Galatea @bbblackmamba - Tumblr Blog

ㅤㅤㅤDEVIL LIKE ME 2

last chapter.

pairing: aerion 'brightflame' targaryen x stepmom! reader (and x maekar)

summary: having been involved with your husband's son because he never desired you never left your thoughts, but now that Maekar has found out, he wishes to punish her, and as a result, Aerion also makes his decision upon learning that you consummated your marriage.

a/n: I took an immense amount of time to write part two because I was busy with a thousand other ideas, but here it is at last.

Ი𐑼 . . . - main masterlist ❜❜ ٫٫ words count: 9,0K

Days had passed since that night.

Days when you'd wake with Aerion's name on your lips and your body still burning where the wax had marked you. Days when you'd sit at the breakfast table next to Maekar and feel your stepson's eyes on you, always on you, as if he could see right through your dress, through your skin, through all the layers of silk and shame you'd woven between you.

Maekar hadn't noticed a thing… 'course he hadn't.

The prince remained as distant as ever, as cold, as busy with his duties and his books and his legitimate children; the ones he'd had with his dead wife, never with you. He didn't see the marks hidden beneath your skirts, didn't see the way you avoided Aerion's gaze during meals, didn't see the tension settling into your shoulders whenever his son entered a room.

He didn't see 'cause he'd never looked.

And Aerion knew it, and he used that knowledge like a dagger, twirling it slowly between his fingers, admiring the blade's gleam before he struck.

Aegon's name day celebration would happen within a few hours, and all of Summerhall was getting ready for the feast, but first came the lunch, just the family, a prelude to the festivities that'd follow after nightfall.

You'd sat down next to Maekar, as always, and tried to focus on the salmon swimming in saffron sauce on your plate. The fish was cold, or maybe hot, you couldn't tell anymore, not with Aerion sat right across from you, five places down, carving a pomegranate with the same dagger he'd used at the dinner where they'd served boar.

Pomegranate.

The fruit seemed to haunt you.

Aerion bit into the seeds slowly, red juice dripping down his long fingers, staining his lips, and he watched you as he chewed, as he swallowed, as his tongue licked the ruby remnants from his mouth.

Next to you, Maekar argued with Daeron about taxes, maybe, or lands, or some other dull matter that didn't require your input. You thanked the gods silently for that — for not having to pretend interest, for being able to concentrate on not trembling under that gaze.

Aerion.

He tilted his head, slightly, like a dog scenting fear. Those violet eyes travelled across your face, down to your neck, to the pearl choker covering the teeth marks he'd left there, then back up again.

His lips moved, forming one word.

Mine.

You looked away.

Your hands, resting on the table, clenched into fists hidden beneath the embroidered cloth. You breathed deep, counted to ten, tried to remember what life had been like before Aerion, before his hands, before his mouth, before his taste on your tongue.

You couldn't… you couldn't remember anymore.

"The lady looks pale."

Aerion's voice cut through the table's murmur and you looked up. He wasn't eating the pomegranate anymore; now his fingers were wiping the juice on the tablecloth, leaving ruby stains that looked like blood.

"Does the salmon not please you?" he went on, tilting his head with that false concern only he could fake so well. "Shall I call a servant? Have something else made? A lamb, perhaps? Something sweeter... a fruit, maybe?"

Pomegranate.

"I'm fine," you answered, and your voice sounded braver than you felt. "Just not hungry."

"Ah." Aerion rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers under his chin, and his eyes gleamed with a malice no one else at the table seemed to notice. "But a woman must eat, stepmother. Especially a woman hoping to... fill out, shall we say."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daella dropped her fork, Rhae went crimson to the ears, Valarr coughed, clearly uncomfortable, and Maekar finally looked up from his wine cup.

"What do you mean by that, Aerion?"

"Nothing, Father." The word was said with such perfect, natural disdain that it sounded like an insult. "I only remarked that my stepmother seems... different, of late. Lovelier. More... full."

Full.

The word echoed in everyone's mind around that table, loaded with double meanings Aerion made no effort to hide.

"A son's eyes see what a father's cannot," he added, and his eyes met yours again. "Or will not."

Maekar shoved his chair back.

"Aerion."

"Father." The reply came in the same tone. "I'm merely complimenting my stepmother. Is it forbidden now to praise a woman? Or is the problem that the praise comes from me?"

The whole table went tense, even the servants had stopped moving, wine jugs suspended mid-air. You looked at Maekar, who seemed to be starting to rage, and the hands that'd never touched you were clenched into fists on the table, his knuckles white with strain.

"Your place is five seats down from mine," Maekar said, and each word seemed to splinter from his teeth. "Remember that."

"I remember." Aerion tilted his head, and the movement was so graceful, so serpentine, it reminded you of a dragon preparing to strike. "I remember my place, Father. I remember every slight, every harsh word, every time you called me mad or an abomination for wanting what's owed to me."

He stood up and stepped behind his chair. You felt the heat of his body before you saw him, felt his closeness like a flame nearing your skin without yet touching it.

"And what's owed to you, brother?" asked Daeron, who'd watched in silence till then. His voice was calm, but there was a warning in it that only fools would ignore.

Aerion smiled.

"Everything."

His hands landed on the back of your chair. You felt his fingers brush your shoulders, and you shuddered.

"But for now," he went on, leaning down till his lips nearly grazed your ear, "I'm content with little. Just my stepmother's attention, since she seems so... interested in me as I am in her."

"Enough!"

Maekar stood up with such force that his chair toppled backwards, echoing on the stone like thunder. His face, usually impassive, was overtaken by a fury you'd never seen — a fury not directed at you, but at the provocation, at the humiliation, at the truth Aerion hinted at without ever speaking aloud.

"Come with me," he ordered, and his hand gripped your wrist hard enough to leave marks.

You didn't resist. You couldn't. Not when Aerion laughed softly behind you, that low, metallic laugh that'd haunt you till the end of your days.

"Enjoy yourselves," he said, as Maekar dragged you from the hall. "I'll wait for you at the feast. Don't be late... it'd be a shame for Aegon to miss his parents on his special day."

The doors closed behind you, but the laugh kept echoing in your mind, in your blood, in every inch of your skin that Aerion had marked as his.

Maekar didn't say a word as he dragged you through the corridors. Didn't say anything as you climbed the stairs, as you crossed the anterooms, as you finally reached the chambers you shared... if you could call that sharing.

Only when the door closed behind you, when the bolt slid into place with a click, did he let you go. And then, finally, he looked at you.

"What's between you and my son?"

The question was direct, without the slightest courtesy. Maekar didn't circle around it, didn't measure his words, didn't give you the comfort of an easy lie.

"Nothing," you answered, and your heart was beating so fast you swore he could hear it.

"Don't lie to me." He stepped forward, and you stepped back — one, two steps — till your back hit the cold wood of the door. "I saw how he looked at you. I saw how you tremble when he gets near. I saw the marks on your neck."

Your hands flew instinctively to your pearl choker, but it was too late. Maekar had already seen. Maybe he'd always seen, and had only chosen to ignore it till Aerion's provocation grew too big to ignore.

"They're nothing," you lied again, and you hated yourself for how your voice shook.

Maekar stepped closer. Now you were so close you could feel the heat of his body, could see the small wrinkles around his eyes, could count every silver strand in his hair.

"Take off the choker."

"Maekar…"

"Take off the choker or I'll take it off myself."

Your hands shook as you reached for the back of your neck, as you undid the clasp, as the pearls spilled through your fingers like white tears. The choker fell to the floor with a soft sound, and the silence that followed was deafening. Maekar looked at the marks on your neck. Bites. Bruises. The undeniable proof that another man had been there, that another man had touched you, that another man had claimed you as his.

"How many nights?" The question came out low, controlled, but there was something you'd never seen in Maekar; something that wasn't coldness, wasn't indifference, wasn't the resignation of a man who no longer cared.

It was jealousy. It was wounded pride.

"Maekar, I can explain…"

"Explain what?" He laughed, and the sound was so bitter it hurt to hear. "That while I slept alone in my chambers, my own son…"

"You didn't sleep alone." The truth escaped before you could stop it. "You slept away from me by choice, 'cause you don't want me, 'cause you never wanted me, 'cause you told me plain as day I'd never be your dead wife!"

Maekar stepped back half a pace, and for the first time since entering the room, he looked uncertain.

"She's dead," you went on, and now the anger you'd held in for months, for years, finally spilled out. "She's dead, Maekar, and I'm alive. I'm here! in your bed, in your castle, under your name. And you... you'd rather have a woman rotting in the ground than touch the wife the gods gave you."

"How dare you…"

"Dare what?" You moved away from the door, and now it was you stepping forward, pressing him, finally saying everything you'd kept silent. "Speak the truth? Tell you that your son touched me where you never did? Reveal that he made me feel more wanted in one night than you made me feel in our whole marriage?"

Maekar's hand rose, and for a moment, you thought he'd hit you, but no. His hand closed around your arm, pulled you against his body, and his lips found yours in a kiss that wasn't love, wasn't desire, wasn't anything you'd dreamed of in the lonely nights when he slept with his back to you.

It was possession.

It was the fury of a man who, even without wanting you, couldn't stand the thought that another man had had you.

The kiss was hard, almost cruel — lips pressing against yours hard enough to hurt. His beard scraped your skin, and when he finally pulled back, his eyes were as dark as Aerion's had been on the night it all began.

"Undress."

"What?"

"Undress," he repeated, and there was no love in his voice. Just order, command, the demand of a husband who'd finally decided to exercise his rights. "You're going to consummate this marriage. Now. Here."

"Why?" you asked, anger rising. "'Cause your son touched me first? 'Cause the thought that he had me wounds your pride?"

Maekar didn't answer, his hands were already working at the laces of your dress, pulling, tearing, destroying the seamstresses' hours of work.

"'Cause you're mine," he said at last, when the dress fell at your feet and you stood before him in your slip and nothing more. "By right. By contract. By the gods and by men. You're my wife, and I'm going to make sure everyone knows it."

"Everyone, no," you answered, and then it was your turn to laugh a bitter, tired laugh. "Just you. 'Cause I was never yours, Maekar. Never. You never wanted me, never touched me, never looked at me like a man looks at his wife."

He stopped.

"The marks on your neck," he said slowly. "The bites. The bruises. It was him, wasn't it?"

You didn't answer.

"How many nights?" he pressed. "How many times did my own son…"

"Enough to know," you went on, 'cause you were at rock bottom and there was no reason to stop now, "what it's like to be touched by a man who truly wants me. Enough to know that there are men, even madmen, who look at me like I'm a feast, not a burden."

Maekar stepped forward, his hands grabbed your shoulders, shoved you against the door, and his body pressed against yours with a force that stole your breath.

"You want to be desired?" he snarled, his hot breath burning on your face. "That what you want? To be touched like a piece of meat?"

"I want," the word escaped before you could think, "to be desired by my husband. I want the man who took me as his wife to truly want me. I want…"

"You'll get what you want," Maekar cut in, and then his hands went down, tore your slip, bared your naked body before him. "But you won't like it. 'Cause I'm not my son. I'm not soft, I'm not sweet, I won't fool you with pretty words while I tear your dress off."

He pulled you by the hair — just like Aerion had done — and you hated how your body responded, how your cunt grew wet, how your nipples hardened under Maekar's gaze.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said, and the word sounded strange in his mouth, almost out of place, like he wasn't used to saying it. "I'm going to fuck you till you forget my son's name. Till you remember nothing but my weight on top of you. Till your body knows, without a doubt, who you belong to."

He threw you on the bed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion, who'd guided you with firm but careful hands, who'd put you on your knees with something close to reverence. Maekar just shoved you, and you fell onto the sheets, your breath caught, your naked body exposed to the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

He didn't undress in a hurry.

There was no seduction in his movements, just efficiency. When he came to the bed, you saw the desire in his eyes, but it was a strange, twisted desire, born not of attraction but of the need to prove something. To himself. To you. To Aerion.

"Turn over," he ordered.

"What?"

"Turn over. I want you on all fours. Like a bitch."

The shame burned on your face, on your chest, on every inch of your skin. But you obeyed. 'Cause part of you — the part Aerion had woken, the part that craved being desired, even if in the worst possible way — wanted to see how far Maekar would go.

Wanted to know if he was capable of cruelty.

Wanted to know if he was capable of being, even for a moment, the husband you'd always wanted.

The bed creaked under his weight. You felt his knees between yours, spreading your legs, exposing your wet cunt to the room's cold air. And then you felt his fingers — rough, calloused from the sword — tracing your back, down the curve of your spine, finding the path between your arse cheeks.

"You're already wet," he observed. "Was it for him? Did you get wet thinking about my son?"

"No," you lied.

But his fingers found the entrance to your cunt.

"Liar," he spat, and then his fingers moved away, and you heard his breathing change, felt his weight shift over you.

The first thrust went wrong, his cock grazing your thigh instead of finding its mark. The second was surer, the head pressing at your cunt, and you held your breath.

"You're going to feel this," Maekar promised, and then he pushed.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't like Aerion. Maekar just pushed deep, all at once, like a man driving a sword into an enemy. The cry that escaped your lips was surprise, pain, a pleasure so sudden it hurt. He was different from Aerion — thicker, maybe, or maybe it was just the angle, the position, the lack of preparation — but your husband didn't wait for you to adjust.

He started moving straight away, hard thrusts, rhythmic, that made the bed bang against the wall. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and he pulled you against him with each stroke, like he wanted to bury himself even deeper, like he wanted to merge with you.

"Yes," he groaned. "Yes. Now you know. Now you know what it's like."

Your hands fisted in the sheets, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short gasps. Maekar fucked you like a man possessed, like a man who'd woken from a long sleep and found his wife in another's bed. There was no tenderness in him, no care, just a raw, hungry need that bordered on violence.

And God help you... you wanted it.

You'd wanted it for so long. Wanted your husband to look at you like this, to touch you like this, to take you like this. Not the cold courtesy he'd shown you since your wedding night, not the distant respect he gave a stranger sharing his roof, but this... this brutal, honest, desperate claiming.

"Maekar," you gasped.

"Say my name again," he growled, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. "Say it. I want to hear it from those lips he kissed. I want to know you know who's fucking you."

"Maekar!"

Your body tightened around him, not from your peak, not yet, but from the shock of it, from the strangeness of having him inside you after so long of having nothing. He felt it, and his hand snaked around your hip, found your clit, and started rubbing in rough circles that made you see stars.

"That's it," he grunted. "That's it. You're going to come for me. You're going to come on my cock like a good wife. And then you're going to forget he ever touched you."

His fingers pressed harder, moved faster, matching the rhythm of his hips. Your body was no longer your own, it was a storm of sensation, of heat, of pleasure building like a wave about to break. You heard yourself moaning, felt your cunt clenching around him, felt the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly.

"Come," Maekar ordered, and his voice was raw, desperate. "Come now."

And you did.

Your body arched, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and the wave crashed over you; pleasure so intense it was almost pain, pleasure that blotted out everything but the feeling of your husband's cock buried inside you, of his fingers on your clit, of his body pressing you down into the sheets.

Maekar kept moving through your peak, his thrusts growing more erratic, more desperate. You felt him thicken inside you, felt his movements grow shorter, more frantic, and knew he was close.

"I'm going to come inside you," he warned, his voice almost a growl. "I'm going to fill you with my seed. You're going to get pregnant. You're going to give me a son. You're going to…"

"Maekar."

The voice wasn't yours; it came from the other side of the door, muffled but clearly male. Daeron.

"Father, everyone's waiting for you. Aegon's asked for you three times now. The celebration's about to start."

Prince Daeron, the heir, the king's favourite and who was now just outside the door, just a few yards away, while his father… Maekar stopped. His body was tense over yours, his cock still buried inside you, his breath ragged against your neck.

"Not now," he answered, his voice hoarse, strained.

"Grandfather insists." Daeron sounded uncomfortable (and who wouldn't be?) "He says he won't start without you. That it's your son's name day, and you ought to be there."

You felt Maekar hesitate, felt his body fight against reason, against duty, against everything he was as a prince and a father. And then, slowly, he pulled back. His cock slipped out of you with an obscene sound, and the room's cold air hit your wet, exposed, throbbing cunt. You felt his seed dripping down your thighs, 'cause he hadn't finished, not completely, and you wouldn't have his child tonight.

"Go," Maekar said at last. "Tell your brother we'll be along."

You heard footsteps retreating, then silence once more.

You stayed on your knees on the bed, your body still trembling from the remnants of your peak, your mind spinning with thoughts you couldn't organise. Maekar moved away, sat on the edge of the bed, his back to you.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "And don't say a word about what happened here."

"Maekar…"

"Not a word."

He stood up, started dressing in sharp, jerky movements; like he could erase what had happened just by covering his own body.

"And your son?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it. "What'll you do about Aerion?"

Maekar stopped, one hand on the clasp of his trousers.

"He'll be sent away," he said, and now his voice was terribly, irrevocably calm. "As soon as the celebration's over. Tonight, before dawn. He'll go to Lys, or maybe Myr, or to the edge of the world if the gods are kind. It doesn't matter. What matters is he won't stay here."

"Why?"

"'Cause you're my wife." He finally turned to look at you. "And I won't have him near you. Not anymore. Not after this."

"And then?" you asked. "After he's sent away? What'll become of us?"

Maekar stepped closer, and for a moment you thought he'd touch you — but no. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into fists.

"Then we'll try," he said. "We'll try to have a child. We'll try to be husband and wife. We'll try to... build something."

"And if we can't?"

"Then," Maekar answered, and his gaze slid away, "you'll have no choice but to accept what I give you. 'Cause he won't return. And even if he did... he won't be the same."

He turned away, grabbed his cloak, and headed for the door.

"Get dressed," he repeated. "Aegon's waiting."

The door opened and closed, and you were left alone in the room that smelled of sex and tears, your body still marked by the hands of two men.

Aegon's name day feast took place in the gardens of Summerhall, beneath a sky that was starting to darken, speckled with the first stars. You arrived late — Maekar was already there, greeting guests as if nothing had happened, as if his seed wasn't still trickling down your thighs — and you were met by a whirlwind of smiling faces and cups of sweet wine.

But there was one face not among the crowd. You looked for him through the guests, through the tables covered with delicacies, through the musicians tuning their instruments, and you couldn't find him anywhere.

Until you felt that gaze burning on the back of your neck like the wax on the night it all began. You turned slowly, and there he was — leaning against a distant column, away from the lights and the music, a cup of wine in his hand and that crooked smile on his lips.

Aerion wasn't dressed for the feast.

He wore a dark tunic, almost black, which made his silver hair shine like a beacon in the twilight. Those pale eyes were fixed on you — only on you — and when your gazes met, he raised his cup in a toast.

Cheers, his lips formed.

You looked away.

You found Maekar in the middle of the crowd, talking with Daeron, his face as serious as ever. For a moment, you thought about going to him, about grabbing his arm, about pretending everything was fine — but your feet wouldn't move. And when you looked back at the column, Aerion had vanished as if he'd never been there.

Night fell completely, and the torches were lit, turning the gardens into a sea of dancing lights. The children ran between the tables, laughing, while the adults drank and danced to the musicians' songs. You danced with Aegon, who barely reached your shoulders and already showed the grace of a true Targaryen, then with Valarr, then with Daeron, who was polite and distant as always.

Maekar didn't dance with you.

Until, in the middle of a waltz, you felt a hand on your waist that didn't belong to your dance partner.

"Excuse me," Aerion said to the knight you were dancing with — some stupid young man from a minor house — and he dismissed him with such a cold look that the lad practically fled.

Then he pulled you to him.

"Where were you?" he asked, as he led you in a dance that wasn't the one the musicians were playing.

"With your father," you answered, and saw his eyes narrow.

Aerion's hand tightened on your waist hard enough to hurt, even through the velvet and silk of your feast-day dress — a dress you'd chosen carefully for that night, low-cut enough to attract but not enough to scandalise, black and lilac like the eyes the dragon didn't have.

"I know you were with him. I know what he did."

It wasn't a question, but you answered anyway.

"Yes."

The musicians played a cheerful song, one of those melodies that invited laughter and carefree spinning, but Aerion led you with precise steps, and each time he made you turn, his eyes travelled across your body as if he could see right through your dress.

"And did you like it?" he asked. His voice was low, just for you, but there was something in it that made you shiver. "Did you like having my father inside you?"

"It was..."

"It was what?" He pulled you closer, so close your bodies nearly touched, so close you could feel the heat radiating from him like a dragon. "Was it better than with me? Did he make you scream his name like you screamed mine?"

You looked away.

"Look at me."

You didn't obey.

His hand left your waist, found your chin, forced your face up with a gentleness that was more threatening than any violence. Those violet eyes — almost black in the torchlight — burned with an intensity that stole your breath.

"I told you to look at me."

So you looked.

"He didn't finish," you said, and saw surprise cross Aerion's face before he mastered it. "He... heard your brother outside. Daeron. And he stopped."

"Stopped?" The word came out as a whisper, and then Aerion laughed. "My father stopped in the middle of the act? My father, the great Prince Maekar, the man of duty and honour, couldn't finish what he started?"

"He's going to send you away," you went on. "Tonight. Before dawn. He said he'd send you to Lys, or to Myr, or to the edge of the world."

The dance carried you to a more secluded part of the garden, where the shadows of the trees stretched like skeletal fingers over the grass. Aerion stopped dancing, but he didn't let you go. His hands stayed on your waist, and his eyes examined you as if reading every thought on your face.

"And you?" he asked at last. "Do you want me to go?"

"My place is here."

"Your place," he repeated, and then his hands went up, found your face, and his thumbs traced the outline of your lips with tenderness. "is beside me. It always was. From the moment I first saw you, from the moment you walked into this castle in that awful dress your mother picked and that frightened look you thought you hid so well."

"I was just a girl."

"You were." He tilted his head, making him look younger, more vulnerable, more human than you'd ever seen him. "You were a frightened girl who got sold to a man who didn't want her. And now you're a woman who's going to be had by two men in the same day, and neither of them asked you what you wanted."

"People don't ask women what they want."

"People don't," he agreed. "But I do."

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs still tracing slow circles on your lips, and you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.

"What do you want?" Aerion whispered. "Not what you should want, not what they expect of you, not what's proper or right or acceptable. What you want, truly, at the bottom of your soul where no one else sees?"

The word formed in your mind, on your tongue, in every cell of your body — but you didn't say it. You couldn't. Saying it would make real what was still just a dream — a nightmare, maybe, but one you didn't want to wake from.

"I want to go with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you."

"Where?"

"To Pentos. To the Free Cities. Anywhere but here." The words spilled out now, a flood you couldn't stop. "I can't stay, Aerion. Not after today. Not after him. If I stay, I'll spend the rest of my life in that bed, letting him use me whenever his pride gets bruised, and I'll grow old and bitter and I'll hate him and I'll hate you and I'll hate myself most of all."

"And what would we do in Pentos?" he asked, and his voice was strange — cautious, like a man afraid to hope.

"Whatever we want." You reached up, touched his face, felt the slight roughness of his jaw beneath your fingers. "You said you have friends there. Men who don't care about names or titles or who a woman should or shouldn't fuck. Men who owe you favours, and who'll pay those favours with gold and safety and a ship that'll take us anywhere we want to go."

"You're mad."

"I'm mad," he smiled, and the smile was as beautiful and as terrible as you could imagine. "And you're desperate, and together we're the most dangerous combination Westeros has ever seen."

His hands left your face, went down your arms, found your hands.

"My father consummated the marriage," he said. "That means, in the eyes of gods and men, you're his. Forever."

The blow struck true, and you felt the weight of his words like a knot in your stomach.

"But no one saw," Aerion added. "No one knows. It happened behind closed doors, with no witnesses, no septon, no blood on the sheet that fools demand to prove what did or didn't happen."

"Maekar knows."

"Maekar won't tell. What would he say? That he finally decided to fuck his own wife after years of neglect, and that he did it 'cause he was jealous of his son? That's not consummation, that's... weakness. Shame. Things my father will never admit."

You knew he was right, and you hated it. Hated how Aerion could see through people, how he could find the crack in every suit of armour, the weak spot in every heart.

"The marriage can be annulled," he went on, and each word was a hammer blow, forging something new from the wreckage of your life. "It wasn't witnessed. There was no blood. No proof. Maekar can shout from the rooftops that he had you, but without proof, it's just his word against yours."

"And why would anyone believe me over a prince's word?"

"'Cause I'll be at your side." Aerion lifted one of your hands, brought it to his lips, and kissed your knuckles with a reverence that made you shudder. "'Cause I'm a prince too, no matter how much my father likes to forget. 'Cause I have friends in places that matter, and enemies in places my father can't even imagine. 'Cause..."

He hesitated, and for the first time since you'd known him, you saw uncertainty in his eyes.

"'Cause I can give you a child," he said quietly. "Not tonight, not tomorrow, but when the time comes, when we're safe, when no one can part us. I can give you a child, an heir — someone who'll be yours truly, not by marriage or by duty, but 'cause I'll put them inside you with my own hands, with my own mouth, with every part of me that burns when I touch you."

"You're asking me to leave everything behind."

"I'm asking you to choose something," he corrected. "For the first time in your life, I'm asking you to choose. Not what you've been told to choose. Not what's expected or safe or sensible. What you want."

The feast went on around them, and you could hear Aegon's laugh, Maekar's deep voice giving some toast, the clinking of cups and the sound of stolen kisses in the dark corners of the garden.

"If I go," you said at last, "I can never come back."

"If you stay," Aerion answered, "you'll never be free."

He let you go, stepped back, and you felt the lack of his warmth immediately — like someone had pulled a blanket off you on a winter's night.

"I have a carriage waiting at the rear gate," he said. "My father thinks he's sending me into exile tonight, but it's me who's leaving of my own will. I'll take what's mine."

"And what's yours?"

His eyes met yours.

"You."

The silence stretched between you, full of everything unsaid, of all the nights you'd dreamed of something you dared not name, of all the touches given and received in the shadows.

"I have to..." you began, but you didn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Think," said Aerion. "But don't think too long. The carriage waits till midnight. After that... after that, I'll be alone on the road to Pentos, and you'll be alone in my father's bed, letting him fuck you whenever his pride aches."

He turned and started walking, his steps silent on the grass.

"Aerion."

He stopped, but didn't turn.

"Where do I find you?"

The question escaped before you could think, and you saw his shoulders tense beneath the dark tunic.

"East corridor," he answered. "The one leading to the abandoned tower. Midnight."

"What if I don't come?"

"Then," he said, and finally turned around, "I'll know you've made your choice. And I'll respect it. In my own way."

He was gone before you could reply, disappearing into the shadows of the trees as if he'd never been there at all.

The next few hours were a blur.

You danced more, drank more, smiled more than you'd ever smiled in your whole life. You talked with Aegon about his toy dragons, with Daella about her plans to marry a knight in shining armour, with Rhae about the books she read in secret. You pretended nothing was wrong, that nothing had changed, that your body wasn't a battlefield where two men had waged war.

Maekar watched you from afar, but he didn't come near. Maybe he felt ashamed of what he'd done, or maybe he just didn't know what to say. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

At eleven, you said your goodbyes.

You said you were tired, that your head hurt, that you needed to lie down before the wine took too strong an effect. Maekar just nodded, distant as ever, and went back to talking with Daeron about matters that didn't need you there.

You climbed the stairs towards your chambers, and inside the room, you closed the door, slid the bolt across, and then... then you just stood there in the middle of the chamber, looking around as if seeing that furniture for the first time. The bed where Maekar had fucked you hours before, the sheets still rumpled, the damp patch where your body had been. The vanity where you sat every morning so the maids could do your hair. The wardrobe with dresses you'd never asked for, jewels you'd never worn, shoes that pinched your feet.

Nothing there had ever been yours.

The button on your dress was fake pearl, and you tore it off with your teeth, spitting it on the floor like a pomegranate seed. The dress fell at your feet, and you stepped on it as you walked to the wardrobe.

You took nothing.

Just your underthings — a tight corset, wool stockings, and leather boots that'd seen better days. No jewels, no gold, nothing that could be traced or remembered — just yourself. And the dagger you'd found in Maekar's drawer, one night when you'd been looking for something to cut the laces of a dress. A hunting dagger — short, curved blade, a handle of bone blackened by time. You hid it in your boot and felt the cold metal against your shin like a promise.

Midnight.

The castle was silent — the guests had left, the children were asleep, the servants had gone to their beds. You opened the chamber door, peered down the corridor, and saw no one.

You took the back stairs, the ones the servants used, the ones no one remembered were there. The east corridor was the darkest in the castle, the one leading to the abandoned tower where they said a Targaryen had gone mad centuries ago. The torches were out, and you went forward blindly — one hand on the wall to guide you, the other on the dagger hidden in your boot.

"I knew you'd come."

The voice came from the darkness, and then hands grabbed you, pulled you against a warm body, and lips found yours in a kiss of possession — one of hunger, of a man who'd waited too long and couldn't bear the wait any longer.

Aerion.

He kissed you like he wanted to devour you, like he wanted to suck your soul out through your lips, like the world would end that night and he needed every moment. His hands roamed your body with an urgency that stole your breath, finding the curves the dress had hidden, the places he already knew so well.

"You said you consummated the marriage," he murmured against your mouth, and then shoved you against the stone wall, his body pressing into yours, his erection evident even through his clothes. "You said my father was inside you."

"Yes."

"Then you'll pay for it," he snarled. "You'll pay for every inch of you he touched. Every moan he pulled from you. Every drop of pleasure you felt in his arms."

"That's not fair. You…"

"Fair?" He laughed, and the laugh echoed in the dark corridor. "There's no justice here, my sweet stepmother. Just me and you and what I want to do with you."

His hands grabbed your slip, tearing it from neck to hem, baring your naked body under the faint moonlight coming through a distant window. You heard his breathing change, heard the low groan that escaped his lips as his eyes travelled over your marks — Aerion's bites still red on your neck, Maekar's fingers bruising your hips.

"Look at you," he whispered. "All marked. All used. All mine."

"You weren't there."

"I was." He kissed you again, and then his hands went down, found your cunt, and his fingers slid through it with a familiarity that made you moan. "I was there in thought, in spirit. And now I'm here — in flesh and bone — and I'll do more than my father could ever dream of."

He turned you around, forcing you against the wall, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear.

"I'm going to fuck your arse," he said, and the word sounded obscene, forbidden, delicious. "To punish you. For being disobedient. For letting another man touch you. For forgetting — even for a moment — that you belong to me."

"Please," you heard yourself moan, the plea escaping before you could stop it.

"Please, what?"

"Please punish me."

Aerion groaned — a guttural, animal sound that vibrated through his body against yours. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, and you felt his fingers dig into your skin, pulling you back against him.

"That what you want?" he asked. "Want me to fuck you hard? To fill you till you can't remember your own name? To make you forget there was ever another man besides me?"

"Yes. Yes, please, Aerion — yes."

He let you go for a moment — just long enough to hear the sound of his trousers being undone — and then his hands were back, pulling at your hips, positioning you exactly where he wanted.

"Just so we're clear," he said, and now his voice was terribly calm, "this isn't about pleasure. This is about punishment. It'll hurt. You'll cry. You'll beg me to stop, and I won't stop. I'll keep going till you're so full of me you can't think of anything else."

"I just want you to fill me."

The words came out before you could think, and you heard Aerion's low laugh behind you.

"And you will be," he promised. "But first…"

The first thing you felt was his finger — cold, slick with spit — pressing at the entrance of your arse. You held your breath, your body tense, your hands pressing against the stone wall in front of you.

"Relax," Aerion ordered. "Or it'll hurt more."

"How can I relax when…"

The finger pushed in, and the sentence died on your lips. It wasn't like when he'd done it that first night — back then it'd been slow, careful, almost reverent. Now it was different. Now there was haste, there was hunger, there was a deliberate cruelty in every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured. "So tight, so hot, so... untouched. No one's touched you here, have they? Not your husband, not anyone else. Just me."

"Just you," you agreed, and your voice came out shaky, broken.

"Good girl." The praise was a whisper, and then a second finger joined the first, and you moaned. "You'll like this. In the end, you'll like it. You'll beg for more. You'll cry when I stop."

"I won't…"

"You will."

He moved his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, and every movement was a delicious torture. You felt every inch, every knuckle, every nail scraping your inner walls, and you hated how your body responded — how your cunt grew wet, how your nipples hardened against the cold stone.

"You're ready now," Aerion said finally, pulling his fingers out. "Do you want it? Want me to fuck you now?"

"Yes."

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, Aerion. Please, Aerion. Fuck me."

He didn't wait any longer. The head of his cock pressed at the entrance of your arse — bigger than his fingers, much bigger — and you held your breath, your whole body tense, waiting for the pain that'd surely come.

And it came.

Aerion pushed in slowly, with a patience that contrasted with everything he'd said. His mouth was on your shoulder — kissing, biting, distracting. His hands were on your hips — firm but not brutal. And then he was inside you, buried to the hilt, and you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.

"There," he whispered. "Now you're mine. Truly. Not just in name, not just by right. Mine."

"Yours," you repeated, and the word came out on a moan.

He started to move.

At first it was slow — meant to give the most pleasure with the least pain — but you didn't want slow. Didn't want what he was giving you.

"Harder," you begged. "Please, harder."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

The first hard thrust made you scream — a sharp sound that echoed in the dark corridor. The second was harder, the third harder still, and then Aerion stopped holding back.

He fucked you with a ferocity that stole your breath — each stroke shoving you against the stone wall, each movement sending shockwaves through your body. His hands were on your hips, pulling you back against him, and you could hear the obscene sounds of his flesh meeting yours, could feel the sweat dripping down your skin, could taste the blood on your lips where you'd bitten them to keep from screaming.

"Scream," Aerion ordered. "I want everyone to hear. I want my father to hear, wherever he is. I want him to know you're being fucked by me — that you're moaning for me, that you're coming for me."

"I'm not…"

His hand found your clit, and the sentence died on your lips.

"You'll come," he said, and his fingers moved in quick, relentless circles. "You'll come right now, with me inside you, and you'll scream my name when you do."

"I can't…"

"You can."

The orgasm hit you sudden, violent, overwhelming. Your body arched, your mouth opened in a scream that was his name, and for a moment there was nothing but pure, liquid, incandescent pleasure.

Aerion kept moving inside you — his thrusts growing more frantic, more desperate. You felt him thicken, felt his movements grow shorter, and knew he was close.

"Where?" he asked, his voice a growl.

"Inside," you answered. "Please, inside."

"You'll carry my child?"

"Yes."

"You'll be the mother of my heir?"

"Yes."

"Then take it."

He came with a muffled groan into your shoulder — his body trembling against yours, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You felt him spill inside you — hot, abundant, his seed dripping down your thighs — and you closed your eyes, savouring the feeling of being so completely, so irredeemably filled.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Aerion pulled back, and the cold air hit your throbbing, empty arse, and you moaned at the loss.

"Come," he said, and his voice was strangely soft. "The carriage is waiting."

The carriage was black, no crests, no markings to identify it. Two black horses chewed their bits impatiently, and a hooded coachman held the reins without looking at you.

"Get in," Aerion ordered, and you obeyed without thinking.

The carriage's interior was bigger than it looked from outside — benches padded with dark velvet, silk curtains blocking the view outside, a small oil lamp casting dancing shadows on the walls. There was a wicker basket on the floor, covered with a cloth, and you could smell bread and cheese and something sweeter.

Aerion climbed in after you and closed the door with a click. The coachman clicked his reins, and the carriage started moving; jolting over the cobblestones of the rear courtyard.

"Where are we going?"

"To a ship," Aerion answered, sitting on the opposite bench. "Anchored in a cove two hours from here. It'll take us to Pentos, with a stop at Tyrosh if the wind isn't favourable."

"And after Pentos?"

"After…" He tilted his head. "After, we'll see. Maybe we'll stay. Maybe we'll keep going."

The carriage picked up speed, and you felt every stone in the road, every jolt, every turn. Aerion kept watching you — his eyes gleaming in the lamplight's gloom.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered.

"What?"

"Take off your clothes," he repeated, and there was nothing soft in his voice. "I want you naked."

"Aerion, we just…"

"We just started." He leaned forward, and his fingers found the lace of your torn slip. "My father fucked you. I fucked you. But we're not done yet. I haven't shown you what it truly means to be mine."

The slip fell away, and you were naked before him — sitting on the velvet bench, the teeth and finger marks covering your body like a map of conquered territories.

"Come here," he called, patting his thigh. "Come sit on my lap."

You obeyed — sliding off the bench, kneeling across his legs. He was still dressed — dark tunic, leather trousers, tall boots — and the contrast between your nakedness and his clothing made you feel exposed, vulnerable, aroused.

"You'll learn," Aerion said, and his hands roamed your body with a slowness that made you shiver. "You'll learn that I'm your god now. Your religion. Your only reason for living. You'll wake every day thinking of me, and you'll sleep every night with my taste on your tongue."

"I already think of you."

"You'll think more." He pulled you closer, and you felt his erection against your thigh. "You'll think of me so much you'll forget your own name. You'll dream of me. You'll moan for me in your sleep. You'll…"

"I already dream of you."

"You dream of me?" he asked, and for the first time since getting into the carriage, his voice sounded uncertain.

"Every night," you confessed. "Since that first time. Since the boar. Since the pomegranate. I dream of your hands, of your mouth, of your… of your smell. I wake up wet, Aerion. I wake with your name on my lips and my fingers between my legs."

"Show me."

"What?"

"Show me." He leaned back on the bench, and his eyes gleamed with a fire that promised to consume you. "Show me how you touch yourself when you think of me."

Your hands shook as they went down, as they found the way between your legs, as your fingers parted, revealing your swollen, wet, throbbing cunt.

"Like this," you whispered, and started touching yourself slowly — one finger sliding through your folds, finding your clit, tracing slow circles. "Like this I think of you. Like this… like this I imagine you. Inside me. Filling me. Fucking me till I can't anymore…"

"Keep going."

"I imagine your hands on my neck," you went on, and your fingers moved faster, your breathing growing more ragged. "I imagine your mouth on my breasts. I imagine… I imagine you're behind me, pulling my hair, calling me bitch and whore and whatever else you want, as long as you don't stop."

"You're a bitch," Aerion said, and the word was said with such tenderness it sounded like a compliment. "You're my bitch. My favourite bitch. And you'll come for me right now. You'll come looking into my eyes."

"I can't…"

"You can."

Your eyes met his, and the orgasm hit you — softer than the ones before, but deeper, more intimate — as if he were inside your mind as much as inside your body.

"Good girl," Aerion whispered, and then pulled you into a kiss.

It was different from the others — softer, slower, as if he were learning the taste of your mouth for the first time. Your tongues danced, your teeth met, and when he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen and your eyes were wet.

"I want you on all fours," he said, and the tenderness had vanished — replaced by the cruelty you'd learned to love. "I want you on all fours on this carriage floor — face in the velvet, arse in the air. I want to fuck you till you forget everything. Till you only know my name. Till every cell in your body sings that you belong to me."

You slid off his lap, knelt on the carriage floor, and the velvet was soft beneath your knees, beneath your hands, beneath your face as you leaned forward.

Aerion didn't move.

"Wait," he ordered. "I want to look at you. I want to savour the sight of my bitch on all fours — all open, all exposed, all ready for me."

"Please," you moaned. "Aerion, please."

"Please, what?"

"Please fuck me."

"Where?"

"Wherever you want. However you want. Whenever you want. Just… just fuck me."

You heard the sound of his trousers being undone, heard his breathing change, felt the heat of his body drawing closer. And then his hands were on your hips, pulling you back, and his erection pressed at your cunt — not your arse, this time, but your cunt — and he pushed in.

"Ah," you moaned. "Ah, Aerion."

"You're so wet," he murmured. "So wet, so hot, so... mine. Never anyone else's. Never again."

He started moving — there was hunger in it, the need to claim something. But it wasn't cruel like Maekar had been, wasn't violent or punishing. This was different. This was Aerion, and even in his madness, even in his obsession, there was a reverence in the way he touched you, a devotion that bordered on worship.

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you against him with each stroke, and you could feel every inch of his cock sliding inside you, could feel the head brushing your womb's entrance, could feel the pleasure growing like a tide that threatened to drag you out to sea.

"You're going to come again," Aerion said, and it wasn't a question. "You're going to come with me inside you, and then you'll come again, and again, till you can't anymore."

"Yes."

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, my prince."

He pulled you by the hair — not hard, but enough to arch your back, to bring your face close to his — and his mouth found your ear.

"You're mine," he whispered. "Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Say it again."

"I'm yours. Yours. Yours."

"Good girl."

He let you go, and his hands returned to your hips, and his thrusts grew faster, more frantic. You felt the orgasm building, felt your body preparing for the explosion, and opened your mouth to scream.

"No," Aerion ordered, and his hand covered your mouth. "Don't scream. I want you to feel it, not hear it. I want every part of you to know that this moment is just ours — that no sound can escape, that it's only you and me and this pleasure consuming you."

The orgasm hit you in silence — a muffled cry against his hand, a tremor that ran through your whole body, a free-falling sensation that seemed never to end. Aerion kept moving inside you, and each stroke prolonged the pleasure, stretching it like melted caramel.

"One more," he ordered, and his hand left your mouth, found your clit. "One more, and then I'll come inside you, and you'll take every drop, and you'll thank me."

His fingers moved in quick, relentless circles, and you felt the second orgasm approaching before the first had even finished — one wave overlapping another, a pleasure that built in layers, that grew almost unbearable.

"Aerion," you moaned. "Aerion, please…"

"Please, what?"

"Please let me come."

"Come."

You came with a moan that was nearly a sob — your body arching, your fingers digging into the velvet, your mind emptying of everything except the feeling of Aerion inside you, over you, around you.

He came right after, with a muffled groan — his body curving over yours, his mouth finding your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin. You felt him spill inside you — hot, abundant, his seed mixing with your wetness — and you closed your eyes, savouring the feeling of being so completely filled.

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Aerion pulled back, and you felt his seed dripping down your thighs, seeping into the velvet of the carriage floor, and you didn't care.

"Come here," he said, and pulled you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms, covering you with his cloak. "Rest now. The road's long."

The carriage continued on its way through the night, carrying them away from Summerhall, away from Maekar, away from everything they'd ever known. And you closed your eyes, feeling Aerion's heart beating against your ear, feeling the warmth of his body heating yours, feeling his seed still dripping down your legs.

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