⭑𓂃 Summary: They whisper of Prince Aerion Brightflame-the man who thinks himself a dragon. They say he cannot be tamed...except, perhaps, Vaelyra Velaryon. A girl of Old Valyria. And if that is true-then devotion is not a gift. It is a weapon.
⭑𓂃 AN: This is a sneak peak into a fic that I've been writing and am working very hard on. I just wanted to share it, and where it's available. Check out the full series on my wattpad or on AO3.
The tournament grounds didn’t just burn; they bled with torchlight.
Hundreds of flames licked at the night, their orange tongues dancing across the cold, polished plates of armor and snapping banners. Below, the earth groaned beneath the thunder of hooves.
Steel sang.
A knight crashed into the dust, his shield splintering into a thousand jagged teeth under the brutal force of a lance. The stands erupted.
In the center of the lists, Ser Vaelor Velaryon hoisted his weapon, his chest heaving with a victory he clearly thought was legendary. Further down by the rail, their brother Daeron was screaming himself hoarse, throwing his arms up as if he’d been the one to strike the blow.
Vaelyra sighed, smoothing the silk at her waist.
"Stop that," Lucerys muttered beside her. He didn't even look at her, his knuckles white as he gripped the wooden rail of the royal box. "You’re pouting, Vael. It’s unflattering."
"I’m not pouting. I’m mourning the loss of my evening," Vaelyra shot back, rubbing her side. Her long, silver-white curls—textured waves that spoke of both Old Valyria and the Summer Isles—shimmered as she turned to glare at him. "Daeron is circling the lists like he just conquered the Continent. It’s a wooden stick and a pile of dirt, Luke. It’s mindless."
Lucerys finally looked at her, a wicked, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Please. Don't tell me you don't enjoy a shit ton of men throwing themselves at your feet for a scrap of silk? It’s the Velaryon way."
"It’s the male way," she corrected, her voice dripping with enough ice to freeze the summer air. Growing up between older brothers had taught her one thing: loud men were rarely the ones to fear. "And they aren't throwing themselves at my feet. They’re falling off horses. There is a distinction."
Lucerys chuckled, leaning closer. "Well, try to look interested for this next one. For the sake of our house, if not your own pulse." He nodded toward the far gate. "It’s Aerion."
Vaelyra didn’t flinch.
She knew the name well enough. The court spoke of Brightflame in the same breathless tone used for storms and disasters.
But rumors had never frightened her.
"So?" she asked, her indigo eyes narrowing. "What about him is so special that I should abandon my 'sour' face?"
Lucerys’s smirk widened. "You’ll see."
Vaelyra rested her head in the palm of her hand, fingers grazing the temple where a headache had begun to bloom. She let out a slow sigh just as the iron gates groaned open.
Her gaze lifted despite herself.
And when Prince Aerion Targaryen rode out, the arena seemed to forget how to breathe.
The torches seemed to bow towards him as he rode into the arena, their flames glinting across armor that was a masterpiece of Valyrian ego. But there was no bright, polished silver to be found.
His plate was the color of a bruised, stormy sky. It was jagged, etched with the ancient geometry of dragon scales. Every joint and edge was sharp enough to draw blood, a silhouette of nightmare and ash.
He looked less like a fallen star and more like a god of the underworld risen to claim a debt.
Cold. Brilliant. And utterly lethal.
He rode a stallion as black as a nightmare onto the grounds, the beast’s coat shimmering like oil beneath the torchlight. Aerion sat the saddle, the great animal moving beneath him like a shadow given muscle and bone. His pale hair—a crown of winter silk—stirred lazily in the wind.
Aerion’s allure was never a thing of polished mirrors or the curated, hollow charm of a courtly prince. He was not merely handsome; he was a jagged edge dressed in flesh—a beauty so inexplicable that to stand within his orbit was to feel the instinctive, prickling heat of a blade pressed to the throat. It was a presence that made Vaelyra’s spine snap straight, her body coiling in silent, unbidden recognition of the beast before her.
Then, he looked up.
He didn't look toward the stands, where the crowd roared in a feral, mindless heat. Instead, his focus snapped to the royal box—to her.
Aerion’s pale gaze found her with an unsettling sense of ease, as if the thousands of souls screaming between them were nothing more than shadows in a room full of gunpowder. Vaelyra went still, her breath catching in a sharp, jagged hitch as the air between them charged.
He didn't rush the moment. With his helm tucked beneath one arm, he allowed his eyes to move over her—slow, deliberate, and heavy with a dark, melodic edge
It was an assessment that felt like a physical weight, tracing the crown of her silver-white curls down to where the deep teal silk draped across her shoulders, heavy as a shroud. The look was smooth against her skin, like a promise.
Then it moved.
Aerion’s gaze slid past her. Not far—just to the edge of the royal box, where her brothers sat watching with quiet, stunned patience.
Vaelyra did not turn her head. But her eyes followed to Prince Baelor who stood at the edge of the box, still as carved stone.
He did not join the noise. Instead he watched.
And when his head dipped—slow, deliberate—it was not approval.
It was permission.
Something soft curved at the corner of Aerion’s mouth, but the moment vanished as quickly as it had come.
He lifted his helm and settled it over his head, the dark steel swallowing the beauty of his face behind the jagged lines of dragon-forged metal.
The visor lowered.
Aerion Brightflame turned his stallion with a sharp pull of the reins and thrust the animal into position at the end of the lists, lowering his lance toward the waiting field.
The game, it seemed, was about to begin.
“Fuck me,” Lucerys murmured, eyes fixed on the field. “This is going to be go—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the sound of a trumpet split the air.
It was a jagged, brassy scream that sliced through the heavy afternoon like a blade through sapphire silk, severing the restless murmur of the crowd in a single, violent stroke. The arena collapsed into a feral surge of sound as the herald stepped forward, his voice a booming resonance that competed with the predatory crack of banners snapping against the wind.
The first challenger emerged, a young knight draped in the bright, sapphire lie of blue armor. He guided his mount with the practiced ceremony of a man who believed the world was a game of polished smiles, his shield bearing the sigil of some lesser house—a shimmering badge of privilege bought with gold rather than blood.
Across the expanse of the tilting field, Aerion waited.
He was a pillar of dark iron anchored in the merciless sun, draped in a stillness more threatening than any shout. The black stallion beneath him pawed at the earth, snorting clouds of steam into the heat, but the prince remained an impassive mask of granite. He did not look like a competitor; he sat like a judge who had already tallied the cost of the soul across from him and found it lacking.
The herald’s arm dropped—a final, definitive sentence.
"Ride!"
The horses launched.
Hooves thundered against the packed earth, shaking the very marrow of the wooden stands.
Vaelyra leaned forward, the world narrowing to the dirt and the blood and the heat. Her pulse was a thrumming war drum against her ribs—a frantic, merciless rhythm that seemed to call to the violence simmering in her own blood.
The impact was not a mere collision; it was lightning, a whitnoe-hot explosion of power that shattered the air between them.
The crack of Aerion’s lance striking the blue knight’s shield split the arena apart. The sound echoing off the stone walls with a brutal clarity that made her teeth grit together.
Splinters burst into the air as the knight was lifted clean from the saddle, his body suddenly weightless—flung backward as though the blow had simply erased the laws of gravity.
And for a heartbeat he hung there.
Then he fell, hitting the ground with the dull, wet sound of a final protest.
Dust erupted across the field, a choking, golden shroud that followed the rider as he rolled violently through the dirt. The crowd exploded—a feral, mindless heat rising in a roar that celebrated the clean, spectacular geometry of the violence.
But Aerion did not look back.
He slowed his mount with fluid grace, circling the field with the casual stillness of a predator who had known the outcome before the gates had even opened.
The crowd erupted all at once, the noise swelling like a wave breaking against stone. Lords rose from their seats, ladies leaned over the rails of the pavilion, and somewhere below a herald’s horn blared triumphantly to mark the end of the tilt. Sand still hung in the air where the horses had thundered past, drifting slowly back to earth.
Vaelyra had not realized she was still leaning forward until a familiar voice cut through the roar beside her.
“Well,” Daeron drawled, “that was subtle.”
She blinked, straightening at once.
Lucerys had appeared on her other side, arms folded across his chest, his mouth already curled into the sort of grin that promised nothing good.
“Gods, sister,” he said, shaking his head. “If you leaned any farther over the rail I thought you might tumble straight into the lists.”
“I was watching the match,” Vaelyra replied coolly, smoothing the front of her sleeve as if she had been doing nothing more interesting than observing the weather.
“You were watching him,” Lucerys corrected.
Daeron snorted.
Vaelyra turned to them with a look of mild patience, the sort she had perfected after years of surviving their particular brand of brotherly torment.
“I was watching a knight nearly break another man’s ribs,” she said evenly. “Forgive me for finding the spectacle difficult to ignore.”
Lucerys leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially as the nobles around them began rising from their seats.
“Brightflame noticed you.”
“He did not.”
“He absolutely did,” Daeron said, far too pleased with himself. “You should have seen your face.”
“My face,” she said sweetly, “has remained exactly where it has always been.”
The pavilion was emptying now, courtiers streaming toward the stone steps that led down to the courtyard below. Servants hurried through the aisles gathering dropped gloves and cushions while the buzz of excited voices filled the warm afternoon air.
Lucerys stretched his arms overhead as they joined the slow tide of nobles making their way down from the stands.
“Well,” he said, “half the realm will be singing his praises by supper. That was a clean unhorsing if I’ve ever seen one.”
“And done with unnecessary enthusiasm,” Vaelyra replied. Daeron cast her a sidelong glance as they stepped out onto the gravel path that curved toward the castle gates.
“Strange,” he mused. “You didn’t seem terribly disapproving a moment ago.”
Vaelyra stopped walking just long enough to give both of them a level stare.
“I assure you,” she said calmly, “I have no interest in men who spend their afternoons knocking each other from horses.”
“Mm,” Daeron hummed.
Lucerys chuckled under his breath, but the sound alone was enough.
Before either of them could continue their relentless commentary, Vaelyra turned sharply away from the main path, her skirts whispering over the gravel as she headed down the narrower road that curved along the outer wall of the courtyard.
“Where are you going?” Daeron called after her.
“Somewhere quieter than the two of you,” she replied without looking back.
Lucerys barked a laugh.
“Careful, sister,” he called. “If you’re going to wander off alone, you might stumble across a certain pale-haired knight tending his horse.”
Vaelyra did not slow. But she did not answer either. And as the noise of the departing crowd faded behind her, the distant sounds of stamping hooves and restless horses drifted from the direction of the stables ahead.
The path curved along the outer wall of the courtyard, away from the swelling river of courtiers returning to the castle. Gravel crunched beneath her slippers, the afternoon sun warm against her shoulders, until the stone arch of the royal stables rose into view.
Inside, the air changed.
It was cooler. Dimmer. Thick with the familiar scent of hay, leather, and horseflesh.
Lanterns hung from iron hooks along the beams, their flames wavering gently in the quiet. A few grooms moved about their work farther down the long rows of stalls, murmuring softly to the animals as they loosened saddles and checked hooves. The great warhorses snorted and stamped, still restless from the thunder of the lists.
Vaelyra stepped inside, letting the calm settle over her like a cloak.
And for the first time since the tournament began, the roar of the crowd was gone. No cheers. No horns. No brothers whispering clever things in her ear.
Just the slow rhythm of breathing horses and the rustle of straw beneath their hooves.
She paused beside one of the stall doors, resting her hands lightly against the smooth wood. A black destrier lifted its head from the hay within, dark eyes blinking at her with mild curiosity.
“There now,” she murmured softly. “At least someone here knows how to behave.”
The horse flicked an ear as if in agreement.
Vaelyra huffed a quiet laugh beneath her breath before she could stop herself, the tension she had carried from the stands loosening just slightly in her chest.
She reached through the stall door, her fingers brushing the warm velvet of the animal’s nose. The horse snorted softly, leaning into the touch.
For a moment, the stable was nothing but warm breath and the slow rustle of straw beneath heavy hooves. Then, from somewhere beyond the doors, the quiet broke—hoof beats approaching across the courtyard stone
Vaelyra stilled.
The sound drew closer, echoing faintly against the stone courtyard beyond the stable doors. A moment later the silhouette of horse and rider appeared in the bright rectangle of afternoon light spilling through the entrance.
The animal’s coat gleamed with sweat and dust, flanks heaving from the exertion of the day’s tilts.
And astride it sat Aerion Brightflame.
Even before the light caught him fully, there was no mistaking the pale fall of his hair against the shadow of his armor. The last shards of his lance were still tied loosely to the saddle, fluttering faintly with the horse’s movement.
He guided the stallion through the wide doors at an easy pace, the animal snorting as it stepped onto the straw-covered floor.
Only then did Aerion look up.
His gaze landed on her almost immediately.
For the briefest moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet of the stable stretched between them, broken only by the soft creak of leather and the restless shifting of the horses in their stalls.
Aerion swung down from the saddle in one smooth motion, boots striking the ground with a muted thud. Up close, the dust of the lists clung to his armor, and the heat of the ride still lingered in the sharp rise and fall of his breathing.
He looped the reins loosely over the stall door beside him before glancing back toward her.
“You followed me,” he said at last. His voice was calm, but there was the faintest hint of amusement beneath it.
Vaelyra lifted a brow.
“I did no such thing.” She gestured lightly toward the rows of stalls around them.
“I came to escape my brothers,” she said. “You simply happened to arrive afterward.”
Aerion held her gaze for a moment, as though weighing the truth of it. Then one corner of his mouth curved slightly.
“An unfortunate coincidence,” he said.
Vaelyra tilted her head, watching him now with open curiosity.
“And which part of it is unfortunate?” she asked lightly. “Your presence… or the brothers I was escaping from?”
Aerion’s pale brows lifted a fraction, as though the question amused him more than he expected.
“Both, perhaps.” He turned back to his horse then, loosening the saddle straps with practiced ease. The stallion shifted beneath his hands, snorting softly as the weight of armor and leather began to lift from its back.
“You seemed in no hurry to leave the lists,” he added after a moment.
Vaelyra folded her hands loosely before her.
“The match was entertaining.”
Aerion glanced at her over the horse’s shoulder, pale hair slipping across his brow.
“Entertaining,” he repeated. The word lingered between them, balanced carefully between politeness and something else entirely.
Aerion ran a hand along the stallion’s neck, fingers sliding through the damp mane as he unfastened the last of the straps. The horse shifted its weight, snorting softly, as if eager to be rid of the day’s burdens.
“You have an interesting way of watching entertainment,” he added after a moment.
Now it was Vaelyra's turn to lift a brow,“Do I?”
His cold, blue-grey eyes flicked to her again—no longer amused, but thoughtful.
“Most people cheer,” he said. “Or flinch when someone falls. You did neither.”
He slipped the saddle from the horse’s back and set it carefully over the wooden rail, the leather creaking faintly in the quiet stable.
“You watched,” he continued, almost absently. “As if you were measuring something.”
Vaelyra gave a soft scoff.
“How perceptive of you,” she asked, though his observation lingered between them all the same.
Aerion’s mouth curved again, though the expression held more curiosity than humor now.
“It is difficult not to notice,” he said. “When someone is the only person in the pavilion not pretending to enjoy the spectacle.”
The stallion tossed its head, shaking dust from its mane.Aerion stilled it with a gentle press of his palm before glancing back at her.
“And yet,” he added, voice quieter now, “you stayed until the end.”
His gaze held hers, steady and searching.
“As I recall,” he said, “you even leaned forward.”
“It is my duty,” she replied evenly. “I am sure you would understand.”
Aerion paused in the middle of unfastening a buckle, pale brows lifting slightly as he looked at her again.
“Duty?”
“To observe,” she said, gesturing lightly toward the open stable doors where the last distant cheers of the crowd still drifted faintly through the courtyard. “When half the realm gathers to watch knights break bones for glory, it would be rather poor form for a princess to appear uninterested.”
Aerion studied her for a moment, the corner of his mouth threatening another smile.
“And leaning forward is part of that duty?”
“Of course,” she said smoothly. “One must see the spectacle properly.”
For a heartbeat, silence settled between them again, broken only by the soft rustle of straw beneath the horse’s hooves. Then Aerion gave a quiet huff of laughter.
“A convincing explanation,” he said. His pale blue gaze slid back to hers, amusement curling at the edges.
“Though I cannot help but suspect,” he added, “that you were not watching the horses.”
Vaelyra’s brow lifted.
“I should hope not,” she said dryly. “I’m not a stable boy.”
Aerion stilled for a fraction of a second.
“Then what were you watching?”
She regarded him with calm patience, as if the answer were painfully obvious.
“The knight,” she said.
The stallion shifted beside him, stamping once in the straw. Aerion rested a hand against the horse’s neck, but his attention remained fixed on her.
“And?” he prompted. Vaelyra tilted her head, considering him.
“And I decided the horse was the more graceful of the two.”
For a heartbeat the stable went very still. Then Aerion huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Careful, princess,” he said, tightening the strap across the stall door. “You might wound my pride.”
The words lacked any real concern. If anything, there was a flicker of challenge behind them.
“I would hate to be responsible for such a tragedy,” Vaelyra replied smoothly.
Aerion’s pale brows lifted slightly.
“Would you?”
“No,” she said.
He gave another short laugh at that. The sound was low, self-assured.
“I suspected as much.”
He turned back to his horse then, running a steadying hand along the stallion’s neck before finally pushing the stall door closed.
Aerion glanced at her again, pale hair falling loosely across his brow.
“You should return to the castle,” he said. “If you linger much longer, your brothers will start searching the stables.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“And I would rather not explain why I’m hiding princesses among the horses.”
Vaelyra’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer.
“Then I suppose I should spare you the inconvenience.”
She turned toward the stable doors, the afternoon light spilling across the straw beyond them. But just before she stepped out, she paused.
“You ride well,” she said without looking back.
Aerion didn’t answer immediately. And when he did, there was a hint of a smile in his voice.
“I know.”
The evening bled out in bruised purples and jagged grays across the Reach, but inside the Castle of Ashford, the shadows were already thick and smelling of damp stone.
Vaelyra wandered the upper corridors, her soft leather boots silent against the masonry. The castle was a triangular fortress, its three round towers standing like silent sentinels over the meadow below, and every turn she took felt like navigating a labyrinth of cold drafts and flickering wall-sconces. Through the narrow arrow-slits, she could see the distant glow of a thousand campfires in the meadow—a sea of stars fallen to earth—but up here, it was just her and the ghosts of the Reach.
She could smell the feast from down the hall—a heavy, cloying mix of roasted grease and fermented fruit—and she knew her brothers would be there already, probably deep into their second skins of wine.
Her father had told her not to be late. He’d looked at her with that silent, salt-worn plea in his eyes, reminding her that at a tourney, every smile was a political move and every dance was a treaty.
But she didn't feel like sitting among a crowd of people who smelled of sweat and ambition. She didn't feel like pretending she cared about the splintered lances of the day or which knight had managed to stay on his horse the longest.
She wanted the silence of the sea, not the suffocating weight of a landlocked castle.
Nonetheless, she turned the final corner, the stone floor smoothing out as she approached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall.
Two guards in Ashford colors straightened, the metal of their pikes gleaming as they pulled the doors wide, and the silence of the corridor was devoured by a roar of sound.
Long tables stretched the length of the chamber beneath banners and vaulted stone, crowded with lords, knights, and ladies flushed from wine and victory. Servants moved like quiet currents through the sea of velvet and armor, filling goblets, carrying platters of roasted meats, bowls of fruit, trenchers of fresh bread.
Laughter rose and fell beneath the steady rhythm of pipes and drums. It was almost as if the tournament had followed them indoors.
Everywhere she looked, men reenacted the day’s tilts with animated gestures—hands mimicking lances, voices swelling with admiration as they retold the moment a knight had been thrown from his saddle.
Brightflame’s name drifted often through the noise, and of course, Lucerys added to it beside her, muttering as he tore a piece of bread in half.
“They do love their heroes,” she said.
“Heroes?” Daeron snorted from her other side. “Half those men cheering would faint if they had to face him in the lists.”
Lucerys leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Still,” Lucerys added, his eyes drifting across the humid expanse of the hall, “it was a clean hit. Bone-deep, I’d wager.”
Vaelyra offered a stiff nod. She would be a fool to deny the Prince’s prowess, but she wasn't about to admit that aloud.
Lucerys let out a low, sharp whistle that cut through the drone of courtly chatter.
“Speak of the fire…” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
Vaelyra didn't follow his gaze. Not at first. She focused instead on the steady thrum of her own heart, a war drum beneath her ribs.
“…and the shadows grow long,” he finished.
Only then did she turn.
The heavy oak doors groaned on their iron hinges, and the air in the hall seemed to thin, sucked out by the sudden, suffocating weight of his presence. Aerion Targaryen had stepped through the threshold, the torchlight catching the silver-gold of his hair like a crown of pale flame.
Daeron followed Aerion’s path across the hall with his eyes, tearing a chunk of crusty bread with his teeth.
“I heard he broke a man’s arm last spring,” he said, the words muffled by a half-chewed mouthful of sourdough and salt. “During a melee at Highgarden.” He swallowed hard, washing the bread down with a heavy gulp of wine. “Snapped the bone like a dry twig, they say.”
Lucerys shrugged, his fingers slick with grease as he tore a piece of roasted capon from the bone. He chewed slowly, eyes never leaving the dark, fluted steel of Aerion’s back.
“I heard it was two,” he said, swallowing the meat before wiping a stray drop of oil from his lip with the back of his hand.
She watched a stray drop of grease hit Lucerys’s silk doublet and felt a familiar, cold prickle of disdain.
“Charming,” she said dryly, her voice a hushed whisper that somehow cut through the sound of grinding teeth and tearing bread. “I suppose breaking the second was for the sake of symmetry?”
Lucerys let out a bark of a laugh, his fingers still slick with grease as he leaned back. “Careful, Luke,” Daeron chimed in, grinning around a mouthful of crust. “She’s in a foul mood tonight. Our sister has a tongue like a serrated blade.”
“Cruel, Vael,” Lucerys agreed, wiping a stray drop of oil from his lip with the back of his hand. “Utterly cruel.”
Vaelyra didn't answer. She might have ignored them entirely, her indigo eyes fixed on the teal silk of her own sleeves, if not for the sharp, clinical crack that split the surrounding noise.
At the high table, the Targaryen Prince had taken his seat with an unhurried, predatory confidence. He had shed the jagged, bruised steel of his plate for leathers the color of a guttering hearth—supple, dark hides that clung to the broad frame of his shoulders like a second skin.
He didn't look at the hall; he simply reached for a bowl of walnuts. He didn't use a nutcracker. He merely pressed his thumb into the shell, the sound of the splintering wood echoing with the same brutal clarity as a lance hitting a shield . He flicked the broken halves aside with little more than a turn of his wrist, letting them tumble to the rushes beneath the table before plucking the pale meat from within
Lucerys leaned slightly to see past a forest of silver goblets. “Oh, that’s rude,” he said, his smirk suggesting he found the lack of decorum more of a thrill than an insult.
“Is it?” Daeron replied, his spoon hovering mid-air, a drop of leek soup threatening to fall back into his bowl.
Another dull crack of bone-deep strength against shell. Fragments scattered across the floor like the splintered teeth of a shattered shield.
This time, Aerion paused, turning his head slowly towards a young servant who stood paralyzed by the wall.
The boy went still, his breath catching in a sharp, jagged hitch as the Prince’s focus settled on him.
Aerion did not speak; he merely extended a single, gloved finger, pointing toward the debris at his feet with a slow, deliberate assessment. It was a gesture that made the air in the hall turn fragile.
The servant hurried forward, lunged to the floor to gather the pieces before they could be crushed beneath a boot. Only when the rushes were clear did Aerion withdraw his hand, his mouth tugging into a faint, knowing curve as he looked back toward the royal box.
Vaelyra glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Stories?” she asked, the word cool—but not dismissive.
Lucerys tore another piece of bread, the crust crackling beneath his fingers as though the question were of little consequence.
“Oh, you know,” he said lightly, speaking around a half-chewed mouthful. “Brightflame’s temper. The way he treats people when he’s bored.”
Daeron leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table and ignoring the smear of grease his sleeve picked up from his trencher.
“Last year he broke a man’s jaw during a feast,” he said matter-of-factly. “Apparently the fellow spilled wine on his cloak.”
Lucerys shrugged, using a heavy crust to soak up the dark jus on his 'plate. “I heard it was because the man wouldn’t stop talking.”
“That too,” Daeron agreed, washing the bread down with a heavy gulp of wine.
Vaelyra’s eyes drifted back across the hall.
Something faint—a wicked, knowing smirk—tugged at the corner of his mouth as his gaze snapped back to the royal box, finding her with an unsettling ease.
“And that was on a good day,” Lucerys added, his voice dropping into a low, amused rumble as he watched the servant scramble away.
Vaelyra watched Aerion from across the hall. So this was the man the court whispered about in the same breathless tone used for storms and disasters.
The monstrous prince.
The one whose temper was said to burn as hot as the dragons his ancestors once commanded. He looked entirely at ease scattering the work of others at his feet—the fragments of his "ruin" collected like a tax.
Careless.
Entitled.
Dangerous.
And yet—there was a beauty to him so sharp and lethal that to stand within his orbit was to feel the instinctive, prickling heat of a blade pressed to the throat. Even from a distance, his gaze found her with an unsettling ease.
Across the hall, another walnut cracked beneath the hilt of his dagger.
The sharp sound snapped her thoughts back to the present. Aerion brushed the broken shell aside with the back of his fingers, his movements possessing a slow, striking confidence. A servant dropped to his knees almost instantly, gathering the pieces before they could be ground beneath the rushes. Aerion did not so much as glance down.
Lucerys muttered something beside her about dragons and manners, but Vaelyra barely heard him. Because for all the arrogance in the movement, there was still something else beneath it—the same thing she had noticed earlier.
Control.
He was not raging. He was not drunk. He was not even particularly angry. He simply behaved as though the room belonged to him and the people understood their place .
Aerion reached for the bowl again. And in that same moment, he looked up.
It crossed the crowded hall with unnerving precision, slipping between the moving bodies as if none of it existed. It found her immediately. For a heartbeat, the prince vanished. The expression that replaced it was quieter. Familiar.
Recognition.
Lucerys followed her line of sight.
“Oh no,” he murmured, a wicked, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Daeron glanced between them. “What?”
Lucerys leaned back slowly, a grin creeping across his face. “I think,” he said softly, “Brightflame just noticed our sister.”
Across the hall, Aerion leaned back in his chair, popped the walnut into his mouth—and looked away as though he had not been looking at her at all.
Vaelyra snorted, the sound a sharp, dismissive punctuation to her brother's mounting excitement.
“Did you hit your head that hard in the yard today?” she said sweetly, though her eyes remained fixed on her own plate. “You’re seeing things.”
Lucerys blinked at her, his smirk faltering for a rare heartbeat.
“You should have that looked at,” she continued, reaching over to tap lightly at his temple where the torchlight flickered against his skin. “Perhaps the maester can determine why you’re suddenly imagining dragons staring at you across crowded halls.”
Daeron choked on his wine, the sharp, metallic tang of the liquid nearly spraying across the table.
Lucerys scowled, leaning away from her touch. “I’m serious.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“He looked right at you.”
“He looked in this direction,” she corrected, her voice dripping with enough ice to freeze the summer air.
Lucerys leaned forward again, peering past the forest of silver goblets toward the high table. “Well, now he’s not,” he muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“Tragic,” Vaelyra said, tearing a piece of bread with a jagged, disinterested motion.
Lucerys squinted harder, his gaze tracking a sudden shift in the light at the far end of the hall. Then his brows shot upward. “Oh.”
Daeron frowned, wiping a stray drop of wine from his chin. “What?”
Lucerys sat up straighter, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, much as he had gripped the rail of the royal box earlier. “He’s moving.
Vaelyra paused mid-bite, the bread halfway to her lips. “Who is—”
“Brightflame.”
The words barely left Lucerys’s mouth before the shift in the hall finally fell onto your table. It was a presence that demanded silence.
Chairs scraped against the stone floor—a dull, grinding protest. A few nobles along the high table straightened subtly, their spines snapping straight as the Prince passed.
The prince had risen.
Across the length of the great hall, he moved with the same easy confidence he had carried in the lists. Conversations bent and dipped around him—not silenced, but softened, like reeds giving way to a dark, heavy current. He looked less like a prince and more like a god of the underworld risen to claim a debt.
Lucerys slowly turned back toward his sister, his wicked smirk returning with a vengeance. “Oh,” he said quietly. “He definitely noticed you.”
Vaelyra forced herself not to look. She smoothed the silk of her gown, her bronze-brown skin glowing like polished amber against the deep teal of her house colors, trying to ignore the merciless rhythm thrumming against her ribs.
She did not move until the footsteps stopped. They were much closer than she expected, the scent of cold rain and leather hitting her like a physical blow.
A shadow fell across the table, swallowing the flickering torchlight.
Then a familiar voice spoke beside her—a low, melodic edge that felt like a hushed whisper against her skin.
“Princess.”
Vaelyra lifted her eyes.
Aerion Brightflame stood there, his pale hair a crown of winter silk against the dark, supple leathers that clung to his frame.
⤷ ゛Ser Duncan x princess!reader x aerion targaryen ˎˊ˗
.✦ ݁˖ WC: 5.9K
.✦ ݁˖ summary: Your affair with the "gentle giant" Dunk is violently shattered when Prince Aerion Targaryen tears through your pavilion, forcing a dark choice between the knight’s breaking honor and the dragon’s manic fire. Caught on a scarred oak table, you realize you don't want to be saved—you want to be the bridge where the mountain and the flame meet, proving that a "Lady" can love the dirt just as much as the throne.
.✦ ݁˖ contents: Sexual content including p in v, oral, MMF threesome, power imbalance, non-consensual elements, coercion, physical restraint, verbal humiliation, degrading, near public sex. minors dni (18+ only)
The basin of water had long since gone cold. It sat forgotten beside you, its once-clear surface clouded with ribbons of red that drifted like dying petals. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the pavilion, mingling with the salt of his skin and the dust of the Reach.
You drew the final stitch through the torn flesh of his shoulder, the needle sliding through skin toughened by the road. Your fingers were steady, though your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
“You are as big and stupid as they say,” you muttered, tying the knot and cutting the thread. “You should have never started with him.”
Dunk blinked, his large, earnest blue eyes lifting to yours. The bruising along his cheekbone was a dark, angry purple—a mark left by a man of high birth who saw the world in titles, while Dunk saw it in truths.
“I didn’t start it,” he said.
“Oh, I’m certain you merely wandered into his fist.”
“He spoke poorly of you,” he said firmly.
The air in the room suddenly felt thin, as if the stone walls were closing in. Dunk looked away, his ears turning a sharp red. He didn’t say the words—he couldn't. To admit he loved a woman promised to a lord of high standing was a folly even a "lunk" like him understood.
"I mean—I shouldn't have," he added quickly, his voice cracking with a sudden, panicked humility. "It wasn't my place to make trouble in the camp. I'm sorry, my lady. A hedge knight has no business... well. I'm just sorry."
You stared at him for a long moment, the needle forgotten in your hand. Then, a soft, tired laugh escaped you. "Dunk," you said, shaking your head as a smile finally tugged at your mouth. "You don't have to keep apologizing."
He rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand, looking at his boots. "Well," he muttered, "I usually do."
"I know," you whispered—letting your hand linger on his uninjured shoulder, your thumb tracing the line where the muscle met his neck. The tension between you was no longer just unspoken; it was a physical weight, thick as the summer heat before a storm. You stayed there, close enough to feel the furnace-heat radiating from his chest, lingering for a moment that stretched far past the bounds of a healer and a knight.
Dunk’s breath hitched.
He was a mountain of a man, yet he went utterly still beneath your touch, like something braced for impact. His gaze lifted to yours—slow, uncertain—and in it was something raw and unguarded, something that had nothing to do with duty or rank.
Just you.
Just this.
“I shouldn't have said—” Dunk began, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, but the rest of the apology died in his throat.
The air between you snapped. You didn't give him the chance to retreat back into the safety of being "just a knight." You leaned in, the movement small but definitive, and his mouth met yours in a tentative, ghost-light touch.
It was soft at first, almost agonizingly so. He tasted of salt and the cooling air of the Reach, his lips trembling against yours with a reverence that made your heart ache. But then, the reality of it seemed to catch up to him. Dunk pulled back just an inch, his hands coming up to grip your forearms—not to pull you closer, but to hold you at bay.
"We shouldn't," he wheezed, his blue eyes wide and clouded with a desperate kind of agony. "My lady, you’re promised... I’m nothing but a—"
“Dunk,” you breathed, cutting through the wall of his self-doubt. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at his temples as you fixed your hands firmly on his face. You forced him to look at you, to see the hunger in your eyes that mirrored the ache in his own. “I don’t care about the promises. I need you. Please.”
The word was a soft, broken thing, but it hit him harder than any mace.
He stared at you for one more second, his jaw tight as he fought the last of his knightly honor. He knew the risks—the ruin, the loss of his spurs, the shadow of the gallows—but as you pulled him just a fraction closer, the world outside the silk walls simply ceased to exist.
A low, guttural groan broke from deep in his chest—a sound of total surrender. He stopped thinking, stopped apologizing, and simply moved. His massive arms wrapped around your waist like iron bands, and with a sudden, breathless heave, he pulled you directly into his lap.
The collision of your bodies was blunt and honest, the rough-spun wool of his breeches and the cool, hard leather of his brigandine pressing against your thighs as he hauled you flush against him. You felt the sheer, staggering scale of him, the mountain of a man suddenly becoming your entire world.
The kiss broke.
Not gently. Not carefully.
It shattered into something deeper—hungrier. Urgent in a way that felt reckless, inevitable. As though the world beyond the pavilion had already begun to burn, and this was the only thing left worth saving.
Dunk kissed you like a man who had run out of time.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, fisting the fabric of your gown as he pulled you closer—closer still—until there was no space left between you. As if letting go would mean losing you entirely.
You felt it in him then. Not just strength, not just want—but restraint finally breaking.
His other hand came up, rough and warm, threading into your hair. He tilted your head back, deepening the kiss until breath became a forgotten thing, until all that existed was the slow, consuming heat of him.
Salt. Warmth. Something achingly real.
Your pulse stuttered as his hand moved again—up your ribs, spanning you easily—before settling over your heart. As if he needed to feel it. As if he didn’t quite believe you were real beneath his hands.
His breath left him in a low, unsteady exhale against your lips.
Then his mouth left yours.
Not far.
Never far.
He followed the line of your jaw, slower now, as though savoring what he had already stolen. His teeth grazed your skin at your throat—just enough to make your breath hitch, your body arch—and then—
The pavilion tore open.
Silk snapped sharply as the flap was wrenched aside, the quiet moment splitting clean in two.
Cold night air rushed in, biting and sudden, dragging the outside world back into existence.
Dunk went still.
The shift was instant—his body tightening beneath your hands, his breath cutting off as something darker, colder took hold.
He turned.
In the entrance stood Aerion Targaryen.
He did not rush. Did not speak at first.
He simply looked.
Silver-gold hair caught the torchlight, gleaming like something forged rather than grown. His violet gaze moved slowly over the scene—the basin of darkened water, your tangled hair, the way you sat in a hedge knight’s lap.
And then he smiled. Not wide. Not kind. Something thinner. Sharper. Something that did not reach his eyes.
“How touching,” Aerion said softly. The words slid through the space like a blade. His gaze flicked back to Dunk.
“Tell me, Ser Duncan…” His head tilted, almost curious. “Does the Seven smile on this?” A pause. Then, quieter—“Or have you forgotten whose property you’re touching?”
The blood drained from Dunk’s face in an instant.
He moved too fast, rising from the stool with a clumsy urgency that betrayed him entirely. His shoulder caught yours as he stood, knocking you back a step into the small table behind you.
The basin rattled violently. A thin arc of dark water spilled over the edge, spotting the rushes below.
“My prince—I—” Dunk’s voice faltered, rough and uneven. “It wasn’t—”
He stopped. Because there was no lie that would survive this.
He stood there—too large, too exposed—hands half-raised, uncertain, as though even they didn’t know where to go.
For the first time since you’d known him, he looked exactly what the world called him.
A lunk.
And he knew it.
Aerion didn't move.
He stood silhouetted against the dark camp, watching the panic with a predator’s patience. His violet eyes tracking the way your hair was mussed, the way your breath was still coming in short, ragged hitches.
Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips—a wet, malicious motion that made your skin crawl.
"You've a smudge of her on your mouth, giant," Aerion hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, melodic register. "It’s a shame. I’ll have to scrub it off with steel."
His hand went to the hilt of the dirk at his hip, his knuckles white. The air in the tent snapped with the promise of violence. As Aerion lunged forward, his face twisted into a mask of Targaryen fury, Dunk braced himself, ready to take a blow he knew he wasn't allowed to return.
"Aerion, stop! Please!" you cried out, finding your footing and throwing yourself toward them.
The Prince of Summerhall turned mid-stride, his movements as fluid as a serpent’s. Before you could even reach for his arm, his hand shot out. It wasn't a slap or a push; his fingers clamped around the delicate Column of your throat.
He slammed you back against the central pole of the pavilion, the wood groaning under the impact. Dunk let out a choked, desperate sound, but Aerion didn't look at him. He leaned in close to you, his thumb pressing hard into the soft dip above your collarbone, cutting off your breath.
"You do not command a dragon," Aerion whispered, his eyes burning with a manic, violet light. "And you certainly do not beg for the life of a dog in my presence."
He squeezed, his fingers like iron talons.
The air left your lungs, your words dissolving into a broken, breathless sound at the back of your throat. But as your breath faltered, something else took its place—something darker.
Your body betrayed you—not with fear, but with heat. A heat that coiled low and sharp, unfurling beneath the crushing weight of his hand and the nearness of him, until your thighs pressed together, slow and instinctive.
And Aerion felt it. He felt the shift in you—the way your body answered to him.
He leaned in, close enough that your noses brushed, his breath ghosting against your lips. His pupils swallowed the violet of his eyes, leaving them nearly black.
He didn’t look disgusted.
He looked enthralled.
"Oh," he breathed, a slow, menacing grin stretching across his face. "I see what you are now. Not a lady, but a dirty little thing that likes the leash. You don’t want a knight; you want to be broken."
"Aerion, I—" The words were a shattered rasp, failing as your lungs burned for air. You tried to find a plea, a lie, anything to stop the descent into madness, but the Prince was already miles ahead of you.
He didn’t let you finish.
Slowly—deliberately—he eased his grip just enough for you to drag in a breath, only to replace the pressure with his thumb. He pressed it to your lower lip, forcing your mouth open.
The scent of expensive oils and the faint metallic tang of his ring filled your senses.
The world went dizzy.
Your tongue darted out, trembling, and licked the salt from his skin. Then, with your eyes locked on his violet gaze, you drew his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it in a silent, shameful surrender that tasted of ruin.
Aerion’s laugh was a low, jagged thing that vibrated against your chest. He looked back at Dunk, who was trembling, his massive hands opening and closing in a futile, agonizing display of helplessness.
"Do you see, Ser Duncan?" Aerion crooned, his eyes dancing with a manic, violet fire. "She doesn't want your clumsy protection. She wants a master. She wants a dragon to tear the 'Lady' out of her."
He leaned in, his face inches from yours as he slowly withdrew his thumb, slick and glistening in the torchlight.
"I think I'll let you stay, giant," Aerion whispered, his voice a poisonous promise. "I want you to see every moment of her undoing. I want you to remember this when the executioner's axe is at your neck—that she never belonged to you. She belongs to the flame."
Aerion pulled his thumb from your mouth, the skin slick and glistening in the flickering lamplight. He began to unbuckle his sword belt, the heavy leather hitting the rushes with a thud that sounded like a gavel. His movements were jagged, fueled by a frantic, predatory lust.
But as the Prince worked at the laces of his doublet, the terror in your eyes didn't just break—it curdled.
You leaned your head back against the pavilion pole, a slow, uneven smile touching your lips. You didn’t look at Dunk; your gaze remained on Aerion, steady and unflinching, as you watched the slight tremor in his hands.
You knew what this was, but if you were going to burn, you were going to be the one to strike the match.
"Why must he stay and watch, Aerion?" you asked, your voice a silky, dangerous rasp that made Dunk flinch as if you’d laid a whip across his face.
Aerion paused, his violet eyes narrowing as he searched for the fear he expected to find. "He stays to be broken, little bird. To see you ruined."
Dunk didn’t move.
For a heartbeat, he only stared—like he couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing. The girl who had just cupped his face with such tenderness was gone, replaced by something sharper, something that didn’t flinch as it beckoned the devil closer.
He should have been repulsed. Should have stepped back. Left the tent and saved what little honor he had left.
But something in your words made him shift.
His breath hitched—not just from shock. But from something else that settled in its place—slower, heavier—coiling low in his chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
His gaze dropped—just for a moment.
To the way your skirts were bunched.
To the prince’s hand still tangled in your hair.
And he felt it.
Not fear.
Want.
His jaw tightened.
A rough, unsteady sound left him—not quite protest, not quite refusal. Something caught between the two, like a man standing at the foot of his own gallows… and not stepping away.
He knew better. He knew what this was. But he didn’t move. He didn’t look away. He couldn't.
"He's a mountain of a man, isn't he?" you continued, your gaze never leaving Aerion’s, even as you felt the Prince’s fingers tighten in your hair. You hitched your skirts higher, exposing your thighs to the torchlight, your body practically humming with a defiant, reckless energy. "Does a dragon really want to feast alone? Or are you afraid that if he joins us, you’ll find out a hedge knight knows more about breaking a lady than a Prince ever will?"
Aerion’s face flushed a deep, dangerous crimson. He looked at you, then at Dunk—who was trembling on his knees, his massive hands opening and closing in a futile display of helplessness. The Prince’s lip curled into a slow, truly hideous grin as he realized the depth of the game you were playing.
"You really are a filthy thing, aren't you?" Aerion hissed, his breath hot against your skin. "You want to be wrecked between the dragon and the dog."
He looked over his shoulder at the kneeling giant, his eyes burning with a manic, violet light.
“Get up, Duncan,” Aerion said, his voice low, almost amused. “It seems my lady has a hunger that one man cannot satisfy.”
A pause. The weight of the silence in the pavilion was stifling.
“Come here.”
Dunk didn’t move.
His breath came uneven now, a ragged, wet sound that betrayed the war raging under his ribs. His hands were flexing at his sides—thick, calloused fingers curling and uncurling as if they no longer belonged to him, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there or perhaps a skin he wasn't allowed to touch. Every instinct in him screamed to stop, to step back, to remember the vows of a knight who protected the weak and the innocent—
But he didn’t.
Aerion tilted his head slightly, watching him with the calculated fascination of a boy pulling the wings off a fly. The Prince’s hand remained anchored in your hair, keeping you on your knees, a trophy and a lure.
“Well?” he murmured, the word sliding out like a blade. “Or must I drag you like the dog you are?”
Something in Dunk snapped at that.
Not loudly. Not with the roar of a champion. It was the quiet, hollow sound of a heart finally giving up on its own goodness. It was the realization that he was already in the gutter, and the mud was warmer than the cold honor he’d been clinging to.
Slowly—hesitantly—he pushed himself to his feet.
He wasn't steady. He wasn't certain. He looked like a man walking toward his own execution, his massive frame casting a shadow that swallowed the both of you. But he was moving. Step by agonizing step, the mountain began to crumble, drawn toward the dark flames in your eyes and the poisonous invitation of the Prince.
“Don’t look so torn, Dunk,” you murmured, softer now. “You don’t have to pretend you don’t want this.”
The words hit him harder than any blow from a mace. The pretense of duty shattered. Dunk didn't look away; instead, his gaze dropped to your exposed throat, his chest heaving with a sudden, jagged hunger that finally matched Aerion’s. He didn't step back. He stepped in.
Aerion’s laugh was a sharp, jagged sound of victory. He knew he had him. He didn't give the giant a second to reconsider before he hiked your hips up, pinning you against the pole so hard the wood creaked. The rough grain biting into your skin.
You let your head drop to the side, a broken gasp escaping your lips as the cold night air hit your warm skin.
Dunk was quick to cup your cheek, his touch so achingly tender it felt like a sin in this place. His fingers were rough and calloused, smelling of horse and rain, but they moved with a careful, trembling reverence. He leaned down, his massive frame shielding you from the flickering torchlight, and his thumb traced your lower lip, catching the tremble there.
"Look at me," he whispered. It wasn't a command; it was a plea, his voice thick with a grief that hadn't yet snuffed out his longing.
You turned your face into his palm, locking your eyes on his. You saw the "Lunk" in those blue eyes—honest, devastated, and utterly devoted. He was your anchor while the world prepared to burn. And then, just as you saw his eyes soften with a final, tragic surrender, Aerion forced himself into your folds with a blunt, punishing thrust.
A mangled cry tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unrefined shock that was swallowed by the heavy silk walls of the pavilion. Your left hand flew up, your nails digging into the fine fabric of Aerion’s shirt, anchoring yourself to the man who was currently wrecking you. But your right hand reached for Dunk, your fingers bunching in the rough, familiar wool of his tunic with a desperation that bordered on a plea.
You jerked him forward, closing the distance between his heartbreak and your ruin, and pulled him into a deep, soul-shattering kiss.
Dunk didn’t hesitate this time. He met you with a hunger that tasted of woodsmoke and a lifetime of repressed longing. It was a kiss that tried to protect you even as he helped destroy you—deep, messy, and devastatingly tender. You moaned into his mouth, your tongues tangling as you sought refuge in the only goodness left in the room.
Below the waist, however, there was no tenderness. Aerion let out a sharp, jagged hiss of breath, his pace immediately turning harsh. He used the pole to leverage himself, his hips hitting yours with a rhythmic, wet thud that jolted through your entire frame. Every time Aerion drove into you, your body slammed into Dunk’s massive chest, the contrast between the Prince's malice and the Knight's embrace nearly enough to snap your mind in two.
But you didn't want it to stop.
A dark, gluttonous desire bloomed in the pit of your stomach, spreading through your veins like wildfire. You weren't just a victim in this pavilion; you were a furnace, and you wanted more fuel. You wanted the stinging cruelty of Aerion’s pace to grind you into the wood until you couldn't remember your own name, and you wanted the heavy, woodsmoke-scented devotion of Dunk to swallow you whole.
Greedy, a voice hissed in the back of your mind, and you leaned into it.
You didn't want to be saved. You wanted to be used until there was nothing left but the friction. You wanted to be the bridge where the dragon and the mountain finally met, crushed beneath the weight of both their desires. You pulled Dunk closer, your tongue dancing with his with a sudden, predatory hunger that mirrored the Prince’s, even as your hips bucked back against Aerion, demanding more of that harsh, metallic rhythm.
"More," you whimpered against Dunk's lips, the word a desperate, shameful confession.
You were a lady of the court, a creature of silk and propriety, but tonight you were a scavenger in the gutter, and you found that you had a bottomless appetite for the ruin they were providing. You wanted every ounce of Aerion’s malice and every drop of Dunk’s hidden, aching lust. You wanted to be wrecked, and you wanted them to be the ones to do it.
Aerion’s laugh was a jagged edge in the dark. "Is this what you wanted, lunk?" Aerion panted, his sweat dripping onto your skin as he drove into you. "To see how a dragon rides? To see how your 'lady' begs for it?"
Aerion’s pace didn't slacken; if anything, it grew more erratic, fueled by the sight of Dunk’s massive, trembling hands on your skin. He leaned in closer, his chest slick and hot against your back, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was loud enough for the giant to hear.
"You’ve been staring at her since the tourney began, haven't you?" Aerion taunted, his hips slamming home with a wet, rhythmic thud. "Dreaming of those highborn curves while you slept in the mud. Tell me, giant... is the reality better than the dream? Do you want to do more than just watch the dragon feast?"
Dunk’s breath hitched, a low, guttural sound that was more animal than man. He looked at you—truly looked at you—his blue eyes drinking in the sight of your flushed skin and the way you were arched, helpless and greedy, against the pole. The "Lunk" was fading, replaced by a man who was realizing that the Prince wasn't just offering a show; he was offering a share of the kill.
"I... I want..." Dunk stammered, his voice a gravelly wreck.
"Say it," Aerion hissed, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, more insistent. "Tell her what you want to do to her while I’m holding her down. Tell her how much of the gutter you want to drag her into."
Dunk’s gaze locked onto yours. The gentleness was still there, but it was being drowned out by a dark, rising tide of hunger. He reached out, his thumb bruising your lower lip as he finally admitted the truth to the room.
"I want everything," Dunk rasped, the words a final, heavy surrender. "I want to feel her break under me, too."
Aerion’s grin was truly hideous then, full of a manic, violet light. "The table," he commanded, his voice a triumphant rasp. "Let's see if the oak can hold the weight of a dragon, a mountain, and a whoring princess."
He didn't give you a chance to breathe. In one fluid, violent motion, the "ruin" moved from the pole to the scarred side table, as they prepared to turn your greed into a permanent scar.
Aerion cleared the surface with a violent, clattering sweep of his arm, sending whatever was left crashing to the rushes. He shoved you back onto the wood, the cold, rough grain biting into your spine as your legs were spread wide, pinned between the two of them. You were exposed, the flickering torchlight catching every slick, shimmering detail of your arousal.
Dunk hovered over your head, his massive frame a wall of heaving muscle that swallowed the light. The shame that had held him back hadn't just broken; it had curdled into something dark and demanding. With a rough, jagged breath, he reached down and freed himself from his heavy breeches.
He was massive—a giant of pulsing veins that made the Prince look almost delicate by comparison. The sheer, blunt scale of him made your breath hitch in your throat. Dunk didn't look away. He gripped the thick length of himself, his blue eyes dark with a hunger that was no longer gentle.
"You wanted the whole of the ruin," Dunk rasped, his voice a gravelly, low boom that vibrated through the oak and into your bones. "Do you truly think you can handle a beast this size, girl?"
You didn't hesitate. You couldn't. The dark pit in your belly was a screaming, bottomless void that demanded to be filled. You nodded, your head thrashing against the wood, your eyes wide and pleading.
Aerion let out a high, manic cackle, his violet eyes dancing with victory. "Then take it all!" he hissed.
In one coordinated motion, they descended. Aerion drove into your pussy from below, his blunt, metallic thrusts immediately finding a frantic, punishing rhythm that made the table’s heavy legs skid across the rushes. At the same instant, Dunk leaned over your chest, his massive weight nearly crushing the air from your lungs as he guided himself into your mouth.
The sensation was a total, paralyzing sensory wreckage.
You were being worked from both ends, a bridge of flesh and bone caught between the dragon and the mountain. There was no room for thought, only the rhythmic, wet slap of Aerion’s hips against your own and the heavy, filling length of Dunk as he began to move against your tongue. You were spread out for all to see, a lady of the court reduced to a gasping, heaving mess of sweat, spit, and salt.
Aerion’s fingers dug into your thighs, anchoring you as he maintained that blurring, violent thud of a pace.
"Look at her, Dunkin!" Aerion panted, his pace sharpening. "Look at our lady now! She’s not a bird anymore—she’s a gutter-bitch, and she’s loving every second of the dirt!"
And you were—the gods had brought you to heaven, a high, screaming place made of sex and sin, and you never wanted to descend. Your fingers clawed at the edges of the table, your nails leaving deep grooves in the wood as the tension coiled white-hot and screaming in your belly.
Aerion, ever the cruel architect of your pleasure, felt the way your body was beginning to wind tight.
He reached down, his fingers slick with the evidence of your combined betrayal, and found that small, swollen knot of nerves. He didn't just touch it; he circled it with a jagged, clinical precision, his thumb grinding against you in a rhythmic taunt that matched the brutal pace of his hips. The sensation was a sharp, electric spike that lanced through the heavy, blunt ache of the assault, making your hips buck uncontrollably against the oak.
And then there was Dunk, filling your senses at the top—a staggering, visceral weight that demanded the rest of your focus.
He tasted of the salt of honest sweat and the faint, lingering musk of horse and leather—the scents of the road and the camp, entirely unrefined and utterly male.
Every time he moved, his thickness felt like it was stretching you to the breaking point, a heavy, velvet friction that slid against your tongue and filled the back of your throat until you were lightheaded from the lack of air. His movements were slow and heavy, guided by a primal, unlearned hunger that was finally, dangerously surfacing. You could feel the panicked thrumming of his pulse against your lips, a deep, subterranean thrum that told you exactly how close the "gentle giant" was to his own shattering.
His hands were still pinning your wrists, his thumbs brushing over the delicate skin of your inner arms, a tender counterpoint to the way he was filling you to the point of a beautiful, suffocating ruin. You were caught between two worlds—the sharp, stinging lightning of Aerion’s fingers at your core and the heavy, drowning of Dunk’s length.
"Tell me, Princess," he hissed, the word a cruel mockery of your station. "Whose ruin are you? Who do you belong to? The Prince who claimed you by right, or the dog who’s currently filling your mouth?"
Dunk’s hands tightened on your wrists, the wood of the table creaking under the sudden, immense pressure of his grip. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his face flushed and his gaze burning with a question he was too afraid—and too desperate—to ask.
You couldn't choose. You didn't want to.
The dark, gluttonous fire in your belly demanded both the sting of the crown and the weight of the dirt. You shook your head, your hair splaying across the wood like silk in the mud, and your eyes darted between the violet madness of the Prince and the shattering blue grief of the Knight.
"Both," you choked out, the word a ragged, shameful confession that was swallowed by the salt-thick air when Dunkan placed himself down your throat again. "Both."
The admission was the final spark.
Aerion let out a high, triumphant cackle, his thumb grinding into you with a merciless, terminal speed, while Dunk let out a low, guttural roar that seemed to rattle the very foundations of the tent.
The tension snapped.
A white-hot explosion of crystalline heat tore through your core, a scream building in your lungs as your internal muscles clamped down with a feral, rhythmic desperation. You were coming so hard your vision went black, your head thrashed back against the oak, and you were caught in a violent, three-way collision of release. Dunk’s heavy, pulsing seed filled you at the top while Aerion spilled his royal essence into the wreckage below, the table giving one last, splintering groan as the three of you finally hit the floor of the gutter together.
Then came the silence.
It was heavy and suffocating, rushing into the pavilion like a funeral shroud. The only sound left was the ragged, wet rasp of three people trying to find their breath in the dark—a desperate, broken symphony of lungs laboring against the salt-thick air.
The scent of the tent had changed. The sharp, ozone tang of Aerion’s manic energy was buried now under the thick, honest musk of the gutter. You lay splayed across the oak, your skin cooling rapidly as the sweat began to itch. You were a lady of the court, but the silk of your shift was lost somewhere in the rushes, and you were currently decorated in the evidence of a double betrayal that could never be washed away.
Dunk didn’t move at first. He remained hunched over you, his forehead resting against the edge of the scarred table, his massive shoulders heaving. He didn’t look like a victor; he looked like a man who had just watched his own soul burn to ash. Slowly, he pulled back, the wet slide of his skin against yours sounding like a physical wound in the quiet. He didn’t look at Aerion. He didn’t even look at your body. He looked only at his hands—those large, calloused hands that had pinned you down while you were being ruined.
Aerion was the first to break the stillness. He stood up with a graceful, predatory ease, adjusting his silk breeches as if he’d done nothing more than finish a meal. He reached out and grabbed a flagon of wine from a nearby chest, taking a long, leisurely swallow before looking down at the two of you with a chilling, satisfied smile.
"There," Aerion whispered, the word sharp and metallic. "Now we all know exactly what we are."
He walked over to where Dunk was standing and patted the giant’s shoulder—a gesture that was supposed to be friendly but felt like a brand.
"Don't look so dismal, Duncan," Aerion mocked, his violet eyes glittering with a sickening triumph. "You did exactly what a loyal dog does. You followed your master's lead."
Dunk flinched as if he’d been struck by a whip. He finally looked at you then, and the expression in his blue eyes was so full of a raw, bleeding shame that it made the pleasure of moments ago feel like a fever dream. He had given you his heart, and in return, you had used it to anchor yourself while you let a dragon wreck you.
The silence stretched, thick and poisonous. You were still on the table, the rough grain of the wood imprinted on your back, caught between the Prince who felt nothing and the Knight who now felt far too much.
But as you watched Aerion retrieve himself a cup of, his eyes never leaving the way Dunk’s large frame trembled, a cold realization settled in your marrow. You had a feeling this was far from over.
This wasn't just a night of singular ruin; it was a beginning. You could see it in the way Aerion looked at the giant—not with boredom, but with the spark of a new, twisted hobby. He hadn't just wanted to use you; he had wanted to see if he could make a mountain crumble, and he’d found the exact crack in the stone.
"The tournament isn't over," Aerion said softly, the silkiness of his voice more terrifying than the shouting had been. He set the cup down and stepped back toward the table, his shadow stretching over your exposed, cooling body. "And a man of your... appetite... surely can't be expected to go back to the mud and the cold after tasting such a feast."
He reached out, his fingers tracing a line through the sweat on your collarbone, but his gaze remained fixed on Dunk.
"We’re going to be very close, the three of us," Aerion whispered. "I can feel it. The dragon, the knight, and the lady who loves the dirt."
Dunk’s breath hitched—a jagged, broken sound. He didn't look away from you, but you saw the resignation sink into his features. He was tethered now. Tethered to the Prince by his crime, and tethered to you by a desire that had just proven it could override his very soul.
You lay there, the "heaven" of minutes ago turning into a gilded cage. You had been greedy for the fire, and now, looking at the manic glint in Aerion’s eyes and the shattered devotion in Dunk’s, you realized the fire wasn't going out. It was just getting started.
‼️PSA: SCAM ALERT‼️
PLEASE REBLOG TO SPREAD AWARENESS!
Scammers are gaining access to legit/established accounts and messaging their followers/people they've previously dm'd to steal money/access to their accounts.
This is important because one of the accounts they STOLE @/yetacomis does legit commissions! We've shared email/payment info and she's done this commission for me.
They will contact you telling you that they've reported you and that they've got their friends to report you too in order to scare you. They may even mention they mistook you for another user or provide a fake case number.
Here are the fake/doctored images they sent:
How can you protect yourself?
1. Tumblr will NEVER ask you to contact them via discord for account disputes. If you are banned/suspended/in violation of a rule an automated email will come from a tumblr dot com email address. Any communication with a human is user initiated and comes from their zendesk ticketing system.
2. Turn on 2FA (2-Factor Authentication). This way if you are scammed they will not immediately gain access. Tumblr will NEVER ask for your 2FA code. NEVER GIVE OUT YOUR 2FA CODE!!!
Ironically enough I received this message literally 10 minutes before I saw a dm from my moot @ramonathinks telling me she got something similar from a different account @/carlkojee.
Here is what she received:
Please comment below any additional compromised accounts and I will add them here.
Here is the list so far:
@/yetacomis
@/carlkojee.
@/bloodymoonkitty
@/somewhereimhappywith
I am reporting them to tumblr as well as the discord user names to discord. But please stay vigilant as these aren't just random accounts.
Again report any accounts who reach out to you immediately, do not click any links from them nor give them ANY of your account information.
sorry for clogging famdom tags but i would like this to reach as many people as possible to prevent anymore stolen accounts, especially if they scam more legit accounts that may actually have the credibility to fool some people.
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner
snowghoul