âàœČđ¶. ăđđđđ , 9teen. filo. she/her. writer. i write for hotd/akotsk characters. i'm semi active to post my fics â slow updates! but i do try my best to finish my works :D socials: ao3 (for cross-posting). wattpad.
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like fliesâleaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 16,067
chapter 1 â chapter 2 â
COMMENT IF YOUâD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
authors note. im sorry this took so long to write pls dont hate me đ just a little note: i specifically wrote this fic to not follow the canon timeline/events, so yes, it is wildly unrealistic that i managed to cram half the targaryen family dying and a blackfyre rebellion into roughly a year. however, i wanted king aerion, therefore the timeline had to suffer. also wrote my first ever smut for this chapter. please be kind to me. i did not proofread a single word of it bc im shy. if there are mistakes, no there arenât. i canât see them. i have chosen peace :P likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. MDNI (18+) !!! violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
Exile, you discovered, was a surprisingly festive occasion.
The harbor bustled from sunrise. Sailors shouted over one another, ropes creaked against wooden masts, and gulls circled overhead with all the dignity of drunken courtiers. The smell of salt, fish, tar, and seaweed clung stubbornly to the air, settling over the docks like a damp blanket. Ships rocked lazily against their moorings while merchants complained, sailors cursed, and somewhere nearby a man was loudly losing an argument with a crate.
A crowd had gathered along the waterfront.
Not because exile was particularly rare.
But because Aerion Targaryen being exiled was apparently an entertainment.
Prince Maekar stood at the front of the gathering, grim and immovable as a carved monument. He looked exactly like a man who had spent the last several weeks regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Servants darted through the crowd carrying trunks and supplies while several ladies pretended not to stare.
They all stared anyway.
You stood among them, naturally, because as Aerion's wife, failing to attend his departure would have raised questions. Questions were dangerous. Questions led to conversations. Conversations led to explanations. And explaining why your husband's exile felt suspiciously similar to receiving a gift from the gods seemed unwise.
So you attended. You stood dutifully among the gathered nobles and courtiers and tried very hard to look devastated. You even practiced beforehandâ the result was a strange expression that made you look either mildly constipated or recently widowed.
And unfortunately for you, your lips kept attempting to smile.
Across the dock, Aerion was arguing with three different people simultaneously while sailors loaded his belongings onto the waiting vessel. It was genuinely impressive, to say the least.
One sailor was attempting to explain that no, his hunting hounds could not occupy the captain's quarters. Another was trying to convince him that six barrels of wine counted as excessive provisions for a journey that would last less than two weeks.
A third appeared to be defending himself against accusations that he had somehow personally arranged the weather.
All three were losing.
"You are transporting a prince," Aerion informed them loudly. "Hhave some ambition."
"The cabin physically cannot fit twelve dogs, my prince."
"They are sensitive animals."
"They bite people."
"They are discerning."
The sailor looked ready to throw himself into the sea.
Nearby, one of Aerion's men was attempting to load a trunk large enough to conceal a horse.
You narrowed your eyes.
A trunk.
The sight of it immediately filled you with unpleasant memories. You decided you hated trunks.
Aerion continued talkingâ or complaining.
At this point the distinction hardly mattered.
His silver hair caught the morning light as he paced the dock, gesturing dramatically enough that several sailors had begun avoiding eye contact altogether.
The exile had been announced days ago and the kingdom had known peace ever since.
Aerion, however, had spent those same days informing anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen that the punishment was unjust, outrageous, politically foolish, personally insulting, and possibly treasonous.
The fact that he had threatened multiple people before being exiled seemed, in his opinion, entirely irrelevant. According to Aerion, the punishment was excessive, unfair, politically foolish, and a personal attack orchestrated by people who lacked both imagination and gratitude. Most disagreed. People said he deserved itâsome quietly, others not so quietly.
His recklessness, his temper, and his endless appetite for trouble had finally caught up with him. More importantly, his actions had contributed to the death of Prince Baelor, and that was not something even a prince could simply laugh away. The court had spent weeks whispering about it in corridors and behind closed doors, and for once those whispers had reached the king. Exile, many thought, was a mercy. Aerion, naturally, disagreed.
Your gaze drifted toward the ship.
Lys.
Of all places, they had chosen Lys.
You felt a flicker of disappointment.
Exile was supposed to be miserable. Remote. Unpleasant. The sort of place people were sent to suffer and reflect upon their mistakes.
Lys was none of those things.
Lys was warm. Beautiful. Rich. Full of gardens, fountains, music, and enough pleasure houses to keep Aerion occupied until the end of time. Frankly, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward.
You had spent half your childhood trying to convince your family to leave Lys and travel somewhere exciting. Aerion had indirectly killed a princeâno, the prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, and somehow been granted a seaside holiday.
It was deeply irritating.
Still, at least he would be several hundred leagues away.
There was comfort in distance.
Not enough comfort, perhaps, but enough that you found yourself hoping the ship sailed very, very slowly.
And as Aerion boarded the ship, you could only hope he never returned.
Not in the dramatic sense. You did not wish for storms. Storms were unpredictable and had a habit of affecting innocent people. Nor did you wish for pirates. Pirates tended to be enthusiastic about everyone elseâs problems. Shipwrecks seemed messy. Assassinations seemed excessive.
No.
You simply hoped he stayed there.
Forever.
Lys was lovely. Lys was warm. Lys was beautiful. Lys was full of vineyards, musicians, fountains, silk, and enough distractions to occupy Aerion until the end of time. Surely, somewhere within that city, there existed a problem dramatic enough to capture his attention permanently.
Perhaps he would fall hopelessly in love with a Lysene courtesan. Noâ you scoffed, Aerion out of all people wasnât capable of love.
Perhaps he would offend the wrong magister and spend years arguing his way out of prison.
Perhaps he would become obsessed with some absurd Essosi hobby and refuse to leave.
Perhaps he would simply forget Westeros existed.
You were not particularly concerned with the details.
The important thing was that he remained several hundred leagues away from you.
The ship slowly drifted from the harbor. You watched it pull farther and farther from shore, the sails swelling in the sea breeze as sailors moved across the deck like tiny figures against the morning sky.
Aerion stood near the stern as the ship drifted farther from the harbor, one hand braced against the railing while he argued with someone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Even from this distance, it was obvious.
The other man looked increasingly exhausted.
Aerion pointed toward something in the distance. The sailor pointed elsewhere. Aerion threw both hands into the air in outrage.
Remarkable.
The man could start a dispute in an empty room and somehow emerge convinced he was the victim.
A laugh almost escaped you.
Instead, you lifted a hand to your face. Not to wave. Merely to shield your eyes from the sun. At least that was what you told yourself.
The ship continued onward.
The sounds of the harbor slowly swallowed the last traces of it. The shouting sailors became indistinct. The creaking wood disappeared beneath the cries of gulls overhead. The red-and-black Targaryen banners that had snapped proudly in the wind began shrinking into little more than splashes of color against the sea.
You watched longer than you intended.
Perhaps to ensure it was truly leaving.
Perhaps because after everything, it felt strange seeing him go.
For all his faultsâand there were enough to fill several books, Aerion had occupied every corner of your life since your arrival in Westeros. He had been an irritation, a humiliation, a disappointment, and occasionally a genuine threat to your continued existence.
And now he was becoming smaller by the second. The ship diminished into a dark shape upon the water.
Then a speck.
Then little more than a pale shadow against the horizon. You kept staring even after it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the sea itself.
Finally, being a kind, generous, and forgiving woman, you offered a few final wishes for your husband.
May his wine always be slightly sour.
May his boots leak whenever it rains.
May every chair he sits upon wobble just enough to be irritating but never enough to be fixed.
May every meal arrive cold.
May every horse dislike him on sight.
May every woman find him exhausting.
May every pillow be warm on both sides.
May every bath be slightly too hot or slightly too cold.
May his sleeves catch on door handles.
May he forever lose one glove and never the matching one.
May-
Well.
The sentiment was there.
You lowered your hand. The ship vanished completely. Nothing remained but the sea.
For a moment, you simply stood there, letting the wind pull at your sleeves. The harbor bustled around you. People resumed their conversations. Sailors returned to work. The world continued as though nothing remarkable had happened.
Perhaps nothing had.
Yet the absence settled over you immediately. Not grief. Certainly not grief. But something that felt suspiciously close to relief.
By the time the ship vanished entirely from sight, you felt lighter than you had in months.
Perhaps years.
The following weeks passed pleasantly.
Then months.
The palace settled into a quieter rhythm without him. His absence left behind an unexpected peace, like a storm finally moving beyond the horizon. Meals became calmer. Servants no longer looked constantly terrified. Nobody threw goblets at walls.
You spent your mornings in the library. Your afternoons overseeing your school. Your evenings reading beside candlelight without wondering whether Aerion was currently setting something, or someone on fire.
Life, for the first time since your arrival in Westeros, felt manageable.
Letters arrived occasionally from Lys. At first, you could not understand why. The very existence of them seemed absurd.
Aerion did not like you. You did not like Aerion.
This was a fact both of you had established repeatedly and with remarkable consistency.
And yet the letters came.
Every few weeks a servant would appear carrying another sealed parchment bearing Aerionâs name. Sometimes the seal was broken. Sometimes wine stained the corner. Once there appeared to be scorch marks.
You read the first few, mostly out of curiosity. The first was three pages dedicated entirely to an argument he had started with a ship captain. Aerion maintained the man had insulted him.
The second letter involved a Lysene magistrate. The third somehow involved the same magistrate, a horse, and a public fountain.
You never learned exactly how because the writing tended to wander. Aerion would begin discussing one subject before veering abruptly into another. Half his letters were complaints. The other half were descriptions of people who had apparently disappointed him.
The city disappointed him.
The food disappointed him.
The magistrates disappointed him.
The weather disappointed him.
One memorable letter was devoted entirely to explaining why a particular tavern owner deserved imprisonment for serving wine that Aerion described as âan insult to grapes.â
Not once did he ask how you were.
Not once did he mention missing home.
Not once did he mention missing you.
You found this reassuring.
After several months you stopped reading them altogether.
There hardly seemed a point.
Instead, the letters accumulated unopened upon a table in your chambers until eventually even that became tiresome. You instructed a servant to place them elsewhere. You never asked where.
Curiously, the letters continued arriving for some time after that. As though Aerion had convinced himself you were reading them.
Or perhaps he simply enjoyed complaining and required an audience, even an unwilling one.
Then, one day, they stopped. No letter arrived that week. Nor the week after. A month passed. Then another.
You found yourself noticing the absence immediately.
Not because you missed them. Gods, no. Quite the opposite, actually. The silence felt like relief. A deep, unexpected relief.
Perhaps he had finally forgotten about this place. Perhaps he had become distracted by Lys. That seemed likely.
Lys excelled at distracting men.
Perhaps he had discovered some new amusement. Some new scandal. Some new woman patient enough to tolerate him. Perhaps, at long last, he had decided to remain there permanently.
The possibility settled warmly in your chest.
And as the months continued to pass without a single letter from across the Narrow Sea, you allowed yourself to hope. Just a little.
Perhaps Lys had finally decided to keep him.
The months continued to pass.
Seasons changed.
Your school grew.
The memory of your husband slowly became less of a daily irritation and more of a distant nuisance, like an old scar that only hurt when touched.
And so, almost peacefully, an entire year slipped by.
Unfortunately, Aerion Targaryen did not.
One year later, standing upon that very same harbor beneath a pale morning sky, you found yourself staring across the sea at a familiar vessel cutting through the water.
For a moment, you merely watched it. Then your stomach sank.
The ship drew closer.
Closer. And closer.
Until the black-and-red banners became visible against the wind.
Around you, servants began moving with excitement. Someone announced the princeâs return. A knight laughed (one of Aerionâs so-called friends perhaps). Another called for preparations.
You simply stood there in silence.
The gods, it seemed, had received every one of your prayers.
And ignored them completely.
ONE YEAR AGO
You settled quickly into life without Aerion. Perhaps too quickly.
The moment the ship carrying your husband into his well-deserved exile vanished beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, a suffocating weight had lifted from your chest. In his absence, you carved out a quiet, deliberate existence. The charity school you championed became your sanctuary, occupying the vast majority of your attention. You spent your mornings matching names to eager young faces, listening to the scratched scratching of quills on cheap slate, and finding a profound, grounding purpose in the simple act of teaching.
And the library occupied whatever remained of your waking hours. There, hidden away in a sunlit corner where dust motes danced in the quiet air, you lost yourself in histories of the First Men, treatises on old medicine, and maps of lands you would likely never see. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into peaceful, seamless months.
It was a serene, predictable routine, so beautifully unhurried that you occasionally forgot you were technically married to a monster exiled across the sea. You were a wife in name only, and you thanked the Seven for that mercy every single night.
Then King Daeron ruined everything.
Wellâ not intentionally.
Probably.
The King, after all, was known for his gentle disposition, but a monarchâs kindness could be just as disruptive as a tyrantâs whim. A royal summons arrived one crisp autumn morning, delivered by a solemn page and bearing the heavy, intimidating weight of the Kingâs personal crimson wax seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal elegant, sloping script informing you that His Grace believed it would be highly beneficial if you took up residence at the Red Keep for the foreseeable future.
The reasoning laid out by the crown, apparently, was loneliness. King Daeron, in his infinite, misplaced paternal worry, believed that a young woman left to her own devices in a quiet estate must be rotting away from isolation.
You stared at the letter, the ink blurring slightly before your incredulous eyes.
Then you looked up at Meriel, who was sorting through a basket of fresh linens.
Then you looked back down at the letter.
âI am not lonely,â you stated flatly, as if stating it to the empty air would somehow manifest the truth across the small palace and to the Red Keep.
Meriel stopped her folding and glanced at the overwhelming piles of leather-bound books, loose scrolls, and heavily annotated ledgers completely surrounding your chair. Her expression remained utterly deadpan.
âYou spend most of your days speaking to parchment,â she observed dryly.
âI enjoy parchment,â you shot back, defensively tapping the edge of a heavy historical tome.
âBe that as it may, His Grace believes female companionship would be beneficial for you,â Meriel countered, a faint, teasing smirk threatening to break her composure. âHe thinks you need the laughter of noble ladies, not the scent of old glue and dusty books.â
You looked utterly horrified, the very concept of being dragged into the gossiping web of the courtly maidens sending a cold shiver down your spine.
Unfortunately, kings were remarkably difficult people to argue with.
Especially when they were correct about being king.
And so, several grueling weeks later, you found your peaceful isolation shattered. You found yourself riding through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, returning to the very sprawling, blood-stone castle where your disastrous marriage had begun.
The familiar, looming towers rose aggressively above the churning waves of Blackwater Bay, looking exactly as you remembered them.
Unfortunately.
The jagged silhouette of the Red Keep cut into the sky like an open wound. You had hoped never to see some of these corridors again, specifically the ones leading to Aerionâs old quarters, which still seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of his cruel, manic laughter.
The court, meanwhile, welcomed you enthusiastically.
Far too enthusiastically.
In a palace where the highborn starved for any scrap of novelty, a princeâs absent, abandoned wife qualified as premium entertainment. You were like a living curiosity: the girl who had survived the cruel prince and had now been summoned back by the Kingâs own hand.
The ladies of the court descended upon you almost immediately, like a flock of colorful, preening birds of prey trapped in a cage of silk and velvet. They cornered you in the gardens, crowded around your table at morning break-fast, and shadowed your steps through the lower galleries.
They discussed gowns down to the exact placement of expensive laces. They argued over jewels, measuring the worth of a house by the clarity of a diamond.
They debated marriage as if it were a game of cyvasse, plotting which second sons could be bartered off. They tore down other ladies with sharp, syrupy smiles.
They whispered endlessly about who was sleeping with whom.
They speculated wildly on who wished to sleep with whom.
And, most exhausting of all, they giggled over who claimed not to be sleeping with whom, despite very obviously sleeping with whom.
You hated every single, agonizing moment of it. Your face grew stiff from forcing polite, empty smiles. You missed the smell of your books. You missed the earnest, chaotic energy of your school. You missed the absolute, unblemished luxury of silence. Most of all, you missed the simple dignity of being left entirely alone.
Fortunately, the gods occasionally offered small compensations for human suffering.
In this case, your salvation came in the form of Princess Daena.
The youngest child and only daughter of King Daeron. Daena was a whirlwind of a girl.
She was only a few years older than you, though one would never know it from the way she carried herself. Where most women at court acquired a degree of restraint with age, Daena seemed to have actively rejected the concept. She possessed an astonishing, almost magnificent combination of supreme confidence and complete, unadulterated foolishness.
It was the sort of foolishness that could only flourish in someone who had spent her entire life being adored.
Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of the kingâs children, born long after her brothers. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter in a family full of princes. Or perhaps everyone around her had simply surrendered years ago and decided it was easier to indulge her than correct her.
She had been married once. A lord from a respectable house, if your memory served correctly. You never quite remembered which one because Daena never spoke of him with much enthusiasm.
The marriage had not lasted long though.
Her husband died during the Blackfyre Rebellion, leaving her widowed while still very young. Most women would have been expected to remain with their husbandâs family or remarry eventually.
Daena simply returned to the Red Keep. And never left. No one seemed particularly inclined to force the issue. Not when she was the kingâs only daughter. And not when she appeared perfectly content exactly where she was.
Years later, she still occupied her apartments in the castle as though she had merely stepped out for a brief visit and forgotten to go back.
She spoke constantly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush that often seemed to outrun her thoughts. Conversations with her rarely followed a sensible path. One moment she would be sharing some scandal she had overheard at court, the next she would interrupt herself to wonder aloud whether horses had favorite colors. By the end of the conversation, neither of you could remember how it had started.
She approached every mundane aspect of life with the fiery determination of a seasoned warrior, combined with the fragile intelligence of a deeply distracted goose.
Within three days of your arrival, despite her complete lack of sense, she had become your favorite person at court. Not because she was particularly clever.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
But she was thoroughly, wonderfully entertaining. She was a breath of fresh air in a room full of perfumed suffocations. And unlike most of the venomous ladies at court, Daena possessed absolutely no talent whatsoever for subtle cruelty. She didn't know how to whisper a compliment that doubled as an insult; if she disliked something, she simply stated it with the bluntness of a warhammer.
âYou read too much,â she informed you one bright afternoon, peering over the top of your thick tome while swinging her legs off the stone bench in the godswood.
âYou read too little,â you replied without looking up, turning a crisp page.
âBooks make me sleepy,â she huffed, crossing her arms. âAll those tiny black letters look like ants crawling across the paper. It gives me a headache.â
âBooks give you knowledge, Daena. For instance, they might teach you what animals eat. You once attempted to feed a lemon tart to a royal peacock.â
Daena sniffed defensively, tilting her chin up. âIt looked hungry.â
âIt tried to bite your fingers off.â
âYes. A thoroughly rude animal,â she grumbled, entirely unrepentant. âNo manners at all. Next time, I shall bring a stick instead of a pastry.â
The months passed pleasantly enough after that, the sharp edges of the Red Keep softened by Daenaâs chaotic companionship.
Until the sickness arrived.
At first, it was little more than a collection of distant whispers. A sudden, shivering fever in the rotting alleys of Flea Bottom. A hacking, wet cough among the kitchen servants.
A handful of isolated deaths among the smallfolk that nobody in the upper keeps considered particularly alarming. People died in the slums every day, it was the tax of poverty.
Then, the whispers grew into a deafening roar.
The fevers spread like wildfire through dry brush, leaping over the city walls and defying the heavy oak doors of the wealthy. Entire noble households fell ill within a span of days, masters and servants dying in the same sheets.
The city began to change, stripping away its vibrant, chaotic skin. Doors remained barred and locked from the inside. The bustling markets emptied, leaving rotting produce and abandoned carts in the squares.
The ominous, rhythmic tolling of funeral bells rang far more frequently than the bells of the church septs.
People stopped gathering in crowds, looking at their own neighbors with raw suspicion. Fear settled over Kingâs Landing like a suffocating, physical shadow, choking the life out of the capital.
The Great Spring Sickness.
Even the name sounded deceptively gentle, evoking images of blooming flowers and morning dew. But there was nothing gentle about it.
It was a horrific, bloody scourge that turned a manâs blood to water and his lungs to ash within two days of the first chill. Every single day brought a fresh wave of reports to the castle. More deaths. More uncontrollable fevers. More black drapes of mourning hanging from balconies.
The Red Keep attempted to continue as normal, putting on a brave, stubborn face to prevent total panic in the streets.
For a time.
Then, the ultimate terror struck, even the royal family, with all their ancient valyrian blood and isolated privileges, began to fall ill.
Prince Matarys, young and full of promise, went first.
Then Prince Valarr followed his brother into the dark.
One right after another.
There was a crushing silence that followed. The sheer disbelief that washed over the courtiers.. The raw, jagged grief of a family being systematically hollowed out. It was a terrifying realization for the entire realm: that dragons could die just as easily, just as pitifully, as any beggar in the gutter.
The court changed overnight, its glittering facade completely shattering. Laughter disappeared entirely from the halls. Conversations became quieter, reduced to paranoid whispers in darkened alcoves. People began watching one another with a terrifying, hawkish intensity, staring at a neighbor's throat or forehead as though the sickness might be visible if one looked hard enough, terrified of a single cough or a sudden bead of sweat.
Then came the worst, most devastating blow of all.
King Daeron.
The kind, weary king who had summoned you to court because he genuinely worried you might be lonely in your quiet life. The Great Spring Sickness claimed him before the year was out, leaving his bedchamber cold and his throne empty.
The Great Sept of Baelor smelled of death. It was not the crisp, clean scent of the high-burning pyres, but the heavy, suffocating odor of hundreds of beeswax candles, stale incense, and the lingering, invisible phantom of the Great Spring Sickness.
The funeral of King Daeron II, and his two bright, promising grandsons, Valarr and Matarys, had ended hours ago. The highborn mourners had dispersed like smoke, leaving the massive stone structure hollowed out and freezing.
You remained behind.
You had not known the princes well. They were distant figures of duty and grace, but they had been good men. Kind men. In a dynasty so frequently plagued by madness and cruelty, they had been a promise of a gentle spring. Now, they were ashes, and the crown had slid heavily onto the head of Daeronâs second son, Aerys, a man who preferred dusty scrolls to the living world.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, your hands clasped tightly against the rough wool of your mourning gown. You wanted to pray. You needed to pray, if only to find some semblance of order in a world that had tilted entirely off its axis in a matter of weeks.
"A crown," a voice rasped through the gloom. "A crown of gold, heavy with the weight of dozens... dozens of ghosts." You flinched, your hands dropping as you turned sharply.
Emerging from the shadow of one of the massive marble pillars was Maester Gladys.
Your breath caught in your throat. This was the man. The architect of your misery. It was Maester Gladys who, years ago, had whispered into the ears of your family and the Citadel, orchestrating the match that bound you to the nightmare that was Prince Aerion. You had hated him in silence since then.
But looking at him now, hatred gave way to a cold, prickling dread.
The maesterâs robes were disheveled, the links of his chain clinking together erratically as he trembled. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and glassy as he stared completely past you, trapped in the throes of a waking delirium. The sickness had not taken his body, but it seemed to have shattered his mind. He was hallucinating, his hands clawing at the empty air as if tearing away a veil.
"They fall," Gladys whispered, his voice rising in an eerie, melodic cadence. He stepped closer, entirely unaware of who you were, seeing only a shape in the dim sept. "The dragons fall like autumn leaves. First the brave, then the beautiful, then the old king. The spring takes them. But the spring is just the wind that clears the field."
"Maester Gladys," you said, your voice trembling as you backed away from the altar. "You are unwell. Let me call someone to help yâ"
"No!" He lunged forward with terrifying, sudden speed, his bony fingers gripping your wrists. His grip was like ice. His wild eyes locked onto yours, and for a fraction of a second, a horrific spark of clarity pierced his madness. "I saw it. Years ago, before I sent the letters. Before I bound you to the dragon's blood. I had a dream."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Let me go."
"A dream of a throne of swords," Gladys hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and poppy juice. "I saw the royals... their descendants... dozens of them, blood on their doublets, ash in their hair. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. Not Aerion. Not Aerys. You, sitting upon the Iron Throne, the realm quiet at your feet. That is why you had to be here! The gods demanded you be planted in the garden before the fire began!"
Horror, cold and absolute, flooded your veins. You yanked your hands from his grasp with a desperate surge of strength.
He stumbled backward, laughing a breathless, broken laugh, still muttering about a throne made of bones and a queen crowned in shadows.
You didn't look back. You turned and ran.
You ran through the towering doors of the Sept, down the endless marble steps of Visenyaâs Hill, the wind whipping your mourning veil against your face. Your lungs burned. The maesterâs words chased you like a curse. It was madness. It was the fever talking. It had to be.
But as the days bled into weeks, the horror only deepened, because the world began to mimic the madman's dream with terrifying precision.
King Aerys I was crowned in a somber, muted ceremony. He took the throne, ignored his wife, ignored his realm, and buried his face in books of prophecy.
The crown sat precariously on a head that refused to look at the living, while the heavy hand of Bloodraven governed from the shadows. The Red Keep became a tomb of whispers and dust, but the true horror was not the silence of the new King, but it was the terrifying rhythm with which the Stranger kept reclaiming the dragonâs blood.
The madmanâ or should you say, Maester Gladysâs prophecy did not unfold in a single, sudden ruination. But instead, it eroded the Targaryen dynasty piece by piece, striking down the royals in ways so sudden and bizarre they defied all reason.
The first of these strange, chilling extractions happened right before your eyes, turning a rare evening of courtly pretense into a waking nightmare.
It was during a feast, a forced, hollow celebration meant to project a semblance of stability.
The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and heavy perfumes meant to mask the lingering dread of the city. You sat at the high table, wedged into a space that felt less like an honor and more like a surveillance post. To your left sat Princess Daena, fidgeting with her silver fork. To your right sat Prince Rhaegal.
Rhaegal was a gentle, broken creature, a man whose mind had long since dissolved into a soft, harmless madness. That evening, he was in one of his distant, melancholic moods, his violet eyes glassy as he stared at his plate, occasionally humming a melody only he could hear.
âTry the lamprey pie,â Daena murmured to you, gesturing toward a massive, golden-crusted dish that had just been carved. âThe cook swore he used the finest spices from Dorne, though I suspect he just spilled pepper into the broth.â
Before you could reply, Rhaegal reached out. With a sudden, childlike enthusiasm that often characterized his shifting moods, he took a massive, heavy portion of the pie, driving his fork into the rich, dark meat. He ate quickly, untethered from the rigid decorum expected of a prince of the blood, his mind clearly miles away from the Great Hall.
You turned back to Daena, smiling faintly at her chatter, when a sharp, wet gasp cut through the ambient noise of the feast.
You turned sharply. Rhaegalâs fork had clattered against his pewter plate. His hands flew to his throat, his face rapidly turning a terrifying, mottled shade of purple. The gentle prince was struggling for air, his lungs completely blocked by a thick piece of the heavy pastry.
âUncle?â Daena asked, her voice dropping its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic. âUncle Rhaegal?â
Rhaegal didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved violently, a horrific, choking sound tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward out of his high-backed chair. The heavy oak crashed against the stone floor, a sound that instantly silenced the immediate radius of the high table. Courtiers froze, wine cups suspended in mid-air.
You lunged forward, your fingers catching the sleeve of his velvet doublet as he began to sink to his knees. âMaester!â you shouted, your voice echoing off the high stone rafters. âHelp him! Heâs choking!â
But the response was too slow. In a court paralyzed by the fear of sudden death, everyone simply stared. Rhaegal clawed at his own neck, his glassy eyes rolling back into his head, fixed on the high, vaulted ceiling as if he could see the invisible threads pulling him down. He thrashed once, twice, a pitiful, desperate struggle for a single gasp of air, and then his body went entirely limp in your grasp.
By the time the Grand Maester finally scrambled up the steps of the elevated dais, robes billowing and chains clinking in a useless panic, the Prince of Dragonstone was already gone. The direct heir to the Iron Throne lay still on the cold stone. Rhaegal had lived through the horrors of the Great Spring Sickness, surviving a plague that had wiped out thousands, only to have his breath stolen by a greasy piece of crust.
A heavy, suffocating panic descended on the hall. Daena let out a small, terrified sob, clutching at your arm, but you could only stare down at Rhaegalâs still, purple face. Dozens of deaths, Gladysâs voice echoed in the caverns of your mind. A line completely severed.
And then, as if the Stranger were executing a meticulously planned script, the dominoes continued to fall with horrific precision. Rhaegalâs son Aelor was named heir, only to be killed in a freak, tragic mishap by his own twin sister, who soon followed him into the grave.
The line was being systematically hollowed out, leaving nothing but ashes and empty chairs. Finally, Aerys too passed into the histories. He left behind a fractured, bleeding court, a vacant throne, and a path that led straight back to the one man you dreaded most.
His name was mentioned over and over again. You heard they had a meeting; a grim, quiet gathering of the small council, tucked away in the council chambers while the King's body was still being prepared for the silent sisters.
The question of who would succeed Aerys was simple on the surface, yet entirely terrifying beneath it. Naturally, the crown belonged to Maekar. He was the last surviving brother, a veteran commander of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and a man made of iron and duty. But after so many sudden, bizarre tragedies, after watching a whole generation of royals vanish into the dirt in a matter of monthsâthe council was terrified of what would happen if Maekar fell next. They couldn't just crown a king, they had to secure a line. They needed to lock down exactly who was standing in line after Maekar.
And that was where the room had completely fractured.
By all laws of Westeros, the succession should have flowed down to Maekarâs eldest son, Prince Daeron. But the lords of the small council flatly refused to accept him. The excuse whispered through the castle corridors was that Daeron was utterly unfit to ruleâa notorious drunkard, soft-willed, and so terrified of his own shadow that he had once fled a tourney rather than face a real knight. The lords wanted a strong, formidable heir to guarantee stability after years of plague and chaos, not a prince who spent his days in wine sinks trying to drown his own cowardice.
With Daeron effectively cast aside by the council, the debate turned to the next brother in line.
His name, Aerion, was mentioned countless times.
You heard the arguments from your position near the doorway, your skin turning entirely to ice. The lords spoke of his fierce Valyrian blood. They spoke of his martial skill, his undeniable presence, and the fact that, despite his exile in Lys, he was a prince who would never be accused of weakness or cowardice. You scoffed at that.Â
They argued that a fractured, bleeding realm needed a dragon with claws, completely blind to the monstrous cruelty that lurked beneath Aerion's beautiful facade.
Every time his name echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber, Maester Gladys's mad prophecy hammered behind your eyes. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you.
They were preparing to bring him back.Â
They were clearing the path for the monster you had barely escaped, dragging him closer to the throne, and closer to you, than anyone had ever intended.
And so here you were, at the harbor.
The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast, oppressive sheet of cold gray beneath a morning sky that offered no comfort. The salt air was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of low tide and the smoky breath of the harborâs watchtowers. Waves slapped lazily, relentlessly against the massive stone docks, entirely unawareâ or perhaps entirely uncaring, that they were delivering catastrophe directly to your doorstep.
 Each dull splash felt like a countdown, a steady rhythmic ticking toward the end of the quiet life you had fought so hard to build.
Around you, the chaotic gears of royal preparation were already turning with frenetic energy.
Servants hurried back and forth in frantic pairs, carrying heavy iron-bound trunks, stumbling over coil ropes, and hauling velvet-draped litters. Knights in polished armor gathered near the edge of the piers, their greaves clinking as they shifted their weight, checking and rechecking the alignment of the gangplanks. Courtiers lingered in tight, whispering clusters like crows on a fence, speaking in lowered voices that were not nearly as discreet as they believed. You could catch fragments of their murmurs drifting over the sound of the windâwords like succession, blood of the dragon, Lys, and the Kingâs heir.
You stood perfectly still amongst them, a solitary figure draped in mourning black, frozen like a statue carved from grief and dread.
Watching. Waiting. Dreading.
With every passing minute, the ship grew larger on the horizon. A year ago, you had stood on this very harbor, watching the sails of his vessel shrink into nothingness, praying with every fiber of your being that the sea would swallow him whole and that he would never return.
The gods, apparently, possessed a vicious, twisted sense of humor. They had not only kept him alive; they had cleared a path through his entire family just to bring him back.
Beside you, Princess Daena squinted out toward the gray water, shading her eyes with a delicate, ringed hand. She was completely oblivious to the cold sweat prickling at your spine.
"Which one is he again?" she asked casually, tilting her head.
You stared at her, your voice flat, drained of all warmth. "My husband."
"Oh." Daena blinked, her brow furrowing in a brief moment of mental calculation. A pause stretched between you, filled only by the screaming of gulls overhead. "The terrifying one?"
"Yes."
"The handsome, terrifying one?"
You closed your eyes, the memory of his cruel, beautiful face flashing behind your eyelids like a brand. "Yes."
"Hm."
You heard absolutely no concern in her voice. When you opened your eyes again, Daena was still staring toward the approaching vessel with open, childlike curiosity, as if she were waiting for a traveling circus to pull into port rather than a monster.
"I always thought he was exaggerated," she murmured, tapping her chin. "The stories the old ladies tell in the solar. They make him sound like a demon out of a fairy tale."
"He isn't exaggerated."
"Really?"
Your jaw tightened. The memories of his unpredictable, erratic whims swarmed your mind. "He once suggested I join him and another woman in bed as though he was offering me cake. No shame. No affection. Just a casual invitation over breakfast."
Daena blinked, her shielded eyes widening slightly as she processed the image. "Oh." Another pause settled over the stone pier. Then, she let out a small, bewildered breath. "That is rather strange."
Rather strange. You briefly, intensely considered pushing her into the sea just to give yourself something else to look at.
The ship was close enough now that individual figures could be clearly seen moving across the polished wooden deck. The distinctive three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped aggressively against the gray sky on a field of black silk.
The crowd stirred, a collective, nervous energy rippling through the smallfolk and lords alike. Someone called out a sharp command for the heavy timber gangplanks to be readied.
Further ahead of the crowd, standing at the very edge of the pier, Prince Maekar stood as rigid as stone. His massive frame was clad in deep crimson and charcoal, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. If he felt any emotion regarding his second son's return, if his heart ached for the monster he had fathered, he concealed it behind a mask of pure iron.
You doubted he was pleased. Maekar was many thingsâstern, unyielding, and bitterâbut even he wasn't blind. The small council might have been locked away in their chambers discussing the technicalities of succession, and the high lords might have been speaking grandly of strength, Valyrian blood, and the necessity of dragons, but Maekar knew his son.Â
Perhaps better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, Maekar knew exactly what Aerion was capable of when left to his own devices. And that knowledge alone made this entire situation infinitely worse. The father did not trust the son, yet the realm was forcing them together.
The ship finally eased into the stone slip of the harbor with a massive, slow momentum.
Thick hemp ropes were thrown through the air, caught by straining dockworkers. Sailors shouted orders over the roar of the wind, their voices hoarse and salt-worn. The heavy timber of the hull groaned in protest against the wooden pilings, a scraping, agonizing sound that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes. The vessel settled, its great oars drawing back like a predator folding its wings.
For a terrifying, suspended moment, nobody moved. The entire harbor seemed to hold its collective breath.
Then, the heavy wooden gangplank was lowered, hitting the stone dock with a loud, echoing thud.
A profound, heavy hush seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. Your stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. You hated that it did. You hated that after a year of absolute freedom, after all the peace and purpose you had carefully carved out for yourself among your books and your school, the mere possibility of seeing him again could still completely unsettle you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel like the frightened girl he had married, not the woman who had survived him.
The first men began descending the ramp. Guards in practical leather armor, Lysene servants carrying gilded birdcages, merchants in strange, bright eastern robes, faces you did not recognize, a blur of foreign wealth and colonial luxury.
Thenâ there he was.
Aerion Targaryen descended the gangplank as though he had personally conquered Lys and was returning to King's Landing to collect his rightful reward, rather than an exile being dragged home by a depleted family tree.
The bastard looked infuriatingly healthy.
If anything, his time across the Narrow Sea had only improved him. His silver hair had grown longer, catching the pale morning light, and the hot Lysene sun had darkened his pale skin to a warm, sun-kissed bronze. He wore expensive Essosi silksâa deep, shimmering violet doublet that perfectly matched his eyesâbeneath a heavy travel cloak trimmed with fur that probably cost more than some small keeps in the crownlands. He looked rested. He looked powerful.
Which felt deeply, profoundly unfair.
You had spent an entire year secretly hoping for at least one visible hardship to have found him in the East. A limp from a tavern brawl. A jagged scar across his arrogant face. A missing tooth. Something, anything, to prove that the universe possessed a shred of justice. Instead, he appeared to have spent his entire exile drinking fine arbor gold, lounging in pleasure houses, and making everyone else's life thoroughly miserable while you dreaded his shadow.
He paused at the base of the gangplank, and his violet eyes, bright, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid, swept across the gathered crowd. They passed over the armored knights without interest. They slid over the bowing servants. They dismissed the murmuring lords.
Then, they landed on you.
And stopped.
For one terrible, agonizing moment, neither of you moved. The entire harbor seemed to instantly disappear around you. The shouting of the sailors, the groaning wood, the crashing sea, the crowded pier, all of it was gone, reduced to white noise. There was nothing left in the world except those familiar, deadly eyes staring across the narrow distance between you.
Then, Aerion's mouth slowly, deliberately curved. It was not a smile of affection, nor was it a greeting. It was the sharp, curling smirk of absolute recognition. It was the look of a boy who had just found his favorite toy waiting for him exactly where he had left it.
You stared into his eyes, the madman Gladys's prophecy screaming in your ears, and you immediately regretted being alive.
There were many moments where you regretted being alive, but this was, without a doubt, the absolute worst of it.
It was supposed to be a simple family dinner. Simple, and yet every breath you took felt like swallowing glass. You spent the entire evening faking your smiles until your cheeks ached, holding your heavy silver utensils so tightly that the ornate patterns bit deep, permanent ridges into your palms. You didn't dare look up. You knew exactly what was waiting for you across the linen tablecloth if you did.
One after another, Aerion spoke of his time in Lys. He painted a picture of a paradise, his voice smooth and dripping with that familiar, theatrical charm that made the high lords lean in with rapt attention. He spoke of the towering pleasure houses of the Perfumed Garden, the sweet, spiced wines that never let a man go thirsty, and the effortless luxury of the Free Cities. He spun tales of naval skirmishes and foreign diplomacy as if he hadn't been kicked out of his own country for being a degenerate, but had instead gone on a grand, triumphant tour. To hear him tell it, his exile wasn't a punishment at all, it was more like a holiday.
âThe Lysene know how to craft beauty,â Aerion said, his eyes sweeping across the table before settling on you. There was something in his tone that made your skin crawl. âThough there are some things even the wealthiest magisters cannot recreate.â
A knot tightened in your stomach. You lowered your gaze and forced yourself to take another bite of the roasted capon. The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, and tasted like nothing at all. Ash filled your mouth instead.
To your left sat young Egg. The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of his family, sunburned from his hidden travels, his head recently shaved to hide his Targaryen features, and possessing a stubborn, grounded sense of reality that the rest of the court sorely lacked. He sat right beside you, kicking his legs slightly beneath the heavy oak table, his small fingers violently stabbing a piece of potato.
"He's a prick," Egg muttered under his breath, his voice so quiet it was nearly buried by the clinking of wine goblets. He leaned slightly toward you, his brow furrowed in a fierce, protective scowl. "A pompous, preening prick. He hasn't changed a bit."
A genuine, albeit fleeting, smile finally broke through your rigid mask. You didn't dare say a word out loud, but you let your fingers gently brush against Egg's sleeve in a silent, grateful acknowledgment.
Suddenly, the clinking of silverware died down.
"And what of your duties here, Aerion?" Maekar's voice boomed from the head of the table, heavy and demanding. The King-to-be hadn't touched his wine all evening. His dark eyes bored into his second son. "The council did not recall you from Lys to lounge in the capital like a perfumed magister."
Aerion set his chalice down with an agonizingly slow, deliberate grace. The silver rings on his finger clicked sharply against the gold rim.
"The realm needs a reminder of what a dragon looks like, Father," Aerion replied, his voice smooth, yet underlaid with a dangerous, purring edge. He didn't look at Maekar. Instead, his violet eyes slid deliberately back to you, locking onto your face with a predatory stillness that made the breath catch in your throat.
"And I intend to start my duties exactly where I left them. Beginning at home."
The oppressive, tense heat of that dinner faded, bleeding into the grand, echoey chill of the Great Hall days later.
The air inside the throne room was thick with the scent of burning tallow, heavy incense, and the collective sweat of hundreds of tightly packed nobles. Trumpets blared, their brassy notes reverberating off the high stone pillars, cutting through the low, reverent murmur of the crowd.
It was the day of the coronation.
Before the twisted, towering mass of the Iron Throne stood Maekar. He looked every bit the warrior king, his shoulders broad beneath heavy velvet, his face carved of unyielding granite as the High Septon raised the crown above his head. The crown itself was a heavy, formidable thing, a band of black iron set with square-cut rubies that caught the torchlight that almost looked like fresh, uncoagulated blood.
Your eyes locked onto the crown, tracking its slow descent toward Maekar's brow.
As the gold and iron caught the light, the grand hall seemed to bleed away. The blare of the trumpets distorted, turning into a low, rushing wind, and suddenly you were back in that dim, dust-choked chamber. You could smell the bitter herbs and the rotting parchment. You could see Maester Gladys's trembling, withered hands clutching at your robes, his milky, blind eyes staring right through your soul as his raspy voice tore from his throat.
A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. I saw you sitting on the Iron Throne.
The memory shattered as the High Septon finally placed the heavy crown onto Maekarâs head, declaring him the first of his name. A deafening roar went up from the crowd âLong live King Maekar!â âand the nobles burst into thunderous applause.
Standing in the front ranks beside the rest of the royal family, you kept your hands folded politely in front of your dress, your gaze never wavering from the rubies glittering on the new King's brow.
And for the first time, you didn't push the madmanâs prophecy away. You didn't shudder in fear or wish to run. Instead, you eyed that heavy band of iron and rubies with a quiet, burning intensity, wondering with a sudden, sharp clarity if it really was all true.
If the line was meant to sever, then why shouldn't it end with you?
You looked at Maekar, and then your eyes slid slightly to the side, where Aerion stood basking in the reflected glory of his father's new titles. He looked proud, arrogant, and entirely secure in his place as the councilâs chosen future.
But you knew the truth. You were better than Aerion. He was a creature of petty malice and fragile ego, a boy who thought cruelty made him a dragon. You were incomparable to him. Where he brought chaos and terror, you possessed a mind that could actually construct order. You understood the delicate, bleeding pulse of the realm. You knew its history, its flaws, and the desperate, quiet needs of the people living under its shadow.
If the gods or the prophecies meant to hand you the reins of Westeros, you wouldn't just sit on the throne to collect taxes and demand bows. You would change lives. You would rewrite the rules of the court, steady the crumbling foundations of the realm, and build something lastingâ something better than whatever broken, arrogant Targaryen kings had come before you.
The crowd continued to cheer, their voices echoing off the high stone ceiling like rumbling thunder, a deafening wave of noise that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards.
As the hours bled on, the somber atmosphere of the coronation melted away, and the Great Hall was transformed into an ornate ball and a dining room at the same time. Tapestries of Targaryen history were illuminated by the harsh, flickering glare of a thousand fresh beeswax candles. Servants moved in a frantic dance of their own, rushing between tables to replace heavy platters of roasted meats and pour endless rivers of sweet Arbor gold. Music from the gallery above swelled; pipes, harps, and drums weaving a lively, almost aggressive rhythm that filled the cavernous room.
And unfortunately for youâ you were seated directly beside Aerion.
Ever since his heavy leather boots had landed on Westerosi soil at the port, he had not once properly acknowledged your existence. He sat beside you like a beautiful, dangerous statue, his attention seemingly entirely occupied by the lords who leaned across the table to curry favor with the new King's son.
It was better, you supposed. In fact, it was much better than the alternative. You would gladly take his cold shoulder over having to deal with whatever sharp, twisted insults normally landed from his vile mouth. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, watching the colorful blur of spinning courtiers on the dance floor, hoping that if you sat quietly enough, you might simply blend into the heavy velvet drapery.
But Aerion Targaryen was never a man to let you find peace.
Somehow, he managed to ignore and acknowledge your presence at the exact same time. He did not look at you, nor did he address you by name, but he spent the evening launching snide, venomous remarks that were lowkey, yet undeniably, about you.
"The women of Lys know how to dress for a feast," Aerion remarked to a minor lord sitting across the cloth, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient music. He lifted his golden chalice, swirling the dark wine within. The man nodded uncertainly, unsure on what to respond. âThey arrive determined to improve the evening.â
His gaze drifted briefly toward your black mourning gown. "Not everyone shares that same ambition." A few men laughed. You tightened your grip on your silver fork, your jaw locking into a rigid line.
There were two reasons you still wore black.
The first was respectable enough. King Daeron was gone, as were Aerys and the young princes. Not even a year had passed since death had swept through the royal family with such ruthless speed. Mourning remained appropriate.
The second reason was less suitable for polite conversation.
You were mourning your own life.Or rather, the life you had before Aerion Targaryen returned and proceeded to trample through it like a dragon through a vegetable garden. It had been quiet then. Peaceful. Predictable. You had your books, your routines, your freedom from his relentless presence.
And now he was back, ruining all of it with remarkable efficiency.
Aerion set his chalice down with a deliberate, echoing thud, the gold gleaming under the candlelight as he swiveled his attention slightly back to his sycophants. âThatâs another thing I miss about Lys.â
The lord across from him leaned forward eagerly, practically tripping over himself to absorb whatever royal favor or scandalous gossip the prince was about to dispense.
The lord blinked. "My prince?"
A cruel, fond smirk tugged at the corner of Aerionâs mouth as he murmured, âThe Lysene women are excellent company.â
âThen perhaps you should have stayed.â
The words escaped before you could stop them. Oops. Awkward.
A mistake.
The moment they left your mouth, you felt itâ the sudden shift in the air around the table. The conversation nearby faltered. A few lords looked down into their cups with remarkable interest. Somewhere behind you, you could practically feel Meriel having a silent heart attack.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the high table.
At the far end, Daena brightened immediately. The traitor.
For the first time in days, you had voluntarily spoken to Aerion, and she looked as delighted as if sheâd just witnessed a long-awaited reconciliation rather than what was very clearly the beginning of another argument.
But slowly and deliberately, Aerion looked at you for the first time all evening.
The movement of his neck was smooth, fluid, and utterly devoid of warmth. Predatory lilac eyes locked onto yours, wide with a terrifying kind of amusement.
âThere she is,â he purred, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
Aerion leaned in closer, the scent of wine and ash washing over you as his smirk widened into something truly venomous. âWhat a touching reunion.â
He tilted his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. âI was beginning to worry youâd forgotten how.â
Suddenly, the music shifted, slowing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. One of the courtiers stepped forward, announcing that the high table was expected to lead the next dance.
Aerion set his chalice down with a sharp clink. That lazy smirk on his lips sharpened into something altogether dangerous. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers long and elegant, yet caked with the invisible memory of violence.
You looked at itâat the calluses earned from relentless training, at the heavy signet ring catching the torchlight. Then you looked up at him, meeting a gaze that was far too calm.
âNo.â
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, his dark brows lifting a fraction of an inch before his features smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating composure.
âThat wasnât a difficult instruction,â he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of apology.
âYouâve ignored me all evening.â
âYes.â
âAnd now you wish to dance.â
âAlso yes.â
His hand remained suspended between you, an unyielding invitation. Around the high table, the low hum of courtly chatter had died down. Lords and ladies had begun watching, nudging one another, their eyes glittering with the hunger for a domestic scandal.
You decided that you hated every single one of them.
Knowing a public refusal would feed the vultures for weeks, you swallowed your pride. Slowly, deliberately, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and possessive.
Aerionâs mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. âThere she is.â
âI hope you fall down a staircase,â you shot back, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.
âSee? We hardly spoke for a year and youâve already missed me.â
The dance was a nightmare.
The court cleared a path as he led you to the center of the floor. Aerion guided you through the intricate, sweeping steps with infuriating ease, his hand firm against your back, effortlessly dictating the pace before you could try to lead.
âYouâve become even more miserable,â he noted, his eyes scanning your face as the music swelled around you.
You refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare somewhere over his shoulder at a dusty tapestry on the far wall. âWelcome home.â
âI left for a year and this is the reception I receive.â
âYouâll survive.â
A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine glint of amusement in his eyes. âThere she is.â
âWhat does that mean?â you snapped, briefly breaking your vow of silence to glare at him.
âYouâve spent the entire evening pretending I donât exist.â
âI was hoping youâd do the same.â
He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through his hand on your waist. The sound irritated you more than it should have, warming your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the hall.
âYouâve been hiding,â he said, executing a seamless turn that forced you closer to his chest.
âIâve been reading.â
âSame thing.â
You considered stomping on his heavy leather boot with the heel of your slipper. It would be so easy. A slight misstep, a quiet crunch of his toes. Unfortunately, half the realm was watching, their eyes tracking your every movement.
Aerion seemed to notice the calculation in your eyes, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you. âGo on.â
âWhat?â
âI know that look.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âYou want to kick me.â
Your silence answered for you, your jaw tightening as you offered him a sweetly venomous smile for the benefit of the crowd.
âVery healthy marriage,â he said, drawing you just a fraction closer as the music began to fade.
â
When the dance finally ended, you didn't give him the chance to escort you back. You practically fled the Great Hall, lifting your heavy skirts and hurrying through the labyrinthine, torch-lit stone corridors of the Red Keep until you finally reached the safety of your own quarters.
You pushed open the bedchamber door.
Relief flooded through you. Finally. Silence. No music. No courtiers. And most importantly, no Aerionâ
You stopped.
Aerion was sitting on the edge of your bed. A silver goblet rested loosely in one hand, the dark red wine sloshing slightly against the rim. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire playing across his sharp valyrian features.
Then:
âYou took the scenic route.â
You shut your eyes. Slowly and carefully. As though patience alone might make him disappear. When you opened them again, he was still there, stretched across the edge of your bed with all the comfort of a man in his own chambers.
âGet out.â
Aerion lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip. âNo,â the answer came so quickly it was almost insulting.
âI am serious.â
âSo am I.â
You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache had begun somewhere around the third insult at dinner and had only worsened with every passing hour.
âWhy are you here?â
Aerion opened his mouth. You immediately held up a hand.
âActually, wait.â You pointed a warning finger at him. âI already dislike this answer.â And to your irritation, he looked pleased.
âYou fled.â
âYes.â
âAnd I followed you.â
âThat explains nothing.â
Aerion frowned slightly, as if you were being deliberately difficult.
âIt explains the entire sequence of events.â
âNo, it explains how you got here. It does not explain why you're here.â
You stared at him, your gaze filled with unadulterated venom. Aerion stared back, entirely unbothered, his posture relaxed against your silk sheets. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
Then he smirked. âDid you genuinely think you could lose me?â
âHope is free.â
âNot for much longer, when I become king.â
âIf.â
Aerion rolled his eyes, annoyance already flooding to the both of you, shattering the last remnants of any polite pretense. He set his goblet down on the nightstand with a definitive thud and stood up, bridging the distance between you.
"We need an heir," he said, his voice dropping into something heavy and entirely stripped of its playful malice. "My father and the small council spent the better part of the morning discussing it. To ensure the Targaryen line lives on. It is a matter of state."
Sensing exactly where this was going, your stomach churned with defense.
"I am your husbandâ" Aerion started, his tone commanding.
"Estranged," you cut him off sharply.
Now you knew. You knew exactly why he was standing in your room, why he had bothered to seek you out at all. He didn't care about you. He was doing this because without an heir before King Maekar dies, he won't be crowned king. The small council would waver.
You raised your chin, trying to sound entirely unimpressed. "Your father is strong, Aerion. It is clear he will live a long life. There is no need for urgency."
But as you stared at him, the weight of the looming situation forced your mind to spin backward, retreating into the memory of a conversation from only a few weeks agoâŠ
â
The sunlight in your solar had been suffocatingly bright that afternoon. You had been pacing the floor, the heavy fabric of your skirts whipping around your ankles as you raged to Meriel.
"He is returning from Lys," you had spat, the words tasting like ash. "And they are naming him Prince of Dragonstone. It is absurd! An heir will be entirely impossible between Aerion and me. We cannot stand to be in the same room, let alone share a bed."
Meriel had remained perfectly calm, sitting gracefully by the window, her embroidery resting in her lap. She had looked up, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. "It doesnât have to be a long-term arrangement. You will be queen. And when Aerion..." She had paused, trailing off with a delicate shrug that heavily hinted at an early, violent demise for your husband. "Well, if he dies early, you will be regent. If you are with child."
You had scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Regent? There are other male heirs! The crown wouldn't fall to a child of his if there are others to take it."
"The small council prefers Aerion," Meriel had countered smoothly. "Because of his personality. Oh, they are terrified of him, make no mistake. But they know he would make a fine king because of his violence. He is utterly ruthless to those who oppose his family. Think of my own family for an example of what happens to those who cross the crown."
She had leaned forward, ticking the other options off on her fingers. "Look at the alternatives. Daeron is far too busy drinking himself into a stupor to ever hold a scepter. Aemon doesn't want to be king, nor does he want to be anywhere near the Iron Throne. He reminds people too much of King Aerysâ he prefers his dusty books over governing his people, over the living world entirely. And Aegon?" Meriel had let out a soft, amused laugh. "Aegon is frequently nowhere to be found most days, off on his grand adventures with that remarkably tall knight."
You had scoffed again, though the weight of her words sank in.
"There is a Blackfyre rebellion looming again," Meriel had reminded you, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Obviously, it breathes life because of the rumors of the Targaryen heirs dying one by one like flies. Who knows... you might get lucky if Aerion magically wounds up and dies on a battlefield somewhere. But until then?" She had fixed you with a hard, unyielding stare. "You need an heir."
â
The memory faded, snapping you right back into the dim hearth-light of your bedchamber.
Aerion was still standing there, watching you closely, his sharp lilac eyes tracking the subtle shift in your expression as you processed the trap the small council and history had laid out for you.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with the reality of Merielâs words.
You breathed out slowly, the tension never leaving your shoulders. You looked past him, staring at the rumpled silk sheets of the bed he just sat upon. If this was a battle for survival, then you would treat it like one.
The irritation that had flared during the dance, the nervous flutter in your throat when you found him waiting in the darkâit all suddenly crystallized into a cold and hard ambition. You had spent months dreading his return, hating his arrogance, but you weren't a martyr, and you weren't a victim either. You wanted that crown. You wanted the power that came with it, the absolute security of the Iron Throne, and the ability to look down on the very courtiers who sneered at you now. If Aerion was the key to unlocking that future, then you would simply have to turn the key.
Slowly, deliberately, you walked past him. The heavy fabric of your skirts brushed against his boots as you closed the distance to the bed, reclaiming your space.
When you looked up at him, all the venom was gone from your eyes. The shift between you could be felt so obviously. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden finality.
You didn't say a word. Instead, your fingers went to the lacings of your gown.
One by one, the heavy silver pins and rings of your jewelry slipped from your skin, hitting the floor with a series of dull, metallic thuds. Then, with practiced, unhurried movements, you unfastened the heavy velvet bodice, letting the heavy gown pool at your feet like a shed skin.
You were left in nothing but your undergarments, a shift of fine, ivory silk so thin it was practically a second skin. In the warm glow of the hearth, your silhouette was starkly revealedâ the soft swell and curve of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples pressing against the fabric, and the smooth, sloping line of your hips.
For all his worldly experience, the sight took Aerion completely by surprise. His breath hitched audibly, his lilac eyes darkening as they tracked the sudden exposure of your body.
You had no experience in a marriage bed; you were a maiden, untouched and untried, but it didn't mean you were a fool. The books you had spent the months reading hadn't just been histories and statecraft; they had been accounts of the flesh, of the power women wielded in the dark when they knew exactly what they were trading.
You leaned back slightly on the mattress, propping yourself up on one hand, meeting his stunned gaze with a look of detachment.
âWellâ I certainly did not expect you to give in so suddenlyâ Aerion said. He blinked, the initial shock quickly giving way to a broad, unbothered grin. He chuckled, shucking off his heavy doublet and tossing it onto the floor without looking. âLook at you. Fascinating. I thought Iâd have to deal with hours of sighing, but youâve gone straight to the point. I respect the efficiency.â
You glared. âOh donât mistake my patient for toleranceâ You made sure to keep your voice level. You wouldnât want him to know your heart is hammering in your chest right now. You then scoffedâ âI am doing it entirely on my own terms.â
Aerion paused, unbuttoning his shirt with casual and unhurried movements. âYou think a thin piece of silk gives you leverage?â
âYes, I do,â you countered smoothly, holding his gaze. âBut you still want what's underneath it.â
He let out a sharp, amused breath, stepping closer to the bed. âTrue. You have an exceptional body, I'll give you that. I was actually a bit worried youâd be shaped like a turnip under all that velvet. Not quite as lush as the women in Lys, of courseâ they have a certain, how do you say, vibrancy to their curvesâ but still, much better than I anticipated.â
Ouch. The casual insult stung, a blunt reminder of his complete lack of tact, but you refused to let him see it find its mark. You kept your face perfectly impassive.
âI was hoping your exile would have helped you improve,â you remarked dryly.
His hand moved to your neck. The blunt warmth of his palm was a stark contrast to the heavy, cold metal of the countless rings on his fingers. You leaned back further against the mattress as he tilted his head, his lips hovering just beside the lobe of your ear.
"You talk too much," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Let's see if you can do anything else."
His hand trailed down your throat, his fingers splaying across your chest. You watched him through your lashes, refusing to look away as his palms slid lower, mapping the contours of your body. He took the weight of your breasts in his handsâ groping and molding them through the thin ivory silk, his thumbs dragging roughly over the peaks. And before you could even catch your breath, his hands moved back to your shoulders, applying just enough sudden pressure to push you flat against the bed, his heavy frame following you down until he was hovering directly over you.
No more words were spoken. The chill of the room seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the sheer, radiating heat of his body pressed against yours. Aerion shifted, driving his knee upward until it settled firmly between your thighs, pressing right against your center.
The sudden, blunt pressure caught the air in your throat. He dipped lower, his hands sliding down to forcefully part your legs, but even as you were pinned beneath him, you kept your gaze locked onto his with an unmistakable look of hatred.
Now flat on the mattress, the rest of the castle felt entirely distant. The faint, muffled roar of the courtiers feasting below was a hundred rooms awayâ completely irrelevant. And all that existed was the infuriatingly rich scent of his musk and the way his breathing grew shallower, more ragged, with every passing second.
His fingers dipped down, finding the slick heat between your thighs,pulling aside the thin silk of your shift. . You closed your eyes instantly. You didn't want to look at his smug face, trying to convince yourself that the sudden shudder through your spine was just a natural physical reaction to the stimulation.
You focused entirely on steadying your breathâ trying to keep your chest from heaving.
âAlready?â he purred, noticing the sudden wetness.
âShut up,â you gritted out through your teeth, snapping your eyes open to glare up at him.
âWait until you get a taste of a cock, dear wife,â he sneered mockingly.
But for all his arrogance, he wasn't in a hurry. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your skin as he left a trail of bruising, purple marks down to the bridge of your chest. He still hadn't stripped the silk shift from your bodyâ instead, he opened his mouth over the thin fabric of your breast, sucking the peak into his mouth through the wet silk.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. the intensity of it was overwhelming, a chaotic rush of sensory stimulation that made your mind spin. You needed an anchor, something to hold onto before you thrashed apart under the weight of it.
Fuck it, you thought.
You stopped fighting the reaction. Your fingers flew up, locking forcefully into Aerionâs hair, pulling tight enough to anchor him to you as you deliberately tilted your pelvis up, grinding your heat firmly against his knee.
Aerion let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden fistful of hair, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. A flash of pure, wicked delight split his features as he felt you grind against him. He didnât need any more invitation.
Shucking his breeches down with a rough, impatient jerk of his hips, he freed himself. He didn't completely strip your ivory shift; instead, his hands grabbed the hem, bunching the fine silk up to your waist until your hips were entirely bare against the sheets. He settled heavily between your parted thighs, the slick, thick heat of his length pressing directly against your entrance.
He didn't ease in with those gentle words or soft promises. He loomed over you, his chest flush against yours, and with a single, unhurried push, he drove his hips forward.
The blunt thickness of him tore through the maidenhood you had guarded for years. Your breath hitched sharply, a ragged gasp catching in the back of your throat as your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. The initial sting was hot and sharp, a tight stretching sensation that filled you completely. Aerion paused for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your face, watching the way your eyes flared with pain.
You hissed through your teeth, the pain already beginning to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache that pulsed right where your bodies met.
Aerion let out a sharp laugh, and then he began to move. He pulled back nearly all the way, letting the cool air of the room hit your slick skin for a fraction of a second before plunging deep inside you again. The heavy sound of his hips striking yours echoed in the quiet room.
He settled into a rhythm that was maddeningly and infuriatingly steady. His hands remained firm at your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you whenever you shifted beneath him. There was no teasing in it, no attempt at any gentlenessâ but only the same stubborn determination he seemed to bring to every argument, every fight, every impossible thing he set his mind to.
The friction was intense. The initial ache dissolved entirely, replaced by a blossoming heat that began to coil tightly in your lower stomach. Every time he drove inside you, his length rubbed against the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at your entrance, sending sharp jolts of electricity up your spine. You hated himâ you hated the smug twist of his lips, the arrogant tilt of his headâ but your body was entirely traitorousâ stretching to accommodate his thick length and relentless rhythm.
Aerionâs breathing turned into ragged, heavy pants, his forehead slick with sweat as he stared down at you, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. He was enjoying the total control of the position, looking entirely pleased with himself.
And youâ you weren't going to let him have it.
As he pulled back slightly to deliver another heavy thrust, you dug your heels into the mattress. You slammed your palms against his sticky chest and twisted your hips. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden resistance, Aerion lost his footing on the silk sheets. With a breathless yell, he tumbled onto his back.
Before he could even process the shift, you scrambled up, straddling his waist and pinning his thighs down with your knees. Your ivory shift hung loosely around your shoulders, your bare hips now perfectly aligned over his rigid length.
Aerion lay flat on his back, and for the second time that night, he looked completely stunned, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked up at you from below. Then, that familiar, chaotic grin slowly spread across his face. âWell. Look who wants to play king.â
âShut up,â you breathed, your face flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You didn't give him a chance to retort. Holding his gaze with that same look of unmistakable defiance, you lifted your hips and slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself back down onto him.
The sensation of taking him in from this angle was completely different. He went incredibly deep, filling you entirely until you felt the blunt cap of his length bottoming out against the very core of you. You let out a breathless, trembling gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest for balance as you threw your head back.
You began to ride him. You lifted your hips up until he almost slipped out, before slamming back down against his pelvis with a wet heavy slap. The control was entirely yours now. You determined the depth, the speed, and the angle. You leaned forward, pressing your hands flat against his chest, your small waist rolling in a tight, agonizingly slow circle that made Aerionâs eyes roll back into his head.
âFuck,â he groaned, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to push upward to force his own rhythm, but you leaned your weight into him, keeping him pinned down.
âNo,â you panting against his lips, leaning down until your sweat-dampened hair brushed his cheeks. âYou stay still.â
You accelerated the pace, your hips rising and falling in a frantic, rolling rhythm. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together filled the space between you, drowning out the distant, irrelevant world below. The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter with every downward strike, the overwhelming stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. You ground your cunt firmly against his pelvic bone with every drop, demanding everything he had, while still glaring down at him with beautiful, triumphant malice.
It grew unbearableâ like a tight rush of heat that shattered the last of your restraint. You slammed down against him one last time, your inner muscles convulsing around him in a tight spasm as a quiet gasp broke from your throat. The sudden and intense grip of your climax triggered him instantly. Aerionâs jaw locked, his head tossing back against the pillow as a low, guttural roar tore from his chest. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, jerking your pelvis down hard against his as he rolled into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the harsh and ragged rasp of his breathing. The arrogance was entirely gone from his face now, replaced by a flushed, dazed exhaustion.
You didn't waste a single moment. As soon as his grip loosened, you shifted your weight and climbed off him, sliding to the far edge of the mattress. Your skin was slick with sweat and your chest still heaving.
"Leave," you said, your voice coldâ and entirely devoid of emotion.
He blinked, his dazed expression instantly souring. He sat up, looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and sharp offense, his massive ego clearly taking a direct hit. "Leave? I just gave you a spectacular evening, and you're tossing me out like an unwelcome stray? I am the prince."
"Yes wellâ the transaction is complete," you replied, keeping your back to him. "Get out."
He let out an irritated hiss through his nose, muttering under his breath about your complete lack of gratitude. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, shucking them on with aggressive, jerky movements before slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
Only when the lock clicked shut did the silence of the room truly settle in.
That was when you felt itâ the thick, hot ache between your thighs, and the slow, heavy trickle of his seed spilling out onto your skin. The cold reality of what had just happened settled over you like a physical weight.
It was done.
There was no going back. You slowly rolled onto your back, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed, the phantom weight of his body still pressing into your mattress. You closed your eyes, swallowed the lump in your throat, and hoped for the best.
Aerion came and wentâ literally and figuratively.
The fierce, charged encounter you had shared weeks before was a rare exception, a fleeting moment of intensity you had only allowed because it served a practical purpose. The council was already breathing down your necks, and it was simply safer to perform the act so they wouldn't throw you both out for failing to produce an heir or shirking your marital duties.
This time, however, there was absolutely no fire, and you were bored out of your mind.
You lay at the very edge of the bed, your legs spread lazily as Aerion hovered over you, mechanically thrusting his hips forward. He wasn't even looking at you. His eyes were entirely distracted, darting upward to track a fat fuzzy bumblebee that had somehow wandered into the bedchamber and was currently hovering perilously close to his head.
"The winter stores are going to be a disaster if the northern grain shipments don't arrive by the fortnight," you remarked, your voice entirely conversational, echoing in the quiet room over the wet sounds of his thrusts. "And the tax assessments for the eastern districts are completely bloated. We need to revise the charts."
Aerionâs rhythm faltered, his brow furrowing in sheer exasperation as he narrowly ducked away from the bee. "Will you shut up? Justâ for one second, shut your mouth. I cannot focus with you lecturing me about agriculture right now."
You didn't flinch. You merely tilted your head back against the pillow, looking him dead in the eye with a look of detachment.
You deliberately fell completely silent, letting your arms drop to the sheets as you waited for him to finish.
Aerion let out a relieved sigh, his fingers tightening on one side of your hip to anchor himself.
"Thank you. God, I am profoundly grateful for that," he muttered, completely shameless as his free hand suddenly flew up into the air, aggressively swatting at the air to drive the bee away while his lower half kept driving into you with mindless and distracted efficiency.
He let out one final, frustrated swat at the air, his hips delivering a final perfunctory shove before he rolled off you, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the encounter.
And he definitely didn't linger. Within minutes, he had pulled his breeches back on, and vanished through the door without a glance.
A few quiet moments passed before the side door creaked open. Meriel slipped into the bedchamber, her eyes scanning your disheveled state, the twisted sheets, and the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.
"Good job," Meriel commented, folding her arms with a dry, knowing smirk.
You stared at her devoid of any emotion. "Thank you. I pride myself on my ability to discuss agricultural tax reform while being mindlessly rutted. It is a rare gift."
"Well, the council will be pleased," Meriel shrugged, walking over to pour you a cup of water. "They were beginning to think you two would rather poison each other's wine than actually secure the succession."
Before you could reply, the heavy main doors swung open. Daena strode into the room, her expression a mix of amusement. She didn't even knock.
"You can skip the modesty," Daena interrupted, looking between the two of you. "Almost the whole keep knows you've been fucking your husband."
You froze, the cup halfway to your lips. A spike of genuine concern hit your chest. "What? How could they possibly know that? The walls aren't that thin."
"Please," Daena scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Aerion left the door unlatched on his way out, shouting at a servant about a bee. And you aren't exactly quiet when you're ordering him around in here. The guards have a betting pool going."
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Fabulous. Truly magnificent."
"Stay right there in your bedchamber," Daena ordered, pointing a finger at you as she began to back toward the door. "Don't move. I'm going to go get something."
Meriel let out a long, heavy sigh the exact moment Daena turned her back on the room, her shoulders slumping in anticipation of whatever chaos Daena was about to fetch.
A few minutes later, Daena returned, holding a small pot containing a single, sprouted stalk of green wheat. She marched over and set it firmly on the nightstand beside your bed.
"A wedding gift," Daena announced proudly. "It detects pregnancy. You urinate on the soil. If the wheat grows rapidly over the next few days, you're with child. If it withers, you aren't."
You stared at the tiny plant, your eyebrows pulling together in deep skepticism. "Daena, it has been mere weeks. It is far too early to tell anything. And besides, why would I trust a stalk of grain when I can simply base it on my moon cycle?"
"Because the moon cycle takes a month, and this is much faster," Daena countered, entirely convinced of her own logic. "The women in the lower keep swear by it. Just try it."
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth banter about the absurdities of hedge-witch medicine, Daena finally grew bored and excused herself, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered it.
The moment the door shut behind, the room fell quiet.
Merielâs amusement disappeared almost instantly. The smile slipped from her face as she stepped closer, lowering her voice. âThere may be another Blackfyre rebellion.â
You stared at her. âAnother what?â
âA rebellion.â
You frowned. âThatâs ridiculous.â
It sounded ridiculous. There had been no whispers in court. No rumors drifting through the corridors. No nervous lords gathering in corners. Nothing.
âThere hasnât been a word about it,â you said. âNot from the court, not from the city. Nothing.â
âBecause the king ordered not to talk about it.â Meriel folded her hands before her. âThe small council knows. A handful of the great lords know. The rest are being kept in the dark.â
Your stomach tightened slightly. âAnd why would Maekar do that?â
âTo prevent panic.â A brief silence settled between you. Meriel held your gaze. Something in her tone made you sit a little straighter. âHow serious is it?â
âSerious enough that men have begun speaking of armies again.â
You looked away, your thoughts immediately turning to the king, the council, and the princes. And, unfortunately, to your husband.
Meriel leaned back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, folding her arms across her chest as she watched you. Her eyes tracked the tense line of your shoulders.
âYes,â she said dryly, letting out a soft sigh that rustled the quiet of the room. âHim too.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, the skin there hot and tight, before sliding your hands down to smooth over the rumpled linen of your sheets.
âWonderful.â
Months bled by in a tense, suffocating blur of war preparations, blacksmiths hammering through the night, and a sudden, sharp distance between you and the prince.
When the day of departure finally arrived, the atmosphere beneath the shadow of the Red Keep gates was thick with dust, the smell of leather, and the heavy trampling of warhorses.
You stood before Aerion in front of the massive iron-studded gates, surrounded by hundreds of armored men. Protocol demanded a farewell. You didn't want to give it. You didn't want to look at him, let alone offer any sweet, empty words of a worried wife, but the eyes of the court were heavy upon your back.
"Return safely, husband," you said, forcing a perfectly poised, diplomatic coolness into your voice although your eyes remained hard as flint.
Aerion, fully armored, his silver hair tucked loosely beneath a helmet, looked down at you from his mount. He didn't offer a grand declaration of war, nor did he display a single ounce of royal solemnity. Instead, that familiar smirk split his lips. He leaned down slightly from his saddle, ensuring his voice carried just enough for youâand only youâ to hear.
"Don't look so miserable, my love," he murmured with an infuriating wink. "You'll miss me. After all, youâre the greatest fuck Iâve ever had."
Before you could even process the crude, breathtaking arrogance of his words, he snapped his reins, turning his horse away with a loud, barking laugh. Your blood boiled instantly, a hot wave of pure, unadulterated fury washing over you as you watched his armored back retreat into the marching columns.
As the dust began to settle, one of the older council members stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the departing army. He didn't look at you when he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "Princess. Before the prince departed... is there any possibility that you are currently with child?"
You stood entirely rigid, keeping your jaw tight. You stayed quiet, refusing to give him a single word, staring straight ahead until the lord gave a stiff, disappointed bow and melted back into the crowd.
A few more months dragged on, the keep gripped by an agonizing silence as everyone awaited news from the front lines.
Then, the horns blew.
A blood-spattered, breathless messenger burst into the Great Hall, his boots clicking frantically against the stone floors. Lords and ladies scrambled to their feet as the man dropped to his knees before the vacant iron throne.
"Word from Starpike!" the messenger panted, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "The Targaryen forces have smashed the rebel lines! The Blackfyres are routed, their leaders dead! The war is won!"
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, a few lords cheeringâbut the messenger didn't stand. He stoppedâ swallowing hard, his face turning entirely pale as he looked up at the gathered nobility.
"But... King Maekar is dead," he whispered, the words dropping like lead. "During the siege of Starpike. A direct hit from a stone thrown from the battlements. It crushed his helmet. The king perished instantly."
Your heart skipped a beat. An inner, cold dialogue raced through your mind. Dead? So soon? King Maekarâ brought down by a stray piece of masonry. The kingdom was suddenly leaderless, thrown into a terrifyingly sudden transition of power.
"The vanguard," the messenger added breathlessly, "the company of Prince Aerion... they will be home in a few hours."
When the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung open later that night, Aerion strode inside. He was covered in dried mud and the faint, copper smell of old blood, his armor clanking loudly with every step. He walked with the broad, chest-puffed swagger of a conquerorâ expecting cheers, wine, and a celebratory riot.
Instead, he was met with a wall of absolute, suffocating silence.
Aerion slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. He didn't say a word, but the question was written all over his face: why does everyone look so utterly sullen when we just won a war? He looked around the room, his eyes darting from lord to lord, waiting for the applause that wasn't coming.
Then, the High Septon stepped forward. He didn't offer a congratulatory smile. Instead, he dropped heavily to both knees, pressing his palms flat against the stone floor.
"The King is dead," the old man announced, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Long live the King."
As if a string had been pulled, the entire room followed suit. One by one, the knights, the lords, and the ladies of the court dropped to their knees in a massive, sweeping wave of silk and steel. A low, thunderous chant rose from the floor, echoing off the cold stone walls: "Long live the King. Long live King Aerion!"
Aerion stood entirely frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by a sea of bowing heads. For the first time in his life, the smugness completely vanished from his face, replaced by a rare, stunned gravity as the sudden weight of the crown loomed over him.
You stood a few meters directly in front of him, remaining perfectly upright, the only person in the entire room who refused to bow. Your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of stone.
Behind you, you felt a slight shift in the air. Meriel stepped up right behind your shoulder, her gaze fixed entirely on your back as she looked between you and the newly proclaimed king.
Leaning in close, her voice a sharp, barely audible sliver of ice against your ear, she whispered,
SYNOPSIS. nothing could ever stop a lover from pulling her beloved back from deathâs door.
PAIRING. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
WORD COUNT. 3,923
CONTENT WARNING. major character death, corpse desecration, graphic depictions of a dead body, decomposition, corpse theft, body horror, resurrection, religious themes, blood and gore, grief and mourning, obsessive love, emotional infidelity, psychological horror, angst with no happy ending (not proofread!!).
They say love always asks for something in return.
Not at first, noâ but every bargain begins as a blessing.
Not when it is soft and sweet and blooming beneath summer skies. Not when it lives in stolen glances and trembling hands and promises whispered into the dark. Not when it settles quietly between two people and convinces them it will last forever.
In the beginning, love givesâ
âIt gives warmth. It gives purpose. It gives you another soul to orbit, another heartbeat to measure your own against.
It teaches you how to live.
But love is a hungry thing.
And hunger, if left unanswered, becomes ruin.
Feed it your time and it will ask for your devotion. Feed it your devotion and it will ask for your future. Feed it your future andâ one dayâ it will bare its teeth and ask what remains.
Some call that sacrifice.
Others call it grief.
But there is precious little difference between the two.
For when love loses the thing it was made to cherish, it does not die quietly. It claws. It bargains. It prays. It digs its bleeding hands into the earth and demands the impossible.
And sometimesâ sometimes the impossible answers.Â
They say death is the only bargain that cannot be undone. That once a soul has crossed the threshold, no prayer, no plea, no amount of weeping can call it back.
That is what the wise men say.
But the wise have rarely buried the person they loved most. They have rarely stood before a body still warm from yesterday and been expected to accept eternity. They have rarely watched the world continue turning when theirs has already ended.
Grief makes heretics of the faithful.
Monsters of the gentle.
And worseâ
Fools of us all.
And the terrible thing about love is that it teaches us to give freely. Our time. Our loyalty. Our futures. Our hearts.Â
And the terrible thing about gifts is that once they are givenâ
they no longer belong to you.
But it did not always begin with loss.
There had been a time before graves and gods. Before salt-stiffened shrouds and desperate prayers spoken to uncaring flames. A time when the world was simpler, lighter, stripped of the suffocating weight of war.Â
Or perhaps⊠it only seemed that way because he had still been alive.Â
Before grief hollowed you from the inside out, scraping away at your ribs until you were nothing but a cage of skin and memories, there had been laughter echoing through the cavernous, dragon-carved halls of Dragonstone. There had been endless summer afternoons spent wandering around sun-drenched courtyards where the sea breeze smelled of wild thyme and sweet grass and not iron and decay.Â
You remembered the simple grounding warmth of another hand finding yours in the dark, slipping between your fingers behind the dust-scented tapestries of the castle as though it naturally belonged there. As though parting were a physical impossibility.
There had been Jacaerys.
Not the solemn, burdened prince sung in tragic ballads. Not the flawless, rigid heir to a contested iron throne, nor the shattered waterlogged corpse carried home from the wreckage of the Gullet.
Just him.Â
Just⊠Jace.Â
He was a boy with perpetually wind-tangled brown curls and a crooked boyish smile that he only ever flashed when the court wasnât looking. A boy who laughed just a little too loudly when he was genuinely amused, his whole chest shaking with it, and who loved too fiercely. He was a boy who spoke of the future as though it were something certainâ as though that future was something waiting patiently just beyond the horizon.Â
And perhaps that was the cruelest part of allâ
The future had existed once.
Until it didnât anymore.Â
Jace had pulled you aside with an urgency that immediately set your heart racing, his hand closing around your wrist before you could disappear into the crowd. "Come with me," he had said.
No explanation, no greetingâ only that familiar grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And you followed anyway. You always did.Â
He led you away from the bustle of the castle, away from the servants and guards and watching eyes, until the noise of Dragonstone became little more than a distant murmur carried on the wind.
Only then did he stop. And only then did his smile begin to fade. Something in your chest tightened.
"What is it?" you asked.
For a moment, he said nothing. His gaze drifted toward the sea. Toward the horizon. Toward the waters that would one day take him from you.
"I have to leave," he said quietly. And just like that, the world changed. You stared at him.Â
"Leave?"
"The Triarchy has been sighted in the Gullet." His jaw tightened.Â
The words settled heavily between you. War. It was always war.
War had lingered over Dragonstone for so long that it had become as familiar as the sea breeze. Yet somehow, hearing it from Jace's own lips made it feel real in a way it never had before. You tried to smileâ tried to make light of it.Â
Jace must have seen something change in your expression, because his features softened immediately.
"Hey."
His hand found yours. Warm. Steady. Alive.
"I'll be back."
You laughed softly.
"That's what everyone says before they leave," you murmured, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of a sudden dark premonition. Your fingers dug into the rough wool of his jerkin, desperately needing to anchor him to the earth.
"And I mean it," he insisted, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.
"You cannot possibly know that," you whispered against the narrow space between your lips.Â
"I do know it."
A familiar stubbornness entered his voice, that sharp, unyielding edge that had always made him entirely impossible to argue with. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin just a fraction. "The Triarchy isn't taking me down."
You raised an eyebrow, a breathless, desperate attempt to bring back the easy cadence of your usual banter, to shield yourself from the terror creeping into your veins. "Oh?"
"No." His boyish grin returned, flashing bright and defiant against the bleak gray backdrop of the cliffs. He leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression brimming with that infuriating, beautiful life. "I am annoyingly difficult to kill."
Gods. You loved him.
You loved him so much that it frightened you sometimesâ a vast consuming ocean of devotion that threatened to drown you if you looked too closely into its depths. The realization settled quietly, heavily in your chest as you looked at him standing there beneath the brilliant afternoon sun. The wind caught in his dark curls, tossing them wildly across his brow.Â
His eyes were bright with an unshakeable determination, and his futureâ splendid, heavy, and grand seemed to stretch boundlessly before him.
You stepped closer, erasing the final inches of distance between you. The teasing smile slowly disappeared from his face, replaced by stillness.Â
For a brief moment, neither of you spoke. There were immense, fragile things hanging in the air between youâ confessions kept hidden in the dark, fears whispered only to the night sky, truths neither of you had ever quite found the courage to name aloud.
Slowly, deliberately, you lifted your hand. You placed your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his doublet.
Beneath your touch, his heart beat hard and fast. It was an erratic, chaotic rhythm, hammering violently against his ribs as though it could not quite decide whether to race forward into the coming storm or stop altogether under the weight of your gaze.
Jace inhaled sharply, his chest expanding beneath your hand, but neither of you looked away. The intensity in his dark eyes was paralyzing.
"My heart is yours," you whispered.
The words left your lips before you could second-guess them, before pride or fear could claw them back. It was simple. Honest. And utterly terrifying.
For a moment, the world seemed to be still entirely. The crashing of the tide against the black rocks below faded into a distant murmur. The wind died down. The sea, vast and indifferent, seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, his lips slightly parted, your words embedding themselves into the very fabric of his being.
He was about to reply backâ when one of the guards was hurrying toward you from across the courtyard. Jace cursed under his breath. And for a second, he remained where he wasâ looking at you. Your hand still resting against his chest. As though he wanted to say something. As though he had been on the verge of answering.
But duty won. As it always did. The sudden absence of his warmth felt colder than it should have.
"I'll find you when I return," he promised.
Not if.
When.
The certainty in his voice was almost enough to make you believe him.
Almost.
The sea had not been kind to Jacaerys Velaryon. He did not look like a prince. He looked like a shattered doll left to drown. The cruel iron arrows of the Triarchy had torn through his neck, his chest, and his throat. Bloated by the brine, his skin was the translucent color of curdled milk, marbled with dark blue veins. His beautiful dark curls were matted with seaweed and gray sand. Vermax was gone, a mountain of burning scales sinking into the crushing depth of the Gullet, and Jace had followed his dragon into the dark.
They bathed his corpse in sweet oils, trying to mask the heavy sweet stench of the sea, wrapped him in a magnificent shroud of black velvet, and began the preparations for the pyre. The lords spoke of duty. They spoke of a princeâs tragic noble end.
But you did not look at his royal shroud. You looked at his handsâ the small crescent scar on his thumb, the fingers that had traced your jawline under the cover of midnight when the world was still quiet.
No, the word formed in your chest, hot, violent, and choking. Not him. Not yet. I will not let the fire have him.
Stealing a princeâs corpse from under the nose of a grieving queenâ a grieving motherâ is a madness punishable by a horrific death, but loveâ love does not care for laws. It was easy enough to bribe a despairing, weeping silent sister with a handful of stolen gold; easy enough to drag his heavy, stiffening body from the crypts and into the dark belly of a salt-stained trading galley bound for the East before the pyre could be lit.
You hid him beneath coarse burlap and heavy barrels of salted fish. For weeks, you lay beside him in the damp, claustrophobic dark of the shipâs hold, your cheek pressed against his cold, unyielding velvet-wrapped chest, ignoring the slow and horrifying softening of his flesh.
You whispered to him through the long, rolling nights. You told him about the spring. You told him you would not let him go.
Volantis smelled of cloves, old sweat, and burning flesh.
The Black Walls towered over Volantis, dark against the evening sky. Beneath them stood the Temple of the Lord of Light, vast and red, its great fires burning day and night, casting long shadows across the crowded streets below.
You dragged Jaceâs body through the filthy back alleys, hiring desperate tight-lipped smugglers with the last of your familyâs jewels to carry the heavy wooden chest containing his decaying remains. By the time you breached the inner sanctum of the Temple, the smell of him was thick, a sweet, cloying, terrible rot that clung to your clothes and coated the back of your tongue.
A Red Priestess did not turn when you entered. She stood before a towering and roaring wall of flame, her crimson robes bleeding seamlessly into the firelight. Her hair was the color of dried oxidized blood, and her eyes, when she finally turned her head, were entirely devoid of human warmth.
"You bring a corpse to the hearth," she said, her voice like grinding stones over deep water. "The Lord of Light warms the living, child. He does not concern himself with flesh that has begun to rot."
"Bring him back," you choked out, falling hard onto your knees on the scorching stone floor. Your hands were blistered and bloody, your fingernails caked with dried sea salt and Jaceâs decaying skin. "I know your god can do it," you said. "I've heard the stories. The sailors speak of priests who breathe life into the dead. Please."
The priestess walked toward the wooden chest, stepping over your trembling, pathetic form. She lifted the heavy lid with a pale elegant hand, completely unbothered by the sudden, suffocating rush of the Gulletâs stench that filled the sacred chamber. She looked down at Jacaerysâ or looked at what remained of him. His skin had taken on the pale, swollen cast of the drowned. Dark curls clung damply to his brow. His lips hung slightly parted, as though caught in the middle of an unfinished breath.
She let out a soft, sharp soundâ a dismissive, cruel little laugh.
"There is nothing for him here, girl," she said softly, shutting the lid with a dull echoing thud. "He has gone where all men go."
"No!" You lunged forward, desperately grabbing the hem of her heavy crimson robes. "He is the heir to the Iron Throne. He cannot simply die. He has a purpose. A destiny."
"He is meat," she corrected coldly, pulling her robe from your frantic grip. "And he belongs to the worms. Go home. Weep for him there."
"I will give anything!" you screamed, your voice cracking, tears tracking clean lines through the soot and ash on your face. Your knees struck the stone hard enough to bruise. You scarcely felt it.
âAnything,â you repeated, your voice cracking. âTake my gold. Take my sight. Take my blood. Take my years. Take whatever your god demands, but pleaseâ give him back.â
The fire roared in the silence that followed. The priestess did not answer immediately. She simply watched. And you hated her for it. You hated the calmness in her face. Hated the stillness in her posture. Hated the way she looked at you as though she had seen this scene play out a hundred times before.Â
Perhaps she had.
Perhaps desperate lovers crossed the Narrow Sea every day, dragging coffins behind them and begging the gods to undo what could not be undone.
Slowly, the priestess turned her gaze toward the chest. Toward Jaceâ or toward what remained of him. The firelight flickered across her face.
âYou would give anything?â she asked at last.
âYes.â
No hesitationâ totally devoid of uncertainty. The answer came so quickly that it almost surprised you.
The priestessâ mouth twitched.
âYou speak as though sacrifice is simple.â
âI do not care about simple.â
âYou should.â
The priestess stepped closer. The hem of her crimson robes whispered across the stone floor. Somewhere beyond the temple walls, a bell began to ring. The sound echoed through the chamber. You barely heard it. Your eyes remained fixed on the priestess.
âIf there is a price,â you said quietly, âtell me.â The smile disappeared. The priestess regarded you for a long moment. Then she stepped forward.
Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off her skin.
Close enough that you could smell smoke clinging to her robes.
Without warning, she lifted a hand.
One pale finger pressed against the center of your chest. Directly over your heart. You hissed. The touch burned. The priestess tilted her head slightly.
Listening.
To your heartbeat.
To the frantic rhythm stumbling against your ribsâ to the life still coursing through your veins.
âHe has no pulse,â she murmured. Her eyes drifted toward the chest.
âNo warmth.â
The pressure of her finger increased.
âNo fire.â
You looked up. Firelight flickered across her face, reflected in her eyes until they seemed to burn from within. You swallowed.
The air suddenly felt too thin. Too hot. âIf he is to breathe againââ the priestess continued softly, ââthen he must borrow what is missing.â
The realization came before the words. Some instinct deep within you already knew. Your heart began to pound harder. The priestess felt it. Of course she did. A strange look crossed her face. Not pityâ but a look somewhere, something close to disappointment. Â
As though she already knew what your answer would be.
âHis heart is silentââ she said. The temple seemed to hold its breath. ââIf he is to live, you must give him yours.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fire roared behind her, filling the silence with its hunger. Shadows flickered across the walls of the temple, stretching and shrinking with every breath of the flames. It felt as though the very chamber was waiting to hear what you would choose.
Jace lay motionless inside the chest.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
The word echoed through your mind. You thought of Dragonstone. To sun-warmed stone beneath your feet. To afternoons spent wandering its halls with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. To Jaceâs laughter carried away by the sea wind. To the future you had built so carelessly togetherâso certain of its existence that neither of you had ever thought to question it.
And suddenly the choice did not feel like a choice at all.
âTake it.â
âSilly girl.â
The words should have angered youâ instead⊠they merely exhausted you.
Her eyes flickered toward the chest.
âYou think he will rise, gather you into his arms, and thank you for saving him.â
The corner of her mouth lifted. A sad smileâ a cruel one. Or perhaps both.Â
âYou have dragged a corpse across half the world because you cannot bear to let him go.â The flames reflected in her eyes. âAnd now you stand before me offering your heart as though the gods reward devotion.â
She shook her head.
âThe dead do not return unchanged.â But you did not care. You had crossed an ocean. You had slept beside a corpse. You had abandoned reason somewhere in the Narrow Sea.
Whatever warning she intended to give had come too late.
âTake it,â you said again.
And this time, your voice did not trembleâ there was nothing uncertain in your voice.Â
The priestess dragged you to the stone altar beside the chest. The ceremony was not grand. There were no beautiful chants, no comforting prayers. There was only a jagged obsidian blade, the roaring and suffocating heat of the fire, and a pain so agonizing it tore the air from your lungs before you could even scream.Â
You felt it. The tear. The terrible, visceral pulling of the meat inside your chest. Ribs cracking open like dry twigs under a boot. And then a sudden horrifying emptiness. A vast freezing void where your warmth used to be.Â
As your vision began to fade into a dull, featureless gray, you heard a sound from the wooden chest. A long, gasping, wet rattle. A horrific, choking intake of breath.
Jacaerys Velaryon lived.
But you did not. Not truly.
When you returned to Westeros, people rarely noticed you unless you wished them to. you kept to the edges of rooms and the backs of crowded halls, more shadow than woman.
The cold never bothered you anymore. Neither did the heat. At first, you thought it was grief.
Then one night, alone in your chambers, you pressed a hand to your chest. And found nothing waiting for you there. No heartbeat, no rhythmâ only stillness.Â
You sat awake until dawn with your hand over your ribs, listening to that terrible silence.
But you could hear it. If you stood close enough to him, you could hear it clearly.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was loud. It was steady. It was yours. Every time he laughed, every time he sighed, your stolen heart beat violently against his ribs, keeping his resurrected flesh warm.
You thought he would look for you when he woke. You thought your face would be the first thing he searched for. After allâ you had crossed an ocean for him. You had carried him through salt and rot and prayer. You had torn your own life apart to stitch his back together.
Surely⊠that had to mean something.
But when Jacaerys finally opened his eyes in Volantis, something in them felt wrong. Not absent, emptyâ it was simply⊠distant.Â
For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling as though listening to a sound only he could hear. When his gaze finally found yours, there was recognition there. Yet it brought little comfort. He knew your name, he knew who you were, snd yetâhe looked at you the way one looks upon a half-forgotten dream after wakingâ familiar enough to remember, yet somehow out of reach.
The warmth that had once come so easily to him seemed diminished. His smiles were rarer. His laughter quieter.
More often than not, you would catch him staring toward the horizon, his thoughts already leagues away. And though he thanked you for what you had done, though he spoke to you with kindness, there was always something standing between youâ a distance neither of you could name.
As if some part of Jace had remained behind in the dark waters of the Gullet, and what returned to you was only what death had chosen to spare.
And then came the North.
By then, the war was over. Rhaenyra Targaryen sat the Iron Throne at last. Lord Cregan Stark rode south with his banners. Yet it was neither the soldiers nor the lord himself that altered the course of your life.
It was the woman who came with them.
You watched from the dark corners of the Great Hall as Jace sat by the roaring fire. You watched him look at her. She was wild, fierce, and smelled of pine, blood, and winter frost. She did not know the boy he used to be, she only knew the resurrected prince, the myth made flesh.Â
You stood behind a heavy stone pillar, your hand pressed hard against your flat and silent chest, as Jace laughed at something she whispered.
And inside him, your heart leaped.
You felt it. Because it was your heart, you felt the sudden, violent rush of warmth that flooded his veinsâ you felt the erratic, fluttering skip of the pulse when her fingers brushed his armâ you felt the deep, heavy, suffocating thud of devotion settling into his bones.
He was falling in love with her.
He leaned in, his eyes brightâ the very eyes you had bought for him with your own eternal damnationâ and pressed his lips to hers.
Across the room, a phantom ache bloomed in your empty chest. AÂ hollow agony that tore through your non-existent soul. You wanted to scream, you wanted to tear your skin open, but you had no breath to catch, no tears to shed.
 You could only watchâ paralyzed, as the man you destroyed yourself to save gave his smiles, his promises, and his future to another woman.
He loved her completely. He loved her fiercely.
And the worst, most terrifying part of it allâ the cruel truth whispered by the red priestess in the smoky darkâ was that you knew exactly how much he loved her.
Because the very heart beating for her... was yours.
synopsis. somewhere in a web of crimson thread, jacaerys velaryon finds himself unexpectedly stuck.
pairing. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
word count. 2,987
authors note. fluff bc im getting depressed w all the sad fics here. AND MY FIRST EVER JACE FIC HELLO??? give this sum love!! leave a comment or reblog mwamwa <3
The Feast Hall of the keep was a deafening roar of rustic merriment, entirely too loud for a realm on the precipice of a succession crisis.
Jace sat stiffly at the high table, his fingers curled so tightly around the silver stem of his wine goblet that his knuckles were white. He watched the local lords and smallfolk mingle, laughing and drinking as if the greens weren't currently circling King's Landing like vultures. His mother had brought him here to secure a pledge from a house that didn't traditionally care for dragons, hoping their massive influence would deter a war entirely.
And yet, instead of a private solar and a contract, they were given a feast.
"They are wasting time," Jace muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the lord of the house, who was currently laughing at a jest across the room. "We should be negotiating the terms of the alliance, not nursing ale. Every hour we sit here is an hour Aegon uses to solidify his claim."
Rhaenyra didn't so much as glance his way. She lifted her goblet to her lips, letting him stew for a moment before speaking.
"Have some courtesy, Jace," she said quietly. "You may be king one day, but that means learning how to win people over. These people are opening their home to us. The least you can do is look pleased to be here."
Jace's jaw tightened. Beside him, Rhaenyra took note immediately. She lifted her wine cup to her lips, though the faint look she sent him over the rim was knowing enough.
Jace glanced sideways at his mother.
"I have reason to," Jace replied.
"You always have reason to."
He looked away, his gaze settling on the lord seated halfway across the hall. The man had spent most of the evening laughing with his bannermen rather than discussing the alliance they had traveled all this way to secure.
"We've been here for hours," Jace said quietly. "Every moment spent feasting is a moment wasted." Rhaenyra hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"So does everyone in this hall," she said after a moment. "Yet they still seem capable of enjoying themselves."
Jace followed her gaze across the room. A group of young knights were arguing over some game near the hearth. A cluster of ladies sat together, smiling behind raised cups. Even the older men looked relaxed.
He remained unimpressed. At that, Rhaenyra nudged his arm lightly with her own.
"Try smiling."
Jace stared at her.
"Mother."
"It will not kill you."
A breath escaped through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"I doubt a smile is what wins alliances."
"No," a voice said from nearby. "But it certainly helps."
Jace blinked, shifting his gaze downward. You were standing before the high table, a cup of spiced cider in one hand and a lazy, knowing grin on your face. Months earlier, at a banquet in King's Landing, the two of you had found yourselves trapped in the same corner of the hall while half the court chased after more interesting company. The conversation had been brief, but memorable. Jace had spent most of it attempting to be polite, and you had spent most of it laughing at him.
"And judging by the look on your face, Prince Jacaerys," you continued, "you could use all the help you can get."Â
A smile tugged at Rhaenyra's mouth. And Jaceâ unfortunately, felt no such inclination.
"I believe you owe me a dance," you said, tilting your head.
Jaceâs formal mask slipped perfectly into place, his expression hardening. "No, I don't."
âOh, you absolutely do,â you countered, stepping closer to the dais, entirely unbothered by his frosty stare. âYou promised it in the Red Keep, just before Prince Aegon caused enough of a scene to distract the entire court.â
Jaceâs brow furrowed, his shoulders squaring defensively. âI did not.â
âYou didââ
ââThen I would remember.â
You hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow, deliberate sip of your cider while keeping your eyes locked onto his.
âOh, of course you donât remember,â you said, your smile widening with wicked delight. âYou flew here on dragonback, didn't you? The wind must have blown the memory straight out of your head.â
A few local lords nearby snorted into their ale, entirely unawed by the royal guest. Jace's jaw tightened, a faint flush of irritation creeping up his neck.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his voice to a stern register. âI am here on official crown business, my lady. I hardly think a dance is appropriate given the gravity of the circumstances.â
âThere really is no cure for princely arrogance, is there?â you mused, turning your head slightly to appeal to the surrounding crowd. âA man makes one promise and immediately hides behind a crown.â
You pointed at him triumphantly, your grin turning entirely smug. âSee? You're asking for the time because you've forgotten it already.â
For a brief moment, Jace simply stared at you, his mouth slightly open as he processed the trap he had just walked into. Months ago in King's Landing, he had thought you mildly amusing. Now, he was beginning to suspect that there had been a grave miscalculation. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone had gone suspiciously quiet beside him. You noticed immediately, your eyes darting over his shoulder. âYour mother remembers.â
Jace turned sharply toward his mother.
To his absolute horror, she looked distinctly entertained. She wasn't even trying to hide it, her violet eyes dancing with mirth as she raised her chalice.
âI do recall a conversation,â Rhaenyra said smoothly into her wine.
âMother,â Jace hissed, his ears burning.
âWhat?â she asked, looking at him with an innocence that fooled absolutely no one at the table. âYou should be grateful, Jace. It is not often someone honors your promises better than you do. Go on.â A smirk came up to the side of his lipsâ âdon't keep the host waiting.â
"Official business can wait until the morning," you said, offering a fluid, mocking little bow as you reached out and confidently took his hand. Jace shot you a look of utter, incredulous disbelief at the sheer audacity of the gesture. The godsâ he decided right then and there, were testing him today. You offered him one of your most charming, shameless smiles before he could even think to pull away.
"Besidesâ" you added smoothly, "my father refuses to talk politics on an empty stomachââ you then glanced and nodded towards the parque, â--or an empty dance floor.â You then lowered your voice as though sharing a secret, âit's bad luck."
Jace looked unconvinced but before he could find a polite way to decline again, you stepped back, letting your fingers slide from his as you turned your attention to your sister. She stood a few paces away, holding a massive wooden spool wound tight with vibrant, crimson yarn.
"My lords, ladies, and honored guests!" your sister called out, her voice easily cutting through the din of the hall. A few heads turned. Then a few more. Before long, conversations began to taper off as the musicians eased into a much slower tune. âBefore the night gets away from us,â she continued, raising the large spool of crimson wool in her hands, âit is time for the Weaverâs Dance.âÂ
A cheer went up from several of the local guests. Others laughed and began pushing back their benches, already preparing to join. You glanced toward the high table. The royal party had caught on immediately. Some looked curious. Others exchanged quiet questions among themselves. But only one person remained distinctly unimpressed.
Your gaze settled on Prince Jacaerys. You had to bite back a smile. There was something almost impressive about his dedication to being miserable. Unfortunately for him, you had no intention of letting him spend the evening glowering from the high table.
"A regional tradition," you explained, nodding toward your sister and the enormous spool of crimson wool in her hands. By now, servants and guests alike were helping unwind the thread, passing lengths of it between tables as dancers began to gather in the center of the hall.
"The dancers take the floor while everyone else weaves the string through the crowd." You gestured toward a group of children already running off with an armful of wool. "Usually with considerably more enthusiasm than skill."
Jace's gaze followed the growing web of crimson stretching across the hall.
"And the purpose of this is?" Jace asked, watching as a servant tossed a length of red wool across the room.
You followed his gaze and shrugged. "Depends on who you ask."
Your eyes drifted toward an elderly woman seated near the hearth. She had already wrapped a strand of the wool around her wrist and was murmuring something under her breath as though the thread itself might be listening. "The old women will tell you the thread has a mind of its own," you said. "That it catches people whose paths were always meant to cross."
Jace glanced at the woman, then back at you. "Convenient," Jace said dryly.
"Very." You smiled.
Across the hall, another strand was thrown overhead, drawing a cheer from a group of children who immediately ducked beneath it. "The younger generation mostly uses it as an excuse to trip their cousins and embarrass their friends."
As if on cue, a boy of about ten promptly tangled his sister's feet in a loop of wool. The girl shoved him. That earned a snort from Luke.Â
"There it is." You pointed triumphantly. "Exhibit A."
Jace shook his head and ran his tongue across his lips before folding his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly unconvinced despite the flicker of interest in his eyes. "You have a peculiar tradition."
"You've not seen the worst of it yet." And then in a cueâ a musician narrowly avoided being clotheslined by a poorly aimed strand, earning another round of laughter from the crowd.
"But every now and then," you continued, turning back to him, "someone ends up tangled with a complete stranger, and by the end of the year they're married."
"I'm sure the maesters would be fascinated by that."
"Oh, unquestionably." You folded your hands behind your back, before statingâ "personally, I think it's nonsense."
Jace raised a brow. "But?"
You offered him a look of pure, exaggerated innocenceâ the kind that fooled absolutely no one, least of all a prince. But the playful tilt of your chin did something unexpected. And foor the first time all evening, Jaceâs guarded gaze slipped. His eyes flickered downward, catching the curve of your lips for a single, heavy heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes.
Not so prince-like, you noted with a quiet surge of triumph. Beneath all that heavy velvet and duty, the boy could be unnerved.
"But my grandmother would haunt me from beyond the grave if I said so too loudly." Around you, the hall continued to buzz with anticipation as more strands of red thread crisscrossed the room, turning the space into a loose web of crimson lines.
"Either way," you said, your voice dropping to a smooth whisper as you stepped just an inch closer to the dais, "it's a tradition. And seeing as you're a guest in our hall, it would be terribly rude not to participate. Surely the future king of Westeros isn't afraid of a little local superstition?"
Jaceâs eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge, his jaw tightening as he looked down at your outstretched hand. He was a creature of duty, and you were weaponizing hospitality against him with terrifying efficiency.
"I am afraid of nothing, my lady," he muttered, though his tone lacked its previous icy armor.
"Prove it then," you teased.
The dance began. It wasn't the rigid, courtly steps of King's Landing, but something more fluid and alive. As you and Jace moved, circling each other, the music swelled, the heavy thrum of the drums echoing off the stone walls. At first, the prince was predictably stiff, his posture impeccably straight as if he were still standing at attention. "You look as though you're marching to an execution, not a dance," you said, stepping closer as the rhythm shifted. "Relax your shoulders, My Prince. I don't bite unless requested."
Jaceâs eyebrows shot up, a sudden flush creeping up his neck, though his expression remained stubbornly stern. "I have a lot on my mind. My mother needs this alliance. I thought your house understood the urgency, yet you treat this like a maiden's day festival."
"We do understand," you said softly, your eyes holding his as you took a step backward, drawing him deeper into the lively pattern of the dance. As the tempo quickened, he was forced to adapt, his hand on your waist tightening significantly to keep up with the pace of the local youth. "But my father believes that you cannot truly know a man's character in a dark room over parchment. He wanted to see how the future king comports himself among the people he wishes to rule. If you are cold, they will be cold."
Jace paused mid-step, a sudden realization dawning on him. He looked around the room over your shoulder, noticing for the first time that the lord of the houseâ your fatherâ wasn't drinking blindlyâ he was watching Jace. Watching how he treated you, how he carried himself.
"I see," Jace murmured, a bit of the tension finally leaving his shoulders, though his dark eyes narrowed playfully down at you. "A test, then. And you're the distraction?"
"I prefer the term 'hostess'," you smirked.
From the galleries above and the sidelines below, the onlookers began to toss the long, unbroken strands of vibrant red wool across the floor. The crimson lines arched beautifully through the air like a localized storm, draping softly over shoulders, catching on heavy velvet sleeves, and tangling around the swirling skirts and heavy boots of the dancers. With every passing second, the room was being woven together into a chaotic, beautiful web of bright red thread.
Jace ducked his head slightly as a stray strand brushed over his dark curls, his eyes darting around the room in a mix of wariness and pure fascination. He looked less like a brooding prince now and more like a man caught in a spell, entirely surrounded by the warmth of your hallâ and the impossible-to-ignore pull of his partner.
Suddenly, a particularly long, vibrant arc of red string was thrown from the gallery above, cutting through the warm haze of the hall like a streak of wildfire. It dropped directly into the narrow space between the two of you just as the music took a sharp, dramatic turn.
As Jace expertly spun you around to follow the changing beat, the heavy wool caught. With a sudden snap, the coarse yarn hooked itself tightly onto the sharp, ornamental silver buckle of his belt. At the exact same moment, the momentum of your spin caused the loose tail of the thread to whip around your arm, wrapping itself three times perfectly around your wrist.
The sudden, rigid tension snapped the line completely taut, halting your movements mid-stride. The delicate friction of the wool dug slightly into your skin, effectively locking your hand to his hip.
You stopped in your tracks. Slowing down your breathing, you looked down at your bound wrist, then tracked the straight crimson line directly to his waist. A slow, wicked smirk spread across your face.
Jace frowned, completely oblivious to the tradition's rules, and reached down with his free hand to unhook it. "Let me justâ"
Before his fingers could even touch the wool, you gave your wrist a sudden, sharp yank.
The pull caught Jace entirely off guard. Stumbling forward, the sheer force of the tug dragged him a full step closer, his chest nearly colliding with yours. To keep his balance, his hand automatically clamped down firmly on your waist, his eyes widening in genuine shock as he found himself looking straight down into your amused face, mere inches away.
The music swelled perfectly with the moment, and around you, a few locals cheered and pointed at the tight, crimson line binding the stubborn prince's hips directly to your hand.
"Where are you going, Prince Jacaerys?" you whispered, your voice a low, teasing purr as you deliberately held the string taut between you, refusing to give him an inch of breathing room. "The game isn't over yet."
Jaceâs breath hitched, his hand still anchored heavily to your hip, the warmth of his palm seeping through your clothes. He looked at your smirk, then down at the red string, his jaw tightening as he fought a losing battle against a sudden, involuntary smile of his own.
"You are incredibly frustrating," he muttered, his voice low, though he didn't make a single move to let go of your waist.
"And you're incredibly stiff," you whispered, leaning in just close enough to ensure he couldn't look awayâ "but your heart is betraying you, My Prince."
As you spoke, you deliberately pressed your bound hand flat against the center of his chest. The red stringâ wrapped tight around your wrist and anchored to his belt, pulled taut between you, dragging your bodies even closer. Beneath your palm, through the heavy layers of his velvet doublet, you could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his pulse against his ribsâ rapid, fierce, and utterly uncoordinated with the rhythm of the drums around you.
At the touch, the air caught entirely in his throat. For all his rigid royal posture and cold sense of duty, his body was completely giving him awayâ his gaze dropped, helpless, tracking the slight parting of your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a sudden dark intensity.
"And I certainly think you're exactly where you want to be."
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like fliesâleaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 16,067
chapter 1 â chapter 2 â
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authors note. im sorry this took so long to write pls dont hate me đ just a little note: i specifically wrote this fic to not follow the canon timeline/events, so yes, it is wildly unrealistic that i managed to cram half the targaryen family dying and a blackfyre rebellion into roughly a year. however, i wanted king aerion, therefore the timeline had to suffer. also wrote my first ever smut for this chapter. please be kind to me. i did not proofread a single word of it bc im shy. if there are mistakes, no there arenât. i canât see them. i have chosen peace :P likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. MDNI (18+) !!! violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
Exile, you discovered, was a surprisingly festive occasion.
The harbor bustled from sunrise. Sailors shouted over one another, ropes creaked against wooden masts, and gulls circled overhead with all the dignity of drunken courtiers. The smell of salt, fish, tar, and seaweed clung stubbornly to the air, settling over the docks like a damp blanket. Ships rocked lazily against their moorings while merchants complained, sailors cursed, and somewhere nearby a man was loudly losing an argument with a crate.
A crowd had gathered along the waterfront.
Not because exile was particularly rare.
But because Aerion Targaryen being exiled was apparently an entertainment.
Prince Maekar stood at the front of the gathering, grim and immovable as a carved monument. He looked exactly like a man who had spent the last several weeks regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Servants darted through the crowd carrying trunks and supplies while several ladies pretended not to stare.
They all stared anyway.
You stood among them, naturally, because as Aerion's wife, failing to attend his departure would have raised questions. Questions were dangerous. Questions led to conversations. Conversations led to explanations. And explaining why your husband's exile felt suspiciously similar to receiving a gift from the gods seemed unwise.
So you attended. You stood dutifully among the gathered nobles and courtiers and tried very hard to look devastated. You even practiced beforehandâ the result was a strange expression that made you look either mildly constipated or recently widowed.
And unfortunately for you, your lips kept attempting to smile.
Across the dock, Aerion was arguing with three different people simultaneously while sailors loaded his belongings onto the waiting vessel. It was genuinely impressive, to say the least.
One sailor was attempting to explain that no, his hunting hounds could not occupy the captain's quarters. Another was trying to convince him that six barrels of wine counted as excessive provisions for a journey that would last less than two weeks.
A third appeared to be defending himself against accusations that he had somehow personally arranged the weather.
All three were losing.
"You are transporting a prince," Aerion informed them loudly. "Hhave some ambition."
"The cabin physically cannot fit twelve dogs, my prince."
"They are sensitive animals."
"They bite people."
"They are discerning."
The sailor looked ready to throw himself into the sea.
Nearby, one of Aerion's men was attempting to load a trunk large enough to conceal a horse.
You narrowed your eyes.
A trunk.
The sight of it immediately filled you with unpleasant memories. You decided you hated trunks.
Aerion continued talkingâ or complaining.
At this point the distinction hardly mattered.
His silver hair caught the morning light as he paced the dock, gesturing dramatically enough that several sailors had begun avoiding eye contact altogether.
The exile had been announced days ago and the kingdom had known peace ever since.
Aerion, however, had spent those same days informing anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen that the punishment was unjust, outrageous, politically foolish, personally insulting, and possibly treasonous.
The fact that he had threatened multiple people before being exiled seemed, in his opinion, entirely irrelevant. According to Aerion, the punishment was excessive, unfair, politically foolish, and a personal attack orchestrated by people who lacked both imagination and gratitude. Most disagreed. People said he deserved itâsome quietly, others not so quietly.
His recklessness, his temper, and his endless appetite for trouble had finally caught up with him. More importantly, his actions had contributed to the death of Prince Baelor, and that was not something even a prince could simply laugh away. The court had spent weeks whispering about it in corridors and behind closed doors, and for once those whispers had reached the king. Exile, many thought, was a mercy. Aerion, naturally, disagreed.
Your gaze drifted toward the ship.
Lys.
Of all places, they had chosen Lys.
You felt a flicker of disappointment.
Exile was supposed to be miserable. Remote. Unpleasant. The sort of place people were sent to suffer and reflect upon their mistakes.
Lys was none of those things.
Lys was warm. Beautiful. Rich. Full of gardens, fountains, music, and enough pleasure houses to keep Aerion occupied until the end of time. Frankly, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward.
You had spent half your childhood trying to convince your family to leave Lys and travel somewhere exciting. Aerion had indirectly killed a princeâno, the prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, and somehow been granted a seaside holiday.
It was deeply irritating.
Still, at least he would be several hundred leagues away.
There was comfort in distance.
Not enough comfort, perhaps, but enough that you found yourself hoping the ship sailed very, very slowly.
And as Aerion boarded the ship, you could only hope he never returned.
Not in the dramatic sense. You did not wish for storms. Storms were unpredictable and had a habit of affecting innocent people. Nor did you wish for pirates. Pirates tended to be enthusiastic about everyone elseâs problems. Shipwrecks seemed messy. Assassinations seemed excessive.
No.
You simply hoped he stayed there.
Forever.
Lys was lovely. Lys was warm. Lys was beautiful. Lys was full of vineyards, musicians, fountains, silk, and enough distractions to occupy Aerion until the end of time. Surely, somewhere within that city, there existed a problem dramatic enough to capture his attention permanently.
Perhaps he would fall hopelessly in love with a Lysene courtesan. Noâ you scoffed, Aerion out of all people wasnât capable of love.
Perhaps he would offend the wrong magister and spend years arguing his way out of prison.
Perhaps he would become obsessed with some absurd Essosi hobby and refuse to leave.
Perhaps he would simply forget Westeros existed.
You were not particularly concerned with the details.
The important thing was that he remained several hundred leagues away from you.
The ship slowly drifted from the harbor. You watched it pull farther and farther from shore, the sails swelling in the sea breeze as sailors moved across the deck like tiny figures against the morning sky.
Aerion stood near the stern as the ship drifted farther from the harbor, one hand braced against the railing while he argued with someone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Even from this distance, it was obvious.
The other man looked increasingly exhausted.
Aerion pointed toward something in the distance. The sailor pointed elsewhere. Aerion threw both hands into the air in outrage.
Remarkable.
The man could start a dispute in an empty room and somehow emerge convinced he was the victim.
A laugh almost escaped you.
Instead, you lifted a hand to your face. Not to wave. Merely to shield your eyes from the sun. At least that was what you told yourself.
The ship continued onward.
The sounds of the harbor slowly swallowed the last traces of it. The shouting sailors became indistinct. The creaking wood disappeared beneath the cries of gulls overhead. The red-and-black Targaryen banners that had snapped proudly in the wind began shrinking into little more than splashes of color against the sea.
You watched longer than you intended.
Perhaps to ensure it was truly leaving.
Perhaps because after everything, it felt strange seeing him go.
For all his faultsâand there were enough to fill several books, Aerion had occupied every corner of your life since your arrival in Westeros. He had been an irritation, a humiliation, a disappointment, and occasionally a genuine threat to your continued existence.
And now he was becoming smaller by the second. The ship diminished into a dark shape upon the water.
Then a speck.
Then little more than a pale shadow against the horizon. You kept staring even after it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the sea itself.
Finally, being a kind, generous, and forgiving woman, you offered a few final wishes for your husband.
May his wine always be slightly sour.
May his boots leak whenever it rains.
May every chair he sits upon wobble just enough to be irritating but never enough to be fixed.
May every meal arrive cold.
May every horse dislike him on sight.
May every woman find him exhausting.
May every pillow be warm on both sides.
May every bath be slightly too hot or slightly too cold.
May his sleeves catch on door handles.
May he forever lose one glove and never the matching one.
May-
Well.
The sentiment was there.
You lowered your hand. The ship vanished completely. Nothing remained but the sea.
For a moment, you simply stood there, letting the wind pull at your sleeves. The harbor bustled around you. People resumed their conversations. Sailors returned to work. The world continued as though nothing remarkable had happened.
Perhaps nothing had.
Yet the absence settled over you immediately. Not grief. Certainly not grief. But something that felt suspiciously close to relief.
By the time the ship vanished entirely from sight, you felt lighter than you had in months.
Perhaps years.
The following weeks passed pleasantly.
Then months.
The palace settled into a quieter rhythm without him. His absence left behind an unexpected peace, like a storm finally moving beyond the horizon. Meals became calmer. Servants no longer looked constantly terrified. Nobody threw goblets at walls.
You spent your mornings in the library. Your afternoons overseeing your school. Your evenings reading beside candlelight without wondering whether Aerion was currently setting something, or someone on fire.
Life, for the first time since your arrival in Westeros, felt manageable.
Letters arrived occasionally from Lys. At first, you could not understand why. The very existence of them seemed absurd.
Aerion did not like you. You did not like Aerion.
This was a fact both of you had established repeatedly and with remarkable consistency.
And yet the letters came.
Every few weeks a servant would appear carrying another sealed parchment bearing Aerionâs name. Sometimes the seal was broken. Sometimes wine stained the corner. Once there appeared to be scorch marks.
You read the first few, mostly out of curiosity. The first was three pages dedicated entirely to an argument he had started with a ship captain. Aerion maintained the man had insulted him.
The second letter involved a Lysene magistrate. The third somehow involved the same magistrate, a horse, and a public fountain.
You never learned exactly how because the writing tended to wander. Aerion would begin discussing one subject before veering abruptly into another. Half his letters were complaints. The other half were descriptions of people who had apparently disappointed him.
The city disappointed him.
The food disappointed him.
The magistrates disappointed him.
The weather disappointed him.
One memorable letter was devoted entirely to explaining why a particular tavern owner deserved imprisonment for serving wine that Aerion described as âan insult to grapes.â
Not once did he ask how you were.
Not once did he mention missing home.
Not once did he mention missing you.
You found this reassuring.
After several months you stopped reading them altogether.
There hardly seemed a point.
Instead, the letters accumulated unopened upon a table in your chambers until eventually even that became tiresome. You instructed a servant to place them elsewhere. You never asked where.
Curiously, the letters continued arriving for some time after that. As though Aerion had convinced himself you were reading them.
Or perhaps he simply enjoyed complaining and required an audience, even an unwilling one.
Then, one day, they stopped. No letter arrived that week. Nor the week after. A month passed. Then another.
You found yourself noticing the absence immediately.
Not because you missed them. Gods, no. Quite the opposite, actually. The silence felt like relief. A deep, unexpected relief.
Perhaps he had finally forgotten about this place. Perhaps he had become distracted by Lys. That seemed likely.
Lys excelled at distracting men.
Perhaps he had discovered some new amusement. Some new scandal. Some new woman patient enough to tolerate him. Perhaps, at long last, he had decided to remain there permanently.
The possibility settled warmly in your chest.
And as the months continued to pass without a single letter from across the Narrow Sea, you allowed yourself to hope. Just a little.
Perhaps Lys had finally decided to keep him.
The months continued to pass.
Seasons changed.
Your school grew.
The memory of your husband slowly became less of a daily irritation and more of a distant nuisance, like an old scar that only hurt when touched.
And so, almost peacefully, an entire year slipped by.
Unfortunately, Aerion Targaryen did not.
One year later, standing upon that very same harbor beneath a pale morning sky, you found yourself staring across the sea at a familiar vessel cutting through the water.
For a moment, you merely watched it. Then your stomach sank.
The ship drew closer.
Closer. And closer.
Until the black-and-red banners became visible against the wind.
Around you, servants began moving with excitement. Someone announced the princeâs return. A knight laughed (one of Aerionâs so-called friends perhaps). Another called for preparations.
You simply stood there in silence.
The gods, it seemed, had received every one of your prayers.
And ignored them completely.
ONE YEAR AGO
You settled quickly into life without Aerion. Perhaps too quickly.
The moment the ship carrying your husband into his well-deserved exile vanished beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, a suffocating weight had lifted from your chest. In his absence, you carved out a quiet, deliberate existence. The charity school you championed became your sanctuary, occupying the vast majority of your attention. You spent your mornings matching names to eager young faces, listening to the scratched scratching of quills on cheap slate, and finding a profound, grounding purpose in the simple act of teaching.
And the library occupied whatever remained of your waking hours. There, hidden away in a sunlit corner where dust motes danced in the quiet air, you lost yourself in histories of the First Men, treatises on old medicine, and maps of lands you would likely never see. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into peaceful, seamless months.
It was a serene, predictable routine, so beautifully unhurried that you occasionally forgot you were technically married to a monster exiled across the sea. You were a wife in name only, and you thanked the Seven for that mercy every single night.
Then King Daeron ruined everything.
Wellâ not intentionally.
Probably.
The King, after all, was known for his gentle disposition, but a monarchâs kindness could be just as disruptive as a tyrantâs whim. A royal summons arrived one crisp autumn morning, delivered by a solemn page and bearing the heavy, intimidating weight of the Kingâs personal crimson wax seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal elegant, sloping script informing you that His Grace believed it would be highly beneficial if you took up residence at the Red Keep for the foreseeable future.
The reasoning laid out by the crown, apparently, was loneliness. King Daeron, in his infinite, misplaced paternal worry, believed that a young woman left to her own devices in a quiet estate must be rotting away from isolation.
You stared at the letter, the ink blurring slightly before your incredulous eyes.
Then you looked up at Meriel, who was sorting through a basket of fresh linens.
Then you looked back down at the letter.
âI am not lonely,â you stated flatly, as if stating it to the empty air would somehow manifest the truth across the small palace and to the Red Keep.
Meriel stopped her folding and glanced at the overwhelming piles of leather-bound books, loose scrolls, and heavily annotated ledgers completely surrounding your chair. Her expression remained utterly deadpan.
âYou spend most of your days speaking to parchment,â she observed dryly.
âI enjoy parchment,â you shot back, defensively tapping the edge of a heavy historical tome.
âBe that as it may, His Grace believes female companionship would be beneficial for you,â Meriel countered, a faint, teasing smirk threatening to break her composure. âHe thinks you need the laughter of noble ladies, not the scent of old glue and dusty books.â
You looked utterly horrified, the very concept of being dragged into the gossiping web of the courtly maidens sending a cold shiver down your spine.
Unfortunately, kings were remarkably difficult people to argue with.
Especially when they were correct about being king.
And so, several grueling weeks later, you found your peaceful isolation shattered. You found yourself riding through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, returning to the very sprawling, blood-stone castle where your disastrous marriage had begun.
The familiar, looming towers rose aggressively above the churning waves of Blackwater Bay, looking exactly as you remembered them.
Unfortunately.
The jagged silhouette of the Red Keep cut into the sky like an open wound. You had hoped never to see some of these corridors again, specifically the ones leading to Aerionâs old quarters, which still seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of his cruel, manic laughter.
The court, meanwhile, welcomed you enthusiastically.
Far too enthusiastically.
In a palace where the highborn starved for any scrap of novelty, a princeâs absent, abandoned wife qualified as premium entertainment. You were like a living curiosity: the girl who had survived the cruel prince and had now been summoned back by the Kingâs own hand.
The ladies of the court descended upon you almost immediately, like a flock of colorful, preening birds of prey trapped in a cage of silk and velvet. They cornered you in the gardens, crowded around your table at morning break-fast, and shadowed your steps through the lower galleries.
They discussed gowns down to the exact placement of expensive laces. They argued over jewels, measuring the worth of a house by the clarity of a diamond.
They debated marriage as if it were a game of cyvasse, plotting which second sons could be bartered off. They tore down other ladies with sharp, syrupy smiles.
They whispered endlessly about who was sleeping with whom.
They speculated wildly on who wished to sleep with whom.
And, most exhausting of all, they giggled over who claimed not to be sleeping with whom, despite very obviously sleeping with whom.
You hated every single, agonizing moment of it. Your face grew stiff from forcing polite, empty smiles. You missed the smell of your books. You missed the earnest, chaotic energy of your school. You missed the absolute, unblemished luxury of silence. Most of all, you missed the simple dignity of being left entirely alone.
Fortunately, the gods occasionally offered small compensations for human suffering.
In this case, your salvation came in the form of Princess Daena.
The youngest child and only daughter of King Daeron. Daena was a whirlwind of a girl.
She was only a few years older than you, though one would never know it from the way she carried herself. Where most women at court acquired a degree of restraint with age, Daena seemed to have actively rejected the concept. She possessed an astonishing, almost magnificent combination of supreme confidence and complete, unadulterated foolishness.
It was the sort of foolishness that could only flourish in someone who had spent her entire life being adored.
Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of the kingâs children, born long after her brothers. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter in a family full of princes. Or perhaps everyone around her had simply surrendered years ago and decided it was easier to indulge her than correct her.
She had been married once. A lord from a respectable house, if your memory served correctly. You never quite remembered which one because Daena never spoke of him with much enthusiasm.
The marriage had not lasted long though.
Her husband died during the Blackfyre Rebellion, leaving her widowed while still very young. Most women would have been expected to remain with their husbandâs family or remarry eventually.
Daena simply returned to the Red Keep. And never left. No one seemed particularly inclined to force the issue. Not when she was the kingâs only daughter. And not when she appeared perfectly content exactly where she was.
Years later, she still occupied her apartments in the castle as though she had merely stepped out for a brief visit and forgotten to go back.
She spoke constantly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush that often seemed to outrun her thoughts. Conversations with her rarely followed a sensible path. One moment she would be sharing some scandal she had overheard at court, the next she would interrupt herself to wonder aloud whether horses had favorite colors. By the end of the conversation, neither of you could remember how it had started.
She approached every mundane aspect of life with the fiery determination of a seasoned warrior, combined with the fragile intelligence of a deeply distracted goose.
Within three days of your arrival, despite her complete lack of sense, she had become your favorite person at court. Not because she was particularly clever.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
But she was thoroughly, wonderfully entertaining. She was a breath of fresh air in a room full of perfumed suffocations. And unlike most of the venomous ladies at court, Daena possessed absolutely no talent whatsoever for subtle cruelty. She didn't know how to whisper a compliment that doubled as an insult; if she disliked something, she simply stated it with the bluntness of a warhammer.
âYou read too much,â she informed you one bright afternoon, peering over the top of your thick tome while swinging her legs off the stone bench in the godswood.
âYou read too little,â you replied without looking up, turning a crisp page.
âBooks make me sleepy,â she huffed, crossing her arms. âAll those tiny black letters look like ants crawling across the paper. It gives me a headache.â
âBooks give you knowledge, Daena. For instance, they might teach you what animals eat. You once attempted to feed a lemon tart to a royal peacock.â
Daena sniffed defensively, tilting her chin up. âIt looked hungry.â
âIt tried to bite your fingers off.â
âYes. A thoroughly rude animal,â she grumbled, entirely unrepentant. âNo manners at all. Next time, I shall bring a stick instead of a pastry.â
The months passed pleasantly enough after that, the sharp edges of the Red Keep softened by Daenaâs chaotic companionship.
Until the sickness arrived.
At first, it was little more than a collection of distant whispers. A sudden, shivering fever in the rotting alleys of Flea Bottom. A hacking, wet cough among the kitchen servants.
A handful of isolated deaths among the smallfolk that nobody in the upper keeps considered particularly alarming. People died in the slums every day, it was the tax of poverty.
Then, the whispers grew into a deafening roar.
The fevers spread like wildfire through dry brush, leaping over the city walls and defying the heavy oak doors of the wealthy. Entire noble households fell ill within a span of days, masters and servants dying in the same sheets.
The city began to change, stripping away its vibrant, chaotic skin. Doors remained barred and locked from the inside. The bustling markets emptied, leaving rotting produce and abandoned carts in the squares.
The ominous, rhythmic tolling of funeral bells rang far more frequently than the bells of the church septs.
People stopped gathering in crowds, looking at their own neighbors with raw suspicion. Fear settled over Kingâs Landing like a suffocating, physical shadow, choking the life out of the capital.
The Great Spring Sickness.
Even the name sounded deceptively gentle, evoking images of blooming flowers and morning dew. But there was nothing gentle about it.
It was a horrific, bloody scourge that turned a manâs blood to water and his lungs to ash within two days of the first chill. Every single day brought a fresh wave of reports to the castle. More deaths. More uncontrollable fevers. More black drapes of mourning hanging from balconies.
The Red Keep attempted to continue as normal, putting on a brave, stubborn face to prevent total panic in the streets.
For a time.
Then, the ultimate terror struck, even the royal family, with all their ancient valyrian blood and isolated privileges, began to fall ill.
Prince Matarys, young and full of promise, went first.
Then Prince Valarr followed his brother into the dark.
One right after another.
There was a crushing silence that followed. The sheer disbelief that washed over the courtiers.. The raw, jagged grief of a family being systematically hollowed out. It was a terrifying realization for the entire realm: that dragons could die just as easily, just as pitifully, as any beggar in the gutter.
The court changed overnight, its glittering facade completely shattering. Laughter disappeared entirely from the halls. Conversations became quieter, reduced to paranoid whispers in darkened alcoves. People began watching one another with a terrifying, hawkish intensity, staring at a neighbor's throat or forehead as though the sickness might be visible if one looked hard enough, terrified of a single cough or a sudden bead of sweat.
Then came the worst, most devastating blow of all.
King Daeron.
The kind, weary king who had summoned you to court because he genuinely worried you might be lonely in your quiet life. The Great Spring Sickness claimed him before the year was out, leaving his bedchamber cold and his throne empty.
The Great Sept of Baelor smelled of death. It was not the crisp, clean scent of the high-burning pyres, but the heavy, suffocating odor of hundreds of beeswax candles, stale incense, and the lingering, invisible phantom of the Great Spring Sickness.
The funeral of King Daeron II, and his two bright, promising grandsons, Valarr and Matarys, had ended hours ago. The highborn mourners had dispersed like smoke, leaving the massive stone structure hollowed out and freezing.
You remained behind.
You had not known the princes well. They were distant figures of duty and grace, but they had been good men. Kind men. In a dynasty so frequently plagued by madness and cruelty, they had been a promise of a gentle spring. Now, they were ashes, and the crown had slid heavily onto the head of Daeronâs second son, Aerys, a man who preferred dusty scrolls to the living world.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, your hands clasped tightly against the rough wool of your mourning gown. You wanted to pray. You needed to pray, if only to find some semblance of order in a world that had tilted entirely off its axis in a matter of weeks.
"A crown," a voice rasped through the gloom. "A crown of gold, heavy with the weight of dozens... dozens of ghosts." You flinched, your hands dropping as you turned sharply.
Emerging from the shadow of one of the massive marble pillars was Maester Gladys.
Your breath caught in your throat. This was the man. The architect of your misery. It was Maester Gladys who, years ago, had whispered into the ears of your family and the Citadel, orchestrating the match that bound you to the nightmare that was Prince Aerion. You had hated him in silence since then.
But looking at him now, hatred gave way to a cold, prickling dread.
The maesterâs robes were disheveled, the links of his chain clinking together erratically as he trembled. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and glassy as he stared completely past you, trapped in the throes of a waking delirium. The sickness had not taken his body, but it seemed to have shattered his mind. He was hallucinating, his hands clawing at the empty air as if tearing away a veil.
"They fall," Gladys whispered, his voice rising in an eerie, melodic cadence. He stepped closer, entirely unaware of who you were, seeing only a shape in the dim sept. "The dragons fall like autumn leaves. First the brave, then the beautiful, then the old king. The spring takes them. But the spring is just the wind that clears the field."
"Maester Gladys," you said, your voice trembling as you backed away from the altar. "You are unwell. Let me call someone to help yâ"
"No!" He lunged forward with terrifying, sudden speed, his bony fingers gripping your wrists. His grip was like ice. His wild eyes locked onto yours, and for a fraction of a second, a horrific spark of clarity pierced his madness. "I saw it. Years ago, before I sent the letters. Before I bound you to the dragon's blood. I had a dream."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Let me go."
"A dream of a throne of swords," Gladys hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and poppy juice. "I saw the royals... their descendants... dozens of them, blood on their doublets, ash in their hair. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. Not Aerion. Not Aerys. You, sitting upon the Iron Throne, the realm quiet at your feet. That is why you had to be here! The gods demanded you be planted in the garden before the fire began!"
Horror, cold and absolute, flooded your veins. You yanked your hands from his grasp with a desperate surge of strength.
He stumbled backward, laughing a breathless, broken laugh, still muttering about a throne made of bones and a queen crowned in shadows.
You didn't look back. You turned and ran.
You ran through the towering doors of the Sept, down the endless marble steps of Visenyaâs Hill, the wind whipping your mourning veil against your face. Your lungs burned. The maesterâs words chased you like a curse. It was madness. It was the fever talking. It had to be.
But as the days bled into weeks, the horror only deepened, because the world began to mimic the madman's dream with terrifying precision.
King Aerys I was crowned in a somber, muted ceremony. He took the throne, ignored his wife, ignored his realm, and buried his face in books of prophecy.
The crown sat precariously on a head that refused to look at the living, while the heavy hand of Bloodraven governed from the shadows. The Red Keep became a tomb of whispers and dust, but the true horror was not the silence of the new King, but it was the terrifying rhythm with which the Stranger kept reclaiming the dragonâs blood.
The madmanâ or should you say, Maester Gladysâs prophecy did not unfold in a single, sudden ruination. But instead, it eroded the Targaryen dynasty piece by piece, striking down the royals in ways so sudden and bizarre they defied all reason.
The first of these strange, chilling extractions happened right before your eyes, turning a rare evening of courtly pretense into a waking nightmare.
It was during a feast, a forced, hollow celebration meant to project a semblance of stability.
The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and heavy perfumes meant to mask the lingering dread of the city. You sat at the high table, wedged into a space that felt less like an honor and more like a surveillance post. To your left sat Princess Daena, fidgeting with her silver fork. To your right sat Prince Rhaegal.
Rhaegal was a gentle, broken creature, a man whose mind had long since dissolved into a soft, harmless madness. That evening, he was in one of his distant, melancholic moods, his violet eyes glassy as he stared at his plate, occasionally humming a melody only he could hear.
âTry the lamprey pie,â Daena murmured to you, gesturing toward a massive, golden-crusted dish that had just been carved. âThe cook swore he used the finest spices from Dorne, though I suspect he just spilled pepper into the broth.â
Before you could reply, Rhaegal reached out. With a sudden, childlike enthusiasm that often characterized his shifting moods, he took a massive, heavy portion of the pie, driving his fork into the rich, dark meat. He ate quickly, untethered from the rigid decorum expected of a prince of the blood, his mind clearly miles away from the Great Hall.
You turned back to Daena, smiling faintly at her chatter, when a sharp, wet gasp cut through the ambient noise of the feast.
You turned sharply. Rhaegalâs fork had clattered against his pewter plate. His hands flew to his throat, his face rapidly turning a terrifying, mottled shade of purple. The gentle prince was struggling for air, his lungs completely blocked by a thick piece of the heavy pastry.
âUncle?â Daena asked, her voice dropping its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic. âUncle Rhaegal?â
Rhaegal didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved violently, a horrific, choking sound tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward out of his high-backed chair. The heavy oak crashed against the stone floor, a sound that instantly silenced the immediate radius of the high table. Courtiers froze, wine cups suspended in mid-air.
You lunged forward, your fingers catching the sleeve of his velvet doublet as he began to sink to his knees. âMaester!â you shouted, your voice echoing off the high stone rafters. âHelp him! Heâs choking!â
But the response was too slow. In a court paralyzed by the fear of sudden death, everyone simply stared. Rhaegal clawed at his own neck, his glassy eyes rolling back into his head, fixed on the high, vaulted ceiling as if he could see the invisible threads pulling him down. He thrashed once, twice, a pitiful, desperate struggle for a single gasp of air, and then his body went entirely limp in your grasp.
By the time the Grand Maester finally scrambled up the steps of the elevated dais, robes billowing and chains clinking in a useless panic, the Prince of Dragonstone was already gone. The direct heir to the Iron Throne lay still on the cold stone. Rhaegal had lived through the horrors of the Great Spring Sickness, surviving a plague that had wiped out thousands, only to have his breath stolen by a greasy piece of crust.
A heavy, suffocating panic descended on the hall. Daena let out a small, terrified sob, clutching at your arm, but you could only stare down at Rhaegalâs still, purple face. Dozens of deaths, Gladysâs voice echoed in the caverns of your mind. A line completely severed.
And then, as if the Stranger were executing a meticulously planned script, the dominoes continued to fall with horrific precision. Rhaegalâs son Aelor was named heir, only to be killed in a freak, tragic mishap by his own twin sister, who soon followed him into the grave.
The line was being systematically hollowed out, leaving nothing but ashes and empty chairs. Finally, Aerys too passed into the histories. He left behind a fractured, bleeding court, a vacant throne, and a path that led straight back to the one man you dreaded most.
His name was mentioned over and over again. You heard they had a meeting; a grim, quiet gathering of the small council, tucked away in the council chambers while the King's body was still being prepared for the silent sisters.
The question of who would succeed Aerys was simple on the surface, yet entirely terrifying beneath it. Naturally, the crown belonged to Maekar. He was the last surviving brother, a veteran commander of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and a man made of iron and duty. But after so many sudden, bizarre tragedies, after watching a whole generation of royals vanish into the dirt in a matter of monthsâthe council was terrified of what would happen if Maekar fell next. They couldn't just crown a king, they had to secure a line. They needed to lock down exactly who was standing in line after Maekar.
And that was where the room had completely fractured.
By all laws of Westeros, the succession should have flowed down to Maekarâs eldest son, Prince Daeron. But the lords of the small council flatly refused to accept him. The excuse whispered through the castle corridors was that Daeron was utterly unfit to ruleâa notorious drunkard, soft-willed, and so terrified of his own shadow that he had once fled a tourney rather than face a real knight. The lords wanted a strong, formidable heir to guarantee stability after years of plague and chaos, not a prince who spent his days in wine sinks trying to drown his own cowardice.
With Daeron effectively cast aside by the council, the debate turned to the next brother in line.
His name, Aerion, was mentioned countless times.
You heard the arguments from your position near the doorway, your skin turning entirely to ice. The lords spoke of his fierce Valyrian blood. They spoke of his martial skill, his undeniable presence, and the fact that, despite his exile in Lys, he was a prince who would never be accused of weakness or cowardice. You scoffed at that.Â
They argued that a fractured, bleeding realm needed a dragon with claws, completely blind to the monstrous cruelty that lurked beneath Aerion's beautiful facade.
Every time his name echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber, Maester Gladys's mad prophecy hammered behind your eyes. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you.
They were preparing to bring him back.Â
They were clearing the path for the monster you had barely escaped, dragging him closer to the throne, and closer to you, than anyone had ever intended.
And so here you were, at the harbor.
The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast, oppressive sheet of cold gray beneath a morning sky that offered no comfort. The salt air was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of low tide and the smoky breath of the harborâs watchtowers. Waves slapped lazily, relentlessly against the massive stone docks, entirely unawareâ or perhaps entirely uncaring, that they were delivering catastrophe directly to your doorstep.
 Each dull splash felt like a countdown, a steady rhythmic ticking toward the end of the quiet life you had fought so hard to build.
Around you, the chaotic gears of royal preparation were already turning with frenetic energy.
Servants hurried back and forth in frantic pairs, carrying heavy iron-bound trunks, stumbling over coil ropes, and hauling velvet-draped litters. Knights in polished armor gathered near the edge of the piers, their greaves clinking as they shifted their weight, checking and rechecking the alignment of the gangplanks. Courtiers lingered in tight, whispering clusters like crows on a fence, speaking in lowered voices that were not nearly as discreet as they believed. You could catch fragments of their murmurs drifting over the sound of the windâwords like succession, blood of the dragon, Lys, and the Kingâs heir.
You stood perfectly still amongst them, a solitary figure draped in mourning black, frozen like a statue carved from grief and dread.
Watching. Waiting. Dreading.
With every passing minute, the ship grew larger on the horizon. A year ago, you had stood on this very harbor, watching the sails of his vessel shrink into nothingness, praying with every fiber of your being that the sea would swallow him whole and that he would never return.
The gods, apparently, possessed a vicious, twisted sense of humor. They had not only kept him alive; they had cleared a path through his entire family just to bring him back.
Beside you, Princess Daena squinted out toward the gray water, shading her eyes with a delicate, ringed hand. She was completely oblivious to the cold sweat prickling at your spine.
"Which one is he again?" she asked casually, tilting her head.
You stared at her, your voice flat, drained of all warmth. "My husband."
"Oh." Daena blinked, her brow furrowing in a brief moment of mental calculation. A pause stretched between you, filled only by the screaming of gulls overhead. "The terrifying one?"
"Yes."
"The handsome, terrifying one?"
You closed your eyes, the memory of his cruel, beautiful face flashing behind your eyelids like a brand. "Yes."
"Hm."
You heard absolutely no concern in her voice. When you opened your eyes again, Daena was still staring toward the approaching vessel with open, childlike curiosity, as if she were waiting for a traveling circus to pull into port rather than a monster.
"I always thought he was exaggerated," she murmured, tapping her chin. "The stories the old ladies tell in the solar. They make him sound like a demon out of a fairy tale."
"He isn't exaggerated."
"Really?"
Your jaw tightened. The memories of his unpredictable, erratic whims swarmed your mind. "He once suggested I join him and another woman in bed as though he was offering me cake. No shame. No affection. Just a casual invitation over breakfast."
Daena blinked, her shielded eyes widening slightly as she processed the image. "Oh." Another pause settled over the stone pier. Then, she let out a small, bewildered breath. "That is rather strange."
Rather strange. You briefly, intensely considered pushing her into the sea just to give yourself something else to look at.
The ship was close enough now that individual figures could be clearly seen moving across the polished wooden deck. The distinctive three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped aggressively against the gray sky on a field of black silk.
The crowd stirred, a collective, nervous energy rippling through the smallfolk and lords alike. Someone called out a sharp command for the heavy timber gangplanks to be readied.
Further ahead of the crowd, standing at the very edge of the pier, Prince Maekar stood as rigid as stone. His massive frame was clad in deep crimson and charcoal, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. If he felt any emotion regarding his second son's return, if his heart ached for the monster he had fathered, he concealed it behind a mask of pure iron.
You doubted he was pleased. Maekar was many thingsâstern, unyielding, and bitterâbut even he wasn't blind. The small council might have been locked away in their chambers discussing the technicalities of succession, and the high lords might have been speaking grandly of strength, Valyrian blood, and the necessity of dragons, but Maekar knew his son.Â
Perhaps better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, Maekar knew exactly what Aerion was capable of when left to his own devices. And that knowledge alone made this entire situation infinitely worse. The father did not trust the son, yet the realm was forcing them together.
The ship finally eased into the stone slip of the harbor with a massive, slow momentum.
Thick hemp ropes were thrown through the air, caught by straining dockworkers. Sailors shouted orders over the roar of the wind, their voices hoarse and salt-worn. The heavy timber of the hull groaned in protest against the wooden pilings, a scraping, agonizing sound that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes. The vessel settled, its great oars drawing back like a predator folding its wings.
For a terrifying, suspended moment, nobody moved. The entire harbor seemed to hold its collective breath.
Then, the heavy wooden gangplank was lowered, hitting the stone dock with a loud, echoing thud.
A profound, heavy hush seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. Your stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. You hated that it did. You hated that after a year of absolute freedom, after all the peace and purpose you had carefully carved out for yourself among your books and your school, the mere possibility of seeing him again could still completely unsettle you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel like the frightened girl he had married, not the woman who had survived him.
The first men began descending the ramp. Guards in practical leather armor, Lysene servants carrying gilded birdcages, merchants in strange, bright eastern robes, faces you did not recognize, a blur of foreign wealth and colonial luxury.
Thenâ there he was.
Aerion Targaryen descended the gangplank as though he had personally conquered Lys and was returning to King's Landing to collect his rightful reward, rather than an exile being dragged home by a depleted family tree.
The bastard looked infuriatingly healthy.
If anything, his time across the Narrow Sea had only improved him. His silver hair had grown longer, catching the pale morning light, and the hot Lysene sun had darkened his pale skin to a warm, sun-kissed bronze. He wore expensive Essosi silksâa deep, shimmering violet doublet that perfectly matched his eyesâbeneath a heavy travel cloak trimmed with fur that probably cost more than some small keeps in the crownlands. He looked rested. He looked powerful.
Which felt deeply, profoundly unfair.
You had spent an entire year secretly hoping for at least one visible hardship to have found him in the East. A limp from a tavern brawl. A jagged scar across his arrogant face. A missing tooth. Something, anything, to prove that the universe possessed a shred of justice. Instead, he appeared to have spent his entire exile drinking fine arbor gold, lounging in pleasure houses, and making everyone else's life thoroughly miserable while you dreaded his shadow.
He paused at the base of the gangplank, and his violet eyes, bright, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid, swept across the gathered crowd. They passed over the armored knights without interest. They slid over the bowing servants. They dismissed the murmuring lords.
Then, they landed on you.
And stopped.
For one terrible, agonizing moment, neither of you moved. The entire harbor seemed to instantly disappear around you. The shouting of the sailors, the groaning wood, the crashing sea, the crowded pier, all of it was gone, reduced to white noise. There was nothing left in the world except those familiar, deadly eyes staring across the narrow distance between you.
Then, Aerion's mouth slowly, deliberately curved. It was not a smile of affection, nor was it a greeting. It was the sharp, curling smirk of absolute recognition. It was the look of a boy who had just found his favorite toy waiting for him exactly where he had left it.
You stared into his eyes, the madman Gladys's prophecy screaming in your ears, and you immediately regretted being alive.
There were many moments where you regretted being alive, but this was, without a doubt, the absolute worst of it.
It was supposed to be a simple family dinner. Simple, and yet every breath you took felt like swallowing glass. You spent the entire evening faking your smiles until your cheeks ached, holding your heavy silver utensils so tightly that the ornate patterns bit deep, permanent ridges into your palms. You didn't dare look up. You knew exactly what was waiting for you across the linen tablecloth if you did.
One after another, Aerion spoke of his time in Lys. He painted a picture of a paradise, his voice smooth and dripping with that familiar, theatrical charm that made the high lords lean in with rapt attention. He spoke of the towering pleasure houses of the Perfumed Garden, the sweet, spiced wines that never let a man go thirsty, and the effortless luxury of the Free Cities. He spun tales of naval skirmishes and foreign diplomacy as if he hadn't been kicked out of his own country for being a degenerate, but had instead gone on a grand, triumphant tour. To hear him tell it, his exile wasn't a punishment at all, it was more like a holiday.
âThe Lysene know how to craft beauty,â Aerion said, his eyes sweeping across the table before settling on you. There was something in his tone that made your skin crawl. âThough there are some things even the wealthiest magisters cannot recreate.â
A knot tightened in your stomach. You lowered your gaze and forced yourself to take another bite of the roasted capon. The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, and tasted like nothing at all. Ash filled your mouth instead.
To your left sat young Egg. The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of his family, sunburned from his hidden travels, his head recently shaved to hide his Targaryen features, and possessing a stubborn, grounded sense of reality that the rest of the court sorely lacked. He sat right beside you, kicking his legs slightly beneath the heavy oak table, his small fingers violently stabbing a piece of potato.
"He's a prick," Egg muttered under his breath, his voice so quiet it was nearly buried by the clinking of wine goblets. He leaned slightly toward you, his brow furrowed in a fierce, protective scowl. "A pompous, preening prick. He hasn't changed a bit."
A genuine, albeit fleeting, smile finally broke through your rigid mask. You didn't dare say a word out loud, but you let your fingers gently brush against Egg's sleeve in a silent, grateful acknowledgment.
Suddenly, the clinking of silverware died down.
"And what of your duties here, Aerion?" Maekar's voice boomed from the head of the table, heavy and demanding. The King-to-be hadn't touched his wine all evening. His dark eyes bored into his second son. "The council did not recall you from Lys to lounge in the capital like a perfumed magister."
Aerion set his chalice down with an agonizingly slow, deliberate grace. The silver rings on his finger clicked sharply against the gold rim.
"The realm needs a reminder of what a dragon looks like, Father," Aerion replied, his voice smooth, yet underlaid with a dangerous, purring edge. He didn't look at Maekar. Instead, his violet eyes slid deliberately back to you, locking onto your face with a predatory stillness that made the breath catch in your throat.
"And I intend to start my duties exactly where I left them. Beginning at home."
The oppressive, tense heat of that dinner faded, bleeding into the grand, echoey chill of the Great Hall days later.
The air inside the throne room was thick with the scent of burning tallow, heavy incense, and the collective sweat of hundreds of tightly packed nobles. Trumpets blared, their brassy notes reverberating off the high stone pillars, cutting through the low, reverent murmur of the crowd.
It was the day of the coronation.
Before the twisted, towering mass of the Iron Throne stood Maekar. He looked every bit the warrior king, his shoulders broad beneath heavy velvet, his face carved of unyielding granite as the High Septon raised the crown above his head. The crown itself was a heavy, formidable thing, a band of black iron set with square-cut rubies that caught the torchlight that almost looked like fresh, uncoagulated blood.
Your eyes locked onto the crown, tracking its slow descent toward Maekar's brow.
As the gold and iron caught the light, the grand hall seemed to bleed away. The blare of the trumpets distorted, turning into a low, rushing wind, and suddenly you were back in that dim, dust-choked chamber. You could smell the bitter herbs and the rotting parchment. You could see Maester Gladys's trembling, withered hands clutching at your robes, his milky, blind eyes staring right through your soul as his raspy voice tore from his throat.
A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. I saw you sitting on the Iron Throne.
The memory shattered as the High Septon finally placed the heavy crown onto Maekarâs head, declaring him the first of his name. A deafening roar went up from the crowd âLong live King Maekar!â âand the nobles burst into thunderous applause.
Standing in the front ranks beside the rest of the royal family, you kept your hands folded politely in front of your dress, your gaze never wavering from the rubies glittering on the new King's brow.
And for the first time, you didn't push the madmanâs prophecy away. You didn't shudder in fear or wish to run. Instead, you eyed that heavy band of iron and rubies with a quiet, burning intensity, wondering with a sudden, sharp clarity if it really was all true.
If the line was meant to sever, then why shouldn't it end with you?
You looked at Maekar, and then your eyes slid slightly to the side, where Aerion stood basking in the reflected glory of his father's new titles. He looked proud, arrogant, and entirely secure in his place as the councilâs chosen future.
But you knew the truth. You were better than Aerion. He was a creature of petty malice and fragile ego, a boy who thought cruelty made him a dragon. You were incomparable to him. Where he brought chaos and terror, you possessed a mind that could actually construct order. You understood the delicate, bleeding pulse of the realm. You knew its history, its flaws, and the desperate, quiet needs of the people living under its shadow.
If the gods or the prophecies meant to hand you the reins of Westeros, you wouldn't just sit on the throne to collect taxes and demand bows. You would change lives. You would rewrite the rules of the court, steady the crumbling foundations of the realm, and build something lastingâ something better than whatever broken, arrogant Targaryen kings had come before you.
The crowd continued to cheer, their voices echoing off the high stone ceiling like rumbling thunder, a deafening wave of noise that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards.
As the hours bled on, the somber atmosphere of the coronation melted away, and the Great Hall was transformed into an ornate ball and a dining room at the same time. Tapestries of Targaryen history were illuminated by the harsh, flickering glare of a thousand fresh beeswax candles. Servants moved in a frantic dance of their own, rushing between tables to replace heavy platters of roasted meats and pour endless rivers of sweet Arbor gold. Music from the gallery above swelled; pipes, harps, and drums weaving a lively, almost aggressive rhythm that filled the cavernous room.
And unfortunately for youâ you were seated directly beside Aerion.
Ever since his heavy leather boots had landed on Westerosi soil at the port, he had not once properly acknowledged your existence. He sat beside you like a beautiful, dangerous statue, his attention seemingly entirely occupied by the lords who leaned across the table to curry favor with the new King's son.
It was better, you supposed. In fact, it was much better than the alternative. You would gladly take his cold shoulder over having to deal with whatever sharp, twisted insults normally landed from his vile mouth. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, watching the colorful blur of spinning courtiers on the dance floor, hoping that if you sat quietly enough, you might simply blend into the heavy velvet drapery.
But Aerion Targaryen was never a man to let you find peace.
Somehow, he managed to ignore and acknowledge your presence at the exact same time. He did not look at you, nor did he address you by name, but he spent the evening launching snide, venomous remarks that were lowkey, yet undeniably, about you.
"The women of Lys know how to dress for a feast," Aerion remarked to a minor lord sitting across the cloth, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient music. He lifted his golden chalice, swirling the dark wine within. The man nodded uncertainly, unsure on what to respond. âThey arrive determined to improve the evening.â
His gaze drifted briefly toward your black mourning gown. "Not everyone shares that same ambition." A few men laughed. You tightened your grip on your silver fork, your jaw locking into a rigid line.
There were two reasons you still wore black.
The first was respectable enough. King Daeron was gone, as were Aerys and the young princes. Not even a year had passed since death had swept through the royal family with such ruthless speed. Mourning remained appropriate.
The second reason was less suitable for polite conversation.
You were mourning your own life.Or rather, the life you had before Aerion Targaryen returned and proceeded to trample through it like a dragon through a vegetable garden. It had been quiet then. Peaceful. Predictable. You had your books, your routines, your freedom from his relentless presence.
And now he was back, ruining all of it with remarkable efficiency.
Aerion set his chalice down with a deliberate, echoing thud, the gold gleaming under the candlelight as he swiveled his attention slightly back to his sycophants. âThatâs another thing I miss about Lys.â
The lord across from him leaned forward eagerly, practically tripping over himself to absorb whatever royal favor or scandalous gossip the prince was about to dispense.
The lord blinked. "My prince?"
A cruel, fond smirk tugged at the corner of Aerionâs mouth as he murmured, âThe Lysene women are excellent company.â
âThen perhaps you should have stayed.â
The words escaped before you could stop them. Oops. Awkward.
A mistake.
The moment they left your mouth, you felt itâ the sudden shift in the air around the table. The conversation nearby faltered. A few lords looked down into their cups with remarkable interest. Somewhere behind you, you could practically feel Meriel having a silent heart attack.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the high table.
At the far end, Daena brightened immediately. The traitor.
For the first time in days, you had voluntarily spoken to Aerion, and she looked as delighted as if sheâd just witnessed a long-awaited reconciliation rather than what was very clearly the beginning of another argument.
But slowly and deliberately, Aerion looked at you for the first time all evening.
The movement of his neck was smooth, fluid, and utterly devoid of warmth. Predatory lilac eyes locked onto yours, wide with a terrifying kind of amusement.
âThere she is,â he purred, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
Aerion leaned in closer, the scent of wine and ash washing over you as his smirk widened into something truly venomous. âWhat a touching reunion.â
He tilted his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. âI was beginning to worry youâd forgotten how.â
Suddenly, the music shifted, slowing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. One of the courtiers stepped forward, announcing that the high table was expected to lead the next dance.
Aerion set his chalice down with a sharp clink. That lazy smirk on his lips sharpened into something altogether dangerous. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers long and elegant, yet caked with the invisible memory of violence.
You looked at itâat the calluses earned from relentless training, at the heavy signet ring catching the torchlight. Then you looked up at him, meeting a gaze that was far too calm.
âNo.â
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, his dark brows lifting a fraction of an inch before his features smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating composure.
âThat wasnât a difficult instruction,â he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of apology.
âYouâve ignored me all evening.â
âYes.â
âAnd now you wish to dance.â
âAlso yes.â
His hand remained suspended between you, an unyielding invitation. Around the high table, the low hum of courtly chatter had died down. Lords and ladies had begun watching, nudging one another, their eyes glittering with the hunger for a domestic scandal.
You decided that you hated every single one of them.
Knowing a public refusal would feed the vultures for weeks, you swallowed your pride. Slowly, deliberately, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and possessive.
Aerionâs mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. âThere she is.â
âI hope you fall down a staircase,â you shot back, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.
âSee? We hardly spoke for a year and youâve already missed me.â
The dance was a nightmare.
The court cleared a path as he led you to the center of the floor. Aerion guided you through the intricate, sweeping steps with infuriating ease, his hand firm against your back, effortlessly dictating the pace before you could try to lead.
âYouâve become even more miserable,â he noted, his eyes scanning your face as the music swelled around you.
You refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare somewhere over his shoulder at a dusty tapestry on the far wall. âWelcome home.â
âI left for a year and this is the reception I receive.â
âYouâll survive.â
A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine glint of amusement in his eyes. âThere she is.â
âWhat does that mean?â you snapped, briefly breaking your vow of silence to glare at him.
âYouâve spent the entire evening pretending I donât exist.â
âI was hoping youâd do the same.â
He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through his hand on your waist. The sound irritated you more than it should have, warming your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the hall.
âYouâve been hiding,â he said, executing a seamless turn that forced you closer to his chest.
âIâve been reading.â
âSame thing.â
You considered stomping on his heavy leather boot with the heel of your slipper. It would be so easy. A slight misstep, a quiet crunch of his toes. Unfortunately, half the realm was watching, their eyes tracking your every movement.
Aerion seemed to notice the calculation in your eyes, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you. âGo on.â
âWhat?â
âI know that look.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âYou want to kick me.â
Your silence answered for you, your jaw tightening as you offered him a sweetly venomous smile for the benefit of the crowd.
âVery healthy marriage,â he said, drawing you just a fraction closer as the music began to fade.
â
When the dance finally ended, you didn't give him the chance to escort you back. You practically fled the Great Hall, lifting your heavy skirts and hurrying through the labyrinthine, torch-lit stone corridors of the Red Keep until you finally reached the safety of your own quarters.
You pushed open the bedchamber door.
Relief flooded through you. Finally. Silence. No music. No courtiers. And most importantly, no Aerionâ
You stopped.
Aerion was sitting on the edge of your bed. A silver goblet rested loosely in one hand, the dark red wine sloshing slightly against the rim. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire playing across his sharp valyrian features.
Then:
âYou took the scenic route.â
You shut your eyes. Slowly and carefully. As though patience alone might make him disappear. When you opened them again, he was still there, stretched across the edge of your bed with all the comfort of a man in his own chambers.
âGet out.â
Aerion lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip. âNo,â the answer came so quickly it was almost insulting.
âI am serious.â
âSo am I.â
You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache had begun somewhere around the third insult at dinner and had only worsened with every passing hour.
âWhy are you here?â
Aerion opened his mouth. You immediately held up a hand.
âActually, wait.â You pointed a warning finger at him. âI already dislike this answer.â And to your irritation, he looked pleased.
âYou fled.â
âYes.â
âAnd I followed you.â
âThat explains nothing.â
Aerion frowned slightly, as if you were being deliberately difficult.
âIt explains the entire sequence of events.â
âNo, it explains how you got here. It does not explain why you're here.â
You stared at him, your gaze filled with unadulterated venom. Aerion stared back, entirely unbothered, his posture relaxed against your silk sheets. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
Then he smirked. âDid you genuinely think you could lose me?â
âHope is free.â
âNot for much longer, when I become king.â
âIf.â
Aerion rolled his eyes, annoyance already flooding to the both of you, shattering the last remnants of any polite pretense. He set his goblet down on the nightstand with a definitive thud and stood up, bridging the distance between you.
"We need an heir," he said, his voice dropping into something heavy and entirely stripped of its playful malice. "My father and the small council spent the better part of the morning discussing it. To ensure the Targaryen line lives on. It is a matter of state."
Sensing exactly where this was going, your stomach churned with defense.
"I am your husbandâ" Aerion started, his tone commanding.
"Estranged," you cut him off sharply.
Now you knew. You knew exactly why he was standing in your room, why he had bothered to seek you out at all. He didn't care about you. He was doing this because without an heir before King Maekar dies, he won't be crowned king. The small council would waver.
You raised your chin, trying to sound entirely unimpressed. "Your father is strong, Aerion. It is clear he will live a long life. There is no need for urgency."
But as you stared at him, the weight of the looming situation forced your mind to spin backward, retreating into the memory of a conversation from only a few weeks agoâŠ
â
The sunlight in your solar had been suffocatingly bright that afternoon. You had been pacing the floor, the heavy fabric of your skirts whipping around your ankles as you raged to Meriel.
"He is returning from Lys," you had spat, the words tasting like ash. "And they are naming him Prince of Dragonstone. It is absurd! An heir will be entirely impossible between Aerion and me. We cannot stand to be in the same room, let alone share a bed."
Meriel had remained perfectly calm, sitting gracefully by the window, her embroidery resting in her lap. She had looked up, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. "It doesnât have to be a long-term arrangement. You will be queen. And when Aerion..." She had paused, trailing off with a delicate shrug that heavily hinted at an early, violent demise for your husband. "Well, if he dies early, you will be regent. If you are with child."
You had scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Regent? There are other male heirs! The crown wouldn't fall to a child of his if there are others to take it."
"The small council prefers Aerion," Meriel had countered smoothly. "Because of his personality. Oh, they are terrified of him, make no mistake. But they know he would make a fine king because of his violence. He is utterly ruthless to those who oppose his family. Think of my own family for an example of what happens to those who cross the crown."
She had leaned forward, ticking the other options off on her fingers. "Look at the alternatives. Daeron is far too busy drinking himself into a stupor to ever hold a scepter. Aemon doesn't want to be king, nor does he want to be anywhere near the Iron Throne. He reminds people too much of King Aerysâ he prefers his dusty books over governing his people, over the living world entirely. And Aegon?" Meriel had let out a soft, amused laugh. "Aegon is frequently nowhere to be found most days, off on his grand adventures with that remarkably tall knight."
You had scoffed again, though the weight of her words sank in.
"There is a Blackfyre rebellion looming again," Meriel had reminded you, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Obviously, it breathes life because of the rumors of the Targaryen heirs dying one by one like flies. Who knows... you might get lucky if Aerion magically wounds up and dies on a battlefield somewhere. But until then?" She had fixed you with a hard, unyielding stare. "You need an heir."
â
The memory faded, snapping you right back into the dim hearth-light of your bedchamber.
Aerion was still standing there, watching you closely, his sharp lilac eyes tracking the subtle shift in your expression as you processed the trap the small council and history had laid out for you.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with the reality of Merielâs words.
You breathed out slowly, the tension never leaving your shoulders. You looked past him, staring at the rumpled silk sheets of the bed he just sat upon. If this was a battle for survival, then you would treat it like one.
The irritation that had flared during the dance, the nervous flutter in your throat when you found him waiting in the darkâit all suddenly crystallized into a cold and hard ambition. You had spent months dreading his return, hating his arrogance, but you weren't a martyr, and you weren't a victim either. You wanted that crown. You wanted the power that came with it, the absolute security of the Iron Throne, and the ability to look down on the very courtiers who sneered at you now. If Aerion was the key to unlocking that future, then you would simply have to turn the key.
Slowly, deliberately, you walked past him. The heavy fabric of your skirts brushed against his boots as you closed the distance to the bed, reclaiming your space.
When you looked up at him, all the venom was gone from your eyes. The shift between you could be felt so obviously. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden finality.
You didn't say a word. Instead, your fingers went to the lacings of your gown.
One by one, the heavy silver pins and rings of your jewelry slipped from your skin, hitting the floor with a series of dull, metallic thuds. Then, with practiced, unhurried movements, you unfastened the heavy velvet bodice, letting the heavy gown pool at your feet like a shed skin.
You were left in nothing but your undergarments, a shift of fine, ivory silk so thin it was practically a second skin. In the warm glow of the hearth, your silhouette was starkly revealedâ the soft swell and curve of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples pressing against the fabric, and the smooth, sloping line of your hips.
For all his worldly experience, the sight took Aerion completely by surprise. His breath hitched audibly, his lilac eyes darkening as they tracked the sudden exposure of your body.
You had no experience in a marriage bed; you were a maiden, untouched and untried, but it didn't mean you were a fool. The books you had spent the months reading hadn't just been histories and statecraft; they had been accounts of the flesh, of the power women wielded in the dark when they knew exactly what they were trading.
You leaned back slightly on the mattress, propping yourself up on one hand, meeting his stunned gaze with a look of detachment.
âWellâ I certainly did not expect you to give in so suddenlyâ Aerion said. He blinked, the initial shock quickly giving way to a broad, unbothered grin. He chuckled, shucking off his heavy doublet and tossing it onto the floor without looking. âLook at you. Fascinating. I thought Iâd have to deal with hours of sighing, but youâve gone straight to the point. I respect the efficiency.â
You glared. âOh donât mistake my patient for toleranceâ You made sure to keep your voice level. You wouldnât want him to know your heart is hammering in your chest right now. You then scoffedâ âI am doing it entirely on my own terms.â
Aerion paused, unbuttoning his shirt with casual and unhurried movements. âYou think a thin piece of silk gives you leverage?â
âYes, I do,â you countered smoothly, holding his gaze. âBut you still want what's underneath it.â
He let out a sharp, amused breath, stepping closer to the bed. âTrue. You have an exceptional body, I'll give you that. I was actually a bit worried youâd be shaped like a turnip under all that velvet. Not quite as lush as the women in Lys, of courseâ they have a certain, how do you say, vibrancy to their curvesâ but still, much better than I anticipated.â
Ouch. The casual insult stung, a blunt reminder of his complete lack of tact, but you refused to let him see it find its mark. You kept your face perfectly impassive.
âI was hoping your exile would have helped you improve,â you remarked dryly.
His hand moved to your neck. The blunt warmth of his palm was a stark contrast to the heavy, cold metal of the countless rings on his fingers. You leaned back further against the mattress as he tilted his head, his lips hovering just beside the lobe of your ear.
"You talk too much," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Let's see if you can do anything else."
His hand trailed down your throat, his fingers splaying across your chest. You watched him through your lashes, refusing to look away as his palms slid lower, mapping the contours of your body. He took the weight of your breasts in his handsâ groping and molding them through the thin ivory silk, his thumbs dragging roughly over the peaks. And before you could even catch your breath, his hands moved back to your shoulders, applying just enough sudden pressure to push you flat against the bed, his heavy frame following you down until he was hovering directly over you.
No more words were spoken. The chill of the room seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the sheer, radiating heat of his body pressed against yours. Aerion shifted, driving his knee upward until it settled firmly between your thighs, pressing right against your center.
The sudden, blunt pressure caught the air in your throat. He dipped lower, his hands sliding down to forcefully part your legs, but even as you were pinned beneath him, you kept your gaze locked onto his with an unmistakable look of hatred.
Now flat on the mattress, the rest of the castle felt entirely distant. The faint, muffled roar of the courtiers feasting below was a hundred rooms awayâ completely irrelevant. And all that existed was the infuriatingly rich scent of his musk and the way his breathing grew shallower, more ragged, with every passing second.
His fingers dipped down, finding the slick heat between your thighs,pulling aside the thin silk of your shift. . You closed your eyes instantly. You didn't want to look at his smug face, trying to convince yourself that the sudden shudder through your spine was just a natural physical reaction to the stimulation.
You focused entirely on steadying your breathâ trying to keep your chest from heaving.
âAlready?â he purred, noticing the sudden wetness.
âShut up,â you gritted out through your teeth, snapping your eyes open to glare up at him.
âWait until you get a taste of a cock, dear wife,â he sneered mockingly.
But for all his arrogance, he wasn't in a hurry. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your skin as he left a trail of bruising, purple marks down to the bridge of your chest. He still hadn't stripped the silk shift from your bodyâ instead, he opened his mouth over the thin fabric of your breast, sucking the peak into his mouth through the wet silk.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. the intensity of it was overwhelming, a chaotic rush of sensory stimulation that made your mind spin. You needed an anchor, something to hold onto before you thrashed apart under the weight of it.
Fuck it, you thought.
You stopped fighting the reaction. Your fingers flew up, locking forcefully into Aerionâs hair, pulling tight enough to anchor him to you as you deliberately tilted your pelvis up, grinding your heat firmly against his knee.
Aerion let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden fistful of hair, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. A flash of pure, wicked delight split his features as he felt you grind against him. He didnât need any more invitation.
Shucking his breeches down with a rough, impatient jerk of his hips, he freed himself. He didn't completely strip your ivory shift; instead, his hands grabbed the hem, bunching the fine silk up to your waist until your hips were entirely bare against the sheets. He settled heavily between your parted thighs, the slick, thick heat of his length pressing directly against your entrance.
He didn't ease in with those gentle words or soft promises. He loomed over you, his chest flush against yours, and with a single, unhurried push, he drove his hips forward.
The blunt thickness of him tore through the maidenhood you had guarded for years. Your breath hitched sharply, a ragged gasp catching in the back of your throat as your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. The initial sting was hot and sharp, a tight stretching sensation that filled you completely. Aerion paused for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your face, watching the way your eyes flared with pain.
You hissed through your teeth, the pain already beginning to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache that pulsed right where your bodies met.
Aerion let out a sharp laugh, and then he began to move. He pulled back nearly all the way, letting the cool air of the room hit your slick skin for a fraction of a second before plunging deep inside you again. The heavy sound of his hips striking yours echoed in the quiet room.
He settled into a rhythm that was maddeningly and infuriatingly steady. His hands remained firm at your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you whenever you shifted beneath him. There was no teasing in it, no attempt at any gentlenessâ but only the same stubborn determination he seemed to bring to every argument, every fight, every impossible thing he set his mind to.
The friction was intense. The initial ache dissolved entirely, replaced by a blossoming heat that began to coil tightly in your lower stomach. Every time he drove inside you, his length rubbed against the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at your entrance, sending sharp jolts of electricity up your spine. You hated himâ you hated the smug twist of his lips, the arrogant tilt of his headâ but your body was entirely traitorousâ stretching to accommodate his thick length and relentless rhythm.
Aerionâs breathing turned into ragged, heavy pants, his forehead slick with sweat as he stared down at you, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. He was enjoying the total control of the position, looking entirely pleased with himself.
And youâ you weren't going to let him have it.
As he pulled back slightly to deliver another heavy thrust, you dug your heels into the mattress. You slammed your palms against his sticky chest and twisted your hips. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden resistance, Aerion lost his footing on the silk sheets. With a breathless yell, he tumbled onto his back.
Before he could even process the shift, you scrambled up, straddling his waist and pinning his thighs down with your knees. Your ivory shift hung loosely around your shoulders, your bare hips now perfectly aligned over his rigid length.
Aerion lay flat on his back, and for the second time that night, he looked completely stunned, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked up at you from below. Then, that familiar, chaotic grin slowly spread across his face. âWell. Look who wants to play king.â
âShut up,â you breathed, your face flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You didn't give him a chance to retort. Holding his gaze with that same look of unmistakable defiance, you lifted your hips and slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself back down onto him.
The sensation of taking him in from this angle was completely different. He went incredibly deep, filling you entirely until you felt the blunt cap of his length bottoming out against the very core of you. You let out a breathless, trembling gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest for balance as you threw your head back.
You began to ride him. You lifted your hips up until he almost slipped out, before slamming back down against his pelvis with a wet heavy slap. The control was entirely yours now. You determined the depth, the speed, and the angle. You leaned forward, pressing your hands flat against his chest, your small waist rolling in a tight, agonizingly slow circle that made Aerionâs eyes roll back into his head.
âFuck,â he groaned, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to push upward to force his own rhythm, but you leaned your weight into him, keeping him pinned down.
âNo,â you panting against his lips, leaning down until your sweat-dampened hair brushed his cheeks. âYou stay still.â
You accelerated the pace, your hips rising and falling in a frantic, rolling rhythm. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together filled the space between you, drowning out the distant, irrelevant world below. The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter with every downward strike, the overwhelming stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. You ground your cunt firmly against his pelvic bone with every drop, demanding everything he had, while still glaring down at him with beautiful, triumphant malice.
It grew unbearableâ like a tight rush of heat that shattered the last of your restraint. You slammed down against him one last time, your inner muscles convulsing around him in a tight spasm as a quiet gasp broke from your throat. The sudden and intense grip of your climax triggered him instantly. Aerionâs jaw locked, his head tossing back against the pillow as a low, guttural roar tore from his chest. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, jerking your pelvis down hard against his as he rolled into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the harsh and ragged rasp of his breathing. The arrogance was entirely gone from his face now, replaced by a flushed, dazed exhaustion.
You didn't waste a single moment. As soon as his grip loosened, you shifted your weight and climbed off him, sliding to the far edge of the mattress. Your skin was slick with sweat and your chest still heaving.
"Leave," you said, your voice coldâ and entirely devoid of emotion.
He blinked, his dazed expression instantly souring. He sat up, looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and sharp offense, his massive ego clearly taking a direct hit. "Leave? I just gave you a spectacular evening, and you're tossing me out like an unwelcome stray? I am the prince."
"Yes wellâ the transaction is complete," you replied, keeping your back to him. "Get out."
He let out an irritated hiss through his nose, muttering under his breath about your complete lack of gratitude. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, shucking them on with aggressive, jerky movements before slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
Only when the lock clicked shut did the silence of the room truly settle in.
That was when you felt itâ the thick, hot ache between your thighs, and the slow, heavy trickle of his seed spilling out onto your skin. The cold reality of what had just happened settled over you like a physical weight.
It was done.
There was no going back. You slowly rolled onto your back, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed, the phantom weight of his body still pressing into your mattress. You closed your eyes, swallowed the lump in your throat, and hoped for the best.
Aerion came and wentâ literally and figuratively.
The fierce, charged encounter you had shared weeks before was a rare exception, a fleeting moment of intensity you had only allowed because it served a practical purpose. The council was already breathing down your necks, and it was simply safer to perform the act so they wouldn't throw you both out for failing to produce an heir or shirking your marital duties.
This time, however, there was absolutely no fire, and you were bored out of your mind.
You lay at the very edge of the bed, your legs spread lazily as Aerion hovered over you, mechanically thrusting his hips forward. He wasn't even looking at you. His eyes were entirely distracted, darting upward to track a fat fuzzy bumblebee that had somehow wandered into the bedchamber and was currently hovering perilously close to his head.
"The winter stores are going to be a disaster if the northern grain shipments don't arrive by the fortnight," you remarked, your voice entirely conversational, echoing in the quiet room over the wet sounds of his thrusts. "And the tax assessments for the eastern districts are completely bloated. We need to revise the charts."
Aerionâs rhythm faltered, his brow furrowing in sheer exasperation as he narrowly ducked away from the bee. "Will you shut up? Justâ for one second, shut your mouth. I cannot focus with you lecturing me about agriculture right now."
You didn't flinch. You merely tilted your head back against the pillow, looking him dead in the eye with a look of detachment.
You deliberately fell completely silent, letting your arms drop to the sheets as you waited for him to finish.
Aerion let out a relieved sigh, his fingers tightening on one side of your hip to anchor himself.
"Thank you. God, I am profoundly grateful for that," he muttered, completely shameless as his free hand suddenly flew up into the air, aggressively swatting at the air to drive the bee away while his lower half kept driving into you with mindless and distracted efficiency.
He let out one final, frustrated swat at the air, his hips delivering a final perfunctory shove before he rolled off you, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the encounter.
And he definitely didn't linger. Within minutes, he had pulled his breeches back on, and vanished through the door without a glance.
A few quiet moments passed before the side door creaked open. Meriel slipped into the bedchamber, her eyes scanning your disheveled state, the twisted sheets, and the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.
"Good job," Meriel commented, folding her arms with a dry, knowing smirk.
You stared at her devoid of any emotion. "Thank you. I pride myself on my ability to discuss agricultural tax reform while being mindlessly rutted. It is a rare gift."
"Well, the council will be pleased," Meriel shrugged, walking over to pour you a cup of water. "They were beginning to think you two would rather poison each other's wine than actually secure the succession."
Before you could reply, the heavy main doors swung open. Daena strode into the room, her expression a mix of amusement. She didn't even knock.
"You can skip the modesty," Daena interrupted, looking between the two of you. "Almost the whole keep knows you've been fucking your husband."
You froze, the cup halfway to your lips. A spike of genuine concern hit your chest. "What? How could they possibly know that? The walls aren't that thin."
"Please," Daena scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Aerion left the door unlatched on his way out, shouting at a servant about a bee. And you aren't exactly quiet when you're ordering him around in here. The guards have a betting pool going."
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Fabulous. Truly magnificent."
"Stay right there in your bedchamber," Daena ordered, pointing a finger at you as she began to back toward the door. "Don't move. I'm going to go get something."
Meriel let out a long, heavy sigh the exact moment Daena turned her back on the room, her shoulders slumping in anticipation of whatever chaos Daena was about to fetch.
A few minutes later, Daena returned, holding a small pot containing a single, sprouted stalk of green wheat. She marched over and set it firmly on the nightstand beside your bed.
"A wedding gift," Daena announced proudly. "It detects pregnancy. You urinate on the soil. If the wheat grows rapidly over the next few days, you're with child. If it withers, you aren't."
You stared at the tiny plant, your eyebrows pulling together in deep skepticism. "Daena, it has been mere weeks. It is far too early to tell anything. And besides, why would I trust a stalk of grain when I can simply base it on my moon cycle?"
"Because the moon cycle takes a month, and this is much faster," Daena countered, entirely convinced of her own logic. "The women in the lower keep swear by it. Just try it."
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth banter about the absurdities of hedge-witch medicine, Daena finally grew bored and excused herself, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered it.
The moment the door shut behind, the room fell quiet.
Merielâs amusement disappeared almost instantly. The smile slipped from her face as she stepped closer, lowering her voice. âThere may be another Blackfyre rebellion.â
You stared at her. âAnother what?â
âA rebellion.â
You frowned. âThatâs ridiculous.â
It sounded ridiculous. There had been no whispers in court. No rumors drifting through the corridors. No nervous lords gathering in corners. Nothing.
âThere hasnât been a word about it,â you said. âNot from the court, not from the city. Nothing.â
âBecause the king ordered not to talk about it.â Meriel folded her hands before her. âThe small council knows. A handful of the great lords know. The rest are being kept in the dark.â
Your stomach tightened slightly. âAnd why would Maekar do that?â
âTo prevent panic.â A brief silence settled between you. Meriel held your gaze. Something in her tone made you sit a little straighter. âHow serious is it?â
âSerious enough that men have begun speaking of armies again.â
You looked away, your thoughts immediately turning to the king, the council, and the princes. And, unfortunately, to your husband.
Meriel leaned back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, folding her arms across her chest as she watched you. Her eyes tracked the tense line of your shoulders.
âYes,â she said dryly, letting out a soft sigh that rustled the quiet of the room. âHim too.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, the skin there hot and tight, before sliding your hands down to smooth over the rumpled linen of your sheets.
âWonderful.â
Months bled by in a tense, suffocating blur of war preparations, blacksmiths hammering through the night, and a sudden, sharp distance between you and the prince.
When the day of departure finally arrived, the atmosphere beneath the shadow of the Red Keep gates was thick with dust, the smell of leather, and the heavy trampling of warhorses.
You stood before Aerion in front of the massive iron-studded gates, surrounded by hundreds of armored men. Protocol demanded a farewell. You didn't want to give it. You didn't want to look at him, let alone offer any sweet, empty words of a worried wife, but the eyes of the court were heavy upon your back.
"Return safely, husband," you said, forcing a perfectly poised, diplomatic coolness into your voice although your eyes remained hard as flint.
Aerion, fully armored, his silver hair tucked loosely beneath a helmet, looked down at you from his mount. He didn't offer a grand declaration of war, nor did he display a single ounce of royal solemnity. Instead, that familiar smirk split his lips. He leaned down slightly from his saddle, ensuring his voice carried just enough for youâand only youâ to hear.
"Don't look so miserable, my love," he murmured with an infuriating wink. "You'll miss me. After all, youâre the greatest fuck Iâve ever had."
Before you could even process the crude, breathtaking arrogance of his words, he snapped his reins, turning his horse away with a loud, barking laugh. Your blood boiled instantly, a hot wave of pure, unadulterated fury washing over you as you watched his armored back retreat into the marching columns.
As the dust began to settle, one of the older council members stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the departing army. He didn't look at you when he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "Princess. Before the prince departed... is there any possibility that you are currently with child?"
You stood entirely rigid, keeping your jaw tight. You stayed quiet, refusing to give him a single word, staring straight ahead until the lord gave a stiff, disappointed bow and melted back into the crowd.
A few more months dragged on, the keep gripped by an agonizing silence as everyone awaited news from the front lines.
Then, the horns blew.
A blood-spattered, breathless messenger burst into the Great Hall, his boots clicking frantically against the stone floors. Lords and ladies scrambled to their feet as the man dropped to his knees before the vacant iron throne.
"Word from Starpike!" the messenger panted, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "The Targaryen forces have smashed the rebel lines! The Blackfyres are routed, their leaders dead! The war is won!"
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, a few lords cheeringâbut the messenger didn't stand. He stoppedâ swallowing hard, his face turning entirely pale as he looked up at the gathered nobility.
"But... King Maekar is dead," he whispered, the words dropping like lead. "During the siege of Starpike. A direct hit from a stone thrown from the battlements. It crushed his helmet. The king perished instantly."
Your heart skipped a beat. An inner, cold dialogue raced through your mind. Dead? So soon? King Maekarâ brought down by a stray piece of masonry. The kingdom was suddenly leaderless, thrown into a terrifyingly sudden transition of power.
"The vanguard," the messenger added breathlessly, "the company of Prince Aerion... they will be home in a few hours."
When the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung open later that night, Aerion strode inside. He was covered in dried mud and the faint, copper smell of old blood, his armor clanking loudly with every step. He walked with the broad, chest-puffed swagger of a conquerorâ expecting cheers, wine, and a celebratory riot.
Instead, he was met with a wall of absolute, suffocating silence.
Aerion slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. He didn't say a word, but the question was written all over his face: why does everyone look so utterly sullen when we just won a war? He looked around the room, his eyes darting from lord to lord, waiting for the applause that wasn't coming.
Then, the High Septon stepped forward. He didn't offer a congratulatory smile. Instead, he dropped heavily to both knees, pressing his palms flat against the stone floor.
"The King is dead," the old man announced, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Long live the King."
As if a string had been pulled, the entire room followed suit. One by one, the knights, the lords, and the ladies of the court dropped to their knees in a massive, sweeping wave of silk and steel. A low, thunderous chant rose from the floor, echoing off the cold stone walls: "Long live the King. Long live King Aerion!"
Aerion stood entirely frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by a sea of bowing heads. For the first time in his life, the smugness completely vanished from his face, replaced by a rare, stunned gravity as the sudden weight of the crown loomed over him.
You stood a few meters directly in front of him, remaining perfectly upright, the only person in the entire room who refused to bow. Your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of stone.
Behind you, you felt a slight shift in the air. Meriel stepped up right behind your shoulder, her gaze fixed entirely on your back as she looked between you and the newly proclaimed king.
Leaning in close, her voice a sharp, barely audible sliver of ice against your ear, she whispered,
synopsis. You tried to draw him today, and realized you'd forgotten what he looked like. (873)
pairing. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
warnings. jace is dead (bye).
You tried to draw him today.
It was rainingâ but not the kind of rain that demanded attention. Just a soft drizzle against the window pane, gentle enough to be forgotten if you stopped listening for it as the heavy smell of rain drifted through, mixing with the cold dust of the room.
The charcoal rested between your fingers as you stared at the blank parchment.
You werenât sure what had made you think of him. You didn't know why you had attempted this in the first place, or what had possessed you to believe your hands could capture a ghost.
Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was the way the light fell through the window this afternoon. Orâ or perhaps there had never been a reason at all.
Some days, after all these years, he simply returned to you. Not as a ghost. Not as a dream. Just as a memory.
You smiled faintly to yourself, a fragile thing that felt as easily torn as porcelain.
âLetâs see if I still can,â you murmured.
The first few lines came easily. The shape of his face. The fall of his hair. And the outline of broad shoulders you once knew better than your own reflection.
For a while, it felt almost effortless.
 In your mind, Jacaerys only ever existed in profile. You could perfectly conjure the sharp, proud slope of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes silhouetted against the dusk, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth when he was trying not to smile, and the wild, unruly tumble of his dark curls that never quite minded the wind. You could see the side view of his face so clearly it made your chest ache. It felt like he was sitting across from you again. Like he had only stepped away for a moment. Like the years in between had never happened.
Then you reached his eyes.
And stopped.
The charcoal hovered above the page. You frowned.
Wait.
You tried again, begging him to turn aroundâ pleading for him to turn his back to you and show you his full faceâ but the image fractured. The moment his eyes began to meet yours, the features bled away into nothingness. The memory refused to yield him to you.
Nothing.
You remembered looking into them.
Gods, you remembered that.
You remembered how safe you had felt beneath his gaze. How he would look at you as though the world beyond the two of you did not exist. You remembered laughter. Warm hands. Summer evenings. Promises spoken beneath starlight.
When you closed your eyes to reach for him, the world around him came alive with terrifying, vivid clarity. You could see the brilliant, endless blue of the sky, the blinding, golden warmth of the yellow sun, and the lush, vibrant green of the grass swaying beneath his boots. The world was loud, cruel, and beautiful with color.
But Jace? Jace was entirely devoid of it.
He stood there in the center of your mindâ like a quiet monochromatic specter. He was a stark, muted grey amidst a brilliantly colorful world, as if the sea had washed away everything that made him bright, leaving behind only a shadow. He felt like a good dream you had woken up from too soonâ one you were desperately trying to crawl back into, even if it meant waiting in vain just to go back to the way the two of you were before.
You remembered loving him.
And then remembered losing him, crashing into the Gullet and burying him beneath the cold, indifferent sea. You wondered bitterly if it had just been the right love at the wrong time, or if you should have tried giving in a little more to the warmth you had before the world fell apart. You had been so scared to lose him then, keeping your heart guarded, but those hidden feelings had only grown into quiet, heavy regrets buried deep within you. Was he only meant to teach you how to love, and then leave you behind?
But his eyesâ
You couldnât remember them.
Slowly, you lowered the charcoal. The tip snapped between your fingers, leaving a dark, jagged smudge across the heavy parchment like a scar.
The realization settled over you like rain. Somewhere along the way, youâd forgotten. Not on purpose. Neverâ never on purpose. Just little things. Small details carried away by passing years.
You could still remember the feeling of his hand in yours. You could recall the exact warmth of his palm, the rough, reassuring calluses from his dragon reins, and the way his fingers used to anchor themselves against your waist as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
And yet the face attached to it was beginning to blur.
You swallowed.
The unfinished portrait sat between your hands. In another life, in a world where you were his, there would have been a lifetime waiting for the two of you. You would have had the time. But here, the colors of the world only served to remind you that while he was never truly yours to keep, all this time, you had entirely been his.
should i write a fic where jace survives the war but is in a coma for a year. when he wakes up, his younger brother aegon iii is crowned king, but finds out that heâs basically being controlled by reader, who governs the realm as grand princess regent.
i havenât thought about it yet if reader is going to be a hightower or from another valyrian house that pledged to the greens during the war, but this is definitely going to be part of the plot.
after a few months as king, aegon iii abdicates- maybe after jaehaeraâs death because heâs too traumatized from everything that came with being the reigning monarch of the realm. as a result, he names jace as his heir. to stabilize the realm (because there are still green loyalists around and nobody wants another dance), the council decides that the best solution is to marry reader and jace to unite the divided house of the dragon.
tags: enemies, knife to the throat, fighting with swords and shit, arranged marriage, political tension, forced proximity, mutual distrust, and definitely smut with plot because i have no self control
i have LOTS of ideas for this one already⊠just lmk if you wanna get tagged when i post it hihi
synopsis. You tried to draw him today, and realized you'd forgotten what he looked like. (873)
pairing. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
warnings. jace is dead (bye).
You tried to draw him today.
It was rainingâ but not the kind of rain that demanded attention. Just a soft drizzle against the window pane, gentle enough to be forgotten if you stopped listening for it as the heavy smell of rain drifted through, mixing with the cold dust of the room.
The charcoal rested between your fingers as you stared at the blank parchment.
You werenât sure what had made you think of him. You didn't know why you had attempted this in the first place, or what had possessed you to believe your hands could capture a ghost.
Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps it was the way the light fell through the window this afternoon. Orâ or perhaps there had never been a reason at all.
Some days, after all these years, he simply returned to you. Not as a ghost. Not as a dream. Just as a memory.
You smiled faintly to yourself, a fragile thing that felt as easily torn as porcelain.
âLetâs see if I still can,â you murmured.
The first few lines came easily. The shape of his face. The fall of his hair. And the outline of broad shoulders you once knew better than your own reflection.
For a while, it felt almost effortless.
 In your mind, Jacaerys only ever existed in profile. You could perfectly conjure the sharp, proud slope of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes silhouetted against the dusk, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his mouth when he was trying not to smile, and the wild, unruly tumble of his dark curls that never quite minded the wind. You could see the side view of his face so clearly it made your chest ache. It felt like he was sitting across from you again. Like he had only stepped away for a moment. Like the years in between had never happened.
Then you reached his eyes.
And stopped.
The charcoal hovered above the page. You frowned.
Wait.
You tried again, begging him to turn aroundâ pleading for him to turn his back to you and show you his full faceâ but the image fractured. The moment his eyes began to meet yours, the features bled away into nothingness. The memory refused to yield him to you.
Nothing.
You remembered looking into them.
Gods, you remembered that.
You remembered how safe you had felt beneath his gaze. How he would look at you as though the world beyond the two of you did not exist. You remembered laughter. Warm hands. Summer evenings. Promises spoken beneath starlight.
When you closed your eyes to reach for him, the world around him came alive with terrifying, vivid clarity. You could see the brilliant, endless blue of the sky, the blinding, golden warmth of the yellow sun, and the lush, vibrant green of the grass swaying beneath his boots. The world was loud, cruel, and beautiful with color.
But Jace? Jace was entirely devoid of it.
He stood there in the center of your mindâ like a quiet monochromatic specter. He was a stark, muted grey amidst a brilliantly colorful world, as if the sea had washed away everything that made him bright, leaving behind only a shadow. He felt like a good dream you had woken up from too soonâ one you were desperately trying to crawl back into, even if it meant waiting in vain just to go back to the way the two of you were before.
You remembered loving him.
And then remembered losing him, crashing into the Gullet and burying him beneath the cold, indifferent sea. You wondered bitterly if it had just been the right love at the wrong time, or if you should have tried giving in a little more to the warmth you had before the world fell apart. You had been so scared to lose him then, keeping your heart guarded, but those hidden feelings had only grown into quiet, heavy regrets buried deep within you. Was he only meant to teach you how to love, and then leave you behind?
But his eyesâ
You couldnât remember them.
Slowly, you lowered the charcoal. The tip snapped between your fingers, leaving a dark, jagged smudge across the heavy parchment like a scar.
The realization settled over you like rain. Somewhere along the way, youâd forgotten. Not on purpose. Neverâ never on purpose. Just little things. Small details carried away by passing years.
You could still remember the feeling of his hand in yours. You could recall the exact warmth of his palm, the rough, reassuring calluses from his dragon reins, and the way his fingers used to anchor themselves against your waist as if you were the only solid thing in a crumbling world.
And yet the face attached to it was beginning to blur.
You swallowed.
The unfinished portrait sat between your hands. In another life, in a world where you were his, there would have been a lifetime waiting for the two of you. You would have had the time. But here, the colors of the world only served to remind you that while he was never truly yours to keep, all this time, you had entirely been his.
hey!! I love ur the great series w Aerion but I absolutely had to ask to save me the pain and crying laterâŠis he gonna die like Peter did or in this is it like that episode never existed
hi! honestly i havenât thought that far ahead đi have a few plot points i definitely want to hit, but the actual ending? your guess is almost as good as mine. i tend to figure things out as i go and then somehow connect them later.
so with that- i canât promise anything yet đ§ââïž all i can say is that future me will have to deal with it when we get theree
Cool concept for the Great with Aerion, would you mind if I take inspiration from it? Since I recent saw a lot of clips from the show itself and began shifting through scenes to possibly write with an oc of my own. I'd credit you as an inspiration, of courseđ
helloo! sorry for the very late reply, uni has been beating me up lately..
but yes, absolutely! đ«¶đ» i donât mind at all. iâd love to see what you do with your own oc and version of the idea! and iâm honestly really honored that something i wrote inspired you enough to want to create your own take on it đ„č
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like fliesâleaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 16,067
chapter 1 â chapter 2 â
COMMENT IF YOUâD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
authors note. im sorry this took so long to write pls dont hate me đ just a little note: i specifically wrote this fic to not follow the canon timeline/events, so yes, it is wildly unrealistic that i managed to cram half the targaryen family dying and a blackfyre rebellion into roughly a year. however, i wanted king aerion, therefore the timeline had to suffer. also wrote my first ever smut for this chapter. please be kind to me. i did not proofread a single word of it bc im shy. if there are mistakes, no there arenât. i canât see them. i have chosen peace :P likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. MDNI (18+) !!! violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
Exile, you discovered, was a surprisingly festive occasion.
The harbor bustled from sunrise. Sailors shouted over one another, ropes creaked against wooden masts, and gulls circled overhead with all the dignity of drunken courtiers. The smell of salt, fish, tar, and seaweed clung stubbornly to the air, settling over the docks like a damp blanket. Ships rocked lazily against their moorings while merchants complained, sailors cursed, and somewhere nearby a man was loudly losing an argument with a crate.
A crowd had gathered along the waterfront.
Not because exile was particularly rare.
But because Aerion Targaryen being exiled was apparently an entertainment.
Prince Maekar stood at the front of the gathering, grim and immovable as a carved monument. He looked exactly like a man who had spent the last several weeks regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Servants darted through the crowd carrying trunks and supplies while several ladies pretended not to stare.
They all stared anyway.
You stood among them, naturally, because as Aerion's wife, failing to attend his departure would have raised questions. Questions were dangerous. Questions led to conversations. Conversations led to explanations. And explaining why your husband's exile felt suspiciously similar to receiving a gift from the gods seemed unwise.
So you attended. You stood dutifully among the gathered nobles and courtiers and tried very hard to look devastated. You even practiced beforehandâ the result was a strange expression that made you look either mildly constipated or recently widowed.
And unfortunately for you, your lips kept attempting to smile.
Across the dock, Aerion was arguing with three different people simultaneously while sailors loaded his belongings onto the waiting vessel. It was genuinely impressive, to say the least.
One sailor was attempting to explain that no, his hunting hounds could not occupy the captain's quarters. Another was trying to convince him that six barrels of wine counted as excessive provisions for a journey that would last less than two weeks.
A third appeared to be defending himself against accusations that he had somehow personally arranged the weather.
All three were losing.
"You are transporting a prince," Aerion informed them loudly. "Hhave some ambition."
"The cabin physically cannot fit twelve dogs, my prince."
"They are sensitive animals."
"They bite people."
"They are discerning."
The sailor looked ready to throw himself into the sea.
Nearby, one of Aerion's men was attempting to load a trunk large enough to conceal a horse.
You narrowed your eyes.
A trunk.
The sight of it immediately filled you with unpleasant memories. You decided you hated trunks.
Aerion continued talkingâ or complaining.
At this point the distinction hardly mattered.
His silver hair caught the morning light as he paced the dock, gesturing dramatically enough that several sailors had begun avoiding eye contact altogether.
The exile had been announced days ago and the kingdom had known peace ever since.
Aerion, however, had spent those same days informing anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen that the punishment was unjust, outrageous, politically foolish, personally insulting, and possibly treasonous.
The fact that he had threatened multiple people before being exiled seemed, in his opinion, entirely irrelevant. According to Aerion, the punishment was excessive, unfair, politically foolish, and a personal attack orchestrated by people who lacked both imagination and gratitude. Most disagreed. People said he deserved itâsome quietly, others not so quietly.
His recklessness, his temper, and his endless appetite for trouble had finally caught up with him. More importantly, his actions had contributed to the death of Prince Baelor, and that was not something even a prince could simply laugh away. The court had spent weeks whispering about it in corridors and behind closed doors, and for once those whispers had reached the king. Exile, many thought, was a mercy. Aerion, naturally, disagreed.
Your gaze drifted toward the ship.
Lys.
Of all places, they had chosen Lys.
You felt a flicker of disappointment.
Exile was supposed to be miserable. Remote. Unpleasant. The sort of place people were sent to suffer and reflect upon their mistakes.
Lys was none of those things.
Lys was warm. Beautiful. Rich. Full of gardens, fountains, music, and enough pleasure houses to keep Aerion occupied until the end of time. Frankly, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward.
You had spent half your childhood trying to convince your family to leave Lys and travel somewhere exciting. Aerion had indirectly killed a princeâno, the prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, and somehow been granted a seaside holiday.
It was deeply irritating.
Still, at least he would be several hundred leagues away.
There was comfort in distance.
Not enough comfort, perhaps, but enough that you found yourself hoping the ship sailed very, very slowly.
And as Aerion boarded the ship, you could only hope he never returned.
Not in the dramatic sense. You did not wish for storms. Storms were unpredictable and had a habit of affecting innocent people. Nor did you wish for pirates. Pirates tended to be enthusiastic about everyone elseâs problems. Shipwrecks seemed messy. Assassinations seemed excessive.
No.
You simply hoped he stayed there.
Forever.
Lys was lovely. Lys was warm. Lys was beautiful. Lys was full of vineyards, musicians, fountains, silk, and enough distractions to occupy Aerion until the end of time. Surely, somewhere within that city, there existed a problem dramatic enough to capture his attention permanently.
Perhaps he would fall hopelessly in love with a Lysene courtesan. Noâ you scoffed, Aerion out of all people wasnât capable of love.
Perhaps he would offend the wrong magister and spend years arguing his way out of prison.
Perhaps he would become obsessed with some absurd Essosi hobby and refuse to leave.
Perhaps he would simply forget Westeros existed.
You were not particularly concerned with the details.
The important thing was that he remained several hundred leagues away from you.
The ship slowly drifted from the harbor. You watched it pull farther and farther from shore, the sails swelling in the sea breeze as sailors moved across the deck like tiny figures against the morning sky.
Aerion stood near the stern as the ship drifted farther from the harbor, one hand braced against the railing while he argued with someone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Even from this distance, it was obvious.
The other man looked increasingly exhausted.
Aerion pointed toward something in the distance. The sailor pointed elsewhere. Aerion threw both hands into the air in outrage.
Remarkable.
The man could start a dispute in an empty room and somehow emerge convinced he was the victim.
A laugh almost escaped you.
Instead, you lifted a hand to your face. Not to wave. Merely to shield your eyes from the sun. At least that was what you told yourself.
The ship continued onward.
The sounds of the harbor slowly swallowed the last traces of it. The shouting sailors became indistinct. The creaking wood disappeared beneath the cries of gulls overhead. The red-and-black Targaryen banners that had snapped proudly in the wind began shrinking into little more than splashes of color against the sea.
You watched longer than you intended.
Perhaps to ensure it was truly leaving.
Perhaps because after everything, it felt strange seeing him go.
For all his faultsâand there were enough to fill several books, Aerion had occupied every corner of your life since your arrival in Westeros. He had been an irritation, a humiliation, a disappointment, and occasionally a genuine threat to your continued existence.
And now he was becoming smaller by the second. The ship diminished into a dark shape upon the water.
Then a speck.
Then little more than a pale shadow against the horizon. You kept staring even after it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the sea itself.
Finally, being a kind, generous, and forgiving woman, you offered a few final wishes for your husband.
May his wine always be slightly sour.
May his boots leak whenever it rains.
May every chair he sits upon wobble just enough to be irritating but never enough to be fixed.
May every meal arrive cold.
May every horse dislike him on sight.
May every woman find him exhausting.
May every pillow be warm on both sides.
May every bath be slightly too hot or slightly too cold.
May his sleeves catch on door handles.
May he forever lose one glove and never the matching one.
May-
Well.
The sentiment was there.
You lowered your hand. The ship vanished completely. Nothing remained but the sea.
For a moment, you simply stood there, letting the wind pull at your sleeves. The harbor bustled around you. People resumed their conversations. Sailors returned to work. The world continued as though nothing remarkable had happened.
Perhaps nothing had.
Yet the absence settled over you immediately. Not grief. Certainly not grief. But something that felt suspiciously close to relief.
By the time the ship vanished entirely from sight, you felt lighter than you had in months.
Perhaps years.
The following weeks passed pleasantly.
Then months.
The palace settled into a quieter rhythm without him. His absence left behind an unexpected peace, like a storm finally moving beyond the horizon. Meals became calmer. Servants no longer looked constantly terrified. Nobody threw goblets at walls.
You spent your mornings in the library. Your afternoons overseeing your school. Your evenings reading beside candlelight without wondering whether Aerion was currently setting something, or someone on fire.
Life, for the first time since your arrival in Westeros, felt manageable.
Letters arrived occasionally from Lys. At first, you could not understand why. The very existence of them seemed absurd.
Aerion did not like you. You did not like Aerion.
This was a fact both of you had established repeatedly and with remarkable consistency.
And yet the letters came.
Every few weeks a servant would appear carrying another sealed parchment bearing Aerionâs name. Sometimes the seal was broken. Sometimes wine stained the corner. Once there appeared to be scorch marks.
You read the first few, mostly out of curiosity. The first was three pages dedicated entirely to an argument he had started with a ship captain. Aerion maintained the man had insulted him.
The second letter involved a Lysene magistrate. The third somehow involved the same magistrate, a horse, and a public fountain.
You never learned exactly how because the writing tended to wander. Aerion would begin discussing one subject before veering abruptly into another. Half his letters were complaints. The other half were descriptions of people who had apparently disappointed him.
The city disappointed him.
The food disappointed him.
The magistrates disappointed him.
The weather disappointed him.
One memorable letter was devoted entirely to explaining why a particular tavern owner deserved imprisonment for serving wine that Aerion described as âan insult to grapes.â
Not once did he ask how you were.
Not once did he mention missing home.
Not once did he mention missing you.
You found this reassuring.
After several months you stopped reading them altogether.
There hardly seemed a point.
Instead, the letters accumulated unopened upon a table in your chambers until eventually even that became tiresome. You instructed a servant to place them elsewhere. You never asked where.
Curiously, the letters continued arriving for some time after that. As though Aerion had convinced himself you were reading them.
Or perhaps he simply enjoyed complaining and required an audience, even an unwilling one.
Then, one day, they stopped. No letter arrived that week. Nor the week after. A month passed. Then another.
You found yourself noticing the absence immediately.
Not because you missed them. Gods, no. Quite the opposite, actually. The silence felt like relief. A deep, unexpected relief.
Perhaps he had finally forgotten about this place. Perhaps he had become distracted by Lys. That seemed likely.
Lys excelled at distracting men.
Perhaps he had discovered some new amusement. Some new scandal. Some new woman patient enough to tolerate him. Perhaps, at long last, he had decided to remain there permanently.
The possibility settled warmly in your chest.
And as the months continued to pass without a single letter from across the Narrow Sea, you allowed yourself to hope. Just a little.
Perhaps Lys had finally decided to keep him.
The months continued to pass.
Seasons changed.
Your school grew.
The memory of your husband slowly became less of a daily irritation and more of a distant nuisance, like an old scar that only hurt when touched.
And so, almost peacefully, an entire year slipped by.
Unfortunately, Aerion Targaryen did not.
One year later, standing upon that very same harbor beneath a pale morning sky, you found yourself staring across the sea at a familiar vessel cutting through the water.
For a moment, you merely watched it. Then your stomach sank.
The ship drew closer.
Closer. And closer.
Until the black-and-red banners became visible against the wind.
Around you, servants began moving with excitement. Someone announced the princeâs return. A knight laughed (one of Aerionâs so-called friends perhaps). Another called for preparations.
You simply stood there in silence.
The gods, it seemed, had received every one of your prayers.
And ignored them completely.
ONE YEAR AGO
You settled quickly into life without Aerion. Perhaps too quickly.
The moment the ship carrying your husband into his well-deserved exile vanished beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, a suffocating weight had lifted from your chest. In his absence, you carved out a quiet, deliberate existence. The charity school you championed became your sanctuary, occupying the vast majority of your attention. You spent your mornings matching names to eager young faces, listening to the scratched scratching of quills on cheap slate, and finding a profound, grounding purpose in the simple act of teaching.
And the library occupied whatever remained of your waking hours. There, hidden away in a sunlit corner where dust motes danced in the quiet air, you lost yourself in histories of the First Men, treatises on old medicine, and maps of lands you would likely never see. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into peaceful, seamless months.
It was a serene, predictable routine, so beautifully unhurried that you occasionally forgot you were technically married to a monster exiled across the sea. You were a wife in name only, and you thanked the Seven for that mercy every single night.
Then King Daeron ruined everything.
Wellâ not intentionally.
Probably.
The King, after all, was known for his gentle disposition, but a monarchâs kindness could be just as disruptive as a tyrantâs whim. A royal summons arrived one crisp autumn morning, delivered by a solemn page and bearing the heavy, intimidating weight of the Kingâs personal crimson wax seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal elegant, sloping script informing you that His Grace believed it would be highly beneficial if you took up residence at the Red Keep for the foreseeable future.
The reasoning laid out by the crown, apparently, was loneliness. King Daeron, in his infinite, misplaced paternal worry, believed that a young woman left to her own devices in a quiet estate must be rotting away from isolation.
You stared at the letter, the ink blurring slightly before your incredulous eyes.
Then you looked up at Meriel, who was sorting through a basket of fresh linens.
Then you looked back down at the letter.
âI am not lonely,â you stated flatly, as if stating it to the empty air would somehow manifest the truth across the small palace and to the Red Keep.
Meriel stopped her folding and glanced at the overwhelming piles of leather-bound books, loose scrolls, and heavily annotated ledgers completely surrounding your chair. Her expression remained utterly deadpan.
âYou spend most of your days speaking to parchment,â she observed dryly.
âI enjoy parchment,â you shot back, defensively tapping the edge of a heavy historical tome.
âBe that as it may, His Grace believes female companionship would be beneficial for you,â Meriel countered, a faint, teasing smirk threatening to break her composure. âHe thinks you need the laughter of noble ladies, not the scent of old glue and dusty books.â
You looked utterly horrified, the very concept of being dragged into the gossiping web of the courtly maidens sending a cold shiver down your spine.
Unfortunately, kings were remarkably difficult people to argue with.
Especially when they were correct about being king.
And so, several grueling weeks later, you found your peaceful isolation shattered. You found yourself riding through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, returning to the very sprawling, blood-stone castle where your disastrous marriage had begun.
The familiar, looming towers rose aggressively above the churning waves of Blackwater Bay, looking exactly as you remembered them.
Unfortunately.
The jagged silhouette of the Red Keep cut into the sky like an open wound. You had hoped never to see some of these corridors again, specifically the ones leading to Aerionâs old quarters, which still seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of his cruel, manic laughter.
The court, meanwhile, welcomed you enthusiastically.
Far too enthusiastically.
In a palace where the highborn starved for any scrap of novelty, a princeâs absent, abandoned wife qualified as premium entertainment. You were like a living curiosity: the girl who had survived the cruel prince and had now been summoned back by the Kingâs own hand.
The ladies of the court descended upon you almost immediately, like a flock of colorful, preening birds of prey trapped in a cage of silk and velvet. They cornered you in the gardens, crowded around your table at morning break-fast, and shadowed your steps through the lower galleries.
They discussed gowns down to the exact placement of expensive laces. They argued over jewels, measuring the worth of a house by the clarity of a diamond.
They debated marriage as if it were a game of cyvasse, plotting which second sons could be bartered off. They tore down other ladies with sharp, syrupy smiles.
They whispered endlessly about who was sleeping with whom.
They speculated wildly on who wished to sleep with whom.
And, most exhausting of all, they giggled over who claimed not to be sleeping with whom, despite very obviously sleeping with whom.
You hated every single, agonizing moment of it. Your face grew stiff from forcing polite, empty smiles. You missed the smell of your books. You missed the earnest, chaotic energy of your school. You missed the absolute, unblemished luxury of silence. Most of all, you missed the simple dignity of being left entirely alone.
Fortunately, the gods occasionally offered small compensations for human suffering.
In this case, your salvation came in the form of Princess Daena.
The youngest child and only daughter of King Daeron. Daena was a whirlwind of a girl.
She was only a few years older than you, though one would never know it from the way she carried herself. Where most women at court acquired a degree of restraint with age, Daena seemed to have actively rejected the concept. She possessed an astonishing, almost magnificent combination of supreme confidence and complete, unadulterated foolishness.
It was the sort of foolishness that could only flourish in someone who had spent her entire life being adored.
Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of the kingâs children, born long after her brothers. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter in a family full of princes. Or perhaps everyone around her had simply surrendered years ago and decided it was easier to indulge her than correct her.
She had been married once. A lord from a respectable house, if your memory served correctly. You never quite remembered which one because Daena never spoke of him with much enthusiasm.
The marriage had not lasted long though.
Her husband died during the Blackfyre Rebellion, leaving her widowed while still very young. Most women would have been expected to remain with their husbandâs family or remarry eventually.
Daena simply returned to the Red Keep. And never left. No one seemed particularly inclined to force the issue. Not when she was the kingâs only daughter. And not when she appeared perfectly content exactly where she was.
Years later, she still occupied her apartments in the castle as though she had merely stepped out for a brief visit and forgotten to go back.
She spoke constantly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush that often seemed to outrun her thoughts. Conversations with her rarely followed a sensible path. One moment she would be sharing some scandal she had overheard at court, the next she would interrupt herself to wonder aloud whether horses had favorite colors. By the end of the conversation, neither of you could remember how it had started.
She approached every mundane aspect of life with the fiery determination of a seasoned warrior, combined with the fragile intelligence of a deeply distracted goose.
Within three days of your arrival, despite her complete lack of sense, she had become your favorite person at court. Not because she was particularly clever.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
But she was thoroughly, wonderfully entertaining. She was a breath of fresh air in a room full of perfumed suffocations. And unlike most of the venomous ladies at court, Daena possessed absolutely no talent whatsoever for subtle cruelty. She didn't know how to whisper a compliment that doubled as an insult; if she disliked something, she simply stated it with the bluntness of a warhammer.
âYou read too much,â she informed you one bright afternoon, peering over the top of your thick tome while swinging her legs off the stone bench in the godswood.
âYou read too little,â you replied without looking up, turning a crisp page.
âBooks make me sleepy,â she huffed, crossing her arms. âAll those tiny black letters look like ants crawling across the paper. It gives me a headache.â
âBooks give you knowledge, Daena. For instance, they might teach you what animals eat. You once attempted to feed a lemon tart to a royal peacock.â
Daena sniffed defensively, tilting her chin up. âIt looked hungry.â
âIt tried to bite your fingers off.â
âYes. A thoroughly rude animal,â she grumbled, entirely unrepentant. âNo manners at all. Next time, I shall bring a stick instead of a pastry.â
The months passed pleasantly enough after that, the sharp edges of the Red Keep softened by Daenaâs chaotic companionship.
Until the sickness arrived.
At first, it was little more than a collection of distant whispers. A sudden, shivering fever in the rotting alleys of Flea Bottom. A hacking, wet cough among the kitchen servants.
A handful of isolated deaths among the smallfolk that nobody in the upper keeps considered particularly alarming. People died in the slums every day, it was the tax of poverty.
Then, the whispers grew into a deafening roar.
The fevers spread like wildfire through dry brush, leaping over the city walls and defying the heavy oak doors of the wealthy. Entire noble households fell ill within a span of days, masters and servants dying in the same sheets.
The city began to change, stripping away its vibrant, chaotic skin. Doors remained barred and locked from the inside. The bustling markets emptied, leaving rotting produce and abandoned carts in the squares.
The ominous, rhythmic tolling of funeral bells rang far more frequently than the bells of the church septs.
People stopped gathering in crowds, looking at their own neighbors with raw suspicion. Fear settled over Kingâs Landing like a suffocating, physical shadow, choking the life out of the capital.
The Great Spring Sickness.
Even the name sounded deceptively gentle, evoking images of blooming flowers and morning dew. But there was nothing gentle about it.
It was a horrific, bloody scourge that turned a manâs blood to water and his lungs to ash within two days of the first chill. Every single day brought a fresh wave of reports to the castle. More deaths. More uncontrollable fevers. More black drapes of mourning hanging from balconies.
The Red Keep attempted to continue as normal, putting on a brave, stubborn face to prevent total panic in the streets.
For a time.
Then, the ultimate terror struck, even the royal family, with all their ancient valyrian blood and isolated privileges, began to fall ill.
Prince Matarys, young and full of promise, went first.
Then Prince Valarr followed his brother into the dark.
One right after another.
There was a crushing silence that followed. The sheer disbelief that washed over the courtiers.. The raw, jagged grief of a family being systematically hollowed out. It was a terrifying realization for the entire realm: that dragons could die just as easily, just as pitifully, as any beggar in the gutter.
The court changed overnight, its glittering facade completely shattering. Laughter disappeared entirely from the halls. Conversations became quieter, reduced to paranoid whispers in darkened alcoves. People began watching one another with a terrifying, hawkish intensity, staring at a neighbor's throat or forehead as though the sickness might be visible if one looked hard enough, terrified of a single cough or a sudden bead of sweat.
Then came the worst, most devastating blow of all.
King Daeron.
The kind, weary king who had summoned you to court because he genuinely worried you might be lonely in your quiet life. The Great Spring Sickness claimed him before the year was out, leaving his bedchamber cold and his throne empty.
The Great Sept of Baelor smelled of death. It was not the crisp, clean scent of the high-burning pyres, but the heavy, suffocating odor of hundreds of beeswax candles, stale incense, and the lingering, invisible phantom of the Great Spring Sickness.
The funeral of King Daeron II, and his two bright, promising grandsons, Valarr and Matarys, had ended hours ago. The highborn mourners had dispersed like smoke, leaving the massive stone structure hollowed out and freezing.
You remained behind.
You had not known the princes well. They were distant figures of duty and grace, but they had been good men. Kind men. In a dynasty so frequently plagued by madness and cruelty, they had been a promise of a gentle spring. Now, they were ashes, and the crown had slid heavily onto the head of Daeronâs second son, Aerys, a man who preferred dusty scrolls to the living world.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, your hands clasped tightly against the rough wool of your mourning gown. You wanted to pray. You needed to pray, if only to find some semblance of order in a world that had tilted entirely off its axis in a matter of weeks.
"A crown," a voice rasped through the gloom. "A crown of gold, heavy with the weight of dozens... dozens of ghosts." You flinched, your hands dropping as you turned sharply.
Emerging from the shadow of one of the massive marble pillars was Maester Gladys.
Your breath caught in your throat. This was the man. The architect of your misery. It was Maester Gladys who, years ago, had whispered into the ears of your family and the Citadel, orchestrating the match that bound you to the nightmare that was Prince Aerion. You had hated him in silence since then.
But looking at him now, hatred gave way to a cold, prickling dread.
The maesterâs robes were disheveled, the links of his chain clinking together erratically as he trembled. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and glassy as he stared completely past you, trapped in the throes of a waking delirium. The sickness had not taken his body, but it seemed to have shattered his mind. He was hallucinating, his hands clawing at the empty air as if tearing away a veil.
"They fall," Gladys whispered, his voice rising in an eerie, melodic cadence. He stepped closer, entirely unaware of who you were, seeing only a shape in the dim sept. "The dragons fall like autumn leaves. First the brave, then the beautiful, then the old king. The spring takes them. But the spring is just the wind that clears the field."
"Maester Gladys," you said, your voice trembling as you backed away from the altar. "You are unwell. Let me call someone to help yâ"
"No!" He lunged forward with terrifying, sudden speed, his bony fingers gripping your wrists. His grip was like ice. His wild eyes locked onto yours, and for a fraction of a second, a horrific spark of clarity pierced his madness. "I saw it. Years ago, before I sent the letters. Before I bound you to the dragon's blood. I had a dream."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Let me go."
"A dream of a throne of swords," Gladys hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and poppy juice. "I saw the royals... their descendants... dozens of them, blood on their doublets, ash in their hair. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. Not Aerion. Not Aerys. You, sitting upon the Iron Throne, the realm quiet at your feet. That is why you had to be here! The gods demanded you be planted in the garden before the fire began!"
Horror, cold and absolute, flooded your veins. You yanked your hands from his grasp with a desperate surge of strength.
He stumbled backward, laughing a breathless, broken laugh, still muttering about a throne made of bones and a queen crowned in shadows.
You didn't look back. You turned and ran.
You ran through the towering doors of the Sept, down the endless marble steps of Visenyaâs Hill, the wind whipping your mourning veil against your face. Your lungs burned. The maesterâs words chased you like a curse. It was madness. It was the fever talking. It had to be.
But as the days bled into weeks, the horror only deepened, because the world began to mimic the madman's dream with terrifying precision.
King Aerys I was crowned in a somber, muted ceremony. He took the throne, ignored his wife, ignored his realm, and buried his face in books of prophecy.
The crown sat precariously on a head that refused to look at the living, while the heavy hand of Bloodraven governed from the shadows. The Red Keep became a tomb of whispers and dust, but the true horror was not the silence of the new King, but it was the terrifying rhythm with which the Stranger kept reclaiming the dragonâs blood.
The madmanâ or should you say, Maester Gladysâs prophecy did not unfold in a single, sudden ruination. But instead, it eroded the Targaryen dynasty piece by piece, striking down the royals in ways so sudden and bizarre they defied all reason.
The first of these strange, chilling extractions happened right before your eyes, turning a rare evening of courtly pretense into a waking nightmare.
It was during a feast, a forced, hollow celebration meant to project a semblance of stability.
The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and heavy perfumes meant to mask the lingering dread of the city. You sat at the high table, wedged into a space that felt less like an honor and more like a surveillance post. To your left sat Princess Daena, fidgeting with her silver fork. To your right sat Prince Rhaegal.
Rhaegal was a gentle, broken creature, a man whose mind had long since dissolved into a soft, harmless madness. That evening, he was in one of his distant, melancholic moods, his violet eyes glassy as he stared at his plate, occasionally humming a melody only he could hear.
âTry the lamprey pie,â Daena murmured to you, gesturing toward a massive, golden-crusted dish that had just been carved. âThe cook swore he used the finest spices from Dorne, though I suspect he just spilled pepper into the broth.â
Before you could reply, Rhaegal reached out. With a sudden, childlike enthusiasm that often characterized his shifting moods, he took a massive, heavy portion of the pie, driving his fork into the rich, dark meat. He ate quickly, untethered from the rigid decorum expected of a prince of the blood, his mind clearly miles away from the Great Hall.
You turned back to Daena, smiling faintly at her chatter, when a sharp, wet gasp cut through the ambient noise of the feast.
You turned sharply. Rhaegalâs fork had clattered against his pewter plate. His hands flew to his throat, his face rapidly turning a terrifying, mottled shade of purple. The gentle prince was struggling for air, his lungs completely blocked by a thick piece of the heavy pastry.
âUncle?â Daena asked, her voice dropping its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic. âUncle Rhaegal?â
Rhaegal didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved violently, a horrific, choking sound tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward out of his high-backed chair. The heavy oak crashed against the stone floor, a sound that instantly silenced the immediate radius of the high table. Courtiers froze, wine cups suspended in mid-air.
You lunged forward, your fingers catching the sleeve of his velvet doublet as he began to sink to his knees. âMaester!â you shouted, your voice echoing off the high stone rafters. âHelp him! Heâs choking!â
But the response was too slow. In a court paralyzed by the fear of sudden death, everyone simply stared. Rhaegal clawed at his own neck, his glassy eyes rolling back into his head, fixed on the high, vaulted ceiling as if he could see the invisible threads pulling him down. He thrashed once, twice, a pitiful, desperate struggle for a single gasp of air, and then his body went entirely limp in your grasp.
By the time the Grand Maester finally scrambled up the steps of the elevated dais, robes billowing and chains clinking in a useless panic, the Prince of Dragonstone was already gone. The direct heir to the Iron Throne lay still on the cold stone. Rhaegal had lived through the horrors of the Great Spring Sickness, surviving a plague that had wiped out thousands, only to have his breath stolen by a greasy piece of crust.
A heavy, suffocating panic descended on the hall. Daena let out a small, terrified sob, clutching at your arm, but you could only stare down at Rhaegalâs still, purple face. Dozens of deaths, Gladysâs voice echoed in the caverns of your mind. A line completely severed.
And then, as if the Stranger were executing a meticulously planned script, the dominoes continued to fall with horrific precision. Rhaegalâs son Aelor was named heir, only to be killed in a freak, tragic mishap by his own twin sister, who soon followed him into the grave.
The line was being systematically hollowed out, leaving nothing but ashes and empty chairs. Finally, Aerys too passed into the histories. He left behind a fractured, bleeding court, a vacant throne, and a path that led straight back to the one man you dreaded most.
His name was mentioned over and over again. You heard they had a meeting; a grim, quiet gathering of the small council, tucked away in the council chambers while the King's body was still being prepared for the silent sisters.
The question of who would succeed Aerys was simple on the surface, yet entirely terrifying beneath it. Naturally, the crown belonged to Maekar. He was the last surviving brother, a veteran commander of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and a man made of iron and duty. But after so many sudden, bizarre tragedies, after watching a whole generation of royals vanish into the dirt in a matter of monthsâthe council was terrified of what would happen if Maekar fell next. They couldn't just crown a king, they had to secure a line. They needed to lock down exactly who was standing in line after Maekar.
And that was where the room had completely fractured.
By all laws of Westeros, the succession should have flowed down to Maekarâs eldest son, Prince Daeron. But the lords of the small council flatly refused to accept him. The excuse whispered through the castle corridors was that Daeron was utterly unfit to ruleâa notorious drunkard, soft-willed, and so terrified of his own shadow that he had once fled a tourney rather than face a real knight. The lords wanted a strong, formidable heir to guarantee stability after years of plague and chaos, not a prince who spent his days in wine sinks trying to drown his own cowardice.
With Daeron effectively cast aside by the council, the debate turned to the next brother in line.
His name, Aerion, was mentioned countless times.
You heard the arguments from your position near the doorway, your skin turning entirely to ice. The lords spoke of his fierce Valyrian blood. They spoke of his martial skill, his undeniable presence, and the fact that, despite his exile in Lys, he was a prince who would never be accused of weakness or cowardice. You scoffed at that.Â
They argued that a fractured, bleeding realm needed a dragon with claws, completely blind to the monstrous cruelty that lurked beneath Aerion's beautiful facade.
Every time his name echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber, Maester Gladys's mad prophecy hammered behind your eyes. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you.
They were preparing to bring him back.Â
They were clearing the path for the monster you had barely escaped, dragging him closer to the throne, and closer to you, than anyone had ever intended.
And so here you were, at the harbor.
The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast, oppressive sheet of cold gray beneath a morning sky that offered no comfort. The salt air was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of low tide and the smoky breath of the harborâs watchtowers. Waves slapped lazily, relentlessly against the massive stone docks, entirely unawareâ or perhaps entirely uncaring, that they were delivering catastrophe directly to your doorstep.
 Each dull splash felt like a countdown, a steady rhythmic ticking toward the end of the quiet life you had fought so hard to build.
Around you, the chaotic gears of royal preparation were already turning with frenetic energy.
Servants hurried back and forth in frantic pairs, carrying heavy iron-bound trunks, stumbling over coil ropes, and hauling velvet-draped litters. Knights in polished armor gathered near the edge of the piers, their greaves clinking as they shifted their weight, checking and rechecking the alignment of the gangplanks. Courtiers lingered in tight, whispering clusters like crows on a fence, speaking in lowered voices that were not nearly as discreet as they believed. You could catch fragments of their murmurs drifting over the sound of the windâwords like succession, blood of the dragon, Lys, and the Kingâs heir.
You stood perfectly still amongst them, a solitary figure draped in mourning black, frozen like a statue carved from grief and dread.
Watching. Waiting. Dreading.
With every passing minute, the ship grew larger on the horizon. A year ago, you had stood on this very harbor, watching the sails of his vessel shrink into nothingness, praying with every fiber of your being that the sea would swallow him whole and that he would never return.
The gods, apparently, possessed a vicious, twisted sense of humor. They had not only kept him alive; they had cleared a path through his entire family just to bring him back.
Beside you, Princess Daena squinted out toward the gray water, shading her eyes with a delicate, ringed hand. She was completely oblivious to the cold sweat prickling at your spine.
"Which one is he again?" she asked casually, tilting her head.
You stared at her, your voice flat, drained of all warmth. "My husband."
"Oh." Daena blinked, her brow furrowing in a brief moment of mental calculation. A pause stretched between you, filled only by the screaming of gulls overhead. "The terrifying one?"
"Yes."
"The handsome, terrifying one?"
You closed your eyes, the memory of his cruel, beautiful face flashing behind your eyelids like a brand. "Yes."
"Hm."
You heard absolutely no concern in her voice. When you opened your eyes again, Daena was still staring toward the approaching vessel with open, childlike curiosity, as if she were waiting for a traveling circus to pull into port rather than a monster.
"I always thought he was exaggerated," she murmured, tapping her chin. "The stories the old ladies tell in the solar. They make him sound like a demon out of a fairy tale."
"He isn't exaggerated."
"Really?"
Your jaw tightened. The memories of his unpredictable, erratic whims swarmed your mind. "He once suggested I join him and another woman in bed as though he was offering me cake. No shame. No affection. Just a casual invitation over breakfast."
Daena blinked, her shielded eyes widening slightly as she processed the image. "Oh." Another pause settled over the stone pier. Then, she let out a small, bewildered breath. "That is rather strange."
Rather strange. You briefly, intensely considered pushing her into the sea just to give yourself something else to look at.
The ship was close enough now that individual figures could be clearly seen moving across the polished wooden deck. The distinctive three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped aggressively against the gray sky on a field of black silk.
The crowd stirred, a collective, nervous energy rippling through the smallfolk and lords alike. Someone called out a sharp command for the heavy timber gangplanks to be readied.
Further ahead of the crowd, standing at the very edge of the pier, Prince Maekar stood as rigid as stone. His massive frame was clad in deep crimson and charcoal, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. If he felt any emotion regarding his second son's return, if his heart ached for the monster he had fathered, he concealed it behind a mask of pure iron.
You doubted he was pleased. Maekar was many thingsâstern, unyielding, and bitterâbut even he wasn't blind. The small council might have been locked away in their chambers discussing the technicalities of succession, and the high lords might have been speaking grandly of strength, Valyrian blood, and the necessity of dragons, but Maekar knew his son.Â
Perhaps better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, Maekar knew exactly what Aerion was capable of when left to his own devices. And that knowledge alone made this entire situation infinitely worse. The father did not trust the son, yet the realm was forcing them together.
The ship finally eased into the stone slip of the harbor with a massive, slow momentum.
Thick hemp ropes were thrown through the air, caught by straining dockworkers. Sailors shouted orders over the roar of the wind, their voices hoarse and salt-worn. The heavy timber of the hull groaned in protest against the wooden pilings, a scraping, agonizing sound that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes. The vessel settled, its great oars drawing back like a predator folding its wings.
For a terrifying, suspended moment, nobody moved. The entire harbor seemed to hold its collective breath.
Then, the heavy wooden gangplank was lowered, hitting the stone dock with a loud, echoing thud.
A profound, heavy hush seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. Your stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. You hated that it did. You hated that after a year of absolute freedom, after all the peace and purpose you had carefully carved out for yourself among your books and your school, the mere possibility of seeing him again could still completely unsettle you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel like the frightened girl he had married, not the woman who had survived him.
The first men began descending the ramp. Guards in practical leather armor, Lysene servants carrying gilded birdcages, merchants in strange, bright eastern robes, faces you did not recognize, a blur of foreign wealth and colonial luxury.
Thenâ there he was.
Aerion Targaryen descended the gangplank as though he had personally conquered Lys and was returning to King's Landing to collect his rightful reward, rather than an exile being dragged home by a depleted family tree.
The bastard looked infuriatingly healthy.
If anything, his time across the Narrow Sea had only improved him. His silver hair had grown longer, catching the pale morning light, and the hot Lysene sun had darkened his pale skin to a warm, sun-kissed bronze. He wore expensive Essosi silksâa deep, shimmering violet doublet that perfectly matched his eyesâbeneath a heavy travel cloak trimmed with fur that probably cost more than some small keeps in the crownlands. He looked rested. He looked powerful.
Which felt deeply, profoundly unfair.
You had spent an entire year secretly hoping for at least one visible hardship to have found him in the East. A limp from a tavern brawl. A jagged scar across his arrogant face. A missing tooth. Something, anything, to prove that the universe possessed a shred of justice. Instead, he appeared to have spent his entire exile drinking fine arbor gold, lounging in pleasure houses, and making everyone else's life thoroughly miserable while you dreaded his shadow.
He paused at the base of the gangplank, and his violet eyes, bright, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid, swept across the gathered crowd. They passed over the armored knights without interest. They slid over the bowing servants. They dismissed the murmuring lords.
Then, they landed on you.
And stopped.
For one terrible, agonizing moment, neither of you moved. The entire harbor seemed to instantly disappear around you. The shouting of the sailors, the groaning wood, the crashing sea, the crowded pier, all of it was gone, reduced to white noise. There was nothing left in the world except those familiar, deadly eyes staring across the narrow distance between you.
Then, Aerion's mouth slowly, deliberately curved. It was not a smile of affection, nor was it a greeting. It was the sharp, curling smirk of absolute recognition. It was the look of a boy who had just found his favorite toy waiting for him exactly where he had left it.
You stared into his eyes, the madman Gladys's prophecy screaming in your ears, and you immediately regretted being alive.
There were many moments where you regretted being alive, but this was, without a doubt, the absolute worst of it.
It was supposed to be a simple family dinner. Simple, and yet every breath you took felt like swallowing glass. You spent the entire evening faking your smiles until your cheeks ached, holding your heavy silver utensils so tightly that the ornate patterns bit deep, permanent ridges into your palms. You didn't dare look up. You knew exactly what was waiting for you across the linen tablecloth if you did.
One after another, Aerion spoke of his time in Lys. He painted a picture of a paradise, his voice smooth and dripping with that familiar, theatrical charm that made the high lords lean in with rapt attention. He spoke of the towering pleasure houses of the Perfumed Garden, the sweet, spiced wines that never let a man go thirsty, and the effortless luxury of the Free Cities. He spun tales of naval skirmishes and foreign diplomacy as if he hadn't been kicked out of his own country for being a degenerate, but had instead gone on a grand, triumphant tour. To hear him tell it, his exile wasn't a punishment at all, it was more like a holiday.
âThe Lysene know how to craft beauty,â Aerion said, his eyes sweeping across the table before settling on you. There was something in his tone that made your skin crawl. âThough there are some things even the wealthiest magisters cannot recreate.â
A knot tightened in your stomach. You lowered your gaze and forced yourself to take another bite of the roasted capon. The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, and tasted like nothing at all. Ash filled your mouth instead.
To your left sat young Egg. The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of his family, sunburned from his hidden travels, his head recently shaved to hide his Targaryen features, and possessing a stubborn, grounded sense of reality that the rest of the court sorely lacked. He sat right beside you, kicking his legs slightly beneath the heavy oak table, his small fingers violently stabbing a piece of potato.
"He's a prick," Egg muttered under his breath, his voice so quiet it was nearly buried by the clinking of wine goblets. He leaned slightly toward you, his brow furrowed in a fierce, protective scowl. "A pompous, preening prick. He hasn't changed a bit."
A genuine, albeit fleeting, smile finally broke through your rigid mask. You didn't dare say a word out loud, but you let your fingers gently brush against Egg's sleeve in a silent, grateful acknowledgment.
Suddenly, the clinking of silverware died down.
"And what of your duties here, Aerion?" Maekar's voice boomed from the head of the table, heavy and demanding. The King-to-be hadn't touched his wine all evening. His dark eyes bored into his second son. "The council did not recall you from Lys to lounge in the capital like a perfumed magister."
Aerion set his chalice down with an agonizingly slow, deliberate grace. The silver rings on his finger clicked sharply against the gold rim.
"The realm needs a reminder of what a dragon looks like, Father," Aerion replied, his voice smooth, yet underlaid with a dangerous, purring edge. He didn't look at Maekar. Instead, his violet eyes slid deliberately back to you, locking onto your face with a predatory stillness that made the breath catch in your throat.
"And I intend to start my duties exactly where I left them. Beginning at home."
The oppressive, tense heat of that dinner faded, bleeding into the grand, echoey chill of the Great Hall days later.
The air inside the throne room was thick with the scent of burning tallow, heavy incense, and the collective sweat of hundreds of tightly packed nobles. Trumpets blared, their brassy notes reverberating off the high stone pillars, cutting through the low, reverent murmur of the crowd.
It was the day of the coronation.
Before the twisted, towering mass of the Iron Throne stood Maekar. He looked every bit the warrior king, his shoulders broad beneath heavy velvet, his face carved of unyielding granite as the High Septon raised the crown above his head. The crown itself was a heavy, formidable thing, a band of black iron set with square-cut rubies that caught the torchlight that almost looked like fresh, uncoagulated blood.
Your eyes locked onto the crown, tracking its slow descent toward Maekar's brow.
As the gold and iron caught the light, the grand hall seemed to bleed away. The blare of the trumpets distorted, turning into a low, rushing wind, and suddenly you were back in that dim, dust-choked chamber. You could smell the bitter herbs and the rotting parchment. You could see Maester Gladys's trembling, withered hands clutching at your robes, his milky, blind eyes staring right through your soul as his raspy voice tore from his throat.
A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. I saw you sitting on the Iron Throne.
The memory shattered as the High Septon finally placed the heavy crown onto Maekarâs head, declaring him the first of his name. A deafening roar went up from the crowd âLong live King Maekar!â âand the nobles burst into thunderous applause.
Standing in the front ranks beside the rest of the royal family, you kept your hands folded politely in front of your dress, your gaze never wavering from the rubies glittering on the new King's brow.
And for the first time, you didn't push the madmanâs prophecy away. You didn't shudder in fear or wish to run. Instead, you eyed that heavy band of iron and rubies with a quiet, burning intensity, wondering with a sudden, sharp clarity if it really was all true.
If the line was meant to sever, then why shouldn't it end with you?
You looked at Maekar, and then your eyes slid slightly to the side, where Aerion stood basking in the reflected glory of his father's new titles. He looked proud, arrogant, and entirely secure in his place as the councilâs chosen future.
But you knew the truth. You were better than Aerion. He was a creature of petty malice and fragile ego, a boy who thought cruelty made him a dragon. You were incomparable to him. Where he brought chaos and terror, you possessed a mind that could actually construct order. You understood the delicate, bleeding pulse of the realm. You knew its history, its flaws, and the desperate, quiet needs of the people living under its shadow.
If the gods or the prophecies meant to hand you the reins of Westeros, you wouldn't just sit on the throne to collect taxes and demand bows. You would change lives. You would rewrite the rules of the court, steady the crumbling foundations of the realm, and build something lastingâ something better than whatever broken, arrogant Targaryen kings had come before you.
The crowd continued to cheer, their voices echoing off the high stone ceiling like rumbling thunder, a deafening wave of noise that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards.
As the hours bled on, the somber atmosphere of the coronation melted away, and the Great Hall was transformed into an ornate ball and a dining room at the same time. Tapestries of Targaryen history were illuminated by the harsh, flickering glare of a thousand fresh beeswax candles. Servants moved in a frantic dance of their own, rushing between tables to replace heavy platters of roasted meats and pour endless rivers of sweet Arbor gold. Music from the gallery above swelled; pipes, harps, and drums weaving a lively, almost aggressive rhythm that filled the cavernous room.
And unfortunately for youâ you were seated directly beside Aerion.
Ever since his heavy leather boots had landed on Westerosi soil at the port, he had not once properly acknowledged your existence. He sat beside you like a beautiful, dangerous statue, his attention seemingly entirely occupied by the lords who leaned across the table to curry favor with the new King's son.
It was better, you supposed. In fact, it was much better than the alternative. You would gladly take his cold shoulder over having to deal with whatever sharp, twisted insults normally landed from his vile mouth. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, watching the colorful blur of spinning courtiers on the dance floor, hoping that if you sat quietly enough, you might simply blend into the heavy velvet drapery.
But Aerion Targaryen was never a man to let you find peace.
Somehow, he managed to ignore and acknowledge your presence at the exact same time. He did not look at you, nor did he address you by name, but he spent the evening launching snide, venomous remarks that were lowkey, yet undeniably, about you.
"The women of Lys know how to dress for a feast," Aerion remarked to a minor lord sitting across the cloth, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient music. He lifted his golden chalice, swirling the dark wine within. The man nodded uncertainly, unsure on what to respond. âThey arrive determined to improve the evening.â
His gaze drifted briefly toward your black mourning gown. "Not everyone shares that same ambition." A few men laughed. You tightened your grip on your silver fork, your jaw locking into a rigid line.
There were two reasons you still wore black.
The first was respectable enough. King Daeron was gone, as were Aerys and the young princes. Not even a year had passed since death had swept through the royal family with such ruthless speed. Mourning remained appropriate.
The second reason was less suitable for polite conversation.
You were mourning your own life.Or rather, the life you had before Aerion Targaryen returned and proceeded to trample through it like a dragon through a vegetable garden. It had been quiet then. Peaceful. Predictable. You had your books, your routines, your freedom from his relentless presence.
And now he was back, ruining all of it with remarkable efficiency.
Aerion set his chalice down with a deliberate, echoing thud, the gold gleaming under the candlelight as he swiveled his attention slightly back to his sycophants. âThatâs another thing I miss about Lys.â
The lord across from him leaned forward eagerly, practically tripping over himself to absorb whatever royal favor or scandalous gossip the prince was about to dispense.
The lord blinked. "My prince?"
A cruel, fond smirk tugged at the corner of Aerionâs mouth as he murmured, âThe Lysene women are excellent company.â
âThen perhaps you should have stayed.â
The words escaped before you could stop them. Oops. Awkward.
A mistake.
The moment they left your mouth, you felt itâ the sudden shift in the air around the table. The conversation nearby faltered. A few lords looked down into their cups with remarkable interest. Somewhere behind you, you could practically feel Meriel having a silent heart attack.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the high table.
At the far end, Daena brightened immediately. The traitor.
For the first time in days, you had voluntarily spoken to Aerion, and she looked as delighted as if sheâd just witnessed a long-awaited reconciliation rather than what was very clearly the beginning of another argument.
But slowly and deliberately, Aerion looked at you for the first time all evening.
The movement of his neck was smooth, fluid, and utterly devoid of warmth. Predatory lilac eyes locked onto yours, wide with a terrifying kind of amusement.
âThere she is,â he purred, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
Aerion leaned in closer, the scent of wine and ash washing over you as his smirk widened into something truly venomous. âWhat a touching reunion.â
He tilted his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. âI was beginning to worry youâd forgotten how.â
Suddenly, the music shifted, slowing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. One of the courtiers stepped forward, announcing that the high table was expected to lead the next dance.
Aerion set his chalice down with a sharp clink. That lazy smirk on his lips sharpened into something altogether dangerous. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers long and elegant, yet caked with the invisible memory of violence.
You looked at itâat the calluses earned from relentless training, at the heavy signet ring catching the torchlight. Then you looked up at him, meeting a gaze that was far too calm.
âNo.â
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, his dark brows lifting a fraction of an inch before his features smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating composure.
âThat wasnât a difficult instruction,â he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of apology.
âYouâve ignored me all evening.â
âYes.â
âAnd now you wish to dance.â
âAlso yes.â
His hand remained suspended between you, an unyielding invitation. Around the high table, the low hum of courtly chatter had died down. Lords and ladies had begun watching, nudging one another, their eyes glittering with the hunger for a domestic scandal.
You decided that you hated every single one of them.
Knowing a public refusal would feed the vultures for weeks, you swallowed your pride. Slowly, deliberately, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and possessive.
Aerionâs mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. âThere she is.â
âI hope you fall down a staircase,â you shot back, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.
âSee? We hardly spoke for a year and youâve already missed me.â
The dance was a nightmare.
The court cleared a path as he led you to the center of the floor. Aerion guided you through the intricate, sweeping steps with infuriating ease, his hand firm against your back, effortlessly dictating the pace before you could try to lead.
âYouâve become even more miserable,â he noted, his eyes scanning your face as the music swelled around you.
You refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare somewhere over his shoulder at a dusty tapestry on the far wall. âWelcome home.â
âI left for a year and this is the reception I receive.â
âYouâll survive.â
A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine glint of amusement in his eyes. âThere she is.â
âWhat does that mean?â you snapped, briefly breaking your vow of silence to glare at him.
âYouâve spent the entire evening pretending I donât exist.â
âI was hoping youâd do the same.â
He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through his hand on your waist. The sound irritated you more than it should have, warming your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the hall.
âYouâve been hiding,â he said, executing a seamless turn that forced you closer to his chest.
âIâve been reading.â
âSame thing.â
You considered stomping on his heavy leather boot with the heel of your slipper. It would be so easy. A slight misstep, a quiet crunch of his toes. Unfortunately, half the realm was watching, their eyes tracking your every movement.
Aerion seemed to notice the calculation in your eyes, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you. âGo on.â
âWhat?â
âI know that look.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âYou want to kick me.â
Your silence answered for you, your jaw tightening as you offered him a sweetly venomous smile for the benefit of the crowd.
âVery healthy marriage,â he said, drawing you just a fraction closer as the music began to fade.
â
When the dance finally ended, you didn't give him the chance to escort you back. You practically fled the Great Hall, lifting your heavy skirts and hurrying through the labyrinthine, torch-lit stone corridors of the Red Keep until you finally reached the safety of your own quarters.
You pushed open the bedchamber door.
Relief flooded through you. Finally. Silence. No music. No courtiers. And most importantly, no Aerionâ
You stopped.
Aerion was sitting on the edge of your bed. A silver goblet rested loosely in one hand, the dark red wine sloshing slightly against the rim. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire playing across his sharp valyrian features.
Then:
âYou took the scenic route.â
You shut your eyes. Slowly and carefully. As though patience alone might make him disappear. When you opened them again, he was still there, stretched across the edge of your bed with all the comfort of a man in his own chambers.
âGet out.â
Aerion lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip. âNo,â the answer came so quickly it was almost insulting.
âI am serious.â
âSo am I.â
You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache had begun somewhere around the third insult at dinner and had only worsened with every passing hour.
âWhy are you here?â
Aerion opened his mouth. You immediately held up a hand.
âActually, wait.â You pointed a warning finger at him. âI already dislike this answer.â And to your irritation, he looked pleased.
âYou fled.â
âYes.â
âAnd I followed you.â
âThat explains nothing.â
Aerion frowned slightly, as if you were being deliberately difficult.
âIt explains the entire sequence of events.â
âNo, it explains how you got here. It does not explain why you're here.â
You stared at him, your gaze filled with unadulterated venom. Aerion stared back, entirely unbothered, his posture relaxed against your silk sheets. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
Then he smirked. âDid you genuinely think you could lose me?â
âHope is free.â
âNot for much longer, when I become king.â
âIf.â
Aerion rolled his eyes, annoyance already flooding to the both of you, shattering the last remnants of any polite pretense. He set his goblet down on the nightstand with a definitive thud and stood up, bridging the distance between you.
"We need an heir," he said, his voice dropping into something heavy and entirely stripped of its playful malice. "My father and the small council spent the better part of the morning discussing it. To ensure the Targaryen line lives on. It is a matter of state."
Sensing exactly where this was going, your stomach churned with defense.
"I am your husbandâ" Aerion started, his tone commanding.
"Estranged," you cut him off sharply.
Now you knew. You knew exactly why he was standing in your room, why he had bothered to seek you out at all. He didn't care about you. He was doing this because without an heir before King Maekar dies, he won't be crowned king. The small council would waver.
You raised your chin, trying to sound entirely unimpressed. "Your father is strong, Aerion. It is clear he will live a long life. There is no need for urgency."
But as you stared at him, the weight of the looming situation forced your mind to spin backward, retreating into the memory of a conversation from only a few weeks agoâŠ
â
The sunlight in your solar had been suffocatingly bright that afternoon. You had been pacing the floor, the heavy fabric of your skirts whipping around your ankles as you raged to Meriel.
"He is returning from Lys," you had spat, the words tasting like ash. "And they are naming him Prince of Dragonstone. It is absurd! An heir will be entirely impossible between Aerion and me. We cannot stand to be in the same room, let alone share a bed."
Meriel had remained perfectly calm, sitting gracefully by the window, her embroidery resting in her lap. She had looked up, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. "It doesnât have to be a long-term arrangement. You will be queen. And when Aerion..." She had paused, trailing off with a delicate shrug that heavily hinted at an early, violent demise for your husband. "Well, if he dies early, you will be regent. If you are with child."
You had scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Regent? There are other male heirs! The crown wouldn't fall to a child of his if there are others to take it."
"The small council prefers Aerion," Meriel had countered smoothly. "Because of his personality. Oh, they are terrified of him, make no mistake. But they know he would make a fine king because of his violence. He is utterly ruthless to those who oppose his family. Think of my own family for an example of what happens to those who cross the crown."
She had leaned forward, ticking the other options off on her fingers. "Look at the alternatives. Daeron is far too busy drinking himself into a stupor to ever hold a scepter. Aemon doesn't want to be king, nor does he want to be anywhere near the Iron Throne. He reminds people too much of King Aerysâ he prefers his dusty books over governing his people, over the living world entirely. And Aegon?" Meriel had let out a soft, amused laugh. "Aegon is frequently nowhere to be found most days, off on his grand adventures with that remarkably tall knight."
You had scoffed again, though the weight of her words sank in.
"There is a Blackfyre rebellion looming again," Meriel had reminded you, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Obviously, it breathes life because of the rumors of the Targaryen heirs dying one by one like flies. Who knows... you might get lucky if Aerion magically wounds up and dies on a battlefield somewhere. But until then?" She had fixed you with a hard, unyielding stare. "You need an heir."
â
The memory faded, snapping you right back into the dim hearth-light of your bedchamber.
Aerion was still standing there, watching you closely, his sharp lilac eyes tracking the subtle shift in your expression as you processed the trap the small council and history had laid out for you.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with the reality of Merielâs words.
You breathed out slowly, the tension never leaving your shoulders. You looked past him, staring at the rumpled silk sheets of the bed he just sat upon. If this was a battle for survival, then you would treat it like one.
The irritation that had flared during the dance, the nervous flutter in your throat when you found him waiting in the darkâit all suddenly crystallized into a cold and hard ambition. You had spent months dreading his return, hating his arrogance, but you weren't a martyr, and you weren't a victim either. You wanted that crown. You wanted the power that came with it, the absolute security of the Iron Throne, and the ability to look down on the very courtiers who sneered at you now. If Aerion was the key to unlocking that future, then you would simply have to turn the key.
Slowly, deliberately, you walked past him. The heavy fabric of your skirts brushed against his boots as you closed the distance to the bed, reclaiming your space.
When you looked up at him, all the venom was gone from your eyes. The shift between you could be felt so obviously. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden finality.
You didn't say a word. Instead, your fingers went to the lacings of your gown.
One by one, the heavy silver pins and rings of your jewelry slipped from your skin, hitting the floor with a series of dull, metallic thuds. Then, with practiced, unhurried movements, you unfastened the heavy velvet bodice, letting the heavy gown pool at your feet like a shed skin.
You were left in nothing but your undergarments, a shift of fine, ivory silk so thin it was practically a second skin. In the warm glow of the hearth, your silhouette was starkly revealedâ the soft swell and curve of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples pressing against the fabric, and the smooth, sloping line of your hips.
For all his worldly experience, the sight took Aerion completely by surprise. His breath hitched audibly, his lilac eyes darkening as they tracked the sudden exposure of your body.
You had no experience in a marriage bed; you were a maiden, untouched and untried, but it didn't mean you were a fool. The books you had spent the months reading hadn't just been histories and statecraft; they had been accounts of the flesh, of the power women wielded in the dark when they knew exactly what they were trading.
You leaned back slightly on the mattress, propping yourself up on one hand, meeting his stunned gaze with a look of detachment.
âWellâ I certainly did not expect you to give in so suddenlyâ Aerion said. He blinked, the initial shock quickly giving way to a broad, unbothered grin. He chuckled, shucking off his heavy doublet and tossing it onto the floor without looking. âLook at you. Fascinating. I thought Iâd have to deal with hours of sighing, but youâve gone straight to the point. I respect the efficiency.â
You glared. âOh donât mistake my patient for toleranceâ You made sure to keep your voice level. You wouldnât want him to know your heart is hammering in your chest right now. You then scoffedâ âI am doing it entirely on my own terms.â
Aerion paused, unbuttoning his shirt with casual and unhurried movements. âYou think a thin piece of silk gives you leverage?â
âYes, I do,â you countered smoothly, holding his gaze. âBut you still want what's underneath it.â
He let out a sharp, amused breath, stepping closer to the bed. âTrue. You have an exceptional body, I'll give you that. I was actually a bit worried youâd be shaped like a turnip under all that velvet. Not quite as lush as the women in Lys, of courseâ they have a certain, how do you say, vibrancy to their curvesâ but still, much better than I anticipated.â
Ouch. The casual insult stung, a blunt reminder of his complete lack of tact, but you refused to let him see it find its mark. You kept your face perfectly impassive.
âI was hoping your exile would have helped you improve,â you remarked dryly.
His hand moved to your neck. The blunt warmth of his palm was a stark contrast to the heavy, cold metal of the countless rings on his fingers. You leaned back further against the mattress as he tilted his head, his lips hovering just beside the lobe of your ear.
"You talk too much," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Let's see if you can do anything else."
His hand trailed down your throat, his fingers splaying across your chest. You watched him through your lashes, refusing to look away as his palms slid lower, mapping the contours of your body. He took the weight of your breasts in his handsâ groping and molding them through the thin ivory silk, his thumbs dragging roughly over the peaks. And before you could even catch your breath, his hands moved back to your shoulders, applying just enough sudden pressure to push you flat against the bed, his heavy frame following you down until he was hovering directly over you.
No more words were spoken. The chill of the room seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the sheer, radiating heat of his body pressed against yours. Aerion shifted, driving his knee upward until it settled firmly between your thighs, pressing right against your center.
The sudden, blunt pressure caught the air in your throat. He dipped lower, his hands sliding down to forcefully part your legs, but even as you were pinned beneath him, you kept your gaze locked onto his with an unmistakable look of hatred.
Now flat on the mattress, the rest of the castle felt entirely distant. The faint, muffled roar of the courtiers feasting below was a hundred rooms awayâ completely irrelevant. And all that existed was the infuriatingly rich scent of his musk and the way his breathing grew shallower, more ragged, with every passing second.
His fingers dipped down, finding the slick heat between your thighs,pulling aside the thin silk of your shift. . You closed your eyes instantly. You didn't want to look at his smug face, trying to convince yourself that the sudden shudder through your spine was just a natural physical reaction to the stimulation.
You focused entirely on steadying your breathâ trying to keep your chest from heaving.
âAlready?â he purred, noticing the sudden wetness.
âShut up,â you gritted out through your teeth, snapping your eyes open to glare up at him.
âWait until you get a taste of a cock, dear wife,â he sneered mockingly.
But for all his arrogance, he wasn't in a hurry. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your skin as he left a trail of bruising, purple marks down to the bridge of your chest. He still hadn't stripped the silk shift from your bodyâ instead, he opened his mouth over the thin fabric of your breast, sucking the peak into his mouth through the wet silk.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. the intensity of it was overwhelming, a chaotic rush of sensory stimulation that made your mind spin. You needed an anchor, something to hold onto before you thrashed apart under the weight of it.
Fuck it, you thought.
You stopped fighting the reaction. Your fingers flew up, locking forcefully into Aerionâs hair, pulling tight enough to anchor him to you as you deliberately tilted your pelvis up, grinding your heat firmly against his knee.
Aerion let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden fistful of hair, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. A flash of pure, wicked delight split his features as he felt you grind against him. He didnât need any more invitation.
Shucking his breeches down with a rough, impatient jerk of his hips, he freed himself. He didn't completely strip your ivory shift; instead, his hands grabbed the hem, bunching the fine silk up to your waist until your hips were entirely bare against the sheets. He settled heavily between your parted thighs, the slick, thick heat of his length pressing directly against your entrance.
He didn't ease in with those gentle words or soft promises. He loomed over you, his chest flush against yours, and with a single, unhurried push, he drove his hips forward.
The blunt thickness of him tore through the maidenhood you had guarded for years. Your breath hitched sharply, a ragged gasp catching in the back of your throat as your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. The initial sting was hot and sharp, a tight stretching sensation that filled you completely. Aerion paused for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your face, watching the way your eyes flared with pain.
You hissed through your teeth, the pain already beginning to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache that pulsed right where your bodies met.
Aerion let out a sharp laugh, and then he began to move. He pulled back nearly all the way, letting the cool air of the room hit your slick skin for a fraction of a second before plunging deep inside you again. The heavy sound of his hips striking yours echoed in the quiet room.
He settled into a rhythm that was maddeningly and infuriatingly steady. His hands remained firm at your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you whenever you shifted beneath him. There was no teasing in it, no attempt at any gentlenessâ but only the same stubborn determination he seemed to bring to every argument, every fight, every impossible thing he set his mind to.
The friction was intense. The initial ache dissolved entirely, replaced by a blossoming heat that began to coil tightly in your lower stomach. Every time he drove inside you, his length rubbed against the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at your entrance, sending sharp jolts of electricity up your spine. You hated himâ you hated the smug twist of his lips, the arrogant tilt of his headâ but your body was entirely traitorousâ stretching to accommodate his thick length and relentless rhythm.
Aerionâs breathing turned into ragged, heavy pants, his forehead slick with sweat as he stared down at you, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. He was enjoying the total control of the position, looking entirely pleased with himself.
And youâ you weren't going to let him have it.
As he pulled back slightly to deliver another heavy thrust, you dug your heels into the mattress. You slammed your palms against his sticky chest and twisted your hips. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden resistance, Aerion lost his footing on the silk sheets. With a breathless yell, he tumbled onto his back.
Before he could even process the shift, you scrambled up, straddling his waist and pinning his thighs down with your knees. Your ivory shift hung loosely around your shoulders, your bare hips now perfectly aligned over his rigid length.
Aerion lay flat on his back, and for the second time that night, he looked completely stunned, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked up at you from below. Then, that familiar, chaotic grin slowly spread across his face. âWell. Look who wants to play king.â
âShut up,â you breathed, your face flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You didn't give him a chance to retort. Holding his gaze with that same look of unmistakable defiance, you lifted your hips and slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself back down onto him.
The sensation of taking him in from this angle was completely different. He went incredibly deep, filling you entirely until you felt the blunt cap of his length bottoming out against the very core of you. You let out a breathless, trembling gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest for balance as you threw your head back.
You began to ride him. You lifted your hips up until he almost slipped out, before slamming back down against his pelvis with a wet heavy slap. The control was entirely yours now. You determined the depth, the speed, and the angle. You leaned forward, pressing your hands flat against his chest, your small waist rolling in a tight, agonizingly slow circle that made Aerionâs eyes roll back into his head.
âFuck,â he groaned, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to push upward to force his own rhythm, but you leaned your weight into him, keeping him pinned down.
âNo,â you panting against his lips, leaning down until your sweat-dampened hair brushed his cheeks. âYou stay still.â
You accelerated the pace, your hips rising and falling in a frantic, rolling rhythm. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together filled the space between you, drowning out the distant, irrelevant world below. The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter with every downward strike, the overwhelming stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. You ground your cunt firmly against his pelvic bone with every drop, demanding everything he had, while still glaring down at him with beautiful, triumphant malice.
It grew unbearableâ like a tight rush of heat that shattered the last of your restraint. You slammed down against him one last time, your inner muscles convulsing around him in a tight spasm as a quiet gasp broke from your throat. The sudden and intense grip of your climax triggered him instantly. Aerionâs jaw locked, his head tossing back against the pillow as a low, guttural roar tore from his chest. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, jerking your pelvis down hard against his as he rolled into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the harsh and ragged rasp of his breathing. The arrogance was entirely gone from his face now, replaced by a flushed, dazed exhaustion.
You didn't waste a single moment. As soon as his grip loosened, you shifted your weight and climbed off him, sliding to the far edge of the mattress. Your skin was slick with sweat and your chest still heaving.
"Leave," you said, your voice coldâ and entirely devoid of emotion.
He blinked, his dazed expression instantly souring. He sat up, looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and sharp offense, his massive ego clearly taking a direct hit. "Leave? I just gave you a spectacular evening, and you're tossing me out like an unwelcome stray? I am the prince."
"Yes wellâ the transaction is complete," you replied, keeping your back to him. "Get out."
He let out an irritated hiss through his nose, muttering under his breath about your complete lack of gratitude. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, shucking them on with aggressive, jerky movements before slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
Only when the lock clicked shut did the silence of the room truly settle in.
That was when you felt itâ the thick, hot ache between your thighs, and the slow, heavy trickle of his seed spilling out onto your skin. The cold reality of what had just happened settled over you like a physical weight.
It was done.
There was no going back. You slowly rolled onto your back, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed, the phantom weight of his body still pressing into your mattress. You closed your eyes, swallowed the lump in your throat, and hoped for the best.
Aerion came and wentâ literally and figuratively.
The fierce, charged encounter you had shared weeks before was a rare exception, a fleeting moment of intensity you had only allowed because it served a practical purpose. The council was already breathing down your necks, and it was simply safer to perform the act so they wouldn't throw you both out for failing to produce an heir or shirking your marital duties.
This time, however, there was absolutely no fire, and you were bored out of your mind.
You lay at the very edge of the bed, your legs spread lazily as Aerion hovered over you, mechanically thrusting his hips forward. He wasn't even looking at you. His eyes were entirely distracted, darting upward to track a fat fuzzy bumblebee that had somehow wandered into the bedchamber and was currently hovering perilously close to his head.
"The winter stores are going to be a disaster if the northern grain shipments don't arrive by the fortnight," you remarked, your voice entirely conversational, echoing in the quiet room over the wet sounds of his thrusts. "And the tax assessments for the eastern districts are completely bloated. We need to revise the charts."
Aerionâs rhythm faltered, his brow furrowing in sheer exasperation as he narrowly ducked away from the bee. "Will you shut up? Justâ for one second, shut your mouth. I cannot focus with you lecturing me about agriculture right now."
You didn't flinch. You merely tilted your head back against the pillow, looking him dead in the eye with a look of detachment.
You deliberately fell completely silent, letting your arms drop to the sheets as you waited for him to finish.
Aerion let out a relieved sigh, his fingers tightening on one side of your hip to anchor himself.
"Thank you. God, I am profoundly grateful for that," he muttered, completely shameless as his free hand suddenly flew up into the air, aggressively swatting at the air to drive the bee away while his lower half kept driving into you with mindless and distracted efficiency.
He let out one final, frustrated swat at the air, his hips delivering a final perfunctory shove before he rolled off you, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the encounter.
And he definitely didn't linger. Within minutes, he had pulled his breeches back on, and vanished through the door without a glance.
A few quiet moments passed before the side door creaked open. Meriel slipped into the bedchamber, her eyes scanning your disheveled state, the twisted sheets, and the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.
"Good job," Meriel commented, folding her arms with a dry, knowing smirk.
You stared at her devoid of any emotion. "Thank you. I pride myself on my ability to discuss agricultural tax reform while being mindlessly rutted. It is a rare gift."
"Well, the council will be pleased," Meriel shrugged, walking over to pour you a cup of water. "They were beginning to think you two would rather poison each other's wine than actually secure the succession."
Before you could reply, the heavy main doors swung open. Daena strode into the room, her expression a mix of amusement. She didn't even knock.
"You can skip the modesty," Daena interrupted, looking between the two of you. "Almost the whole keep knows you've been fucking your husband."
You froze, the cup halfway to your lips. A spike of genuine concern hit your chest. "What? How could they possibly know that? The walls aren't that thin."
"Please," Daena scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Aerion left the door unlatched on his way out, shouting at a servant about a bee. And you aren't exactly quiet when you're ordering him around in here. The guards have a betting pool going."
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Fabulous. Truly magnificent."
"Stay right there in your bedchamber," Daena ordered, pointing a finger at you as she began to back toward the door. "Don't move. I'm going to go get something."
Meriel let out a long, heavy sigh the exact moment Daena turned her back on the room, her shoulders slumping in anticipation of whatever chaos Daena was about to fetch.
A few minutes later, Daena returned, holding a small pot containing a single, sprouted stalk of green wheat. She marched over and set it firmly on the nightstand beside your bed.
"A wedding gift," Daena announced proudly. "It detects pregnancy. You urinate on the soil. If the wheat grows rapidly over the next few days, you're with child. If it withers, you aren't."
You stared at the tiny plant, your eyebrows pulling together in deep skepticism. "Daena, it has been mere weeks. It is far too early to tell anything. And besides, why would I trust a stalk of grain when I can simply base it on my moon cycle?"
"Because the moon cycle takes a month, and this is much faster," Daena countered, entirely convinced of her own logic. "The women in the lower keep swear by it. Just try it."
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth banter about the absurdities of hedge-witch medicine, Daena finally grew bored and excused herself, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered it.
The moment the door shut behind, the room fell quiet.
Merielâs amusement disappeared almost instantly. The smile slipped from her face as she stepped closer, lowering her voice. âThere may be another Blackfyre rebellion.â
You stared at her. âAnother what?â
âA rebellion.â
You frowned. âThatâs ridiculous.â
It sounded ridiculous. There had been no whispers in court. No rumors drifting through the corridors. No nervous lords gathering in corners. Nothing.
âThere hasnât been a word about it,â you said. âNot from the court, not from the city. Nothing.â
âBecause the king ordered not to talk about it.â Meriel folded her hands before her. âThe small council knows. A handful of the great lords know. The rest are being kept in the dark.â
Your stomach tightened slightly. âAnd why would Maekar do that?â
âTo prevent panic.â A brief silence settled between you. Meriel held your gaze. Something in her tone made you sit a little straighter. âHow serious is it?â
âSerious enough that men have begun speaking of armies again.â
You looked away, your thoughts immediately turning to the king, the council, and the princes. And, unfortunately, to your husband.
Meriel leaned back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, folding her arms across her chest as she watched you. Her eyes tracked the tense line of your shoulders.
âYes,â she said dryly, letting out a soft sigh that rustled the quiet of the room. âHim too.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, the skin there hot and tight, before sliding your hands down to smooth over the rumpled linen of your sheets.
âWonderful.â
Months bled by in a tense, suffocating blur of war preparations, blacksmiths hammering through the night, and a sudden, sharp distance between you and the prince.
When the day of departure finally arrived, the atmosphere beneath the shadow of the Red Keep gates was thick with dust, the smell of leather, and the heavy trampling of warhorses.
You stood before Aerion in front of the massive iron-studded gates, surrounded by hundreds of armored men. Protocol demanded a farewell. You didn't want to give it. You didn't want to look at him, let alone offer any sweet, empty words of a worried wife, but the eyes of the court were heavy upon your back.
"Return safely, husband," you said, forcing a perfectly poised, diplomatic coolness into your voice although your eyes remained hard as flint.
Aerion, fully armored, his silver hair tucked loosely beneath a helmet, looked down at you from his mount. He didn't offer a grand declaration of war, nor did he display a single ounce of royal solemnity. Instead, that familiar smirk split his lips. He leaned down slightly from his saddle, ensuring his voice carried just enough for youâand only youâ to hear.
"Don't look so miserable, my love," he murmured with an infuriating wink. "You'll miss me. After all, youâre the greatest fuck Iâve ever had."
Before you could even process the crude, breathtaking arrogance of his words, he snapped his reins, turning his horse away with a loud, barking laugh. Your blood boiled instantly, a hot wave of pure, unadulterated fury washing over you as you watched his armored back retreat into the marching columns.
As the dust began to settle, one of the older council members stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the departing army. He didn't look at you when he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "Princess. Before the prince departed... is there any possibility that you are currently with child?"
You stood entirely rigid, keeping your jaw tight. You stayed quiet, refusing to give him a single word, staring straight ahead until the lord gave a stiff, disappointed bow and melted back into the crowd.
A few more months dragged on, the keep gripped by an agonizing silence as everyone awaited news from the front lines.
Then, the horns blew.
A blood-spattered, breathless messenger burst into the Great Hall, his boots clicking frantically against the stone floors. Lords and ladies scrambled to their feet as the man dropped to his knees before the vacant iron throne.
"Word from Starpike!" the messenger panted, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "The Targaryen forces have smashed the rebel lines! The Blackfyres are routed, their leaders dead! The war is won!"
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, a few lords cheeringâbut the messenger didn't stand. He stoppedâ swallowing hard, his face turning entirely pale as he looked up at the gathered nobility.
"But... King Maekar is dead," he whispered, the words dropping like lead. "During the siege of Starpike. A direct hit from a stone thrown from the battlements. It crushed his helmet. The king perished instantly."
Your heart skipped a beat. An inner, cold dialogue raced through your mind. Dead? So soon? King Maekarâ brought down by a stray piece of masonry. The kingdom was suddenly leaderless, thrown into a terrifyingly sudden transition of power.
"The vanguard," the messenger added breathlessly, "the company of Prince Aerion... they will be home in a few hours."
When the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung open later that night, Aerion strode inside. He was covered in dried mud and the faint, copper smell of old blood, his armor clanking loudly with every step. He walked with the broad, chest-puffed swagger of a conquerorâ expecting cheers, wine, and a celebratory riot.
Instead, he was met with a wall of absolute, suffocating silence.
Aerion slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. He didn't say a word, but the question was written all over his face: why does everyone look so utterly sullen when we just won a war? He looked around the room, his eyes darting from lord to lord, waiting for the applause that wasn't coming.
Then, the High Septon stepped forward. He didn't offer a congratulatory smile. Instead, he dropped heavily to both knees, pressing his palms flat against the stone floor.
"The King is dead," the old man announced, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Long live the King."
As if a string had been pulled, the entire room followed suit. One by one, the knights, the lords, and the ladies of the court dropped to their knees in a massive, sweeping wave of silk and steel. A low, thunderous chant rose from the floor, echoing off the cold stone walls: "Long live the King. Long live King Aerion!"
Aerion stood entirely frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by a sea of bowing heads. For the first time in his life, the smugness completely vanished from his face, replaced by a rare, stunned gravity as the sudden weight of the crown loomed over him.
You stood a few meters directly in front of him, remaining perfectly upright, the only person in the entire room who refused to bow. Your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of stone.
Behind you, you felt a slight shift in the air. Meriel stepped up right behind your shoulder, her gaze fixed entirely on your back as she looked between you and the newly proclaimed king.
Leaning in close, her voice a sharp, barely audible sliver of ice against your ear, she whispered,
red string of fate àšđ somewhere in a web of crimson thread, jacaerys velaryon finds himself unexpectedly stuck. (fluff!)
in a world where i was yours àšđ you tried to draw him today, and realized youâd forgotten what he looked like. (angst)
my heart is yours àšđ nothing could ever stop a lover from pulling her beloved back from deathâs door.
AERION TARGARYEN
the great àšđ You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like fliesâleaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
MAEKAR TARGARYEN
right where you left me àšđ When a young Egg stumbles upon a warped, long-forgotten diary in the quiet light of Summerhall, he accidentally unearths the fragile remnants of his fatherâs past. (angst)
VALARR TARGARYEN
rotten maiden àšđ She was doomed to remember the lifetimes where his hands took her life, and he was equally doomed to remember the ones where they loved each other.
synopsis. somewhere in a web of crimson thread, jacaerys velaryon finds himself unexpectedly stuck.
pairing. jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader
word count. 2,987
authors note. fluff bc im getting depressed w all the sad fics here. AND MY FIRST EVER JACE FIC HELLO??? give this sum love!! leave a comment or reblog mwamwa <3
The Feast Hall of the keep was a deafening roar of rustic merriment, entirely too loud for a realm on the precipice of a succession crisis.
Jace sat stiffly at the high table, his fingers curled so tightly around the silver stem of his wine goblet that his knuckles were white. He watched the local lords and smallfolk mingle, laughing and drinking as if the greens weren't currently circling King's Landing like vultures. His mother had brought him here to secure a pledge from a house that didn't traditionally care for dragons, hoping their massive influence would deter a war entirely.
And yet, instead of a private solar and a contract, they were given a feast.
"They are wasting time," Jace muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the lord of the house, who was currently laughing at a jest across the room. "We should be negotiating the terms of the alliance, not nursing ale. Every hour we sit here is an hour Aegon uses to solidify his claim."
Rhaenyra didn't so much as glance his way. She lifted her goblet to her lips, letting him stew for a moment before speaking.
"Have some courtesy, Jace," she said quietly. "You may be king one day, but that means learning how to win people over. These people are opening their home to us. The least you can do is look pleased to be here."
Jace's jaw tightened. Beside him, Rhaenyra took note immediately. She lifted her wine cup to her lips, though the faint look she sent him over the rim was knowing enough.
Jace glanced sideways at his mother.
"I have reason to," Jace replied.
"You always have reason to."
He looked away, his gaze settling on the lord seated halfway across the hall. The man had spent most of the evening laughing with his bannermen rather than discussing the alliance they had traveled all this way to secure.
"We've been here for hours," Jace said quietly. "Every moment spent feasting is a moment wasted." Rhaenyra hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
"So does everyone in this hall," she said after a moment. "Yet they still seem capable of enjoying themselves."
Jace followed her gaze across the room. A group of young knights were arguing over some game near the hearth. A cluster of ladies sat together, smiling behind raised cups. Even the older men looked relaxed.
He remained unimpressed. At that, Rhaenyra nudged his arm lightly with her own.
"Try smiling."
Jace stared at her.
"Mother."
"It will not kill you."
A breath escaped through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"I doubt a smile is what wins alliances."
"No," a voice said from nearby. "But it certainly helps."
Jace blinked, shifting his gaze downward. You were standing before the high table, a cup of spiced cider in one hand and a lazy, knowing grin on your face. Months earlier, at a banquet in King's Landing, the two of you had found yourselves trapped in the same corner of the hall while half the court chased after more interesting company. The conversation had been brief, but memorable. Jace had spent most of it attempting to be polite, and you had spent most of it laughing at him.
"And judging by the look on your face, Prince Jacaerys," you continued, "you could use all the help you can get."Â
A smile tugged at Rhaenyra's mouth. And Jaceâ unfortunately, felt no such inclination.
"I believe you owe me a dance," you said, tilting your head.
Jaceâs formal mask slipped perfectly into place, his expression hardening. "No, I don't."
âOh, you absolutely do,â you countered, stepping closer to the dais, entirely unbothered by his frosty stare. âYou promised it in the Red Keep, just before Prince Aegon caused enough of a scene to distract the entire court.â
Jaceâs brow furrowed, his shoulders squaring defensively. âI did not.â
âYou didââ
ââThen I would remember.â
You hummed thoughtfully, taking a slow, deliberate sip of your cider while keeping your eyes locked onto his.
âOh, of course you donât remember,â you said, your smile widening with wicked delight. âYou flew here on dragonback, didn't you? The wind must have blown the memory straight out of your head.â
A few local lords nearby snorted into their ale, entirely unawed by the royal guest. Jace's jaw tightened, a faint flush of irritation creeping up his neck.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his voice to a stern register. âI am here on official crown business, my lady. I hardly think a dance is appropriate given the gravity of the circumstances.â
âThere really is no cure for princely arrogance, is there?â you mused, turning your head slightly to appeal to the surrounding crowd. âA man makes one promise and immediately hides behind a crown.â
You pointed at him triumphantly, your grin turning entirely smug. âSee? You're asking for the time because you've forgotten it already.â
For a brief moment, Jace simply stared at you, his mouth slightly open as he processed the trap he had just walked into. Months ago in King's Landing, he had thought you mildly amusing. Now, he was beginning to suspect that there had been a grave miscalculation. Meanwhile, the Princess of Dragonstone had gone suspiciously quiet beside him. You noticed immediately, your eyes darting over his shoulder. âYour mother remembers.â
Jace turned sharply toward his mother.
To his absolute horror, she looked distinctly entertained. She wasn't even trying to hide it, her violet eyes dancing with mirth as she raised her chalice.
âI do recall a conversation,â Rhaenyra said smoothly into her wine.
âMother,â Jace hissed, his ears burning.
âWhat?â she asked, looking at him with an innocence that fooled absolutely no one at the table. âYou should be grateful, Jace. It is not often someone honors your promises better than you do. Go on.â A smirk came up to the side of his lipsâ âdon't keep the host waiting.â
"Official business can wait until the morning," you said, offering a fluid, mocking little bow as you reached out and confidently took his hand. Jace shot you a look of utter, incredulous disbelief at the sheer audacity of the gesture. The godsâ he decided right then and there, were testing him today. You offered him one of your most charming, shameless smiles before he could even think to pull away.
"Besidesâ" you added smoothly, "my father refuses to talk politics on an empty stomachââ you then glanced and nodded towards the parque, â--or an empty dance floor.â You then lowered your voice as though sharing a secret, âit's bad luck."
Jace looked unconvinced but before he could find a polite way to decline again, you stepped back, letting your fingers slide from his as you turned your attention to your sister. She stood a few paces away, holding a massive wooden spool wound tight with vibrant, crimson yarn.
"My lords, ladies, and honored guests!" your sister called out, her voice easily cutting through the din of the hall. A few heads turned. Then a few more. Before long, conversations began to taper off as the musicians eased into a much slower tune. âBefore the night gets away from us,â she continued, raising the large spool of crimson wool in her hands, âit is time for the Weaverâs Dance.âÂ
A cheer went up from several of the local guests. Others laughed and began pushing back their benches, already preparing to join. You glanced toward the high table. The royal party had caught on immediately. Some looked curious. Others exchanged quiet questions among themselves. But only one person remained distinctly unimpressed.
Your gaze settled on Prince Jacaerys. You had to bite back a smile. There was something almost impressive about his dedication to being miserable. Unfortunately for him, you had no intention of letting him spend the evening glowering from the high table.
"A regional tradition," you explained, nodding toward your sister and the enormous spool of crimson wool in her hands. By now, servants and guests alike were helping unwind the thread, passing lengths of it between tables as dancers began to gather in the center of the hall.
"The dancers take the floor while everyone else weaves the string through the crowd." You gestured toward a group of children already running off with an armful of wool. "Usually with considerably more enthusiasm than skill."
Jace's gaze followed the growing web of crimson stretching across the hall.
"And the purpose of this is?" Jace asked, watching as a servant tossed a length of red wool across the room.
You followed his gaze and shrugged. "Depends on who you ask."
Your eyes drifted toward an elderly woman seated near the hearth. She had already wrapped a strand of the wool around her wrist and was murmuring something under her breath as though the thread itself might be listening. "The old women will tell you the thread has a mind of its own," you said. "That it catches people whose paths were always meant to cross."
Jace glanced at the woman, then back at you. "Convenient," Jace said dryly.
"Very." You smiled.
Across the hall, another strand was thrown overhead, drawing a cheer from a group of children who immediately ducked beneath it. "The younger generation mostly uses it as an excuse to trip their cousins and embarrass their friends."
As if on cue, a boy of about ten promptly tangled his sister's feet in a loop of wool. The girl shoved him. That earned a snort from Luke.Â
"There it is." You pointed triumphantly. "Exhibit A."
Jace shook his head and ran his tongue across his lips before folding his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly unconvinced despite the flicker of interest in his eyes. "You have a peculiar tradition."
"You've not seen the worst of it yet." And then in a cueâ a musician narrowly avoided being clotheslined by a poorly aimed strand, earning another round of laughter from the crowd.
"But every now and then," you continued, turning back to him, "someone ends up tangled with a complete stranger, and by the end of the year they're married."
"I'm sure the maesters would be fascinated by that."
"Oh, unquestionably." You folded your hands behind your back, before statingâ "personally, I think it's nonsense."
Jace raised a brow. "But?"
You offered him a look of pure, exaggerated innocenceâ the kind that fooled absolutely no one, least of all a prince. But the playful tilt of your chin did something unexpected. And foor the first time all evening, Jaceâs guarded gaze slipped. His eyes flickered downward, catching the curve of your lips for a single, heavy heartbeat before snapping back to your eyes.
Not so prince-like, you noted with a quiet surge of triumph. Beneath all that heavy velvet and duty, the boy could be unnerved.
"But my grandmother would haunt me from beyond the grave if I said so too loudly." Around you, the hall continued to buzz with anticipation as more strands of red thread crisscrossed the room, turning the space into a loose web of crimson lines.
"Either way," you said, your voice dropping to a smooth whisper as you stepped just an inch closer to the dais, "it's a tradition. And seeing as you're a guest in our hall, it would be terribly rude not to participate. Surely the future king of Westeros isn't afraid of a little local superstition?"
Jaceâs eyes narrowed slightly at the challenge, his jaw tightening as he looked down at your outstretched hand. He was a creature of duty, and you were weaponizing hospitality against him with terrifying efficiency.
"I am afraid of nothing, my lady," he muttered, though his tone lacked its previous icy armor.
"Prove it then," you teased.
The dance began. It wasn't the rigid, courtly steps of King's Landing, but something more fluid and alive. As you and Jace moved, circling each other, the music swelled, the heavy thrum of the drums echoing off the stone walls. At first, the prince was predictably stiff, his posture impeccably straight as if he were still standing at attention. "You look as though you're marching to an execution, not a dance," you said, stepping closer as the rhythm shifted. "Relax your shoulders, My Prince. I don't bite unless requested."
Jaceâs eyebrows shot up, a sudden flush creeping up his neck, though his expression remained stubbornly stern. "I have a lot on my mind. My mother needs this alliance. I thought your house understood the urgency, yet you treat this like a maiden's day festival."
"We do understand," you said softly, your eyes holding his as you took a step backward, drawing him deeper into the lively pattern of the dance. As the tempo quickened, he was forced to adapt, his hand on your waist tightening significantly to keep up with the pace of the local youth. "But my father believes that you cannot truly know a man's character in a dark room over parchment. He wanted to see how the future king comports himself among the people he wishes to rule. If you are cold, they will be cold."
Jace paused mid-step, a sudden realization dawning on him. He looked around the room over your shoulder, noticing for the first time that the lord of the houseâ your fatherâ wasn't drinking blindlyâ he was watching Jace. Watching how he treated you, how he carried himself.
"I see," Jace murmured, a bit of the tension finally leaving his shoulders, though his dark eyes narrowed playfully down at you. "A test, then. And you're the distraction?"
"I prefer the term 'hostess'," you smirked.
From the galleries above and the sidelines below, the onlookers began to toss the long, unbroken strands of vibrant red wool across the floor. The crimson lines arched beautifully through the air like a localized storm, draping softly over shoulders, catching on heavy velvet sleeves, and tangling around the swirling skirts and heavy boots of the dancers. With every passing second, the room was being woven together into a chaotic, beautiful web of bright red thread.
Jace ducked his head slightly as a stray strand brushed over his dark curls, his eyes darting around the room in a mix of wariness and pure fascination. He looked less like a brooding prince now and more like a man caught in a spell, entirely surrounded by the warmth of your hallâ and the impossible-to-ignore pull of his partner.
Suddenly, a particularly long, vibrant arc of red string was thrown from the gallery above, cutting through the warm haze of the hall like a streak of wildfire. It dropped directly into the narrow space between the two of you just as the music took a sharp, dramatic turn.
As Jace expertly spun you around to follow the changing beat, the heavy wool caught. With a sudden snap, the coarse yarn hooked itself tightly onto the sharp, ornamental silver buckle of his belt. At the exact same moment, the momentum of your spin caused the loose tail of the thread to whip around your arm, wrapping itself three times perfectly around your wrist.
The sudden, rigid tension snapped the line completely taut, halting your movements mid-stride. The delicate friction of the wool dug slightly into your skin, effectively locking your hand to his hip.
You stopped in your tracks. Slowing down your breathing, you looked down at your bound wrist, then tracked the straight crimson line directly to his waist. A slow, wicked smirk spread across your face.
Jace frowned, completely oblivious to the tradition's rules, and reached down with his free hand to unhook it. "Let me justâ"
Before his fingers could even touch the wool, you gave your wrist a sudden, sharp yank.
The pull caught Jace entirely off guard. Stumbling forward, the sheer force of the tug dragged him a full step closer, his chest nearly colliding with yours. To keep his balance, his hand automatically clamped down firmly on your waist, his eyes widening in genuine shock as he found himself looking straight down into your amused face, mere inches away.
The music swelled perfectly with the moment, and around you, a few locals cheered and pointed at the tight, crimson line binding the stubborn prince's hips directly to your hand.
"Where are you going, Prince Jacaerys?" you whispered, your voice a low, teasing purr as you deliberately held the string taut between you, refusing to give him an inch of breathing room. "The game isn't over yet."
Jaceâs breath hitched, his hand still anchored heavily to your hip, the warmth of his palm seeping through your clothes. He looked at your smirk, then down at the red string, his jaw tightening as he fought a losing battle against a sudden, involuntary smile of his own.
"You are incredibly frustrating," he muttered, his voice low, though he didn't make a single move to let go of your waist.
"And you're incredibly stiff," you whispered, leaning in just close enough to ensure he couldn't look awayâ "but your heart is betraying you, My Prince."
As you spoke, you deliberately pressed your bound hand flat against the center of his chest. The red stringâ wrapped tight around your wrist and anchored to his belt, pulled taut between you, dragging your bodies even closer. Beneath your palm, through the heavy layers of his velvet doublet, you could feel the frantic, heavy thudding of his pulse against his ribsâ rapid, fierce, and utterly uncoordinated with the rhythm of the drums around you.
At the touch, the air caught entirely in his throat. For all his rigid royal posture and cold sense of duty, his body was completely giving him awayâ his gaze dropped, helpless, tracking the slight parting of your lips before locking back onto your eyes with a sudden dark intensity.
"And I certainly think you're exactly where you want to be."
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like fliesâleaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 8,437
COMMENT IF YOUâD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
authors note. mind you, it can get a little annoying at first since the reader genuinely lives in a fantasy of sunshine and happy endings đ but i tried to follow the plot/tone of the great so⊠yeah. she will become a baddie as the story progresses. also, iâm not planning to follow the canon events after the ashford tourney which means we are absolutely getting king aerion đ€ and yes, i shamelessly stole some dialogue from the show because they were simply too funny not to include <3 likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, eventual smut, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
âŽïž 209 AC
THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.
You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.
But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.
âI am to be married,â you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.
âWho,â she asked carefully, âwould marry you?â
You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. âA prince of fire and blood,â you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. âWe shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.â
She snorted. âYou make him sound like a savant.â
âHe is not a savant,â you replied with mock offense. âHe is a prince.â
âYes, but is he aware we are poor?â she asked flatly. âTruly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.â
You waved a dismissive hand. âThat is beneath his concern.â
âIs it?â
âYes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.â You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.
The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.
Then, very quietly, she said, âPrince Aerion?â
You smiled wider. âYes.â
âThe Targaryen prince?â
âYes.â
âFrom Westeros.â
âYes, from Westeros.â
The color slowly drained from her face.
âThe ravens arrived this morning,â you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. âMother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in Kingâs Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.â You clasped your hands together. âDoesnât it feel strangely destined?â
âNo,â she answered at once.
âYes, it does.â
âNo, it doesnât.â
âYes.â
âNo.â
You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. âYou are determined to ruin this for me?â
âThey do not even have dragons anymore,â she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. âThe last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the princeâŠâ She hesitated. âIâve heard things.â
âFrom whom?â
âMerchants. Sailors from Kingâs Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.â
You brushed past the warning without care. âSailors invent stories for sport.â
âThey say heâs cruel.â
âAnd people said Father was clever,â you replied lightly. âThe world exaggerates.â
She looked unconvinced.
You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.
âIf there are no dragons left,â you mused, âI suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.â
She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.
âYou cannot hatch a dragon.â
âWhy not?â You asked ridiculously. Â
âBecause dragons are dead.â
You shrugged. âSo were we, practically.â
For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.
âI am finding Mother,â she muttered under her breath. âShe has completely lost her mind.â
Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.
He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.
Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.
A marriage.
No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held.Â
He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crownâbut there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason.Â
A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable.Â
It was not sentiment. It was sense.Â
His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.
He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornamentâpretty, perhaps, but wrong.Â
And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.
You walked into the hall looking pleased with life.Â
No!
Absolutely not!
Gods⊠you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him.Â
Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.
Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both.Â
You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.
âItâs beautiful,â you breathed softly.
Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.
âYou look taller in your portrait,â Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet.Â
âOh.â
Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. âSend her back. Find me a tall one.â
Aerionâs eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazilyâ âSee? Funny.â
You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.
âI see.â
âIâm kidding,â Aerion said. Then, after a beat: âMostly.âÂ
âOh,â you said politely. âVery amusing.â It was not convincing.
The maesterâGladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.
âPrince Aerion, may I present Ladyââ
âYes, yes, the bride,â Aerion interrupted. âI gathered.â
You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.
âI wished to bring something from Lys,â you explained warmly. Aerionâs mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worseâpoetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.
But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig.Â
You held it out to him with both hands.
âI present this branch of spruce,â you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!
âIt is an evergreen,â you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. âI hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.â
Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him.Â
âShe gave me a twig,â he observed quietly.Â
Aerion tilted his head slightly. âSheâs not inbred, is she?â
The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. âThere has been no indication ofââ
âI assure you,â you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, âI am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.â And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.
Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.
âI also wished to thank you for your letter.â
The man frowned immediately. âMy what?â
âThe letter you sent to Lys,â you continued. âThe one speaking of devotion and companionship.â Your expression brightened almost painfully. âIt was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.â
Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor.Â
âOh,â Aerion said slowly. âThat letter.âÂ
âYou wrote it, did you not?â you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. âYes,â Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive.Â
âI hoped,â you continued carefully, âthat perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.â
Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. âThat sounds exhausting,â he said, before he could stop himself.
Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.
âAnd I hope I shall make you happy,â you said sincerely.
Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. âYouâre perfect,â he replied flatly.Â
The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this.Â
A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name wasâthough truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.
The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.
It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.
And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.
He still did not look at you.
One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.
Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.
âYouâre pretty,â he remarked casually.
The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. âTh-thank you, Your Grace.â
You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.
Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.
âI must tend to my whores,â he announced.
A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.
Aerion barely paused.
ââŠHorses,â he corrected lazily. âHorses.â
Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. âGoing riding,â Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.
Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.
The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.
âHe seems lovely,â you said softly.
Meriel glanced at you.
âMm,â she replied carefully. âArenât you gorgeously optimistic?â
You laughed under your breath. âIt has been said.â Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. âI simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.â
Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.
â
The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.
You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.
The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.
âPresenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wifeââ
You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.
âIt is aââ
âNo,â Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. âYou donât talk, my love.â
A stunned silence followed. âOh,â you said after a moment. âOf course.â
Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.
Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.
âSo,â he announced, âa wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.â
The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.
The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.
Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.
âYou wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.â
You stared at the beast with open amazement. âYou remembered?â
âNo,â Aerion answered honestly.Â
The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.
You thought it was wonderful.
â
By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.
Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.
âOh,â you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, âtheyâre somewhere, Iâm sure.â
Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.
âPrincess,â she said carefully, âwhere are the rest of your clothes?â
You looked around vaguely.
âAn excellent question.â
Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.
âMe. A married woman.â You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. âHow I dreamt of this.â
Merielâs expression softened slightly.
âCongratulations,â she said quietly. Then, after a pause: âMadam⊠if I may speak plainly.â
âYou may.â
Meriel hesitated.
âYou do know what to expect tonight?â
You looked up at once, mildly offended.
âYou suppose me more naĂŻve than I am.â
âShe explained it to you?â
âMy mother explained everything.â
Meriel looked unconvinced already.
You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.
You spoke with complete sincerity.
âThe man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.â
Meriel blinked once.
âYour breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.â
Meriel blinked twice.
âBetween your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.â
Meriel stared at you in silence.
âYour bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.â You smiled faintly to yourself. âYou float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.â
Merielâs face had gone completely blank.
âYour body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.â You sighed dreamily. âThen you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a⊠delicious sleep.â
A long silence followed.
Meriel nodded slowly.
ââŠYep,â she said at last. âThatâs pretty much it.â
You smiled, reassured.
Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.
You waited.
And waited.
Aerion never came.
Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.
You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and âthe strengthening of the marital bond,â which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.
The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in Kingâs Landing that smelled faintly of death.
You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.
These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.
He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because âthe bird understands him emotionally.â
The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.
You considered poisoning him on the third.
At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.
âOh,â heâd say. âWife.âÂ
Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, âDoes she always sit there?â
You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply.Â
And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then monthsâ nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.
Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.
At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame.Â
So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time.Â
You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.
Still determined, you walked to Aerionâs chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.
And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.
And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met.Â
A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced.Â
âOh,â he said.
You stared at him.
The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window.Â
Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.
âYouâre welcome to join us, if you likeâ
You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.
Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.
You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.
Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.
Escape, howeverâ
Escape remained an option.
You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.
âI want to leave,â you told her quietly.
Meriel stared at you for a moment. âLeave where?â
âAway from here,â you replied. âAnywhere else.â
Meriel lowered her eyes.
âI need a large traveling trunk,â you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. âAnd a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.â
Understanding settled over her face slowly.
âYou mean to flee.â
âI mean to survive.â
For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.
âI shall arrange it.â
But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.
She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.
âHow is she?â he asked lazily.
Meriel hesitated only briefly. âUnhappy.â
âHmm.â
âShe wants to leave.â
That earned his attention. He hummed, âyou want something in return.â
Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.
âMy father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.â Her hands tightened together. âI have served loyally ever since.â
Aerion tilted his head slightly.
âYou want your status restored.â
âYes, Your Grace.â
Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.
âGods,â he murmured, almost impressed. âYouâre awful.â
â
The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.
Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard.Â
Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.
But then the carriage stopped.
And you felt the trunkâ the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.
âNo,â you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. âNoâ!â
The trunk sank lower.
Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.
Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.
Then silence.
For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.
That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.
Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.
The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.
And then suddenlyâ
Aerion laughed.
âOh, Gods,â he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. âYou thought I was serious.â
The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. âBring her back before she actually dies.â
Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.
You spilled out with it.
Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.
Above you stood Aerion.
Dry and perfectly composed.
One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.
Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.
âCome along.â
The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.
Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.
Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worseâ Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.
The realization hollowed something inside you completely.
That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.
Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, âWould you like a cake with that knife, Princess?â
You let out a humorless laugh.
âDo not try to stop me,â you said quietly. âJust leave me be.â
âI would not presume to speak,â Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. âFor the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.â
You looked down at the knife again.
âI am resolved.â
Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.
âFetch a bucket for the blood.â
The poor boy blinked. âYes, miss.â
âAnd towels too,â Meriel added calmly. âThere may be some overflow.â
âWhat am I to do?â you whispered instead. âJust live forever at someone elseâs whim?â
âGod forbid.â
You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.
âI truly believed,â you admitted quietly, âever since I was a child⊠that greatness waited for me somewhere.â Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. âA great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.â You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. âThat I was meant to change something.â
Meriel was silent for a moment.
Then softly:
âWhy did he make you a woman, then?â
You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.
âFor comedy, I suppose.â
And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.
You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.
Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.
He stabbed violently at a pear.
âThe Ashford Tourney begins next week,â he announced suddenly. âYouâre coming.â
You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.
âOh dear,â you murmured sadly. âI fear I may be terribly ill.â
Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.
âTragic.â
You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. âI believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.â
âHow brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.â
You ignored him with dignity.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.
âYou do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.â
âThen tell them I died.â
âThat would create paperwork.â
Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.
He glanced toward your stomach.
âYouâre not pregnant yet, are you?â
Silence.
You narrowed your eyes slowly. âAerion,â you said carefully, âyou have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.â
He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.
âAnnoying.â
You stared at him in disbelief.
Annoying?
Annoying?
Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.
âWe should probably do something about that eventually,â he muttered distractedly.
âYou think?â You shot him a sharp look across the table. âWhat a groundbreaking conclusion.â
Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.
âYouâve been in a terrible mood lately.â
You laughed in disbelief. âLately?âÂ
âYes.â Aerion blinked.Â
âI walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.â
âAnd I offered to include you,â he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. âAs for the lake, that was clearly a joke.â
âA joke.â
âYes.â
âYou sealed me inside the trunk.â
âYou survived.â
âYou watched me drown.â
Aerion frowned slightly at that. âThat feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.â
You stared at him.
âAnd besides,â he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, âI came back.â
You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.
Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second.Â
Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.
Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.
âLater.â
The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.
âI hate you,â you muttered venomously into your wine.
Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.
Aerion hosted them constantly.
The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.
They clung to Aerion all the same.
Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for thatâ but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.
Even when it wasnât funny.
Especially when it wasnât funny.
While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.
The library.
It became yours almost by instinct.
Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.
Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.
You had always loved reading.
Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.
You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.
Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.
You wanted to do something that mattered.
And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.
You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.
And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.
It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion.Â
âYouâre coming?â he asked.
âI would like to see the forest,â you said simply.
He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.
âFine.â
The hunt itself was chaos.
Aerion, however, was in a rare good moodâ amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.
So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.
âThere is something I would like to do,â you began carefully.
Aerion did not look at you. âThat sounds expensive.â
âIt is notââ
âEverything is expensive,â he cut in.
You hesitated.
Then, quietly, âThere is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.â
âDo what you want,â he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. âJust donât make it inconvenient.â
You stared at him for a moment.
âThatâs it?â
He shrugged. âItâs a cottage.â
A pause.
Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.
Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.
And just like that, it was done.
No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.
You began preparing soon after.
The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thoughtâhalf-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.
Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.
It almost felt possible.
Until it didnât.Â
You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.
The cottage.
Burned.
Not damaged. But burned.
Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.
You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.
It did not.
By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.
Only ash.
â
The palace was loud.
Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.
You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.
He did not look up when you entered.
You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.
âYou burned it,â you said.
Aerion blinked once.
Then, slowly: âOh.â
He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.
âYou didnât say it was for girls.â
âWomen in the villages here cannot read,â he added. âTheyâre not taught.â
Your hands tightened at your sides.
âThat is notââ
âAnd they should not be,â Aerion said, cutting in.
âWomen are for seeding, not reading.â
Laughter rolled through the hall.
You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.
ââŠI told you I wanted a school,â you said slowly.
âYes,â Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.
âAnd you burned it down.â
âI did,â he confirmed.
No hesitation.Â
You exhaled sharply through your nose.
âWell, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.â
Laughter rippled through the room.
âYou are disgusting,â you hissed.
âYou do not lie to me again.â
The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside youâbut by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.
Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.
âOoh,â he drawled. âYouâre admirably quick.â
You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.
The next day there was another feast.
Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.
Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isnât.Â
You mostly ignored all of it.
Instead, you found the bear.
It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerionâs strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.
You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.
âMaybe youâre the only one here,â you muttered softly, âwho hasnât tried to ruin my life.â
The bear shifted slightly under your hand.
For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you.Â
And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.
The arrow struck clean.
Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.
You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.
Across the courtyard, laughter broke out. âGood shot,â someone called.
Aerionâs voice followed lazily, unconcerned. âOh, dear. Someoneâs cross.â he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard.Â
The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didnât wait for anything else. You turned and left.
â
The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything.Â
It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.
You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.
You did not expect him to follow you.
Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.
âWeâve got problems, havenât we?â he said at last.
You did not answer.
Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.
âI suppose you are the only person in my life,â he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, âwho has not loved me.â
A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.
âIt is inconceivable to me,â he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, âand says nothing good about you.â
You looked up sharply at that.
He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.
âIf you had shown me an ounce of kindness,â your face twisted as you eyed him, âI was ready with a heart full of love.â
And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, âYou look really pretty when youâre angry.â
That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.
âMy heart is breaking,â you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. âI miss home. Iâm lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberriesââ
âAnd I need my cock sucked,â Aerion interrupted flatly.
You froze.
âWhat?â you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.
âWell,â he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, âweâre sharing, right? Our needs?â
âJust let me go home, please.â
âThatâs not going to happen.â
He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. âStrawberries, Iâll work on.â
Then, more to himself than to you, he added, âWhat happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?â
âShe died,â you said immediately.
Aerion sighed through his nose. âSeems overly dramatic.â
He looked at you again, then added, âI am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?â
âI suffer the blows of your disdain daily,â you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.
Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.
âItâs not the same as actual blows, though, is it?â
âWellââ
âWhat, you donât know?â he cut in.
Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and thenâsuddenly, sharplyâhe struck you in the stomach.
The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.
Aerion watched you bend forward.
âWell,â he said calmly, releasing you, âcompare, and get back to me.â
You straightened slowly, shaking.
âMother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,â he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, âIâm glad sheâs not alive to see this. Not that Iâm glad sheâs dead. Iâm notââ
He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.
You were still staring at him, unblinking.
âDonât look at me like that,â he said. âYouâre a disappointment to me, too.â
Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.
âI do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.â
âYou will try and fail,â you said immediately, voice raw.
âYou will be happy,â he continued as if you had not spoken. âYou will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.â
His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.
âI do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.â
A pause.
Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.
âAnd you will never win.â
I hope he loses.
Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him.Â
I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.
Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.
Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.
He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.
Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.
You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.
You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.
Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.
Then he left.
And the gates closed behind him.
â
Days passed slowly after that.
The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.
You filled the time carefully.
The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expectedâbut insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.
Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.
Time passed in a strange, suspended way.
Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.
âHe died!â
The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.
âThe prince died!â
For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.
Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.
A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.
But thenâ
A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.
Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost likeâ
No.
Not yet.
Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.
Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.
She stopped in front of you.
And spoke clearly.
âPrince Baelor died.â
Silence.
Oh.
You felt it land slowly.
Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.
Someone else. Someone entirely different.
Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.
And for a long moment, all you could think was:
Oh.
savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldnât use the word âmaestersâ the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms
updates may be slow since iâm starting summer classes at uni tomorrow, but trust that i will see this fic through to the very end đ
SYNOPSIS. She was doomed to remember the lifetimes where his hands took her life, and he was equally doomed to remember the ones where they loved each other.
PAIRING. valarr targaryen x demigod/daughter of the crone!oc
READ ON AO3 / READ ON WATTPAD
TO BE MORTAL is to feel mortal emotions.
It is a frantic, crowded existence of hope, shame, fear, and loveâeach a colorful thread meant to bind a soul to the earth so it does not drift away into the cold.Â
These feelings are the anchors that keep a human being rooted in the dirt, making them predictable, manageable, and soft.
But Selen of the Valeâs soul had always been unmoored.
They say hope is the thing with feathers, but Selen only knew the thing with teeth.Â
She did not feel that desperate flutter in her chest when the winter stores ran dry in the Vale, nor did she join the chorus of the other children when they wept for a motherâs touch that was never coming. To hope was to acknowledge a lackâto admit that someone, somewhere, held a power over you that you were begging them to use. She refused to admit the world owed her anything at all, and so she never had to wait for a miracle that wouldn't arrive.
Shame is the heat that rises in the cheeks when one is caught in a lie or stripped bare by a judgmental gaze, yet Selen felt no such fever.
She stood in her threadbare rags with the posture of a queen, unblinking when the mistress spat at her feet or called her a hollow-eyed freak. To her, shame was a social contract, a way for the weak to keep the different in line, and she had never signed her name to it.
Fear was no different; it was a tax paid by those who had something left to loseâa name, a life, even a scrap of dignity. She did not feel the frantic heartbeat or the trembling limb when the shadows of the Moon Mountains grew long and hungry. Selen walked the world with empty hands and a heart of flint; there was nothing left for the world to take from her.
Love, however, remained the cruelest of them all. It was the tether that made the heart vulnerable to the knife, the soft spot in the armor that invited the strike.
She watched the other orphans cling to one another in the dark, huddled for a warmth that would only make the morning frost feel sharper, but she felt only a hollow distance. It was a glass wall between her and the soft, foolish needs of the living. To love was to give someone the power to destroy you, and Selen was already a ruin.
This hollowness was not a deformity of the mind, but a requirement of her blood. She was a vessel carved from a different stone, built to withstand a pressure that would have crushed a common heart.
The mortals around her lived by the laws of the pulse and the belly, tethered to their small virtues and their smaller vices, but Selen was governed by a more ancient, jagged arithmetic.Â
She was the exception to the rule of the flesh, a creature who stood outside the circle of human consequence. It was this distanceâthis divine indifferenceâthat made her capable of things a human soul would shudder to contemplate. For if she did not feel as they felt, she could not be judged as they were judged.
There iis a different set of rules for the small and the great.Â
When a man sins, it is expected; he is a creature of clay and instinct, a beast in a rough tunic who knows no better than to satisfy his hunger or his rage. The world forgives a man because he is small, his crimes as fleeting as his breath.Â
But when a god sins, it is not a mistake, it is an architecture. When the divine turn their backs on the suffering or break the very laws they carved into the stone of the world, they do not call it a crime; they call it fate. They weave their calculated cruelty into the stars, painting their whims across the sky and demanding that the mortals below call it justice.Â
And if a creature born of bothâa splinter of the eternal trapped in a cage of fragile boneâdares to strike back? If a child of the heavens reaches for the torch and decides to burn down the world that rejected her, is that a sin?Â
No. For a daughter of the gods, vengeance is not a failing. It is an inheritance, the only thing they truly left her.Â
They should have known better than to leave a divine thing to fester in the dirt. A dead thing can be ignored, but a rotting thing spreads, and Selen was born to be the blight that kills the world at the root.
And yet . . .Â
The gods condemned her for that very inheritance.Â
They are the Faith of the Rotten.Â
They do not dwell within the silent marble of the Great Septs; they are the architects of the rot. To them, a single heart broken at the right moment is enough to bring a kingdom to its knees.Â
The Father is a judge with weighted scales; the Mother offers only the comfort of a shroud; and at the center of the web sits the Crone. It was her shadow that fell heaviest upon Selenâthe divine mistake who dared to bite back.
Selen realized then that she did not want to be the better version of the gods; she wanted to be the worse one.Â
She did not seek to fix their broken world, but to govern its decay. In the sweltering shadows of Volantis, she rose as a mistress of the dark arts, the architect of a religion built on the bones of spite. She became the savior of the desperate and the executioner of the weak, a merchant of miracles who understood that the only true language of the universe is debt.Â
To the broken, she was a goddess; to the wise, she was a warning. She offered the impossible, but her grace always came with a jagged edge: a life for a life, a soul for a dream, a kingdom for a prayer.
Then came Prince Valarr Targaryen.
He arrived at her feet not as a conqueror, but as a beggar drowning in grief. He offered her gold, but Selen did not look at his purse.Â
She looked at his head and saw the weight of the crown he was meant to wear; she looked at his hands and saw the inheritance of a burning throne. She saw a prince who was willing to pay any price to undo the past, and she decided to collect.
But the gods do not suffer a rival for long. They looked down and saw a girl playing with the threads of fate, her sins piling up like cordwood, and they decided to turn her hubris into a game.
They did not kill herâthey tethered her. For the crime of mocking the divine, Selen was bound to the very mortal she had tried to fleece. She was cast into a cycle of lifetimes, a suffocating loop of rebirth where she was forced to walk through a thousand lifetimes, always ending at his hand.
And so began the Trials.
In the Vale, she sought the Fatherâs justice only to be burned at the stake. In the North, the Motherâs mercy was found in the teeth of a wolf. The Smith broke her work in Braavos; the Warrior broke her sword in the Stepstones. She even sought the Strangerâs end by the cliffs, only to wake as a babe, her first breath a scream of fury because the salt water was still stinging her throat.
The divine theater is closing its curtains. Selen is done playing the martyr. If the loom demands a sacrifice to finally go still, she will offer it up in blood. She will drag the stars down until the gods, the Prince, and the very world rot in her wake.
For she finally understands the true cruelty of what the gods had made of them: she was condemned to remember every life that ended with his hands on her throat, his blade in her heartâwhile he was left with the gentler ruin, carrying the memory of every life where they had chosen each other instead.
AUTHORS NOTE. kinda ate w this plot so pls read my fic haha ur so sexy pls.... might be publishing chapter 1 tomorrow so stay tuned! likes n comments are very much appreciated <3 and check out my other socials đĄïž (shameless ik..)
Modern Valarr Targaryen as your boyfriend headcanons !!
since he is studying literature and philology, he is very good with words. Valarr will use more "fancy" words in his daily life not to show off his vocabulary, but because he is used to apply these words in his assignments, and, of course, he hears them from his father very often
Valarr writes the best poems, no questions asked. He often has to write them on different topics for home assignments, but he is even better at writing poems for and about you. Whenever you go on a date, you will find a piece of paper with yet another poem amongst the red rose bouquet
when you go out, Valarr is always the one to pay. That goes without saying, as he also knows that you yourself count every penny, while he could throw the money away just like nothing. But the main reason for it is that he wants to spoil and take care of you
Valarr spoils you with his cooking as well. His parents taught him the basics, but he has recently started coming up with recipes himself. The kitchen is another palace of free creativity, and he does not hesitate to use it as such, often inviting you for help, but mostly as a taste-tester
if you ever text Valarr about feeling unwell, he will buy you a big chocolate and flowers before heading over to your place. You might watch a movie in bed together, and if need be, he will stay for the night to make sure you will feel better
as a hobby, Valarr tutors school children in English and Literature. He thinks that if he has the ability and time to help struggling children with learning, then he should do that, as it benefits them and Valarr sometimes even learns something new about his major subjects
another of his hobbies is tennis. Every Saturday Valarr has practice, to which you are invited, of course. Valarr chooses his hobbies very thoughtfully, not picking up something that would end up being a waste of time. Tennis keeps him active and boosts his coordination. And, of course, it's the one place where he lets out his aggression moderately.
it is very important for Valarr to go to your hobby activities as well. No matter if it is a musical instrument you play or a sports you do, he wants to understand and appreciate your passions as well to make you feel supported and loved. He cares deeply about what you do and even has suggested taking up a hobby together
he wears his glasses like an accessory, not as a disability. To him, the glasses are more of a fidget to him. When he is deep in thought, he will constantly be fixing his glasses with his index finger to come up with the right idea
during summer, Valarr often likes going to meadows to have a picnic with you, obviously with something you two made yourself. You would most definitely feed each other strawberries, and maybe even try a few tricks, laughing with, not at, one another when one of you missed
unfortunately his immune system isn't the best and he has many allergies. During spring he gets hayfever very often, and his general allergies include dust, cats and pine nuts. Of course, these allergies limit him to some extent, but he tries to make the best out of it. After all, he isn't the only one with allergies, and certainly, he could have it worse
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