselves again and again in your mind as you stared at the screen blurred by tears. Accepted. King's Landing University. King's Scholar. The first woman in the university's history to receive that scholarship.
It was too much.
Too good.
Too big.
An incredulous laugh escaped your lips at the same time tears began sliding down your cheeks. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to contain the emotion, but it was useless. Years of effort, sacrifice, and impossible dreams had just condensed into a few lines of text.
And then you stood.
The phone remained clenched in your fingers as you ran toward your bedroom door. The emotion overwhelmed you completely, driving away every rational thought. There was only happiness. There was only the desperate need to share it.
You crossed the hallway without barely feeling your own footsteps.
"Mom, I got in!"
Thanks, meritocracy.
—
The first weeks at King's Landing University felt like living inside a world that had previously existed only in your imagination. Even after receiving the acceptance letter, even after moving into the dormitory assigned through your scholarship, a part of you kept expecting to wake up and discover that it had all been a particularly cruel dream. The university was even more impressive than any brochure or website had managed to convey. Buildings of pale stone rose above vast, meticulously maintained gardens; marble fountains adorned entire courtyards, and pathways lined with rose bushes connected faculties whose names frequently appeared in newspapers, history books, and political speeches. There were students arriving in vehicles that cost more than the average house, sons and daughters of ministers, business magnates, and families whose surnames seemed capable of opening doors on their own. Yet for the first time in your life, you found yourself among them not as a spectator, but as an equal.
Privilege was present in every corner of the campus. It could be seen in the multi-story libraries whose shelves seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance, in laboratories equipped with cutting-edge technology, and in student residences that resembled private apartments more than university housing. Your own suite within King's Scholar Hall was larger than some homes you had known. It contained a private bedroom, a small sitting room, a dark wooden desk positioned before an enormous window, and a privileged view of the eastern gardens of the campus. During those first days, you often caught yourself staring at the room with a mixture of pride and disbelief, unable to fully accept that the space belonged to you. Every time you placed a stack of books on the desk or hung a photograph on the wall, it felt as though you were claiming a life that had once seemed impossibly out of reach.
The scholarship had transformed your university experience in ways you were only beginning to understand. You did not have to worry about tuition. You did not have to calculate every expense or wonder whether you could afford the next semester. The monthly stipend covered your needs comfortably and allowed you to focus entirely on the reason you had come there in the first place: learning. For the first time in a very long while, the future no longer seemed like a vague threat lurking behind a mountain of uncertainty. It seemed tangible. Attainable. Something you could build with your own hands.
And yet, as impressive as the buildings, academic programs, and opportunities were, what fascinated you most were the people. Every student appeared to have arrived there through an entirely different story.
It was during one of those early weeks that you attended the seminar that would end up changing far more than you could possibly imagine.
The conference was being held in Visenya Hall, one of the most prestigious auditoriums within the Faculty of Economics and Business. The venue was already crowded long before the event began. Row after row of students filled the tiered seating while the title of the lecture was projected across the main screen: Emerging Markets and Business Leadership in a Global Economy. You had arrived nearly thirty minutes early and still barely managed to find an available seat near the middle of the auditorium.
It was while waiting for the lecture to begin that you felt a presence occupy the empty seat beside you.
You did not look up immediately. You were reviewing notes you had taken about the guest speaker when the murmur of the room seemed to shift subtly. Not disappear exactly, but redirect itself. As though a small portion of the collective attention had suddenly found a new focal point.
You frowned slightly and lifted your gaze.
The young man who had just taken the seat beside you appeared completely unaware of it.
He was dressed elegantly without appearing ostentatious. His posture carried a quiet confidence cultivated over many years, the kind of assurance that did not need to announce itself because it was accustomed to being recognized. As he settled a folder onto his lap, several people seated nearby greeted him with a familiarity tinged with respect.
It did not take long to understand why.
The identification badge hanging from his neck displayed a name that even you recognized instantly.
Valarr Targaryen.
For a brief moment, you froze.
The Targaryens were not merely an influential family.
They were THE influential family.
For generations they had built a fortune so old that tracing its precise origins had become nearly impossible. Their companies operated in practically every imaginable sector: transportation, energy, technology, finance, media. Their names appeared on boards of directors, foundations, government organizations, and universities throughout Westeros. Entire buildings, libraries, and academic programs had been funded by them. Even King's Landing University owed part of its modern prestige to the substantial donations made by the family over the decades.
The Targaryens belonged to that category of people who seemed to exist above the ordinary structures of the world. Surnames that opened doors before they were even touched. Surnames that appeared in newspapers long before their owners learned how to walk.
And that young man was sitting directly beside you.
Valarr appeared focused on a collection of documents when his eyes briefly dropped toward your identification badge. He studied it for a moment before looking again, this time more carefully. A small crease formed between his brows until, with a spark of recognition in those distinctive eyes, he spoke.
"You're the King's Scholar." It wasn't a question. His tone carried a kind of genuine curiosity.
You glanced down at your own badge, where the scholarship's golden insignia appeared beside your name. "Yes."
For a moment, you assumed the conversation would end there. Instead, Valarr continued looking at you. Not in the uncomfortable way many of the wealthy, idle students in the faculty seemed to regard you, as though you were some peculiar exhibit displayed in a museum, but rather like someone who had stumbled upon something unexpected.
"I'd heard about you." The statement caught you off guard. It seemed unlikely, especially considering you had only been at the university for a few weeks. He appeared to notice your expression. "Everyone had." A faint smile appeared on his lips. "The first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship tends to attract attention. I'm Valarr—"
"—Targaryen. Second in line to inherit the family empire. Current president of the student council and the Debate Club. Holder of a perfect 4.0 GPA. Or someone with a net worth extravagant enough to surpass the combined wealth of everyone currently present."
A look of astonishment crossed his face, only for an instant, a slight crack in his composure. His heterochromatic eyes—only now did you notice—created a striking effect, perhaps as he attempted to decipher you. He did not seem offended. If anything, he appeared surprised to encounter someone who had not been impressed by the implicit power of his surname.
The smile returned to his face. Softer this time. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary."
"A little."
"And here I thought I was being humble."
That earned a raised eyebrow from you.
Humble?
With a deliberate movement, you adjusted the notebook resting on your lap, positioning it neatly across your thighs with a black pen balanced on top before maintaining eye contact with him.
"If I had your surname, Valarr, I would be anything but humble."
Before he could answer, the lights in the auditorium began to dim. The general murmur gradually faded as the conference prepared to begin. Valarr shifted his attention toward the stage, though not before offering you one final silent observation.
Cataloguing. Taking note of something.
—
During the first few weeks, the university continued to feel like a borrowed place, as though at any moment someone would discover an administrative error had been made and politely ask you to leave the campus. You walked through the marble hallways with the same caution one uses when wandering through an art gallery: admiring everything, afraid to touch something that does not belong to them. Yet impostor syndrome gradually began to loosen its grip. It did so every time you raised your hand in class and your answer turned out to be correct. Every time a professor praised one of your papers. Every time you earned one of the highest grades in your cohort. The minimum required to maintain the scholarship was a 4.0. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Without realizing it, you began to put down roots.
The campus pathways stopped resembling labyrinths and became familiar routes. You learned which libraries were the quietest, which cafés served the best coffee, and which buildings remained open until late into the night during exam season. Your name began circulating among professors, researchers, and students. Not as a passing curiosity, but as someone who genuinely deserved to be there.
And that was precisely what fascinated Valarr most.
At first, it had been simple curiosity. Nothing more. The King's Scholar. The girl who had made history. The student everyone talked about. Yet the more time he spent observing you, the more difficult it became to reduce you to a university headline because you were not what he expected.
You lacked the arrogance that so often accompanied exceptional students. You were not pretentious. Nor did you carry that desperate need to constantly prove your worth. You had arrived at the university carrying something far rarer: a genuine hunger for knowledge. You attended seminars even when they offered no academic credit. You remained after class to ask questions. You read for pleasure texts that others could barely tolerate reading out of obligation.
And perhaps most bewildering of all, you seemed completely oblivious to the attention you generated. While other students carefully cultivated their reputations, you appeared far too busy building your future to concern yourself with them. A fish among sharks.
Valarr began seeking you out without meaning to. At first, they were coincidences. An empty seat beside you during a lecture. A casual conversation after class. A chance encounter in the library. But the coincidences began accumulating too frequently to continue calling them that. Gradually, your presence became incorporated into his routine so naturally that he stopped questioning it. He looked for you among rows of students whenever he entered an auditorium. He could identify your voice in a crowded room. He knew your favorite study spots. He knew roughly what times you visited the main café.
And most dangerously of all, he began anticipating those encounters. Because with you, it was easy to forget who he was.
For most of his life, Valarr had been aware of the weight of his surname. He had grown up surrounded by expectations, invisible protocols, and people who seemed to see the name Targaryen before the man behind it.
You didn't.
You argued with him whenever you believed he was wrong. You mocked his pretentious remarks. You interrupted his arguments during club meetings to point out flaws nobody else dared mention. And every time you did, something inside him felt absurdly relieved. Alive.
As though, for a few moments, he could exist simply as Valarr. Not as an heir. Not as a public figure. Not as a political or corporate promise.
Just Valarr.
Or Val, as you began calling him.
The first time happened by accident. At least that was what you claimed afterward.
You were leaving a particularly tedious lecture on corporate legislation when you mentioned something about him in the middle of a sentence.
"Val said exactly the same thing last week."
The silence that followed lasted only a second. Long enough. Your own eyes widened slightly when you realized what you had just said.
Valarr stopped walking. "Val?"
Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.
"It wasn't intentional."
"Of course it wasn't."
"I mean it."
"Naturally." The smile that appeared on his face made it unbearably difficult to defend yourself.
"Don't start."
"Start what?"
"That."
"What exactly am I doing?"
"Enjoying it."
"Perhaps a little."
That smile followed you for the rest of the afternoon.
And, unfortunately for you, so did the nickname. It never disappeared.
At first, it was a habit born from convenience. "Valarr" felt too formal for someone with whom you shared so many hours of university life, too long for hurried conversations between classes or messages exchanged at two in the morning during exam season. Without realizing it, you began calling him Val more and more often. First in private. Then in front of friends. Then in cafés, auditoriums, and libraries.
Nobody else seemed to do it. Professors called him Mr. Targaryen. Student council members referred to him as President. Even people who had known him for years used his full name. Only you had shortened it. He never corrected you.
He never asked you to stop. He never mentioned that the small alteration caused a strange warmth to settle in his chest.
For the first time in a very long while, someone seemed to see him as a person before seeing him as a surname. That was rarer than it should have been. It was foolish. A beautiful, absolute foolishness. But emotions were rarely reasonable.
One autumn afternoon, several months after that first encounter in the seminar, Val found that feeling waiting for him inside the central library. The enormous room was bathed in golden afternoon light. Tall windows cast long shadows across the study tables, and the library's usual silence was interrupted only by the occasional turning of pages or the soft tapping of keyboards. Exhausted students hid among endless shelves while the semester marched inexorably toward exam season. He found you exactly where he expected to.
Seated beside a window, surrounded by books, papers scattered across the table, completely absorbed in your work, those beautiful brows furrowed in concentration amidst academic chaos. For a moment he remained still, watching you from a distance.
It was not the first time.
He had begun developing an unsettling ability to find you across campus. Libraries. Cafés. Lecture halls. Gardens. He always ended up locating you.
His senses had learned to seek you even before he became consciously aware of it.
A small smile appeared on his face. Minutes later, he returned carrying two coffees. He knew your order by hear without truly intending to, he had begun memorizing many things about you. The way you took notes (the Cornell method, efficient). Your study schedule (a morning review session devoted entirely to theory. Practice at night). The subjects you loved most (history. Especially ancient civilizations).
The expression you made whenever a reading frustrated you. The little details. Always the little details.
He gently placed one of the cups beside your laptop. Only then did you look up.
And smile. That simple, carefree smile that always seemed to arrive effortlessly.
"Val." The same warmth. The same absurd feeling. The same inexplicable need to hear it one more time.
"I'm beginning to suspect you live here."
Your lips curved. "Says the man who survives on constant study sessions."
"Semantics." Just as he did in class, he sat down to your right. It was as natural as breathing. "What are we studying now, dear?"
"Dear?"
"Would you prefer Your Academic Highness?"
You rolled your eyes. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Many things I say don't."
Who was he trying to fool?
"For the first time, we agree."
Valarr let out a small laugh as he glt comfortable in the chair.
The library was particularly quiet that afternoon. Most students were focused on the approaching midterms, and the enormous windows allowed golden light to flood the study tables. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee. Val picked up one of the books stacked in front of you. Examined it. Then another. Then a third.
"Are you trying to earn a second degree in a single week?"
"I'm writing an essay."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Because the answer is no."
"Not yet."
Your lips curved slightly. He always did that. Turn ordinary conversations into absurdly long debates.
"Political economy."Val read the title of one of the open pages. "How thrilling."
"It is." Your hands wrapped around the coffee he had brought you. Almond milk, cinnamon, and two spoonfuls of sugar. Perfect. Your lips left a visible lipstick mark on the rim.
"And here I thought spending an afternoon studying emerging markets was a sophisticated form of torture."
"That explains a lot about you."
"Such as?"
"Your personality."
Valarr's smile widened.
He rested an elbow on the table and began absentmindedly flipping through one of your articles. For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence between you was comfortable. Familiar. As though it had been built from months of endless conversations, study sessions, and afternoons shared in that very place.
It had.
Eventually, Valarr looked up again. "Do you know what's fascinating?"
"That depends entirely on what you're about to say," you murmured while extracting a passage from the article.
"Empires."
You sighed, feigning indifference. "Of course it's empires."
"Hear me out."
"That's exactly the problem."
Completely ignoring you, he continued. "Everyone thinks empires fall because of wars or revolutions."
"Don't they?"
"No."
His fingers tapped lightly against the book's cover. "First they stop adapting. Then they stop listening. Then they begin believing they're too big to fail."
"That applies to corporations too."
"Exactly."
"And governments."
"As well."
"And student council presidents with inflated egos."
Valarr narrowed his eyes. "That was a personal attack."
"It was an academic observation."
"Cruel."
"Accurate."
That earned a laugh. A genuine one. Not the polite smile he wore during conferences or meetings. Not the carefully measured expression that appeared in photographs and institutional events. A real laugh. And for a moment he seemed younger. Less heir. Less Targaryen. Simply Val.
Something in your chest softened at the sight. Because you were beginning to discover that there were two versions of him. The one that belonged to the rest of the world. And the one that appeared only when the two of you were alone.
Valarr seemed to notice it too. His gaze lingered on you a second longer than usual. Not long enough to be uncomfortable. Long enough to be conscious.
The sounds of the library seemed to drift away for a moment. The occasional rustle of pages. The keyboards. Distant footsteps among the shelves. Everything faded into a distant murmur.
"What?" you finally asked.
"Nothing."
A lie.
But you didn't press. Because you weren't entirely sure you wanted to know the answer. And because, for some reason, the way he had been looking at you had just made your heart beat a little faster.
"I'm going to the bathroom," you announced before doing exactly that.
Valarr looked at your cup, the one he had given you, studied the faint pink lipstick mark now decorating the rim, and, with all the fervent devotion such an act required, drank from that very spot. Perfect.
—
The campaign began almost by accident.
Not because you had never considered the idea before, but because you had never allowed yourself to take it completely seriously. For months, you had participated in student meetings, organized academic events, worked alongside university associations, and advocated for proposals designed to improve conditions for scholarship students. Little by little, without realizing it, you begun building a reputation that extended far beyond the King's Scholar Scholarship. People knew your name. They knew your achievements. They knew your opinions. And, more importantly, they respected them. So when someone suggested that you run in the Student Council elections, the idea was not met with laughter or disbelief.
It was met with enthusiasm. And that proved far more dangerous. It was one thing to hear a suggestion casually thrown into the air. It was something entirely different to discover that hundreds of people genuinely seemed to believe you could win.
The following months were consumed by the campaign. Posters bearing your name began appearing all over campus. Academic buildings, student residences, and even cafés transformed into improvised political arenas where students debated policies, budgets, and candidates with a passion that would have made more than one national parliament blush. For the first time since your arrival at King's Landing University, you ceased being merely an exceptional student and became a public figure. University newspapers published interviews with you. Professors discussed your candidacy. Students approached you to express their support or ask questions about your platform. Every passing week seemed to reinforce the feeling that something important was happening.
And for the first time, the name appearing beside yours was not the name of a scholarship.
It was Valarr Targaryen's.
The student press wasted no time turning the election into an irresistible story. On one side stood Valarr, the perfect heir. The incumbent president. The brilliant student whose surname had spent generations shaping the political, economic, and social history of Westeros. On the other side stood you: the first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship, the student who had risen through effort, intelligence, and a determination that seemed inexhaustible. Tradition versus renewal. Continuity versus change.
The headlines practically wrote themselves.
The strangest part was that behind all those articles and debates, the two of you remained friends. You still shared coffee. You still studied together. You still sent each other academic articles at absurd hours of the morning.
Sometimes you would leave a public debate where you had just dismantled each other's arguments in front of hundreds of students and end up having dinner together barely an hour later. The contradiction bewildered practically the entire campus. Nobody understood how you could be political rivals and friends at the same time.
Nobody except the two of you.
Because neither of you ever allowed the campaign to destroy what you had built.
Or at least, you tried not to.
Election night arrived wrapped in almost unbearable tension. The Grand Auditorium was completely full. Rows upon rows of students occupied the seats while professors, student journalists, and council members waited for the results to be announced. The energy in the room was electric. Every conversation seemed to unfold in nervous whispers. Every gaze was fixed on the enormous screens suspended above the stage.
You stood among the other candidates, attempting to project a calm you did not feel.
For the first time, victory seemed like a real possibility.
Not a fantasy. Not an impossible dream. A possibility.
The first results began appearing, and the auditorium immediately erupted.
Your name led the count by a small margin. Enough. The next results arrived minutes later. Your lead increased. Then another student district reported its votes. And you remained ahead.
The murmurs grew louder. So did the smiles.Even a few professors exchanged glances filled with anticipation. Everyone was thinking the same thing. You could do it. You could win.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine it. The presidential office. The meetings. The projects. The opportunity to leave a permanent mark on the university. The opportunity to prove you belonged there. The opportunity to keep breaking barriers.
And perhaps that was your mistake, allowing yourself to believe it.
The final ballots were the ones that changed everything. Cruelly. Your lead began shrinking vote by vote.
At first only by a few percentage points. Then by fractions. Then by almost nothing at all. The entire auditorium watched the screens in absolute silence as the numbers continued to shift. Each update seemed to take something from you. Each new figure eroded a little more of the hope that had begun growing inside your chest.
Until it finally happened.
Valarr took the lead.
And never lost it again.
When the final result appeared on the screens, the silence lasted only a fraction of a second before being replaced by an explosion of applause.
Valarr Targaryen — 73%
Y/N — 27%
The applause still echoed throughout the auditorium when you finally looked up at him. Valarr was surrounded by students, professors, and council members. Some shook his hand. Others congratulated him. Photographers captured every smile, every gesture, every moment of victory. The center of attention. Golden boy. And yet, his eyes still found yours as they always did.
The distance between you was not great, but for the first time since you had met him, it felt immense. While everyone else saw the newly re-elected president, you saw something else entirely.
You saw privilege. You saw money. You saw generations of accumulated power. You saw a surname capable of opening doors that would never open for anyone else.
Something bitter settled in your throat. You had worked just as hard. Perhaps harder. You had devoted entire months to that campaign. You had visited every student residence, attended every debate, answered every question, and built every proposal through your own merit.
And yet you had lost to a man whose surname was practically an institution within Westeros.
You filthy, cheating bastard.
Valarr began walking toward you. With every step, the resentment grew a little stronger until he finally stopped in front of you.
"Hey."
His voice was soft. Careful. Indulgent. He knew exactly how you felt, which only made you angrier.
"Congratulations." The words left your lips with a coldness that surprised even you, and Valarr frowned slightly.
"Y/N—"
"No." Your smile appeared instantly, and it was entirely false. "Seriously. Congratulations. It must feel nice."
Something shifted in his expression. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
A short laugh escaped your throat. "Incredible."
"What is incredible?"
"Even now you're pretending not to understand."
The tension began spreading between you. Around you, the celebration continued, but it felt as though it were happening in another universe.
"Then explain it to me."
"Oh, gladly." You crossed your arms. "Do you know what's most frustrating about all of this? That you never even had to compete on equal footing."
Valarr's eyes hardened. "Be careful."
"Why? Because I'm about to say something everyone already knows?"
"Y/N."
"Your family funds half the campus."
"That had nothing to do with this."
"Of course it did." The answer came out faster than you intended. Sharper. More painful. "It always has something to do with it."
Silence fell between you. For the first time since you met him, Valarr looked genuinely irritated.
"I didn't win because of my surname."
"Didn't you?"
"No."
"Then I suppose it's just a coincidence that the Targaryens have held leadership positions at this university for decades."
"I worked for this."
"So did I." Your words struck him harder than expected. Because they were true, and both of you knew it. "I worked for this too, Val." His name sounded strange between you now. No warmth. No familiarity. Only disappointment. "And for once, I would've liked to lose to someone who didn't have the entire system built around him."
The muscles in his jaw tightened. "That's unfair."
"Unfair?" A bitter laugh escaped you. "You're talking about unfairness after winning because of your family's legacy?"
"That's not what happened."
"Then tell me what did."
Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. "Maybe they simply voted for the more qualified candidate."
The remark made you blink in disbelief. An obvious insult. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"It means being an inspiration and being a leader are not necessarily the same thing." The distance between you narrowed.
"Think it. Use that pretty brain of yours," with his angular finger he tapped your forehead. "Being the symbol of change and being capable of leading an institution are not the same thing. Sometimes people like seeing a woman on the stage. Not necessarily in charge."
The blow was precise. Calculated. And deeply vile.
Because hidden beneath those words was an old idea you had spent your entire life fighting. The idea that women had to prove twice as much to be considered half as capable. The idea that you were exceptional... for a woman. The idea that your story was admirable, but that true leadership still belonged to men like him.
Understanding slowly appeared across your face. And when it did, something close to horror briefly crossed Valarr's eyes. He realized too late how it had sounded.
"That's not what I meant."
"Sure."
"Y/N—"
"Enjoy your presidency." You took a step back. Then another. "I'm sure you inherited it honestly."
The bitterness in your voice was impossible to ignore. Before he could answer, you turned on your heel and left him standing there.
—
Valarr began apologizing the very next day.
Not because he believed a few words could repair what had happened. He knew you far too well for that. He knew the problem had not been only the argument. It had not been only the election. It had been the way he had made you feel. The way he had reduced your accomplishments to an exception. The way he had, for a few moments, become exactly the kind of man you claimed to despise.
So his apologies did not arrive solely in the form of words. They arrived as gestures. The first appeared outside your dormitory door: a bouquet of white camellias, your favorite flowers. They rested carefully wrapped in ivory paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon. There was no signature. None was necessary. Valarr was the only person on campus who would remember a trivial conversation that had taken place nearly a year earlier during a visit to the botanical gardens of King's Landing.
You had mentioned then that white camellias symbolized pure, sincere, unpretentious love.
He had remembered. Of course he had remembered.
The small card contained only two words written in flawless, elegant handwriting.
I'm sorry.
The flowers ended up on your residence desk. You had not accepted them, but neither could you find the resolve to throw them away. Two days later, a coffee appeared. Your coffee. The exact blend you ordered during examination periods. Two packets of sugar. A touch of cinnamon. Almond milk.
You let it grow cold.
The following week, a box arrived. Inside rested a delicate silver bracelet adorned with tiny white pearls. Beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.
You returned it that very afternoon.
Then came books. Desserts. Notes. Small details. Small memories. Small apologies. Every gift seemed assembled from fragments of conversations you had forgotten ever having. A favorite author mentioned once during a late-night study session. A pastry you had tried during your first semester. A special edition of a novel you had wanted to purchase months earlier.
And that was precisely what made everything so difficult.
These gifts proved something you did not want to acknowledge. Valarr listened. He always listened. He remembered everything. Absolutely everything.
Your preferences. Your fears. Your dreams. Your habits. The little things. Especially the little things. For the first time since you had met him, it was not endearing. He wasn't chivalrous. It was exhausting. Every object seemed to contain the same message.
Look at me. Forgive me. Come back.
Finally, a week later, he appeared in person. He found you leaving an advanced economics lecture. Crowds of students flowed through the hallways while he remained motionless beside a window, waiting, as though he knew exactly what time your class would end.
He probably did.
“Y/N.”
You did not stop.
“Y/N.”
This time, you turned only because you knew he would not stop calling your name. Valarr looked tired. More tired than usual. The dark circles beneath his eyes were visible even from a distance. He looked wrecked.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, you sighed. “Val.”
Something resembling relief briefly crossed his face. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I don’t want to.”
That seemed to surprise him. “Why?”
You folded your arms.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Y/N—”
“No.” Your voice was firm. Firmer than you intended. “I need time.”
The words lingered between you.
Valarr remained still. Waiting. As though there were more to come. There wasn’t.
“How much time?”
The question emerged softer. Vulnerable. And that made a part of you—the part that still wanted that closeness with him—want to surrender immediately.
You had never seen Valarr ask for something. Demand it? Yes. Take it? Yes. Ask for it? Never.
Still, you answered. “Two and a half weeks.”
Silence returned. At last, he nodded once. “Alright.” A weary smile appeared on his lips. “Two and a half weeks.”
And he honored it.
Surprisingly. Painfully. He honored it.
No more flowers appeared. No more gifts arrived. No coffees were left outside your door. No messages. No phone calls. No excuses to see you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just absence.
And you discovered something deeply irritating. You missed him.
You missed the arguments.
The messages.
The jokes.
His presence.
The ease with which he always seemed to find a place beside you.
The two and a half weeks passed slowly.And when they finally ended, Valarr returned like the tide. Not violently. Not forcefully. Simply returning until he rose around you once more.
First, it was a greeting during a lecture.
Then a brief conversation in the library.
After that, a shared coffee.
Later, lunch.
And before you realized it, he was once again occupying space in your life. Not exactly the same space, but something very close to it.
The difference was that now he seemed more careful. More attentive. As though he had learned something from all of it.
Or at least was trying to.
It was approximately a month later that the invitation to the Aegon Foundation Ball arrived, a charitable gala held every year to raise funds for low-income students and research programs.
It was one of the university’s most prestigious events. Politicians. Business leaders. Alumni. Donors. Everyone attended.
And, of course, the student council president and the first female King’s Scholar recipient were expected to attend as well.
The invitation arrived on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. No flowers. No jewelry. No letters, just Valarr sitting across from you in the library, watching you over a mountain of books.
“I need a date for the ball.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What a devastating problem.”
“It is.”
“I’m sure half the campus would say yes.”
“Probably.”
“Then ask them.”
Valarr closed the book in his hands and looked directly at you. No humor. No teasing. No hiding behind anything.
“I don’t want to ask them.”
The silence that followed felt strange.
You understood exactly what he meant.
For the first time in a long while, hearing it did not make you angry. Only tired. And fond. And something dangerously close to forgiveness.
You released a long sigh. “It’s just a ball.”
The smile that appeared on Valarr’s face was immediate.
Small. Sincere. Extraordinarily rare.
“Does that mean yes?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Yes.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension that had lingered since the election began to dissolve. Not because the damage had vanished. Not because the wounds had healed completely. But because, against all odds, you had decided to give him another chance.
And Valarr, above all things, had always been very good at taking advantage of the opportunities he was given.
—
The Aegon Foundation Ball was exactly the kind of event King's Landing University adored hosting.
Everything about it seemed designed to impress. The grand ballroom had been transformed until it was nearly unrecognizable. Massive crystal chandeliers descended from the vaulted ceiling, scattering warm light across hundreds of guests dressed in gowns and suits whose value likely equaled several semesters' worth of tuition. The walls were adorned with carefully curated floral arrangements, while an orchestra performed classical pieces from an elevated platform at the far end of the hall. Through the enormous windows, the city glittered in the distance, turning the night skyline into a natural extension of the gala itself.
The university had gathered students, professors, business leaders, alumni, and benefactors in a single place. It was a celebration of prestige, influence, and power; exactly the sort of environment in which Valarr moved with an ease that bordered on offensive.
And yet, that evening, he barely seemed to notice any of it.
He was watching you.
Not obviously. Not constantly. But often enough that, had you been looking for the signs, you would have found them.
Every time you disappeared into the crowd, his eyes followed. Every time someone stopped to speak with you, he found himself glancing in that direction. Every time you laughed—even from the opposite side of the ballroom—he seemed to notice.
At first, it went entirely unnoticed.
Until he appeared.
A graduate student from the Economics Department whose name you barely remembered. He had attended several seminars with you throughout the past year and, after exchanging a few words during a recent conference, decided to come over and say hello.
The conversation began innocently enough. Comments about the gala. A recent research project. The student elections.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
The young man proved pleasant, intelligent, and even amusing enough to draw several genuine smiles from you as the two of you spoke beside one of the tables near the dance floor.
And that was precisely when Valarr saw him.
It was neither rational nor elegant nor mature.
The feeling appeared so quickly that he barely had time to recognize it.
Jealousy.
Dark, unpleasant, deeply irrational jealousy.
That student was occupying a space Valarr considered his. The way you leaned forward slightly whenever something genuinely interested you. The way your eyes brightened during an intellectual discussion. The small smiles that appeared whenever someone managed to surprise you.
Valarr knew every one of those expressions.
He had memorized them over semesters, and seeing them directed toward someone else sparked an immediate irritation that began spreading through his chest. The conversation continued for several minutes.
Too many minutes.
From the other side of the ballroom, Valarr watched as the student seemed to grow more confident. Watched him lean slightly closer. Watched him make you laugh again.
And something inside him finally snapped.
When he appeared beside you, the smile he offered was flawless. Far too flawless.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The other student stiffened almost immediately. After all, it was difficult to ignore the presence of Valarr Targaryen.
“We were just talking.”
“I see.” The politeness in his voice was far more unsettling than outright hostility could have been. Beneath it, something far less pleasant had begun to gather.
A few minutes later, he found an excuse to pull you away. A meeting, perhaps. An appointment. You could not even remember which excuse it was. Suddenly, you were following him through the side corridors of the building while his pace became increasingly quick.
“Valarr.”
He did not respond.
“Valarr.”
This time he stopped. He turned toward you near the private restrooms reserved for the event's organizers. The polished mask he had worn all evening—perhaps all his life—was beginning to crack.
“What was that?”
You looked at him, confused. “What was what?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” His voice was low. Controlled only because he was making a visible effort to keep it that way.
“I don't.”
“The student.” The word emerged laced with disdain.
“What about him?”
Valarr let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you really going to pretend you didn't notice?”
“Notice what, exactly?” The silence stretched long enough for you to understand perfectly where this conversation was headed, which was precisely why you chose to continue pretending. To play dumb.
“He was being nice.”
“Sure.”
“He was.”
“Men are rarely nice without a reason.” That response made one of your eyebrows arch. Valarr continued before you could answer. “Especially when they think a woman is giving them attention.”
There it was. The real reason.
Not the student. Not the conversation. But he idea that someone else might approach you. That someone else might claim your attention. That someone else might eventually matter to you.
“I think you're overreacting.”
“I think you're far too naive.”
The response came immediately. Automatically. For several seconds, the silence that followed was almost uncomfortable. Both of you knew exactly what had just happened.
Valarr had just spoken to you as though he knew better than you did about your own decisions. As though he needed to correct you. As though he needed to protect you from something you yourself were incapable of seeing.
Your eyes locked onto his. For a moment, he seemed to realize it. The tension eased ever so slightly, enough for his expression to shift. Enough for something resembling regret to appear. Before he could say anything, you smiled. A calm smile. A polite smile.
A perfectly false smile.
“Well.” You smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from your dress. “I'm glad to know you've thoroughly analyzed the situation.” Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you stepped closer to him. Close enough that barely an inch separated your noses. “I am not your girlfriend or your partner for you to direct this ridiculous display of jealousy at me. I am not yours, Valarr. Get that through your head. I'd rather drag myself through the mud than be with you, you misogynistic cheating idiot—” The words escaped before you reined them back in. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to return to the ball.”
The smile never left your face.
As though nothing had happened.
As though you had not just called Valarr an idiot.
As though that conversation had meant nothing at all. And that, more than any argument, ended up frustrating Valarr. As you walked back toward the ballroom illuminated by crystal chandeliers, he realized that you had understood everything. Absolutely everything, which was far worse than any fight.
—
The penultimate semester arrived with the same cruel speed with which all good things seem to arrive and disappear. For months, you had lived immersed in classes, projects, seminars, student council meetings, and an absurd amount of coffee. Graduation had begun to take shape on the horizon in an increasingly tangible way. It was no longer an abstract idea reserved for older students; it was something real, something approaching with unsettling speed. That night, however, neither of you seemed willing to think about the future. The campus was nearly deserted. Most students were either preparing for final examinations or celebrating the end of the semester at one university party or another, while the academic buildings glowed in the distance beneath the lamplight, transforming into small islands of gold suspended in the darkness.
You and Valarr were lying on the grass in one of the university’s more secluded gardens. The lawn still held traces of the night's moisture, and the cool air drifted softly through the trees, carrying the faint perfume of the flowers lining the nearby pathways. Above you, the sky stretched vast and immeasurable, covered in a scattering of stars so numerous it seemed impossible that a city existed only a few miles away. Neither of you had any real desire to return to your residence halls. There was something strangely comforting about the stillness, about the absence of obligations, about the feeling that for a few hours the academic world could continue turning without either of you.
“Did you know there's an experiment designed to make two people fall in love?”
Valarr’s voice broke the silence with such casual ease that you turned your head slightly to look at him.
“That sounds scientifically questionable.”
“Probably.”
“Then continue.”
A smile appeared on his lips. “It consists of a series of questions. 36 Questions on the Way to Love.”
“The New York Times ones?”
“And sustained eye contact.” He replied.
“That is definitely pseudoscience.”
“Do you want to play or not?”
You stared at the sky for a few seconds before smiling. “Go ahead.”
Valarr folded his arms behind his head and began asking the questions. At first they were simple. If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, living or dead, who would you choose? What was your favorite childhood memory? What dream had you abandoned while growing up? The answers came easily and were often accompanied by laughter. You chose your mother for the first question, prompting Valarr to immediately accuse you of cheating. He chose his grandfather, explaining that he had spent his entire life hearing stories about him without ever having the opportunity to discover who he truly was behind the surname and the legend. That surprised you more than you were willing to admit.
As the night deepened, so did the questions. They left behind amusing anecdotes and lighthearted memories, venturing instead into far more delicate territory. You spoke about fears. About regrets. About the things you valued most in friendship. About losses that still hurt. About the decisions you would change if given the opportunity to go back. Time seemed to dissolve gradually around you. The hours slipped by unnoticed as you exchanged answers you rarely shared with anyone else. Perhaps because there was no need to pretend. There was no student council president and no first King’s Scholar. No titles, responsibilities, or expectations. Just two people lying on the grass in the middle of the night, speaking about themselves with a level of honesty that felt equally comfortable and dangerous.
Eventually they reached one of the final questions. Valarr studied the card in silence for several seconds before reading it aloud.
“What is your favorite memory of us?”
The question settled between you, changing the atmosphere immediately. It was not just another question, both of you knew it.
You remained focused on the stars as you considered your answer. There were too many years between you. Too many conversations, too many arguments, too many shared moments. Choosing only one seemed impossible.
Finally, you smiled. “The library.”
Valarr turned his head. “The library?”
“The first coffee.” Your smile widened slightly. “I don't know why.”
You did know why, you simply had no intention of admitting it. “I still remember how terrified you looked.”
“I was not terrified.”
“Valarr.”
“Yes?”
“You looked like a man facing a public execution.”
The laugh that escaped him was immediate. Genuine. The kind he reserved for very few people. Hearing it caused something warm to settle in your chest.
“And you?” you asked.
For the first time that night, Valarr hesitated.
“I don't have one.”
You frowned. “That’s cheating.”
“No.” His gaze remained fixed on you. “I have too many.”
The silence that followed was different from all the others. Heavier. More aware. For the first time since the conversation had begun, you became fully conscious of the distance separating you—or perhaps of how little distance truly existed between you. The air seemed denser, slower, as though even the world itself were holding its breath.
Valarr was still looking at you, and you were still looking at him.
His eyes briefly dropped to your lips before returning to your gaze. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore. Your heart began pounding against your ribs with ridiculous force. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you seemed to want to.
“I think the experiment may have worked a little.”
The observation escaped your lips before you could stop it, a slow smile appeared on Valarr’s face.
“Has it?” His voice was gentle.
“Maybe.”
“What a relief.”
The remark caught you off guard, and you could not help but frown slightly. “Why?”
For the first time that night, something vulnerable appeared in his expression. Something unguarded. Something he rarely allowed others to see.
His answer came quietly.
“Because I've been ahead of the experiment for years.”
For a second, you forgot how to breathe, the world seemed to stop. The stars, the grass, the university—everything blurred into background noise. Only those words remained suspended between you, carrying years of silences, unspoken gestures, and feelings neither of you had ever found the courage to name.
Then Valarr shifted slightly closer. You saw him do it. You had enough time to understand what was happening, and yet you remained motionless. Perhaps because a part of you had spent far too long imagining what that moment would be like.
Perhaps because another part of you was not ready to face it. His hand brushed against yours in the grass before he closed the remaining distance.
The kiss was gentle. Tentative. As though even he, so certain about so many things, was not entirely certain about you. For a moment, you remained still, surprised by the reality of it. Then you kissed him back. Only a little. Just enough for something warm to move through your chest. Just enough for the world to disappear for one brief and dangerous moment. That was precisely why you pulled away.
Not abruptly. Not angrily. Quickly enough to regain a little air, a little distance, a little control before the moment became more real than you were prepared to accept.
Your eyes immediately found his. Both of your breaths were slightly uneven. Neither of you spoke.
But the rejection, gentle as it had been, hurt far more than Valarr was prepared to endure.
—
Graduation.
Graduation arrived wrapped in such an immense sense of triumph that, at times, it was difficult to believe it was real.
For years, you had pursued that moment with an almost obsessive determination. You had survived impossible exams, entire nights without sleep, and the constant pressure of a university that seemed specifically designed to separate the exceptional from the merely talented. You had arrived at King's Landing University carrying a historic scholarship, impossible expectations on your shoulders, and the persistent fear of discovering that everything had been a mistake. Yet four years later, you were there, seated among the most accomplished graduates of your class, watching endless rows of students dressed in identical black gowns while families filled the stands and cameras captured every moment of a ceremony that would mark the end of an era.
And you were not just another student among that crowd.
You were the one chosen to deliver the graduation speech.
When your name was announced, a wave of applause swept through the auditorium. It was not the polite applause offered out of obligation. It was long. Sincere. Earned. As you walked toward the stage, you felt hundreds of eyes following you, but for the first time in a very long while, it did not intimidate you. You had worked too hard to stand there. You had sacrificed too much.
Before you stretched an entire generation of students preparing to leave the university and face the world.
And you gave the speech . You spoke about effort. About uncertainty. About the fear of failure. About the invisible sacrifices no one saw when they looked at a brilliant résumé or a graduation ceremony. You spoke about opportunity. About privilege. About perseverance. About the people who believed in you when you could not yet believe in yourselves.
And when you finished, the entire auditorium rose to its feet. The ovation was so immediate that, for several seconds, you remained motionless behind the podium, unable to process what was happening.
This was real.
All of it was real.
The university. Graduation. The diploma.
The future. Especially the future.
If the ceremony represented the end of one chapter, what came next was even more exciting. During the previous months, you had received job offers from some of the most prestigious companies on the continent. International firms. Consulting agencies. Corporations whose names appeared constantly in financial magazines and economic newspapers. Any one of them would have been enough to change your life forever.
But you had achieved something better. Much better.
The offer you truly wanted. The only one you had wanted from the very beginning.
An international company based overseas had offered you a position that most graduates spent years trying to reach. The salary was extraordinary. The opportunities for growth even more so. For the first time in your life, the future seemed to open before you without visible limitations.
In one week, you would board a plane. In one week, you would begin a new life. In one week, you would be able to start sending money home. Helping your family. Easing burdens that had weighed on your father for years.
Fulfilling promises you had spent far too long making to yourself.
The thought alone brought a smile to your face every time someone mentioned the job.
That night, you could barely contain your excitement.
The celebrations continued long after the ceremony ended. There were photographs, toasts, embraces, and farewells. Professors congratulating you one final time. Classmates promising to stay in touch. Proud parents watching their children with tears in their eyes. The entire campus seemed suspended in a kind of collective happiness, as though no one wanted to admit that this chapter was coming to an end.
When the hours began to pass and guests gradually started leaving, you discovered that part of you did not want to leave either.
King's Landing University had been your home. Saying goodbye to it was more difficult than you had imagined.
It was close to midnight when you found Valarr.
Or perhaps he found you.
He stood beside his car in one of the more isolated parking lots on campus, his hands tucked into his pockets and an oddly calm expression resting on his face. By then, the crowd had nearly disappeared. Only a few scattered students remained, along with the distant echoes of the final celebrations.
For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, looking at one another. Two people who had shared entire years of their lives.
Two people who were about to walk different paths.
“I suppose this is goodbye.”
The smile that appeared on your lips was soft.
“Not permanently.”
“No.”
Something in the way he answered made the word sound different. Heavier. Sadder. Evaluating. Weighing.
You pushed the feeling away before it could settle. Tonight, you did not want to think about goodbyes. You only wanted to hold on to your happiness a little longer.
“Are you going to accept the job offer?” His blue eye seemed to gleam with an analytical, calculating light.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I am. It’s... it’s a dream come true.” You smiled.
“I’m happy for you.”
Valarr offered to drive you home, and you accepted without thinking much about it. After all, it was Valarr. He had been a constant in your life for years. A presence so familiar that imagining university without him felt impossible.
The interior of the car remained quiet as you left campus behind. Through the window, you watched the illuminated buildings slowly disappear into the distance. Every street felt like a farewell. Every traffic light, a countdown toward the future.
At some point during the drive, Valarr picked up a cup of coffee from the cup holder and handed it to you.
A small smile appeared on your face.
“Since when do you keep coffee in the car?”
“Since I met you.”
The answer made you laugh. It was true. If there was one thing Valarr knew about you, it was your almost unhealthy dependence on caffeine. You accepted the cup without suspicion.
The warmth immediately seeped into your hands. Comforting. Familiar. Safe.
As the city lights continued sliding past beyond the window, you lifted the coffee to your lips and took a long, carefree sip.
“It’s perfect.”
Valarr only hummed softly in acknowledgment before pulling the car over on a deserted corner.
“Sorry—could you grab my wallet? It’s in the back seat. We need to buy fuel. I’m afraid we might end up stranded in the middle of the city.”
You nodded.
Unfastening your seatbelt, you turned around toward the back seats. You leaned forward enough so that your dress hugged your bottom. You looked around the seats for the wallet, but there wasn't one; he pushed you hard against the leather surface, his chest pressed against your back, twisting one of your wrists behind your back.
You let out a groan. "Valarr—what are you doing—" You thrashed, trying to break free from him. You heard a small click behind you before he pulled you further forward, and taking your other wrist, he tied them together with his belt. Air left your lungs and was replaced by a knot in your chest. "Valarr, this is not funny—"
"Shh" He murmured from behind. You could feel his breath, his heavy breat, right where your face and jaw met. With the same force as before, he pressed your face against the seats. "All you do is talk. You chatter, chatter, chatter," he sounded frustrated, you still trying to break free.
You produced unintelligible sounds against the seats, heavy tears sliding against your eyes, ruining your mascara, wetting his seats.
"Don't make this harder than it is," he whispered, placing a soft kiss behind your neck. With one hand, he brushed your hair aside, trailing kisses down to the zipper of your dress.
"Valarr, please—"
"You'll enjoy it, I can assure you that. In a few years, when we're sitting at a family dinner and one of our children asks, "Mom, how are babies made?", and you'll blush so much, you'll blush so hard that the red will paint your ears, your neck, your cheeks." His fingers lowered the zipper with a slow, appreciative sway. "You'll do it. You'll like it. It will live in your memory forever." You leaned back to move him away. He put all his weight on you.
His kisses descended from your back like the tears that slid down your cheeks. You hated it. You hated his kisses, his caresses disgusted you, despised yourself for the faintest hint of pleasure that stirred within you.
"I've waited so long—God, you know I have." He sounded happy. Content. Relieved. He flicked his warm tongue from his mouth, licking your exposed skin. It felt slimy. Disgusting. Bad. "You've played hard to get for so long, love. I can't lie to you, it equally excited and frustrated me." His wet kisses reached the very end of the opening. A sound of pure desperation escaped his throat.
"Valarr—" You cried.
"Enough." You couldn't see it; perhaps that was your only consolation. The fact that you couldn't witness the abomination that sweet, golden boy Valarr who adored you and gave you coffee every day, was. "I told you to stop being difficult— let me have this. Just take it"
He took the sides of your graduation dress, something so special, and ripped it in two. The sound was heartbreaking. Real. This was real. His kisses trailed down the rest of your back. His lips kissed your buttocks, one hand kneading the other as you wept. What else could you do? You'd let him take what he wanted, and you'd take that plane to London. To your dream life. Yes. That's what you'd do.
That viscous fluid trickled down the crack of your ass, pausing to suck on your sweat soaked hole. His words were nothing short of obscene. He let out a pleased sound as he tasted your wet folds. "You taste delicious." He went back in there, slipping his tongue between your lips, bothering you. You hated him, especially the involuntary swaying of your hips. "See?" he whispered before gently biting one of your lips. "You love it. You're so wet. I can't wait, I need you. Can't wait"
You didn't hear him pull down his pants, but you felt him enter you. The combination of his saliva and your fluids was lubricating enough, but it didn't ease the pain of his cock tearing through your vagina. It didn't erase the unbearable burning. It didn't soothe your tears.
Valarr grunted with satisfaction at the sensation. "It's better than I imagined—God, you're so tight." Your silent weeping continued. You had to endure it. You had to resist. He would take what he wanted, do with you as he pleased, and then leave you alone. Yes. He would leave, and you would erase this from your memory. You'd crumple up this page of your story and throw it in the trash.
His left hand cupped your breast, his right your hip. The rhythm was slow, deep, and steady, his tip pounding inside you. You hated it. You hated how your cunt clenched, as if you were made for this, as if your mind and body existed on two different planes, as if, after all your intelligence, you were nothing more than a wild woman in need of a cock.
Valarr rested his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his moans punctuated by soft whispers. He placed gentle kisses on your neck and cheeks as he took your virginity. "You feel so good, my love," he traced kisses down to your ear. "Love it— love you so much."
His cock trembled inside you. You would let him do it, let him ejaculate inside you, allow his seed to rest on your thighs, and tomorrow, when the sun rose, you'll buy a contraception.
"I'm coming—" he groaned against your skin. And with a guttural growl he came inside you. White liquid staining your walls, tears illuminated by the car's headlights, his breath on the back of your neck. His still-half-hard penis slipped out of your walls. He appreciated the way his semen slid out of your cunt and dripped onto the leather of his seats. Not satisfied. Hungry. Needy. Amazed.
He smiled against your skin. His member, now fully erect, rubbed against your ass. His large hand on your hip moved down to your clit, massaging it in small circles. You hadn't come yet. And he, who knew no limits to his greed, wanted to feel it. See it. Have it.
—
His hand rested on your swollen belly, massaging small figures against your skin.
Who would have guessed it? Three months pregnant by Valarr, your belly was beginning to show, and he couldn't have been happier. You would bring life into the world, his seed, his legacy. The girl of his dreams, pregnant by him. He sighed happily against your hair.
The wedding would be in a month. That's what you decided, and he agreed with a gentle "as you wish." The diamond felt heavy on your finger.
You seemed spellbound in the news broadcast on the enormous big screen of the even more immense living room, listening attentively.
"And in this week's surprises, Miss Emma Renoir has become a business phenomenon after achieving a 22.3% increase in sales following her arrival. These gains equate to approximately $12,000,000 millions. She—" The reporter's solemn voice vanished into a black hole.
You turned. Valarr was holding the remote, he left it next to the sofa and then looked at you with those gentle eyes of his.
No. You didn't take that flight to London a week after graduation. You didn't solve your family's financial problems, didn't get to the offices of your dream job.
Valarr did it for you. He fixed your life, your family.
content <𝟑 .ᐟ 18+, mention of a panic attack & arguing, drug use, unprotected sex, talks of unplanned pregnancy, dirty talk, dubcon, pet names, messy sex, creampies.
the first time—
bobby recovers from his panic attack faster than you expect.
he was pacing, telling you to shut up as you tried your best to reason with him after his fuck up. he was nearly yanking his hair out at one point … all that just to to find himself sitting at the end of the bed, rolling a joint in nothing but his boxers. you watch his fingers work, your heart hammers in your chest as your eyes move from his hands and up his arms to his face— focused and relaxed all at once, with his dirty blonde hair falling over his brows. he shouldn’t be allowed to look this good. not after almost knocking you up and being a bitch about it.
you’re laid out, still puffing out little breaths from both your orgasm and your argument. adorned in nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of socks, and the pout that you haven’t been able to shake.
“now you’re too calm.” you mumble as you nudge his side with a cotton clad foot like a gentle form of revenge after the emotional damage he caused, just by thinking with his dick.
“whatever. worst case i’ll scrape up some cash and get you one of those pills. you know i got you.” he murmurs in return, not bothering to look over his shoulder. he’ll get hard again if he does, he’s learned his lesson. a part of him is more focused on smoking and easing what’s left of his fried nerves. a smirk pulls at his lips, “super worst case … you pop out a baby in nine months, we have to quit our dreams and i get an office job. all that nuclear family shit we hate.”
you throw a pillow at the back of his head with all of your fucked out might. you watch him dodge it, and then his tongue peeks past his lips to seal his roll one last time. your eyes follow the dragging movement faithfully as you mutter, your irritation running deep— “you’re not funny, like not even a little bit.”
one hand grabs your ankle and pulls enough to make you yelp, while the other reaches for a lighter off the nightstand. the joint sits between his lips as he lights it, inhaling deeply before offering it up to you.
“just shut up and hit this.”
the second— no, actually … the third time—
bobby doesn’t seem to care anymore.
he’s terrible at this, he’s admitted it every single time you whine at him and try to stop it from happening, before it becomes an even bigger habit. you can only get lucky so many times. something is bound to take. but he shushes you when you start whimpering for him to pull out, distracting you with sloppy kisses and sweet rubs on your clit that have your brain all fuzzy and useless for the moment. something to keep you on the edge and close to cumming yet again.
“bobby, you cant keep doing this,” you whimper into his mouth just as he presses his hands into the backs of your thighs and spreads you out some more. a sign that he’s about to lose control. you can feel every inch of him, can hear every lewd sound that comes from between your thighs and every deep groan falling past his lips. he nuzzles his face into the side of your own, ignoring your hiccuping and babbling entirely. you’re trying so hard to get him to listen with your slurred and breathy words, it almost makes him feel bad, “you have t’pull out.”
“baby, baby— don’t make me.” he chokes out, sweaty forehead resting against your temple as he triples his efforts. he ruts into you as he rambles, sloppy but practiced enough to have your toes curling and your brain liquifying in your skull, “i fuckin’ can’t. i can’t do it. you feel so fuckin’ good, baby … gotta stay right here in this perfect pussy.”
he knows he’s got you the second your nails claw over his shoulders and down his back with no intent other than begging him for more. the sharp sting forces a growl out of his throat before he muffles himself with your mouth, his tongue rubbing against your own as he spills his messy load in you with stuttering movements.
“fuuuck—” he breathes over your lips that are covered in a mix of his saliva and your own, nearly whining as the aftershocks take over and bite at his heels. he grunts, pressing into you like his life depends on it. his gaze drops between your thighs, seeing a mess of white that makes him shudder, “i’ll clean you up after, baby, i swear. jus’ let me have this, pretty girl. give me a second. please.”
you huff under him, mewling as your used up cunt milks him without trying. like it’s second nature, devastatingly.
SYNOPSIS: two weeks after the apartment, aerion is still her best friend’s boyfriend, still watching her across every room, and still making her remember exactly what they did. when he follows her outside during a party, the night turns into another secret...too good to regret.
WARNING: explicit sexual content, humiliation/degradation, infidelity.
WORD COUNT: 4k
NOTES: SAVE ME WHORE AERION. WHORE AERION SAVE ME. anyway, he’s worse in this one. i absolutely love writing evil aerion...enjoy
part one
The party was a fucking zoo.
You stood in the middle of it, a can of cheap beer warming in your hand, and felt the press of bodies from all sides. The living room of some off-campus house you didn't recognize was packed with drunk students grinding to bass so distorted it rattled your teeth. Red plastic cups littered every surface. Someone had spilled something sticky on the floor, and it sucked at the soles of your shoes with every step.
Lana was somewhere in the thick of it, laughing too loud, her arm looped around some girl from her art history class. She'd dragged you here. "You never go out anymore. You're always in that apartment brooding. It'll be fun!" Fun. This was her element, noise, attention, the shallow warmth of being surrounded by people who only knew her surface. You were just the accessory. The quiet friend she brought along to make herself seem deeper.
No one talked to you. A few people glanced your way, recognized you as Lana's roommate, and then looked past you. You were invisible unless you were standing next to her. It was a specific, grinding loneliness that had become familiar over the months.
You hated them all. You hated the drunk girl who shrieked every five seconds. You hated the guy in the corner trying to start a keg stand. You hated the way the smoke machine made everything smell like burnt plastic. You hated the way your skin crawled with the weight of a secret you couldn't shake.
It had been two weeks since the apartment. Two weeks since Aerion had left you on the bathroom floor. Two weeks of him showing up at the apartment like nothing had happened, sitting on your couch, drinking from your mug, touching Lana's shoulder with that casual, proprietary ease. Two weeks of watching him watch you, his blue eyes tracking your every move with a knowing, private smirk. Two weeks of lying awake at night, your thighs pressed together, replaying every filthy second.
Nothing had changed. That was the worst part. He was still her boyfriend. You were still the roommate. The dynamic was exactly the same, except now there was a razor wire of shared knowledge strung between you, invisible to everyone else, cutting you both every time you got close.
You needed air.
You pushed through the crowd, muttering "excuse me" and "sorry" until you burst out the front door. The cold hit you like a slap, sharp and clean. The porch was crowded with smokers and couples making out against the railing. You didn't stop. You rounded the side of the house, following a small gap between the building and a overgrown hedge, until you found a spot that was almost private.
It was a small alcove where the exterior wall of the house met a wooden fence. An old, rusted pipe stuck out from the siding. The ground was dirt and dead leaves. The light from the house barely reached here, casting everything in dim, shadowy blue. You could still hear the muffled thump of the music, but it was distant now, bearable.
You leaned back against the cold siding, the rough texture digging into your shoulders through your jacket. You fished a cigarette from your pocket, a habit you'd picked up in the last two weeks, another thing Aerion had infected you with, and brought it to your lips.
You flicked the lighter once. The flame caught, small and orange.
And then he was there.
Like he'd materialized from the shadows themselves. One second, you were alone. The next, his hand was closing over yours, the one holding the lighter, and his thumb pressed down, extinguishing the flame.
"Don't," Aerion said, his voice a low, rough murmur. "You'll ruin your lungs. They're useful."
You didn't startle. You didn't pull away. Some part of you had known he would follow. Had been waiting for it.
"I didn't see you inside," you said, your voice flat.
"I know." He took the cigarette from your lips, tucked it behind his own ear. "I saw you leave. You looked like you were about to chew through the drywall."
He was standing close. Too close. You could smell him...cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and that underlying musk that was just him. He was wearing a dark jacket, unzipped, a white tank underneath. His hair was messier than usual, and his blue eyes had that glazed, hungry look you recognized from the bathroom mirror.
"You followed me out here," you said.
"I did."
"Why?"
He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. "Because I wanted to be alone with you. And because I know you hate parties. And because I've been watching you all night, standing in corners, looking miserable and beautiful, and I wanted to see if you'd crack before I came to find you."
"I haven't cracked."
"Not yet." He stepped closer. His chest almost brushed yours. "But you will."
Your heart was hammering, a traitorous, eager rhythm. The cold air did nothing to cool the heat spreading through your veins. "Lana's inside."
"Lana's inside getting drunk and telling everyone how she's dating me. She's not thinking about you. She's not thinking about me. She's thinking about how good she looks in that dress and how many people are watching her." His voice dropped, became intimate, venomous. "She doesn't see us. She never does."
He reached up, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was featherlight, but it burned.
"You've been thinking about it," he said. "My mouth on you. My cock inside you. You've been lying in bed at night, touching yourself, thinking about it."
It wasn't a question. You didn't answer. You didn't have to.
"I've been thinking about it too," he continued, his hand sliding down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "Every time I sat on that couch. Every time I kissed her goodnight. Every time I heard you breathe in the next room. I've been thinking about bending you over the kitchen table and fucking you until you forget your own name."
"You're disgusting," you whispered, but your voice cracked.
"I'm honest." He leaned in, his lips hovering a millimeter from yours. "And you're wet right now. Aren't you?"
You didn't answer. Your breath came faster.
"Don't lie to me," he murmured. "I can smell it on you. I can taste it in the air. You're soaked, and you hate yourself for it, and you want me to do something about it."
His mouth brushed yours, a ghost of a kiss, then pulled away. You almost chased it. You caught yourself, but barely.
"Say it," he said, his voice a low, rough command. "Say you want this. Say you want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see."
"Aerion—"
"Say it." His hand tightened on your jaw, not painful, but firm. "I need to hear it. I need to hear you admit that you're just as fucking depraved as I am."
The words stuck in your throat. But they were there, crawling up from some dark, honest place inside you.
"I want it," you breathed. "I want you."
The sound he made was almost animal. A low, rough growl that vibrated through his chest. He crushed his mouth against yours, and this kiss was nothing like the first one. It was hungrier. More desperate. His tongue pushed into your mouth, and he tasted like whiskey and need. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your waist, sliding up under your jacket to grip your ribs through your thin top.
He broke the kiss, gasping. "Turn around."
You did. You pressed your palms flat against the cold siding, your back to him. The rough texture scraped through your shirt. You heard him spit, a wet, lewd sound, and then his hand was on your hip, yanking your jeans down just enough to expose you to the freezing night air.
"Fuck," he hissed, his fingers sliding between your legs, finding you soaked and ready. "Look at that. You weren't lying. You're dripping. You're fucking dripping for me in your best friend's boyfriend's hand."
He pushed two fingers into you without warning, deep and rough, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. The stretch was sharp, perfect. He fucked you with his fingers for a few strokes, cruel and fast, then pulled them out.
"I need to be inside you," he said, his voice strained, the arrogance cracking. "Right now. I can't wait."
You heard his belt unbuckle. The rustle of his jeans. Then his hands were on your hips, positioning you, and the blunt head of his cock was pressing against your entrance.
"Tell me you want it," he said, his voice a ragged plea. "Tell me you want my cock."
"I want it. I want your cock, Aerion. Fuck me."
He pushed in.
The stretch was exquisite, burning. He was thick, and he filled you completely, inch by inch, until his hips were flush against your ass and he was buried to the hilt. He paused there, his forehead dropping to the back of your head, his breath hot and ragged.
"Fuck," he groaned. "You feel so good. So fucking tight. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
He started to move. Slow, deep thrusts at first, each one pressing you harder against the cold wall. The friction was maddening. The risk of it, the open air, the distant music, the possibility of someone rounding the corner, sharpened every sensation to a razor's edge.
"You feel that?" he grunted, his hand coming around to press flat against your lower belly. "You feel me inside you? I'm so deep. I'm so fucking deep in you."
He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against your ass with a wet, obscene rhythm. The sound was loud in the quiet night. Anyone walking by would hear it. Would know.
"Look at you," he hissed. "Taking it. Taking all of it. Bent over for me like a good little slut."
"Don't call me that," you gasped, but your hips pushed back against him, taking him deeper.
"Don't lie to me." He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. "You love it. You love being my slut. You love that I'm fucking you while she's inside telling everyone about her hot boyfriend. You love that I chose you. That I'm inside you."
His hand slid down, finding your clit, rubbing rough, tight circles. The pleasure spiked, electric and overwhelming.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
The orgasm built, coiled, and then shattered. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the cry as your body clamped down around him, waves of pleasure pulsing through you. He kept fucking you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, desperate.
"That's it," he groaned. "That's it. Fuck."
He pulled out suddenly, spinning you around. Before you could process, he had you pressed against the wall again, facing him this time. He lifted one of your legs, hooking it over his arm, and pushed back inside you in one smooth motion. The new angle was deeper, and you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders.
He looked into your eyes. That was the detail that undid you. He didn't look away. His blue eyes were locked on yours, pupils blown wide, his face a mask of fierce, raw need. He fucked you like that, staring into your soul, each thrust a confession.
"I want you," he said, his voice breaking. "I want you so fucking much it's killing me. I think about you constantly. I dream about you. I fuck her and I close my eyes and I imagine it's you."
You couldn't speak. You could only hold his gaze, let him see everything...the shame, the want, the terrible, undeniable truth.
"Say it," he said, his pace quickening. "Say you're an animal."
"I'm an animal," you breathed.
"Say you're my animal."
"I'm your animal."
A shudder ran through him. His grip on your thigh tightened. "Again."
"I'm your animal, Aerion. I'm yours."
He kissed you, deep and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours as he fucked you harder. The wall scraped your back. The cold bit at your exposed skin. The risk of discovery hung over you both like a blade. And none of it mattered. There was only him. Only his eyes. Only the feeling of him inside you, claiming you, ruining you.
He broke the kiss, gasping for air. "I'm going to come," he said, his voice strained. "I'm going to come inside you, and you're going to take it."
"Yes," you said. "Yes."
He drove into you, harder, faster, his rhythm losing all control. His eyes never left yours. The connection was brutal, intimate, overwhelming.
And then you heard it.
Footsteps. Voices. Coming around the side of the house.
Your blood turned to ice. You tensed, your hands flying to his chest to push him away. "Aerion—"
He didn't stop. He didn't pull out. Instead, he moved. In one fluid motion, he shifted, his body pressing you harder against the wall, caging you in. His arms braced on either side of your head. His broad shoulders blocked you from view. His body was a shield, hiding you from whoever was approaching.
"Don't move," he breathed against your ear. "Don't make a sound."
He was still inside you. Still hard. Still thrusting, slow and deep, as the voices grew closer and closer. A guy and a girl, their words slurred with alcohol, their footsteps crunching on the dead leaves just on the other side of the hedge.
"—swear I saw Jake puke in the potted plant. The big one by the stairs."
"Fucking classic. He's such a disaster."
They were going to round the corner. Any second. They were going to see you, Aerion's body blocking yours, but not enough. The angle was wrong. If they looked past him , they'd see your bare legs, your jeans around your thighs, the unmistakable position of two bodies pressed together in the dark.
You tried to push him off. Your hands pressed against his chest, shoving. "Aerion, stop, they're going to see—"
He didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. His hand clamped over your mouth, firm and unyielding, and he drove into you harder, deeper, his eyes never leaving yours. The thrust was brutal, a deep, grinding push that stole your breath and made your eyes roll back.
"Shh," he breathed, his lips brushing your ear. "Don't move. Don't make a sound. Let them pass."
His hips kept moving. A slow, relentless rhythm, fucking you in silence as the voices grew nearer. The risk was obscene. The thrill of it, the sheer, depraved danger, sent a jolt of electricity through your veins. You were going to be caught. You were going to be exposed. And a dark, shameful part of you wanted it.
The girl's voice again, closer now. "Did you hear something?"
Your heart stopped.
The guy laughed. "Probably a raccoon. This neighborhood's full of 'em."
Footsteps paused. You could see a shadow shift at the edge of the alcove, the silhouette of someone peering into the darkness. Aerion's hand tightened over your mouth. His hips kept moving, slow and deep, fucking you with a patience that was more cruel than any frantic pace. He was enjoying this. The danger. The control. The way your body trembled against his, caught between terror and arousal.
"Nah, nothing there," the guy said. "Come on, let's go find another beer."
The footsteps receded. The voices faded back into the ambient noise of the party. You were alone again.
Aerion didn't remove his hand from your mouth. He didn't slow his pace. He looked down at you, his blue eyes glittering with a dark, satisfied triumph.
"See?" he murmured, his voice a low, rough purr. "I told you. I'll take care of you."
He pulled his hand away, replacing it with his mouth. The kiss was deep, possessive, tasting of victory. His tongue pushed past your lips as he fucked you, a wet, consuming claim. When he broke away, he was breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours.
"You liked that," he said. It wasn't a question. "You liked almost getting caught. You liked me hiding you. You liked knowing that anyone could have seen you, seen us, and I still wouldn't have stopped."
"I didn't—"
"Don't." His voice was sharp, cutting. "Don't lie to me. Not now. Not when I'm inside you. I felt it. You clenched around me when you heard their voices. You got tighter. Wetter. You were scared, and you were turned on, and you fucking loved it."
You couldn't deny it. The truth was written in the way your body responded to him, in the fresh pulse of wetness that coated his cock with every thrust.
"Admit it," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Admit you're a dirty little slut who gets off on almost being caught."
"Aerion—"
"Say it." He thrust deeper, harder, punctuating the command. "Say. It."
"I'm a dirty little slut," you gasped, the words torn from you.
"Whose slut?"
"Yours."
He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest. "Fuck. Yes. You're mine. You're so fucking mine."
He pulled out suddenly, spinning you around again. He pushed you forward, bending you over a low wooden fence that bordered the property. The wood was rough, splintered, digging into your palms. The position was degrading, completely exposed. Your ass was in the air, your cunt still slick and open from him.
He didn't enter you immediately. Instead, he knelt behind you. You felt his breath, hot and ragged, against your wet folds. Then his mouth was on you, devouring you from behind. His tongue pushed inside you, deep and searching, tasting his own precum mixed with your arousal. He ate you like a man possessed, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his nose pressing against your ass as he buried his face in you.
"Oh, fuck—" you gasped, your fingers scrabbling against the fence.
He didn't let up. He licked and sucked and bit, his tongue fucking you with a filthy, relentless rhythm. The sounds he made, wet, slurping, animalistic, were obscene in the quiet night. He pulled back just long enough to spit on your cunt, a thick, wet glob, before diving back in, using his own saliva to lubricate his assault.
"You taste so fucking good," he said, his voice muffled against your flesh. "I could eat you for hours. I could fucking drown in you."
He stood up abruptly, his hands replacing his mouth. He spread your folds open with his fingers, exposing you to the cold air, admiring his work.
"Look at you," he said, his voice thick with awe and disgust. "Soaked. Open. Used. You're a mess. My mess."
He lined himself up and pushed back inside you in one brutal stroke. The angle was different from before, deeper, hitting a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. He fucked you with a punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against your ass, the sound echoing off the walls of the house.
"You're going to take it all," he said, his voice a low, vicious snarl. "Every drop. Every inch. And when I'm done, you're going to walk back into that party with my come dripping down your thigh, and you're going to smile at her, and you're going to pretend you don't have me inside you."
He reached around, his hand finding your throat. He didn't squeeze, just rested it there, a reminder of his control. His other hand slid down your belly, fingers finding your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles.
"Come for me again," he commanded. "Come for me while I fuck you from behind like the animal you are."
The orgasm built like a wave, crashing over you with brutal force. You cried out, a broken, keening sound, your body convulsing around him. He didn't stop. He fucked you through it, his pace increasing, his breathing ragged.
"That's it," he groaned. "That's my good little slut. Squeezing my cock like you never want me to leave."
He pulled out again, and before you could register the loss, he was spinning you around, dropping you down to your knees. He took himself in his hand, stroking fast, his eyes locked on yours.
"Open your mouth," he said.
You did.
He came on your face.
Hot, thick ropes of come painted your lips, your chin, your cheek. He aimed deliberately, marking you, his breath hitching with each pulse. When he was done, he looked at you, kneeling before him covered in his release, and his expression was one of pure, dark worship.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "You're so fucking beautiful like this."
He leaned down, his tongue extending, and licked his own come off your lips. The kiss that followed was sloppy, shared, tasting of salt and bitterness. It was the most intimate thing you had ever done.
He stood up, pulling you with him. He used his thumb to wipe a stray drop from your chin, then pressed his thumb into your mouth. You sucked it clean, your eyes never leaving his.
"Good girl," he said, his voice soft and cruel.
He pulled up your jeans, fastening them with a practiced efficiency. He straightened your jacket, smoothed your hair. He was dressing you, cleaning you, preparing you to go back inside like nothing had happened.
"Your turn," he said, gesturing to his own face. "Fix me."
You reached up, your fingers trembling, and wiped a smudge of your lipstick from the corner of his mouth. He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm.
"Tonight," he said, his voice low and urgent. "After she falls asleep. My car. Behind the diner. One in the morning."
"What?"
"You heard me." He released your hand, stepping back. "I'm not done with you. I'm never going to be done with you."
He turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner of the house. You stood there, alone in the dark, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, his taste still on your tongue.
You waited a full five minutes before walking back inside.
The party was still going. The bass still thumped. Lana was still laughing, a red cup in her hand . She looked up when you approached, her eyes glassy with alcohol.
"Hey! There you are! I was looking for you." She smiled, oblivious. "You okay? You look flushed."
You forced a smile. "Just needed some air."
She nodded, already distracted by someone calling her name. "Okay, well, don't disappear again! I want you to meet some people!"
She turned away. You stood there, in the middle of the noise and the heat, and felt the ghost of him still inside you. His come was drying on your face, hidden under the dim light. His scent was all over your skin.
And you were already counting the hours until one in the morning.
SYNOPSIS: when her best friend leaves for a study group, aerion finally has the apartment exactly how he wants it...cold, quiet, and empty of witnesses. after using her best friend as a way into her life, he forces the truth into the open...that everything was always about her, and one night alone is enough to ruin them both.
WARNING: explicit sexual content, humiliation/degradation, infidelity.
WORD COUNT: 5k
NOTES: philosophy majors rise up!!!! stayed up all night writing this because it’s summer break, i have no structure CLEARLY, and i am unfortunately in love with aerion targaryen. he is awful, he is a walking red flag...and i had the time of my life writing him
part two
The heater rattles against the wall, a dry, metallic cough that did nothing to cut the cold seeping through the cheap apartment windows. You were trying to read, The Genealogy of Morals, but the words had blurred into gray smears an hour ago. The only thing in focus was the sound of him in the kitchen.
Aerion Targaryen was not quiet. He never was. The scrape of a chair, the clink of a spoon against ceramic, the low, satisfied exhale of smoke. He was using your mug again. The chipped blue one with the faded university logo. You’d told him not to, last week, and he’d looked at you with those flat, winter lake eyes and taken a deliberate, slow sip, his throat working as he swallowed.
“It’s just a mug,” your best friend, Lana, had laughed, nudging you. “Don’t be so intense.”
Lana was gone now. Off to a study group for her art history midterm. She’d been anxious all week, picking at her nails, because Aerion had been distant. “He’s just like that,” she’d said, more to herself than to you. “He’s got a lot on his mind.” Before she left, she’d paused at the door, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. “You’ll keep an eye on him, right? Don’t let him burn the place down. And try not to kill each other.” She’d smiled, a nervous, fluttering thing, and then she was gone, leaving the apartment heavy with the silence she’d filled with chatter.
The silence didn’t last. You heard the sink run, then stop. Footsteps, unhurried, crossed the short hallway from the kitchen to the living room. He appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame, your blue mug in his hand. He wore a worn black t-shirt, grease stained jeans from his diner shift, and the scent of old coffee, and cigarette smoke.
“She thinks I’m a stray cat,” he said, his voice a low, rough scrape. He didn’t smile. He never really smiled. His mouth just did something, a twist that was more threat than expression. “Don’t let him burn the place down. Like I’m some fucking hazard she’s leaving in your care.”
You didn’t look up from your book. “Aren’t you?”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, dropping onto the opposite end of the secondhand couch. The springs groaned under his weight. He set your mug on the scarred coffee table, right on top of your highlighted notes.
“You tell me. You’re the one with the moral compass. The better student.” He lit a cigarette, the match hissing to life. He didn’t ask. He blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “Nietzsche. Appropriate. Rereading the parts about how morality is a fiction for the weak?”
“I’m reading the parts about how resentment poisons the soul,” you said, finally looking at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, the blue of them almost violent in their clarity. “You should try it.”
He took a drag, held it, let the smoke curl from his nostrils. “I don’t have resentment. You rejected me. That was your choice. I accepted it. I just…restructured the playing field.” He gestured loosely with the cigarette, ash falling on the carpet. “Lana wanted to be chosen. You wanted to be wanted without the inconvenience of admitting it. I just gave you both what you wanted. It’s practically altruism.”
Your fingers tightened on the paperback. “You’re dating my best friend to punish me. To get close to me. That’s not a playing field. That’s a pathology.”
“Is it?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cigarette dangling from his fingers. “You knew what I was doing the moment I asked her out. You saw right through it. And you let it happen. You watched me sit on this shitty couch with my arm around her. You watched me kiss her goodnight. You listened through that thin fucking wall when I fucked her in her room. And you never said a word. Not to protect her. You just sat there, in your righteous silence, watching me watch you.” His voice dropped, became intimate, venomous. “So who’s the pathological one? The guy who acts on his desires, or the girl who gets off on being the secret center of the universe?”
Heat flooded your face, a mix of shame and fury so acute it felt like nausea. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m honest.” He crushed the cigarette in your mug, the hiss of the ember dying in the dregs of coffee. “You hate me because I’m a mirror. And you don’t like what you see.”
“I hate you because you’re using a vulnerable person as a tactical maneuver.”
“She’s using me, too!” he snapped, the first real crack in his controlled, sleazy demeanor. His eyes flashed. “She wants the badge of dating someone dangerous. She wants to feel special because someone like me would choose someone like her. She doesn’t see me. She sees a fucking accessory. So don’t paint her as some innocent victim. She’s a selfish, shallow little bitch who’s happy to have you clean up her messes as long as she gets to feel chosen.” He leaned back, the anger receding into a colder, more deliberate malice. “Just like you’re happy to feel wanted as long as you don’t have to get your hands dirty by saying yes.”
You stood up, the book falling to the floor. “Get out.”
He didn’t move. He just looked up at you, a slow, appraising look that traveled from your face down your body and back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was an assessment. A philosopher considering a proof. “No.”
“Get out of my apartment, Aerion.”
“It’s Lana’s apartment, too. And I’m her guest.” He spread his arms along the back of the couch. “She asked you to keep an eye on me. So do your duty.”
The air was too thick to breathe. The rattling heater, the smell of his smoke, the weight of his gaze. All the arguments, all the needling comments, the stolen mugs, the notes in your books, ‘naive,’ ‘sentimental bullshit,’ ‘try harder’, it had all been winding tighter and tighter, a spring coiling in the pit of your stomach. This was the tension he lived for. This was the game.
“You love this, don’t you?” you whispered, the anger turning into something else, something bleak and recognizing. “You love that I’m stuck here with you. You love that I can’t make you leave without causing a scene she’ll never forgive me for. You engineered this whole pathetic scenario just so you could have me trapped.”
For the first time, something like real pleasure touched his expression. Not happiness. Triumph. “Finally,” he breathed. “There she is. The girl who sees the board. The girl who understands the move.” He stood up, slowly, closing the distance between you. He was taller, and he used it, looking down at you with that intense, grimy beauty. “You think I’m cruel? You’re right. You think I’m using her? You’re right. You think this is all about you?” He brought a hand up, but didn’t touch you. He just hovered it near your cheek, letting you feel the heat of his skin. “You have no idea how right you are.”
His other hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch was shockingly gentle, at odds with everything about him. It made your breath catch.
“You rejected me,” he said, his voice now a low, private thing, just for the space between your mouths. “You looked at me and you said no. You humiliated me. So I made a world where your no didn’t matter. I walked right into your life through a door you left open. I sat at your table. I drank from your cup. I fucked your friend in the next room thinking about you. And you let me. Because part of you wanted to see how far I’d go. How badly I wanted it. How badly you wanted it.”
His fingers finally touched your jaw, a firm, claiming pressure. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You couldn’t. The words were ash in your mouth. All the moral high ground, all the justified anger, it crumbled because he was right. You had watched. You had felt a thrill, dark and shameful, every time his eyes slid from Lana to you. You had treasured his insults because they were a form of attention no one else gave you. You were complicit. You were corrupt.
He saw the admission in your eyes. The victory in his was blinding, and ugly, and hungry.
He kissed you.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t an exploration. It was a claim. His mouth was hard and demanding, tasting of nicotine and bitter coffee. His hand on your jaw held you still, his other arm snaking around your waist to yank you flush against him. You made a sound, a muffled gasp of protest, and he swallowed it, h is tongue pushing into your mouth, deep and possessive. It was filthy. It was a violation and a confession all at once. You didn’t kiss him back at first. You stood there, rigid, letting him take. But your body betrayed you. A shiver ran through you. Your hands, which had come up to push at his chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly against your lips. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you hate me.”
“I hate you,” you choked out.
“Good.” He kissed you again, more brutally, biting your lower lip until you whimpered. “Now show me.”
He turned you, pushing you back toward the couch. You stumbled, your calves hitting the edge, and you fell backward onto the cushions. He was on you before you could right yourself, his knees bracketing your hips, his weight pinning you down. The cold from the window was gone, replaced by the scorching heat of him. He looked down at you, his brown hair falling into his eyes, his sharp features etched with a frantic need.
“You’ve been watching me,” he said, his hands going to the hem of your sweater. “Watching me play her boyfriend. Watching me pretend. It made you wet, didn’t it? Knowing it was all for you. Knowing every time I touched her, I was thinking about my hands on you.”
He yanked the sweater up and over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, covered by a simple bra. There was no reverence in his gaze. It was pure, avaricious hunger. “Fuck. Look at you.” He palmed you through the fabric, his thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple until it peaked painfully. “You’re so fucking tense. All that morality, all that judgment, locked up tight in this perfect little body. I’m gonna ruin it.”
He unsnapped your bra with a quick, practiced twist of his fingers. The air hit your skin, and then his mouth did. He didn’t kiss your breast. He devoured it. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue laving, then his teeth grazing, then biting down just enough to make you cry out. You arched off the couch, a jolt of pure, electric sensation shooting straight to your core. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same brutal attention, his hand squeezing and kneading the flesh he wasn’t mouthing.
“Aerion—” you gasped.
He lifted his head, his lips swollen, his chin wet. “What? Gonna tell me to stop? Gonna tell me this is wrong?” He rocked his hips down, and you felt the hard, insistent length of him pressed against your thigh through both your jeans. A low groan rattled out of his chest. “You feel that? That’s for you. That’s been for you since the first day you argued with me about Kant in seminar. While I was fucking her, this is what I was thinking about. Pinning you down. Making you admit it. Making you come on my cock while your best friend’s scent is still on my sheets.”
His words were filthy, deliberate, designed to degrade and arouse in equal measure. And they worked. A hot, shameful pulse of desire throbbed between your legs. You were wet. Soaked. He could probably feel it through the denim.
He saw it in your face. His grin was feral. “Yeah. That’s it. No more hiding.” He shifted back, his hands going to the button of your jeans. He popped it open, dragged the zipper down, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and your panties and pulled them down your legs in one rough motion. The cold air hit your bare skin, and you were exposed, sprawled on the couch under his ravenous gaze.
“God,” he breathed, not a prayer but a curse. He ran a hand up your inner thigh, his fingers rough with calluses from the diner work. He didn’t tease. He went straight to your cunt, his fingers sliding through your slickness with a filthy, wet sound. “Fuck. You’re dripping. You’re fucking dripping for me. For this. After all that shit you talked.” He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, deep and curling, and you cried out, your back bowing off the couch. “You’re so tight. Clenching around me like a little bitch who’s been waiting for it.”
He fucked you with his fingers, a ruthless, punishing rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with harsh, unrelenting pressure. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, built in your belly. It was too much. It was crude and nasty and it stripped you of every pretense. You were panting, your hips moving against his hand, chasing the feeling.
“That’s it,” he snarled, watching you fall apart. “Let go. Be the greedy, jealous, hypocritical cunt I know you are. Come on my fingers. Show me how much you wanted this.”
His words, the crude, relentless stimulation, the sheer wrongness of it...it tipped you over. The orgasm crashed through you, violent and shuddering, a silent scream tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers. He worked you through it, his fingers pumping, until you were oversensitive and twitching, tears of overwhelm and shame pricking your eyes.
He pulled his fingers out, glistening, and brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, his eyes locked on yours, and the sight was so profoundly debauched it made your spent body clench again. “You taste so fucking good,” he said, his voice guttural.
He stood up from the couch, unbuckling his belt, the metal clinking. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was hard, thick, flushed an angry red, the tip wet. He was big, and he looked it, stroking himself slowly as he looked down at you, a nasty, possessive pride on his face.
“You see this?” he said. “This is what you said no to. This is what you made me work for. Now you’re gonna take it. All of it.”
He didn’t give you time to prepare. He knelt on the couch again, pushed your thighs apart wider, and notched the head of his cock at your entrance. He was still slick from your arousal. He pushed in.
The stretch was intense, burning. You gasped, your nails digging into the couch cushions. He didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, inch by relentless inch, his jaw clenched, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. When he was fully seated, buried inside you to the hilt, he paused, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. He was so deep it felt like he was in your throat.
“Fuck,” he moaned, the arrogance momentarily shattered by raw sensation. “Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. I’m so deep in you.” He dropped his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s where I belong. In your tight, traitorous little cunt.”
Then he started to move.
There was no gentle rhythm. It was fucking, pure and simple. A hard, driving, nasty piston of his hips, slamming into you with a force that shook the old couch, the springs screeching in protest. Each thrust punched a choked sound from your lungs. Uh. Uh. Uh. The slap of skin on skin was loud, lewd, echoing in the shabby apartment. He fucked you like he hated you, like he wanted to break you apart and remake you in his image.
“You like that?” he grunted, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You like getting fucked by your best friend’s boyfriend? You like being the other woman? The secret? The dirty little secret?”
You couldn’t answer. Pleasure was building again, a tighter, darker coil this time, fed by the sheer physical brutality of it, by the venom in his voice, by the devastating truth of his words.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his pace never faltering. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
You forced your eyes open. His face was a mask of fierce, unhinged concentration. Sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest. His blue eyes were black with pupil, fixed on yours, drinking in every flicker of shame and pleasure.
“I knew it,” he panted. “I knew you were this. Under all the books, all the arguments. A nasty, beautiful bitch who gets off on betrayal.” He shifted his angle, driving deeper, and you saw stars. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I’m inside you. I want to feel you come. I want to feel you give up.”
His hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing fast, rough circles. The dual assault was too much. The pressure broke. Your second orgasm tore through you, a silent, seizing convulsion that clamped down on his cock like a vise. A raw, guttural cry was ripped from your throat: “Ah! Fuck!” as you shattered, your vision whiting out.
The sensation of you pulsing around him broke his control. With a ragged, broken shout, “Yes! Take it, baby!” he slammed into you one last, brutal time and came. His shout wasn’t a release...it was a detonation. A raw, guttural “Fuck!” that tore from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his body locking into a rigid, shuddering arc.
You could feel it, the hot, pulsing rush of his come flooding you in thick, relentless spurts. It was an obscene, intimate violation, a physical claim that went deeper than skin. He kept thrusting through it, shallow, desperate jerks of his hips, milking his own orgasm as he watched your face with a kind of glazed, triumphant horror.
The air reeked of sex, sweat, and cheap tobacco. The only sounds were the ragged symphony of your shared breathing and the wet, sticky sound of him still moving inside you, slowly now, as the last tremors subsided. He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, slumped over you, his weight crushing, his forehead damp against your collarbone. His breath was hot and uneven on your skin.
For a long moment, there was just the aftermath. The brutal clarity of what you’d done.
Then he laughed. It was a low, shaky, nasty sound, devoid of humor. “God,” he breathed into your skin. “Look at us.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his cock still lodged inside you, softening but present. He looked down at the mess between your bodies. Your thighs were slick, a mixture of your arousal and his spend already starting to cool. His gaze was fascinated.
“Ruined,” he murmured, dragging a finger through the mess on your lower belly. He brought it to his lips, tasting it, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re ruined. And you love it.”
You tried to summon the anger, the shame. It was there, a cold knot in your stomach. But it was smothered under a heavier, more terrifying weight...a satiation so profound it felt like dying. You didn’t push him off. You laid there, letting him look, letting him own the devastation.
He finally pulled out. The sensation was a slow, wet drag, followed by a hot trickle down your thigh. The physical evidence of the betrayal. He stood up, his movements loose limbed with satisfaction. He looked down at his own cock, glistening, spent, and gave it a lazy, proprietary stroke before tucking it back into his jeans. He didn’t zip them up. He left them hanging open, the denim dark with cum.
“Get up,” he said, his voice back to that rough, commanding scrape.
You didn’t move. You felt hollowed out, boneless.
“I said get up.” He reached down, his fingers closing around your wrist. His grip was iron. He hauled you off the couch. Your legs buckled, and you stumbled against him. He caught you, his arm banding around your waist, holding you upright against his solid, heated body. “You don’t get to check out now. We’re not done.”
He half walked, half dragged you the short distance down the hallway, past Lana’s closed door with its stupid, cheerful “Live, Laugh, Love” decal, and into the cramped, cold bathroom. He flicked the switch. The harsh fluorescent light buzzed to life, exposing everything...the chipped tile, the mold in the grout, the damp towels on the floor. And the two of you in the mirror above the sink.
You looked wrecked. Your hair was a wild tangle. Your lips were swollen and bitten. Your eyes were wide, dark, shell shocked. There were red marks blooming on your hips, your breasts. You were naked, shivering in the chill. He stood behind you, still mostly dressed, his chin resting on your shoulder, his blue eyes meeting yours in the glass. He looked like a predator who’d cornered its prize. Arrogant. Sated. Malicious.
“Look,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at what we did. Look at what you are now.”
You tried to look away. His hand came up, fingers tangling in your hair, holding your head still. “Look.”
You stared at your reflection. At the stranger who had let this happen. Who had come apart under him.
“You’re mine,” he said, the words a soft, venomous promise. “You said no, but your body said yes. Your cunt said yes. Every time you argued with me, every time you pretended to be disgusted, you were just begging for this.” His other hand slid around your front, palm flattening low on your belly. “You think this is just sex? This is a fucking philosophy. I proved my thesis. You are not better than me. You are not cleaner. You are right here in the mud with me. And you like the mud.”
He turned on the faucet with his elbow. The water ran cold, then grudgingly warm. He wet a hand towel, wrung it out. Then, with a shocking, intimate gentleness, he began to clean you. He started between your legs, wiping away the sticky evidence of him with slow, deliberate strokes. The rough fabric against your oversensitive flesh made you flinch.
“Sensitive?” he mocked softly, continuing his task. “Good. You should feel it. You should remember every fucking second of this every time you sit down.” He moved the cloth up your thighs, over your belly, wiping his spend from your skin. It was a perverse act of caretaking, a way of extending the possession. He was marking you, then cleaning the mark, only to leave the memory of the stain.
He rinsed the cloth, the water turning cloudy. He wiped your chest, your neck. He was thorough. Degrading. When he was done, he dropped the wet towel on the floor. He kept his hand on your belly, his other still fisted in your hair.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, filthy whisper. “You’re going to get on your knees.”
Your eyes flew to his in the mirror. You saw the challenge there. The test. This wasn’t about pleasure. This was about submission. About finishing the corruption.
“No,” you whispered, the first word of protest since it began.
His grip in your hair tightened, not enough to truly hurt, but enough to promise he could. “Yes.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You don’t get to be the victim now, baby. You participated. You came. Twice. You’re a willing accomplice. So get on your fucking knees and taste what you did. Taste your betrayal. Or I walk out that door, and you can explain to Lana why you’re shaking and why my smell is all over you.”
It was the cruelest possible choice. A final, ugly layer to the act. He was forcing you to make it active. To choose the degradation.
A sob caught in your throat. You were breaking, and he was watching it happen in the mirror, his eyes alight with a feverish, intellectual hunger. This was the moment he’d wanted all along. Not just the sex. The shattering.
Your knees gave out. You didn’t have to be forced. You sank down onto the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor. The position was profoundly exposing, kneeling naked at his feet while he stood over you, his jeans still open.
He looked down at you, a god of grime and spite. He freed his cock again. It was half hard, wet, glistening with your combined fluids. He stroked it slowly, watching your face. “Open your mouth.”
You did. You hated yourself. You hated him. And a deep, sick, undeniable part of you was more aroused in this moment than you had ever been in your life.
He guided himself to your lips. The smell was musky, intimate, brutally sexual. “Lick it clean,” he commanded. “Clean your mess off me.”
You closed your eyes. You couldn’t look at him. You extended your tongue, tentatively touching the slick, salty head. The taste was bitter, primal, unmistakably him. A low groan rumbled in his chest.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Taste it. Taste where you’ve been. Taste what you let me do.”
You took him deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling, cleaning him with a slow, mortifying thoroughness. You could taste yourself on him, the tang of your own arousal mixed with the bitter salt of his release. It was the most debasing thing you had ever done. It was also, perversely, an intimacy more profound than the sex. This was acceptance. This was consumption of the sin.
He let you work, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. His breathing grew ragged. “Fuck. Your mouth. So fucking good. You’re a natural at this. A natural little cocksucker. All that smart talk…and you were born to kneel.”
His words should have killed the arousal. They fed it. A hot, shameful pulse throbbed between your own legs, and you were horrified to feel fresh wetness there. You were getting off on this. On the humiliation. On being reduced to this by him.
He felt the subtle shift in your posture, the way your shoulders slumped in surrender. He saw everything.
“You’re getting wet again,” he stated, awed and vicious. “Right now. On your knees. You’re dripping for me again.” He pulled himself from your mouth with a wet pop. “Stand up.”
You swayed as you got to your feet, your legs trembling. He turned you roughly to face the sink, bending you over it. The porcelain was icy against your feverish stomach. He kicked your feet apart. In the mirror, you saw him drop to his knees behind you.
You felt his breath, hot, against the back of your thigh. Then his mouth.
He didn’t kiss you. He ate you. Like a man starving. His tongue was a flat, ruthless stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit, lapping up the new arousal he’d drawn out. You cried out, your fingers scrambling against the slick sink. He hooked his arms under your thighs, pulling you back against his face, holding you open. He fucked you with his tongue, deep, then focused on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, nibbling, lashing it with a relentless, expert precision.
“Aerion—!” His name was a shattered plea.
He didn’t let up. He was punishing you with pleasure. Rewarding you for your depravity. His tongue worked you over, crude and perfect, until you were sobbing, pushing back against his face, your hips moving of their own volition. The orgasm he wrung from you this time was silent, a total systemic collapse that left you shuddering and weak, held upright only by his grip under your thighs.
As the last tremors faded, he stood. You heard the tear of foil, a condom this time, pulled from his wallet. He sheathed himself. He was hard again, fully, impressively. He didn’t ask. He just positioned himself and pushed back inside you from behind.
You were oversensitive and utterly spent. The stretch was a sweet, burning ache. He fucked you like this, bent over the sink, with a slower, deeper, more possessive rhythm. Each thrust was a statement. Mine. Mine. Mine. He watched in the mirror, his eyes glued to where your bodies joined, to the helpless expression on your face.
“This is it,” he panted, his hands gripping your hips, his thrusts gaining speed. “This is the truth. No more books. No more arguments. Just this. You. Me. This filthy, nasty, perfect thing.” He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to come again.”
You were beyond words. Beyond thought. You nodded, a frantic, desperate movement.
“Say it.”
“I want it,” you gasped, the admission tearing from a place of pure, ruined id. “I want you to come. Please.”
It was the ‘please’ that did it. That final surrender. With a choked off roar, he slammed into you, his body locking as he emptied himself into the condom deep inside you. His hips jerked through the pulses, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, his whole body trembling with the force of it.
He stayed there for a long time, slumped over you, both of you breathing in ragged unison, reflected in the cruel fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror: a portrait of mutual destruction.
Slowly, he pulled out. He disposed of the condom. He zipped his jeans. He ran a hand through his sweaty brown hair. He looked at you, still bent over the sink, utterly broken open.
He didn’t help you up. He didn’t offer comfort. He walked to the door and paused, looking back. His expression was unreadable. The arrogance was there, but it was tempered by something darker, more complicated. A recognition.
“She’ll be back in an hour,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Clean up. The couch. The bathroom. Yourself.” He nodded toward the towel on the floor. “Get rid of that.”
He was leaving you with the mess. Literal and metaphorical. It was his final lesson.
“This changes nothing with her,” he added, his blue eyes cold and clear. “I’m still her boyfriend. I’ll still be here tomorrow. On your couch. Drinking from your mug.” A nasty, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “And you’ll still be watching. Knowing.”
He turned and walked out of the bathroom. You heard his footsteps cross the living room. You heard the front door open, then click shut. Silence.
You slid down the cabinet onto the cold tile floor, pulling your knees to your chest. The apartment was freezing. The heater rattled. In the other room, on the couch, the evidence of what you’d done was slowly cooling.
You had never felt more sober, or more completely ruined. He was right. It changed nothing. And it changed everything. He had proven his point, down to the last, nasty detail. And you, the better student, had finally understood the lesson.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ 𐔌 THROUGH THE LENS I ⋆.˚
( BOBBY FRANKLIN X READER )
plot: 1990, you work at a camera shop in San Jose's suburbs, your co-worker, bobby, is some emotionally driven weirdo with a weed addiction. he intimidates you, he fantasizes about you. an obsession that leads him to do stuff he never even thought himself capable of.
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, voyeurism, bobby being a dick and an obsessive weirdo
a/n: this is the first part of a short series i am currently writing called 'through the lens' and I hope you like it!! keep in mind that english ain't my first language so i apologize for any kind of mistake.
“someone is asking for some paillard 16mm camera?” you asked your boss Ed as he sighed heavily at your incompetence—he still couldn’t tell whether he had made the best choice hiring you for your good looks and cute smile that would tend to seduce customers or if it had been the worst of his life because of your ignorance when it came to cameras.
“look in the back, it’s a fancy black camera with a crank. you’ll know when you see it.” you thanked him and disappeared in the back of the shop, looking for the camera among the hundreds of cardboard boxes. you saw a ‘paillard bolex h16 16mm’ camera that resembled the description Ed had given you.
you grabbed the box and left the store room and walked back to the old man who had asked about the device, “there it is!” you said enthusiastically as you set the box on the counter with a loud thud, almost scaring your co-worker Bobby. you eyed him with a judging look, you never particularly liked him, he was rude, smelled like weed most of the time and talked to people like they weren’t worth anything.
your salary clearly wasn’t enough for putting up with him.
“is it still working?” asked the customer, your eyes fell back on him as you unboxed the camera and showed it to him more closely.
“yes it does!” you replied and felt Bobby’s gaze on you, studying your every move and word, waiting for the moment where you’d fuck up and he’d get to correct and humiliate you.
“how much is it?”
“that one would cost you $120.”
“and what are the lenses?” he asked as his wrinkly fingers brushed on the camera, you immediately fell silent, your boss watched from afar with an eye roll and a head shake.
you heard Bobby chuckle beside you at your lack of response while the customer stared at you, “there are 16mm, 25mm and 75mm lenses, sir,” Bobby stepped in and pushed you aside to dominate the conversation, “you can run it at 8, 16, 24, 32 and 64 frames per second.”
you walked away as soon as you realized there was no point in trying to get your customer back. you stood by one of the kodak section and began reorganizing the shelves as your boss whispered to you, “got robbed again?”
“it’s like a hobby for him,” you rolled your eyes.
Ed let you get off work earlier that day, it was around 6PM when you were walking back home with your walkman stuck in your jeans pocket while dionne warwick played. you hummed to the song when no one was around to hear. you recognized your house in a corner of the street, you took off your headphones and suddenly heard something behind you. you turned, but nothing.
your brows drew together as you slowly turned back and checked your mailbox—empty. you opened your front door, dropped your shoulder bag on the ground and immediately helped your parents in the kitchen. the table was then set and dinner lasted about an hour like it always did, your parents would ask about your day at work, your dad would complain about his colleagues and the projects he was working on while your mom brought some neighborhood gossip to the table, all while the radio played in the background.
you helped with the dishes, bid good night to your parents before running up the stairs and locking yourself in your room.
the wallpapers were white with pink flower details, you had a small antique vanity in a corner of your room with your closet beside it that had pictures of you and your friends stuck on the doors. your bed was a cottage bed with pink and white sheets and white pillows with brown teddy bears embroided on the fabric. right next to your bed stood your desk with your computer.
you closed your curtains, turned your computer on to check your emails and in the meantime changed into more comfortable clothes. once the computer was fully on and running smoothly, you opened your emails.
now that you’ve been hit, you need to hit 7 other people with the money truck, including—
“shut the fuck up,” you mouthed to yourself and immediately deleted the email. then something caught your eye, a mail from a sender you had never seen before.
got these from an AOL chat room, sent me all the mp3 files, enjoy bro
you frowned, confusion waved through you. you clicked on one of the files and it began downloading an mp3 files that was about 420MB. people usually checked for viruses before downloading files from an unknown source, but you had no awareness of that.
you played the movie, a video player opened and the familiar star wars music theme played so loudly it almost startled you. you immediately closed the window and decided to reply.
whoever you are, you still should definitely watch star wars
you laughed at the mail before shaking your head and turning your computer off before heading to bed.
you clocked in at work at 10AM the next day, Bobby had already been there since 8 and you thought it would be the perfect moment to ask him when he had taken his days off so you could take yours as well while making sure there was still always someone at the shop with Ed.
“can’t you take your friday instead? i have something planned on saturday with my friends,” you asked.
“think i care about your social life? i have a commercial to film on saturday,” Bobby explained.
“who cares about your commercials? they’re not even being broadcasted in theaters before a movie.”
“one day they will. they’ll be on TV,” he said confidently, you wished you could reach that level of delusion.
“sure,” you rolled your eyes, “well in that case, take your tuesday instead so i can actually have a two days weekend.”
“whatever,” he brushed it off with an eye roll.
“dick,” you whispered to yourself and walked away.
it has been days since you last spoke to Bobby, on friday night, the day before your hang out with your friends, you called them to tell them you had to cancel. it was around 8PM when you hung up, you had to wake up at seven the next morning to clock in at work but thought you still had time for a movie.
you remembered the guy from the emails, and eventually also recalled having the first star wars movie downloaded into your computer: why not watch it? you turned it on, found the files in your folders and played the movie before shifting the screen to the side so you could watch it while lying in bed.
you got cozy in your pink and white sheets and focused on the movie. you were absolutely gobsmacked by the end of it and felt like watching the second one was a need. it was 10PM, but you thought you had time for the second one.
you recovered the guy’s email with the copies and downloaded the second and third movie, you played the second one, it was midnight when it ended, and since you couldn’t wait, you watched the third one.
it was 2AM when the end credits rolled, your eyes widened in shock. you could not believe you had waited so long to watch these movies. you had to talk about it to somebody, and a special someone came to your mind.
you sat on your chair while trying to keep quiet before opening your emails and reaching out to him.
hi, i listened to you and watched the star wars movies in one sitting. i haven’t had such an experience since reading the lord of the rings. the plot twist of darth vader being luke’s father had me speechless, i love han and leia together, the soundtrack was really good and the special effects are crazy!
what is your name by the way?
i know it’s late and that you probably won’t reply, but just know that i’m glad that you accidentally emailed me with the copies
you checked your other emails and was ready to turn off your computer when another notification caught your eye. he had responded.
i’m glad you liked them. vader being luke’s father was crazy, i remember being thirteen years old seeing this in theaters and everyone going insane. han and leia have insane chemistry together, i refuse to believe harrison ford and carrie fisher aren’t fucking in real life. john williams is amazing when it comes to making soundtracks, he also made the songs for indiana jones which also stars harrison ford. you should watch those too if you haven’t. star wars special effects’s revolutionized the film industry, it’s insane! they hand painted most of the backgrounds for the movies!
also, my name is none of your business, but you can call me darth maul. but what’s your name?
wow, now i want to see them in theaters, it must be a whole other experience to share this with other people. i have also never watched indiana jones (i know, i suck) do you think you have pirated copies of them? or do i have to go buy them in store?
also, darth maul is ridiculous and lame, i’ll just call you yoda ‘cause you’re probably some old creep and wrinkly like him.
my name is also none of your business, but you can call me leia
there you go, hopefully you’ll like them as much as star wars, feel free to email me again when you’re done watching them.
and i’ll gladly call you leia if it means you’re as charming as she is
can i ask where you live? you don’t have to answer, just wanna know how far you’re from me
you and him emailed back and forth all night until the clock struck 7AM and you realized you had to clock in at work.
you and him emailed almost everyday for weeks afterwards, talking about movies, music and interests you shared. you found out you both lived in california and you figured his age based on his way of writing and interests—he was in his twenties just like you were. there were times you tried to imagine what he might look like, you couldn’t help but picture some redhead nerd with dirty glasses, a lisp and braces who was probably unemployed.
but other parts of you liked to imagine a tall, handsome man with luscious blonde hair like george michael’s. he would have deep, blue eyes and a nice smile—you couldn’t help but feel slightly attracted to him which felt odd for you knew so little about him and didn’t even know what he looked like. but it was in the way he always seemed interested in what you had to say and talked about topics like he was a pro.
he did mention being the tallest kid in eighth grade—but that was years ago. maybe he stayed the same height now? you didn’t think much about it, you didn’t care about what he looked like though you enjoyed fantasizing about it, you liked talking to him because of his personality, and he seemingly did too.
it got to a point where you couldn’t even focus at work anymore, “hey,” Bobby snapped at you as he leaned over the counter, “what’re you thinking about?” he said, almost annoyed.
“nothing,” you shook your head and straightened up, you suddenly noticed his shirt—a star wars one. it reminded you of him, everything reminded you of him. then your eyes went up to meet his, he smirked a little as though he knew something you didn’t, you hated that smile, “what’s your problem?” you asked with a frown.
“nothing,” he mimicked you with a shrug and a chuckle before he pulled out a blunt and lit it up in the middle of the shop.
your eyes widened in shock as you looked around to make sure Ed was not around to see that, “you can’t smoke in here, it’s against the rules,” you said to him.
he didn’t respond and brought the cigarette to his lips to take a puff and then exhale the smoke into your face, you grimaced out of disgust, “what are you gonna do? tell on me?” he shrugged with an amused smile, “i can’t take a break, i’ve used them all already today.”
“then take another one, i won’t tell. just get out of here, it stinks,” you almost begged him.
a faint smile spread across his lips with a faint acknowledging nod, “thanks,” was all he said before he walked away and disappeared in the back of the shop.
you went home late that night, had dinner with your parents, and had the same routine as always, you turned on your computer and checked if 'yoda' had responded to your mail from this morning.
grease is romantic okay? that’s why i love it. your favorite movie is blade runner, you’re lame.
my day was disastrous, my co-worker kept stealing every customer that even went my way. he is such a dick. i don’t think i’ve told you about him but he’s basically a rude idiot with a smoking habit who thinks he’s so much better than everyone else.
i don’t know what’s holding me back from quitting.
anyway, how was yours?
you never got a reply. you went back and forth between reading a book and checking your emails all night but nothing. you thought maybe he was just busy and let it go, you turned your computer off, went back to read and finish one chapter before heading to bed.
you woke up late the next day, your shift only started at 1PM and you spent the entire morning getting pretty just ‘because’. you kept curlers in your hair while doing your makeup before putting on a baby yellow shirt and a pink cardigan with blue jeans. you took the curlers off your hair and brushed the curls off before you grabbed your purse and headed out.
it was 12:52 when you stepped in the shop, your joyous energy immediately caught Ed off guard, “hello sunshine!” he said enthusiastically.
“hi, Ed!” you smiled and left your purse behind the counter where Bobby stood, counting the money that was kept in the cash register.
he didn’t even look you way, he would usually shoot you at least one look even if it was a distasteful one, but today—nothing.
“hey,” you said shyly and put on your badge on your cardigan.
“yo,” he replied, still not looking at you. was he being an extra dick today?
“i like your shirt,” you said, nodding at his ‘end apartheid’ crop top.
“what’s with you?” he finally asked with a shake of his head as he turned to you.
“i’m just in a good mood,” you shrugged, not understanding what the issue was.
“you’re insufferable,” was all he said before he walked past you, hitting your shoulder with enough strength to get you to quietly moan in pain. you held onto your arm and turned to watch him disappear in the store room, wondering what the hell was wrong with him today.
you closed the shop that day, it was 7PM when you started walking back home, it was dark and few street lights were lit up, you turned to a corner and stepped in your front yard before checking your mailbox as you usually did. you grabbed a few magazines your parents were subscribed to and headed home.
“hey honey,” said your mom, “we left you leftovers in the fridge,” she continued while cuddling with your father on the couch, watching another sitcom.
“thanks,” was all your said before you grabbed the leftovers from the fridge while leaving the mail on the kitchen table and heated up the food.
once the microwave beeped, you grabbed your food and headed to your room. you locked the door behind you and set the plate on your desk while turning on your computer just to see if 'yoda' had responded—but nothing. you angrily turned the computer off and changed into more comfortable clothes.
then you felt it again—that odd feeling that someone or something might be watching from afar. you felt an unfamiliar lump in the depths of your stomach before you spun to your window and realized you had forgotten to close the curtains. you immediately brought your pink cardigan back on your naked chest before stepping closer and staring out the window.
your heart raced as you searched for any wandering eyes passing by the street, but nothing, only the neighbor’s cat walking around your front yard. you sighed heavily and closed the curtains before dropping your cardigan to the ground and grabbing an oversized NASA shirt. you quickly headed to bed, it wasn’t long until exhaustion took you away.
the following days had been uncannily quiet—you hadn’t heard from 'yoda' and started worrying. maybe something had happened to him? you would check everyday for new mails, but nothing. you thought maybe he got hacked, but when you realized there was no point in speculating, you quickly ceased overthinking the situation.
the atmosphere at work became even more unbearable, Bobby behaved differently. he was always used to be rude, but very talkative, making sure to always annoy you. but now, nothing. he was oddly quiet. and you had started to miss him being a dick towards you, when there used to be a dynamic.
“are you gonna take a day off this week? i’d like to get friday off, but if it doesn’t fit with your schedule, let me know,” you said softly before shouldering your bag and getting ready to get off work.
“just do whatever you want,” he dismissed you, you didn’t say anything else and just left, your grabbed you walkman and stuck it in your jeans pocket as the ronettes played loudly in your headphones. you tapped your fingers to the beat against your leg while bopping your head and mouthing the lyrics before you arrived in your front yard and opened the mailbox like every other day.
but today, it was different.
the mailbox wasn’t empty or filled with fashion magazines, a package with your name on it sat in the very middle. you frowned and hesitantly grabbed it in your hands, you didn’t remember ordering anything recently. you stepped inside the house quickly, dropped your bag onto the ground and ignored your mom calling you to set the table, instead, you ran upstairs to your room.
you ripped the package open and found a VHS tape with a handwritten note.
thought you’d want to see this.
you frowned before taking a closer look at the tape, you left it on your bed and went downstairs to ask your father for his VHS player, he disappeared in the garage for a short moment before returning with a VHS player, you grabbed it and thanked him before heading back into your room. you turned your computer on and plugged the player onto it before grabbing the tape and sliding it inside.
a video player window opened, the video was blurry at first. then your heart skipped a beat when you recognized yourself walking down the street, singing to dionne warwick. your eyes widened in shock when you also recognized your house. your hand gripped on your chair for support as you feared what would come next.
you froze and so did the image as white noise filled the room, then the video reappeared. your stomach dropped. there you stood in the middle of your room just days ago, changing. you immediately stopped playing the video and tried to hold back from puking. your eyes then drifted towards your open curtains.
no, you thought before rising from your chair and abruptly closed them, you saw a notification appear on the bottom corner of the computer screen as you sat back down. your heart dropped to your stomach again.
your palms became sweaty as you endlessly stared at the mail, your fingers unable to move to type a response. you tried to take a deep breath but the betrayal felt too horrendous to calm you down. you began imagining the worst case scenarios: how you must have been exchanging with a pedophile for weeks, or a human trafficker.
just know that i know more about you than you might think.
then your phone suddenly rang, you jumped in surprise and held onto your chest, feeling your heart pounding hard. you stared at it ring for a moment, could it be him? at last, you brought enough courage to pick up the call and press the old phone against your ear, “hello? who is this?”
“you know who it is, leia,” an oddly low voice with a new york accent spoke through the phone, a shiver ran down your spine as you tried to speak.
“leave me alone! you’re scaring me. is this a prank?” you begged, fearful.
“a prank? you think this is a game?” you heard him laugh devilishly, your blood ran cold. the mere idea of someone walking this earth with footages of you half naked brought discomfort.
“what are you? some kind of old creep?” you asked, your voice and hands trembling.
“maybe yes, maybe not… fuck around and find out,” he laughed again.
“don’t ever call me again you fucking weirdo! and don’t even think of trying to reach out,” you yelled before hanging up the phone. you cried when the feelings finally hit.
Reader is daeron's gf whom everyone adores whenever he brought her to his family well..except for one person, aerion. Reader had tried approaching aerion first time in front of everyone he ignored reader and well the second time he gave you such inappropriate gesture you'd never ever think of approaching him again even if he's your sweet bfs brother. But one night you're alone at your and daeron shared apartment, daeron still hasn't came home, working late. That's when apartment's front door opens you think it's daeron but it's aerion. You asked him what's he doing here? He told you his brother has sent him here so you won't feel so lonely. You know he's bs so you told him to get out of here before she calls daeron but he'd attack you before you could do anything. He'd wrestle you to the floor and fuck you there, telling reader how he's gonna fill her up and she should have ended up with him not his brother..
cw: non con. dub con. drugging. somnophilia. bondage. this is dark. dead dove do not eat! mentions of serial killer tendencies. but aerion isn't a serial killer. aerion really enjoys scaring you. he's perverted, creepy and insane. defo like true to his character in my opinion. smut. mdni. 18+
a/n: i changed this a bit and aerion seems like a bit of a psycho in this because well he is but he doesn't want to actually physically hurt you like that but he does enjoy scaring reader.
when you first met your brother's boyfriend!aerion, you tried to make conversation with him. you were a nervous wreck and being the same age you thought he'd be the easiest to talk to. but how wrong you had been. he simply looked at you like you were the dullest thing on earth before scoffing and walking away.
you fit in with the rest of boyfriend!daeron's family so well. they adore you, even how you went over and beyond desperate to get them to like you.
it's no surprise when you keep trying with aerion for him to like you. that is until your last one, behind closed doors, trying with every ounce in you to just understand why he wouldn't give you a chance. only for him to corner you, grin at you widely before taking slow deliberate steps towards you. until you're backed up against the counter tops, aerion towering over you and his hand falling over your cheek.
you never tried again after that. it's not like he did anything but the way his eyes darkened, the way he ignored you when you asked him to get away. it gave you chills you couldn't shake for days even when aerion pulled away with a dry laugh and told you it was a joke. it didn't feel one bit like a joke.
sightings of aerion are brief after that. family dinners and parties. you're sure to keep your distance at every event, making sure at no point to find yourself alone with him.
it works out for the most part. but there are those nights though where sleep seems hard to find and your bladder seems overly full and you need to step out of the bedroom, only to see his door open across the hall, or find aerion standing finishing up in the toilet himself. or even worst when you see his light off and think it's okay only to find him stood outside the bathroom when you finish.
aerion's never done anything but he smiles when you jump and holds in a laugh when he can see how you tremble when he knows you can't get past, not unless he moves out your way. he enjoys the fear and you worry that one day the fear won't be enough.
it's not like you can tell daeron, what would he think? or his family not when you've made such a good impression.
but you really should have because one day the fear isn't enough and the anticipation of it all, isn't fun for aerion anymore. he's fantasied about what he's going to do to you for too long. he's re-enacted it with other girls, paid women to let him act it out fully. but it's not the real thing and he just thinks the real thing would be so much more fun.
so when he knows daeron's working extra late and he knows that his work might run into the night, he takes actions into his own hands.
you don't expect daeron so early, actually he texted you to not wait up for him and you expected for one of those nights where he crawled into your bed at 2am. but the door knobs turning, and you think that maybe his arrival is a surprise after all. maybe he's even brought takeout, and maybe some flowers.
he does hold a bag in his hand, and flowers as well. but his hair is too pale and short, and he's not nearly as big as your boyfriend.
when aerion turns around you words catch in your throat, and you feel the goosebumps across your skin. you want to scream, runaway and hope help comes quickly. but he's your brother's boyfriend and he's not even done anything. you can't call the cops because of a predatory smile and eyes that size you up like he wants to eat you.
at first you just watch aerion, then he pulls his coat off and kicks his shoes to the side. and then his slow steps walk in times with yours as he follows you into the living space. you keep your eyes glued to him at all times, stumbling on something and falling backwards.
aerion laughs at that, places the flowers on the counter and pulls out the items in his bag. rope, a collar, a flogger, a whip and a pin wheel. the scary things is he doesn't talk when he places these out, he just places each item on the counter like he's showcasing them.
you run before you even realise you're doing it, your legs go to move when aerion's head snaps up to look at you. it's impulse at this point and he's quick to catch up to you, grabbing you by your hair before yanking you back towards him.
your hands are tied quickly, bound behind your back. and your mouth is covered with tape. but you still manage to scramble away with your feet, pushing yourself towards the door reaching out to slam against it, only to be dragged back to the living room.
aerion cuts your clothing off you, then he photos you like some serial killer. naked and bare, and posing you in different positions. it's humiliating.
then aerion uses the flog first, letting it run across your body while you tremble and shake. he watches how your nipples harden, how your thighs close when he tries to shove it down there. then he hits you with it, hard against your stomach and then your thigh. before calling you a bad girl and forcing your legs open for him.
he's entirely creepy, and the literal fear that this man that's barely spoken all of twenty words to you was going to molest you here, rape you and then kill you was all so surreal. it was so bad that you're crying, thick tears rolling down your cheeks, barely able to breathe through the snot and you choking on your own saliva.
aerion loves it. it's better than he could have imagined. he doesn't even have to be mean to you. he's actually quite nice, gentle touches with his hands as he maps out the shape of your body. soft pecks against your skin, your neck and letting his teeth graze over your throat. you're so terrfied of him, he doesn't need to make you any more scared.
quite quickly aerion forgets about the toys. he grinds his dick against you instead, slow and steady so you can feel every inch of him through his trousers. then he takes his clothes off, watches you try to scream at him to stop but all that comes out is muffled whines.
aerion's so hard he's leaked through his boxers, he cums once just from rubbing his dick through your folds and then again deep inside of you after only being in for a minute. how can you blame the guy when you won't stop squirming around and your hole is tightening around him, gripping him from dear life.
it's like aerion doesn't even need to charge up because he's rutting inside of you after a few seconds. rough and hard, he just holds your hips in place and lets his eyes trail from your tear soaked face to where his cock is dissappearing inside of you.
aerion cums again one more time before rolling off of you, knowing that he really needs to get out before his brother gets home.
aerion does that, cleans you up, wipes your face and tells you that if you know what's good for you, you'll keep this a secret.
every trace of aerion is gone when you leave the bathroom, after you've wiped your skin raw. it's like he was never there in the first place, but the bruises on your skin is your reminder.
and aerion thought once would be enough but it isn't, it just can't be. and you've kept this such a good secret that he has to go back again, this time daeron's out of town for the night and even though you have your door locked and chained, he knows another way in. because he's already in there before you even lock the door.
aerion doesn't even tie you up this time, he slips something in your drink when you're out the room. till you fall asleep and he finds the easiest way to use you.
you wake up to him on top of you, arms bound to the bed and mouth muffled by his hand. your pussy is soaked, and you can feel a mixture of fluids seeping out of you where his dick is forcing itself into you again and again.
he makes a mess of you that night, completely takes you apart bit by bit on the bed. ruins you for his brother, makes you cum so many times you lose count.
then when aerion's done, he cleans up. the bed sheets cleaned, you bathed and washed and ready for his brother. he covers you in clothes that hide his mark and this time he doesn't need to tell you to be silent because he already knows you will and he also knows that you'll be waiting in fear for his next arrival, knowing there's nothing you can do to prevent it.
