after all this time? — always.

[candyeager]

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the dreamer’s debt ✴︎ akotsk daeron

the cruel prince ✴︎ akotsk aerion

bonten's number two ✴︎ tkv sanzu

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© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

THE DREAMER’S DEBT. chapter I

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

one night of safety is all you crave. one night of quiet is all Daeron asks for.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, explicit content, substance abuse, manipulative relationships, death mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced proximity, marriage of convenience, angst, slow burn, heavy pining & yearning.

divider creds. @/feimingo

CHAPTER I. 3.2k words | masterlist

The air in the tavern smelled of ale and damp wood, a far cry from the silk of your life across the sea. In this nameless town, you were no longer a lady of high lineage, but a ghost in a moth-eaten woolen tunic.

The promise of your hand had been a death sentence. Your family had called it a political necessity, but you knew the truth: House Lothston, those sycophants who had bloated themselves on the favors of Aegon the Unworthy, had used blackmail to snare you. You had seen the way the Lothston men looked at women, as spoils of war or disposable playthings. Rather than Harrenhal, you had chosen the dirt of a tavern floor, vanishing into the night before the ink on the marriage contract could dry.

Now, you lived in the quiet corners of the run-down establishment that saw more spiders than patrons. You scrubbed floors until your back ached, finding peace in being invisible. As long as you were a nobody, the Lothstons couldn't find you.

The world outside was still reeling from the Trial of Seven; the heir to the Iron Throne was dead, and the mad Brightflame had been banished across the Narrow Sea. But in this tavern, the Great Houses felt like myths.

That was until the heavy thrum of iron-shod boots broke the silence.

You emerged from the kitchen, a stack of wooden trenchers balanced against your hip, and froze. The air in the room had turned freezing the moment those knights stepped through the threshold. Their cloaks were stained with the red dust of the Kingsroad, but the quality of their steel screamed of King’s Landing. Panic clawed at your throat. Had the Lothstons finally tracked you to this gods-forsaken corner of the world?

You didn't wait to find out.

Dropping the trenches, you kept your head low, and bolted toward the back corridor. You ducked into the first door you found, your breath coming in ragged hitches as you pressed your back against the wood, praying the shadows would swallow you whole.

"I don't recall... asking for company tonight."

The voice was slurred and thick with the heavy drag of wine, but it held a cadence that didn't belong in a hovel.

You spun around, your eyes straining against the gloom. A man lay sprawled across the narrow bed, one arm flung over his eyes as if to shield himself from a light that wasn't there. He was disheveled, his tunic unbuttoned at the throat, and the air around him reeked of sour grapes and deep sorrow.

When he shifted, his hand fell away to reveal a face marked by a haunting beauty. He was a mess of tangled sandy-brown hair and fine silks that had seen better days.

"Though," he added, "perhaps the gods are finally offering me a dream I won't wake up screaming from."

You stood frozen against the door, your heart still thrashing like a caged bird. Outside, the muffled clank of those knights—Lothston’s men or the King’s, it didn't matter—was a looming threat that kept you pinned to the spot. If you stepped out, you risked a lifetime of gilded misery.

You swallowed hard, your fingers clutching the rough wool of your apron. To flee was to be caught, but to stay was to play a part. So, you lowered your head, masking your noble features in the shadows, and let the silence of a servant settle over you.

The man didn't seem to care for your silence. He took a jagged breath, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling as if he could see through the thatch to a sky you couldn't perceive.

"I’ve seen it already. The shadows... the dragons falling from the clouds like rain," he whispered. "They think I'm just a drunk, don't they? A man of nothing but empty cups."

He sounded like a madman, a soul unmoored and drifting in a sea of his own making.

As he continued to murmur of falling stars and the scent of burning scales, you found yourself moving closer, drawn by curiosity. Up close, he looked less like a threat and more like a ruin. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion that spoke of nights spent fleeing from sleep.

Compared to the Lothston men prowling outside, he was harmless. Pitiful, even.

You watched as his trembling fingers fumbled with a near-empty flagon, the ceramic neck clattering against the rim of his cup as he tried to pour. A dark stain bloomed on the moth-eaten sheets, another small failure in a life clearly defined by them.

"Allow me," you whispered as you reached out.

You took the flagon from his weak grip, your fingers brushing against his cold skin. The contact sent a jolt through you—a spark of unwanted heat that felt entirely too intimate for two strangers in a dark room. But you kept your eyes downcast, focusing only on the stream of dark wine filling his cup.

Your plan was simple: ply him with enough spirits to drown the visions. If he drank himself into a stupor, he would pass out before the knights outside finished their rounds. And by morning, he would be nursing a headache far too loud to remember the girl who had trespassed his room.

As the flagon grew lighter in your hands, the edges of his voice began to fray. He spoke of a brother cast into exile, of a trial that tasted of ash, and of a dragon’s burden that he seemed to carry alone. But his rambling wove a tapestry of nonsensical prophecies, so you decided to dismiss them as the delusions of a broken mind.

"It's all... smoke," he wheezed, his head finally dropping back against the thin pillow. "The wings, the fire... just smoke. Don't... don't leave me in the dark."

His hand made one last, feeble grab for your sleeve, his fingers brushing the coarse wool before losing their strength. Then, the silence of the room was broken only the heavy sodden thrum of his sleep.

The madman was finally out.

You stood over him for a long moment. Your heart, which had been hammering against your ribs for the better part of an hour, finally began to slow.

You waited, your ear pressed against the cold wood of the door, listening to the muffled chaos of the tavern floor. You waited until the heavy thud of boots finally receded into the night and the raucous laughter of the knights faded into the distance. Only then did you allow yourself to breathe.

Casting one last look at the stranger, you slipped out into the hallway. You moved silently, certain that by the time the sun rose, the wine would have burned away his memory of you.

You were wrong, of course.

Some dreams, like some debts, are never truly forgotten.

Morning light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, illuminating the empty bed where the stranger had been. The sheets were tangled, still smelling faintly of sour wine and the stagnant air of a man drowning in sorrows. He was gone, vanished like a fever dream before the first cock crowed.

You spent the day scrubbed raw by labor, the grit of the pumice stone against the floorboards a distraction from the memory of his voice. Yet, despite your best efforts, a question gnawed at you. You found your gaze drifting toward that darkened doorway, wondering if the man with the talk of falling dragons would return to the scene of his undoing.

He did.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised violet, he slumped through the tavern door. He was sober now, though "sober" seemed a relative term. The hangover had clearly claimed him; his skin was a sickly pallor, and the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes had deepened into canyons.

"You," he spat. "What did you do to me last night?"

You froze, your hands tightening around a damp rag. "I don't take your meaning, my lord," you murmured, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, feigning the dull-wittedness of a common servant. "I am a maid of the house. I poured you wine, and you drank it. That is all."

"I did not dream."

The statement was so blunt, so stripped of the flowery madness from the night before, that it made you look up. He was looking at you with a kind of terrified awe, as if you were a miracle he didn't know how to categorize.

"I slept," he rasped, stepping into your personal space until the heat of him chased away the tavern’s chill. "Actually, truly slept. No wings of fire, no screams of the dying. Just... silence."

You felt a prickle of nerves and, despite yourself, a spark of your old noble fire. "And is that not a good thing?" you retorted, the sarcasm slipping through your disguise before you could catch it. You gestured toward the dark hollows of his eyes. "Though, if I may say, you still look like a man who hasn't seen a bed in a fortnight. Perhaps you should try for another round of this 'silence' instead of hovering over the staff."

A dry, breathless laugh escaped him.

"You don't understand," he whispered, his hand hovering near yours but never quite touching. "Sleep is my enemy. When I close my eyes, the world burns. I see the end of us. I drink until I can’t feel my hands just to keep the visions at bay, and even then, they find me."

He leaned in closer, his breath hitching as he searched your face with a terrifying intensity.

"Last night, I was with you, and the world went dark in the only way that matters. I didn't have to watch the dragons fall. For the first time in my life, the stars were just stars."

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched between you. Then, a flicker of something—shame, perhaps, or the realization of how much he’d exposed—crossed his features. He recoiled slightly, the softness in his eyes hardening into a glass-like wall.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed a handful of silver stags onto the wooden table. They bounced and clattered, the sound ringing like a mockery in the quiet tavern.

"I’ve the coin for a whore’s time," he drawled, his voice regaining that entitled edge. His eyes swept over you, lingering on your lips before meeting your gaze with a weary smirk. "And you certainly have the face for it."

Whore.

Suddenly, the soot on your cheeks and the rough wool of your apron vanished. You weren't a nameless scullery maid in a backwater town anymore. You were the daughter of a Great House, a woman who had fled the depravity of the Lothstons to preserve her dignity, only to have it spat upon by a rambling drunk.

Before you could remember that you were a fugitive, that knights were nearby, or that you were supposed to be invisible, your hand lashed out.

Crack.

The sound of your palm meeting his cheek echoed sharper than the coins on the table. The force of the blow snapped his head to the side, leaving a blistering red mark across his sallow skin. You stood there, chest heaving, your hand stinging with a heat that matched the fury in your eyes.

The silence that followed was deafening. He simply remained there, head bowed, the shock of the strike ripples through the air. In that moment of blind outrage, you had done the one thing a servant would never dare; you had traded your safety for your pride, and likely burned your disguise to the ground.

And to your horror, a low, raspy sound vibrated in his chest.

He was laughing.

When he finally looked up, the glazed fog of the alcohol had been shocked out of him. He looked dangerously sober now, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw with a baffled curiosity.

"Seven Hells," he murmured, his fingers ghosting over the bruised skin of his face. "You’ve a hand like a Dornish mule, sweetheart."

You could only stare, your breath hitching as he turned his gaze to the silver coins scattered across the bar. The cynical smirk returned, but this time it was tempered by a new respect. A look that made you feel more exposed than if you were standing before him in your finest silks.

"My apologies," he said smoothly. "I suppose I’ve spent too much time in the city. I’ve forgotten that a face as fine as yours doesn't come cheap."

He flicked another silver coin onto the wood. "There."

The sheer audacity of it left you breathless.

He was clueless, a man so entrenched in his own tragic orbit that he couldn't see the fury radiating off you. You were seconds away from screaming—from throwing the dregs of his wine in his face and risking everything to tell this arrogant drunkard exactly who he was insulting—but the sound of the tavern’s heavy oak door groaning open choked the words in your throat.

Three knights stepped into the flickering amber light of the common room. The tavern, usually a graveyard of forgotten souls, was suddenly cramped. Your heart stopped. Why were they here again? Why was this gods-forsaken hole suddenly a waypoint for the crown’s men?

You didn't wait to see the sigil stitched onto their surcoats. You didn't care if they bore the dragon of the crown or the bat of Harrenhal. To your panicked mind, every knight on the Kingsroad was a reaching claw of House Lothston, sent to drag you back to the marriage bed of a monster.

The man in front of you, however, remained trapped in his own world. He was still talking, his voice low but still far too loud in the suffocating silence.

"Now, don't look so offended," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way your breath had begun to hitch. "If the price is still too low, we can always discuss—"

Before he could utter another syllable that might catch a knight’s attention, you lunged. Your fingers curled into the expensive fabric of his tunic, and with a strength born of pure desperation, you hauled the startled drunkard backward into the nearest darkened guest room.

The door clicked shut with a muffled thud, sealing you both in a tomb of shadows and dust.

You leaned your forehead against the wood, your chest heaving, a ragged sigh of relief escaping your throat as the footsteps in the hall passed by. The silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the frantic drumming of your heart and the warmth of the man standing far too close behind you.

"Well."

He let out an amused huff of breath against the nape of your neck, the heat of it making the fine hairs on your skin stand up.

Despite the darkness, you could feel his smirk. That cynical tilt of his mouth.

"If this was your way of saying the price was right," he whispered, "you really could have just said so."

You stiffened, the reality of your situation crashing down. You were trapped in a dark room with a man who believed he had just purchased your dignity with a handful of silver. You waited for the inevitable, the heavy weight of his hands on your waist, the rough press of his body against yours as he demanded the service he thought he’d bought.

Your muscles coiled, your mind already racing for a lie, an excuse, a plea. Anything to fight him off without screaming and bringing the knights in the hallway straight to your door. You were a lady of a Great House; you would claw his eyes out before you let him touch you.

But the touch never came.

The air behind you cooled as he stepped away. The only sounds in the room were the thud of leather hitting the floor and the groan of the straw mattress as it took his weight.

Breathless and trembling, you turned around, your eyes straining against the gloom. He was sitting on the edge of the uncomfortable bed, tugging off his second boot carelessly.

"What..." You swallowed the lump of terror in your throat. "What are you doing?"

"Going to sleep," he muttered, the words thick with a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. He didn't even look at you, his head hitting the pillow with a heavy thud. "You can stand there and guard the door like a gargoyle if it pleases you. Or you can join me in the bed. I don't care."

You stayed pinned against the wood of the door, your fingers digging into the splinters. The knights were still out there, but the man on the bed felt like a different kind of danger.

"Aren't you going to..."

You trailed off, your face flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with the summer air.

He let out a ghost of a laugh.

"Sweetheart," he rasped. "I’ve had enough fire and screaming in my head today to last a lifetime. All I want is a few hours where the world doesn't feel like it's burning. To close my eyes and see... nothing."

He opened them then, just a crack, and the look he gave you was so raw it made your pulse falter.

"And for some reason, when you’re in the room, the screaming stops. The dragons stay in the clouds. So just... stay. That’s all the service I ask tonight."

He turned away from you then, curling onto his side. He left half the narrow bed empty—a silent, tragic invitation to a sanctuary you didn't understand, offered by a man seemed to be drowning in his own mind.

< chapter I ends >

taglist. @superfan02 @pixel-pixie-xo @low-key5 @kokoch4n3l

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

THE DREAMER’S DEBT

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Daeron Targaryen x fem!reader

one night of safety is all you crave. one night of quiet is all Daeron asks for.

between his terrifying dreams and the cruel lord hunting you, a dangerous debt is formed in the corners of a roadside inn. but in the Seven Kingdoms, when a Dreamer owes you his peace, the price is always your heart.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, explicit content, substance abuse, manipulative relationships, death mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced proximity, marriage of convenience, angst, slow burn, heavy pining & yearning.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

divider creds. @/feimingo

[candyeager]

THE CRUEL PRINCE

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

married to the most volatile man in the Seven Kingdoms, you have committed the ultimate sin: being too human for a dragon’s blood. now, you must find a way to be useful to the cruel prince, or risk a war that will leave the kingdom in ashes.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

divider creds. @/feimingo

[candyeager]

Part IV is out!!! Any thoughts ? 🤭

[candyeager]

THE CRUEL PRINCE. part IV

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

divider creds. @/feimingo

PART IV. 5.9k words | masterlist

The morning of the tourney had not yet broken, but the world inside the tent felt like it had been rewritten in the dark. You had stopped believing this night would ever come. Not after the cold rejection of your wedding night, when he left you to shiver in the silence of his disdain, wondering which of your many failings had made you unworthy of even his lust.

Yet tonight, the Brightflame had finally caught.

Aerion held you with an intensity that bordered on the holy and the horrific. At first, you felt the familiar sharp sting of him, but as the rhythm took hold, the pain began to bleed away, replaced by a warmth that spread through your limbs like liquid sunlight.

You felt good. Terrifyingly so. He was gentle this time, holding you as if he were truly capable of something resembling love, and it was that realization that shattered you most: you had been craving this. You had been starving for his touch without even knowing it, wandering a desert of his making until this sudden, torrential downpour.

His lips were a burning presence, trailing fire down the column of your neck and against your ear, while you gasped and shuddered beneath his weight. Those hands, so often used as weapons, now moved desperately, anchoring your hips to the furs as he drove into you with a reckless rhythm. It was as if he were trying to lose his own madness somewhere deep inside of you.

A splinter of guilt pierced through the pleasure. He was a monster who delighted in the scent of blood and the sound of breaking bone. Yet, in the heavy heat of the tent, you could not find the will to push him away.

Your body betrayed your conscience at every turn. You couldn’t stop your own voice from moaning his name, over and over, as if he were the only soul you had ever loved. Loved? You did not know if that word could survive a creature like him, but he was your husband, the only man who had ever occupied your world, and tonight, he was making you feel alive.

When the fire finally burned itself out, you were both left gasping for air in the amber pulse of the braziers. You rolled onto your side, your skin still humming from the friction of his, and watched him through the tangled curtain of your hair. Tonight, there was no sudden surge for a flagon of wine or the cold dismissal of a stranger's company. He simply stayed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

"Aerion," you softly whispered, the name feeling different on your tongue now.

He turned his head slowly, his violet eyes dark and unfocused, as if he were drifting back to earth from a great and terrible height. He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of your face before lingering on your lower lip.

"Why?" you breathed. "Why are you so... kind to me tonight?"

It felt surreal. Hours ago, you had been screaming in a dirt-streaked tent over a broken young man, yet here he was, touching you as if you were something precious. Aerion’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a flicker of amusement dancing in their depths as if you were being hilariously naive. A smirk tugged at his lips—those bruised, reddened lips that had just ruined you.

"You talk too much, little bird," he murmured. "Sleep."

Before you could protest, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours once more. It was a kiss so gentle it was frightening, enough to settle the remaining static in your mind. As you drifted off, the last thing you felt were his arms pulling you firmly into the furnace of his embrace, anchoring you to his heat in the dark.

The morning sun hit the silk of the tent with a blinding brightness that felt like a mockery of the night before. You woke with the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin, only to have the fragile peace shattered within the hour.

News traveled fast in the camp, and it reached you like a drench of ice water. A Trial by Seven.

The name felt senseless at first, until you found Daeron near the stables, looking more haggard and haunted than usual. He had explained it in a hushed tone: Aerion wasn't satisfied with merely breaking a man’s teeth. He had escalated the charge to high treason, demanding the ancient, bloody rite of a Trial by Seven against the very young man you had tried to save.

A hollow ache settled in the pit of your stomach. He had planned this. While he was holding you in your shared bed, he had already set the wheels of this slaughter in motion. He had used the softness of the night to distract you from the carnage of the morning.

Fury, hot and jagged, propelled you back toward the royal pavilion. You didn't wait for the guards to announce you; you threw the heavy tent flap aside and stormed in.

Aerion was standing in the center of the space, surrounded by squires who were meticulously fastening the black plates of his armor.

"A Trial by Seven?" you demanded. "You sat there last night, you held me, and all the while you were planning to turn this tourney into slaughter? And you felt no need to tell me?"

"Tell you? Since when does a dragon consult a sparrow on the laws of the realm?"

You watched him in disbelief. The man who had held you so gently hours ago was gone, replaced by the cold monster you had first met. It was as if the night had been a fever dream, and the dawn had brought the sickness back in full force.

"This is madness," you spat. "Innocent people are going to die for the sake of your pride. This is a mistake, even for you."

Aerion snapped his head toward you, his violet eyes flashing with a sudden heat. "Did I not tell you before? He shielded a whore who dared belittle the blood of Old Valyria. There is no innocence in guarding those who mock the throne."

"And what of your own brothers?" you snapped back, stepping into his space, oblivious to the sharp edges of his pauldrons. "Daeron has been dragged into this. He is no warrior, Aerion. He could be killed in that circle of steel. Does that even matter to you?"

Aerion’s expression went utterly still, a mask of indifference settling over his features. He didn't even blink at the mention of his brother’s peril.

"Good," he said flatly. "Perhaps if he tastes blood and iron, he will finally grow a bone in his back. It is time he learned what it means to defend the blood of the dragon, rather than drowning his cowardice in a flagon."

He turned away then, dismissing your terror with a flick of his wrist as he signaled for his helm.

"I am the Brightflame," he continued, his voice ringing with that insufferable pride that made your blood boil. "The gods do not lose trials, wife. I shall emerge from that meadow drenched in the blood of fools, and you will be there to witness it."

He looked at his reflection in a polished shield, a smirk of absolute certainty tugging at his lips. He was so blinded by his own divinity that he couldn't see the ruin he was trailing behind him. The fact that he expected you to simply applaud his cruelty made you want to scream.

You didn't know why the frustration was clawing so violently at your throat. Perhaps it was his sheer immaturity and his disregard for the lives he was about to ruin. Or perhaps, terrifyingly, you didn't realize that you were starting to care too much. The night before had left a mark on you that no amount of fury could wash away, and seeing him throw himself into this bloodbath felt like a personal betrayal.

The conflict in your soul finally snapped.

"—I hope you fall!" you screamed.

The sound was a piercing violence that actually made Aerion wince, his ears ringing from the staggering force of your outburst. The squires froze, their hands hovering over straps and buckles, eyes wide with terror.

"I won't care even if you die in that dirt!" you continued, your vision blurring with hot, angry tears. "I would rather mourn a corpse than remain the wife of a monster like you!"

You didn't wait for a response. You didn't wait to see the flash of violet fire in his eyes or the lethal set of his jaw. You knew him. You knew that under any other circumstance, he would have chased you down and silenced you for such treasonous words, perhaps even killed you right there amidst the rugs and pillows of your shared bed. But the trial was calling, and his vanity demanded he be on time for his massacre.

You turned and fled the tent, your silks snapping around your legs as you burst into the morning air. You expected to feel a sense of triumph, a lightness from finally hurling the truth in his face. Instead, a sickening tightness coiled in your chest. You had cursed him to death, but as the trumpets began to sound in the distance, calling the champions to the field, all you could feel was the terrifying weight of your own words.

And the dread that the gods might actually be listening.

The sun beat down on the meadow of Ashford with an indifferent brilliance. You had no choice but to take your place; protocol was an unyielding shackle, pinning you to your designated seat amongst the high-born guests and royal kin. You sat stiffly, your hands clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles ached, surrounded by the very people who expected you to play the part of the proud, loyal wife.

Then, the horns sounded, and Aerion emerged.

He rode his warhorse with an effortless arrogance, looking like a god of war forged from blackened steel. His armor was a masterpiece of intimidation, the fluted plates catching the sunlight in a way that made him appear as a dark flame dancing across the green of the meadow. He circled the field, his mere presence strangling the murmurs of the crowd into an expectant silence.

As he neared the royal box, his head tilted. His violet eyes pierced the distance to find yours in the stands, and he offered a slow, lingering smirk. It was a mocking curve of the lips that told you he hadn't forgotten a single word of your earlier outburst; he was throwing your "widow" comment back in your face, daring you to watch him survive.

The anger simmered in your gut again, but beneath it, a sickening dread began to pool.

It was a maddening contradiction. You hated him. You hated his cruelty, his vanity, and the way he had wielded your own body against you the night before. But as the six other knights took their places beside him and the air grew thick with the impending scent of blood, you realized with a jolt of horror that you couldn't bear to see him fall. You didn't want to witness the crunch of his bones or the light leaving those arrogant eyes.

Despite every rational thought, the thought of the world without his fire in it felt terrifyingly empty.

The herald raised his staff, and the silence of the meadow became absolute.

The meadow was a cacophony of clashing steel and the wet thud of hooves in the Ashford mud. You watched, breathless, as Aerion transformed into a whirlwind of black iron. He fought with a lethal grace that was nothing new to those familiar with his temper, but seeing it in the flesh was different. It was beautiful in the most sickening way possible.

He was violent, his strikes landing with a sickening crunch that echoed up to the stands. You saw the young man staggering his armor buckling under the relentless assault. Every time Aerion’s morningstar swung, your stomach lurched. You felt a profound sense of pity for the poor soul trapped in the Brightflame’s path, a man who was outmatched not just in skill, but in the inhuman ferocity of his opponent.

You wanted to stand up and walk away. You wanted to prove to yourself that you weren't complicit in this madness. But your feet remained planted; your eyes were locked on the black-armored figure at the heart of the carnage. Despite the guilt gnawing at your insides, despite the way your soul ached for the victim, your primary instinct remained a traitorous one: you needed to make sure Aerion was okay.

The end came with a brutal inevitability. The young man finally collapsed, lying still and broken in the churned-up mud of the meadow. Aerion stood over him, chest heaving, his armor splattered with filth and blood. He had won; the gods, it seemed, had favored the monster.

In that moment, a wave of relief washed over you so potent it made you feel faint. He was okay. He was alive.

But that relief was instantly followed by a surge of self-loathing. You were disgusted by your own heart, that after everything he had done, after the madness and the arrogance, your heart still beat for his survival.

You couldn't take it anymore. The cloying smell of the grass, the cheering of the crowd, and the sight of Aerion’s blood-stained silhouette were too much to bear. You stood abruptly, your silks rustling as you turned your back on the meadow. You didn't need to see the final blow or the heralds’ declaration. You already knew the ending to this tragedy.

As you pushed past the other lords and ladies to escape the stands, your only thought was to get back to the silence of the tent, before you had to look into the eyes of the monster you were relieved to have back.

You paced the length of the tent, the air inside still heavy with the lingering scent of Aerion’s spiced wine and the ghost of the night you had shared. In your mind, you could already see him, how he would burst inside, his eyes wild with the high of victory. You expected him to gloat, to mock your earlier tears, and perhaps to claim you again with that same terrifying heat. You waited for the sound of his triumph, bracing yourself for the anger you knew you should feel when he finally returned to boast of his cruelty.

But the sound that came was not the roar of a prince. It was the frantic footfalls of a single man.

A young knight burst into the tent, his face so pale he looked like a specter in the dim light. He struggled for breath, his eyes darting to yours with a look of profound dread.

"My Lady," he stammered. "You... you have been summoned to Ashford Castle. Immediately."

A flicker of bitter annoyance rose up inside you. You assumed Aerion had merely moved his theater of triumph to the high lord’s halls, eager to showcase his victory upon a grander stage.

"Has the Prince called for me already?" you asked bitterly. "Is he so eager to gloat that he cannot even walk back to his own tent to find me?"

The knight didn't answer right away. He looked at the floor, his gauntlets rattling with a nervous tremor.

"The Prince has lost, my Lady," he whispered, the words sounding like a death knell. "The trial... it went ill. He is in the castle now. The maesters say he is in a critical condition."

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet. The anger that had been your armor for so long shattered instantly, leaving only a cold, echoing void. The very man you had cursed, the monster you had told to die in the dirt, was broken.

You felt your heart rip in two, the jagged edges of your guilt and your terrifying, unwanted love drawing blood. You didn't wait for the knight to lead the way; you burst past him and ran toward the castle, the image of Aerion’s smirk from the meadow haunting you with every step. It felt like a ghost-touch now. A silent plea for a mercy you had only just realized you possessed.

When you pushed past the heavy oak doors, the air in the chamber was thick with the medicinal tang of milk of the poppy and boiled vinegar. The maesters were just retreating, their grey robes whispering against the stone floor as they finished their grim work.

You looked toward the massive bed in the center of the room, and the breath was punched out of your lungs.

There lay Aerion. The man who had compared himself to gods, the dragon who had loomed so terrifyingly large over your life, now looked hauntingly small. He was stripped of his black steel, his upper body swathed in stark white bandages that were already beginning to bloom with dark, rusted stains. His face, usually a masterpiece of arrogance, was now marred by a violent map of purple bruises and red gashes.

Seeing him this way was a horror you had never prepared for. You had lived so long in the shadow of his strength that the reality of his fragility felt like a physical blow. You sank onto the edge of the bed, your legs finally giving out.

Your movements were leaden as you reached out and took his hand in yours. It was still warm. The blood of the dragon still pulsed beneath the skin, but he didn't move an inch. His fingers, which had pinned your wrists to the pillows just hours ago with such effortless strength, now lay limp and unresponsive in your grasp.

An agonizing guilt began to splinter through your chest. The words you had screamed at him in the tent echoed in the quiet room, sounding more like a spell than an insult. I would rather mourn a corpse than remain the wife of a monster like you. You wondered, with a sickening sense of dread, if your curse had been the weight that tipped the scales against him.

It had all been so sudden. You had walked away from the meadow with the image of his triumph burned into your mind, certain of his victory. You hadn't expected the world to turn upside down the moment you turned your back. The mystery of his defeat gnawed at you. How could the monster you feared fall so fast? But as you clutched his limp hand to your cheek, the anger you had carried for him was gone, replaced by a desperate hope that he would wake up, if only to sneer at you one last time.

The heavy silence of the room was broken by a soft knock. You didn't look up, even as the door creaked open and Prince Baelor stepped into the dim light. You acknowledged his presence with a shallow tilt of your head, but you were too hollowed out by the sight of Aerion’s broken form to stand and offer the proper royal greetings. Your world had narrowed down to the warmth of Aerion's motionless hand in yours.

Baelor moved with a somber grace toward the foot of the bed. He looked aged by the day's violence, the Crown Prince's dignity frayed at the edges. 

"The maesters have given me their word," he said. "They believe Aerion will recover. He will be himself again, once the fever breaks and the rest takes hold."

You expected to feel a wash of relief, but instead, a sudden spark of anger flared in your chest. The memory of the trial flashed back, distorted by the lens of your grief. Baelor had been the one. He had stepped onto that muddy meadow not to defend the crown, but to dismantle his own blood. He had chosen a commoner over a brother, and in doing so, he had invited this carnage.

"He wouldn't be lying here like this if it weren't for you," you said, the words slipping through your teeth before you could catch them. You looked at Baelor then, your eyes bright with a misplaced, protective fury. "He wouldn't be broken and bloodied if you hadn't chosen to stand against him."

Baelor didn't reply immediately. He simply looked at you, his gazy heavy with a weary sadness that made the air in the room feel even heavier. In the ensuing silence, the horror of what you had just done settled over you. You had blamed the Hand of the King, the heir to the Iron Throne, for defending the innocent against your husband’s madness.

You had stepped so far over the line that you could no longer see it.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," you whispered, the fire dying as quickly as it had ignited. Your gaze dropped to the floor, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck. "I... I am just too tired. This whole situation, the fear... I don't think I know my own mind anymore."

Baelor didn’t rebuke you. He merely watched you with those steady, soulful eyes that seemed to see far more than you were ready to reveal.

"It is fine," he assured you. "I understand the predicament of finding someone you love in such a state. It frays the nerves of even the strongest soul."

Someone you love. The words echoed in the hollows of your mind, jarring and dissonant. Did he truly believe you loved Aerion? Did he see your frantic worry and your haunted face as a testament to a devotion you hadn't even admitted to yourself? You looked down at Aerion’s battered hand, still resting in yours, and felt a strange disconnect between the monster you knew and the man Baelor believed you cherished.

"Your loyalty toward my nephew is honorable," Baelor continued. "You possess a capacity for care that he has always lacked in himself. Your presence... it will be a necessary anchor for him."

An anchor. Your eyes narrowing as the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. All those months of wondering why you had been selected for the Brightflame suddenly felt like they had an answer. This was never just a political union or a match of convenience.

"Is that the reason?" you asked. "To wed me to Aerion because he needed a keeper? Because the crown required someone to hold him back from the precipice of his own madness?"

Baelor looked at you with that same unwavering kindness that made him the most respected man in the Seven Kingdoms, but his expression softened by a flicker of agonizing regret. It was the look of a man who had sacrificed a girl to save a kingdom.

"Every fire needs a hearth to contain it, lest it burn the house down," he murmured, his gaze shifting from you to the pale, bruised face of his nephew. "And every dragon needs a shore to return to."

He did not deny it. He didn't offer the comfort of a lie, or suggest that your happiness had ever been a factor in the King's decision. You were a tether, meant to keep a prince from ascending into the heights of his own insanity.

Before Baelor turned to leave, he paused at the threshold, his shadow long and somber against the stone. "But remember this, Good-sister. An anchor is meant to hold the ship, not be dragged beneath the waves with it. If the anchor breaks, you will both be lost to the sea."

His words settled over you like a shroud. Even long after the door had clicked shut and Baelor had left you to your privacy, his words kept replaying in your head like a haunting melody. You looked down at your hands, still cradling Aerion’s fingers. You thought of the night before, the way you had craved his touch, the way you had moaned his name despite the blood he had spilled just hours prior.

You wondered, with a sudden ache in your chest, if Baelor’s warning had come too late. You weren't sure if you were holding Aerion down, or if he was already pulling you into the depths of the very storm Baelor feared.

The days had bled into one another in a blur of stone corridors and the smell of medicinal poultices. You were walking hurriedly now, the heels of your boots clicking against the floor as you moved toward the chamber where Aerion lay. Maekar had informed you that his son had finally awakened, and though you hated yourself for the weakness, the relief that flooded through you was so potent it made your knees tremble.

You reached the heavy oak door and pushed it open, the weight of the wood yielding to your desperation.

Aerion was sitting up, propped against a mountain of silk pillows. He looked pale, his silver-gold hair dull against the bandages, but the lethality was already returning to his silhouette. The maids who had been fussing over his linens caught your eye and immediately scurried out, sensing the tension that followed in your wake.

"It has been three days," you began, your voice slightly breathless as you stepped closer to the bed. You tried to fill the silence, your words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "Lord Ashford was kind enough to offer us stay until you were fit to wake. There was talk of moving you back to the pavilion, but the maesters insisted on stone walls and—"

Your voice trailed off into nothing. You had reached the edge of his bed, but Aerion remained frozen. He refused to look at you. His gaze was fixed on the far wall, his jaw set so tightly that a muscle jumped in his cheek. The sharp-tongued prince who always had a retort ready was gone, replaced by an impenetrable wall of silence.

"Aerion," you whispered, the name sounding like a plea.

You reached out, your hand moving with the muscle memory of the last seventy-two hours. It was a gesture that had become a habit—stroking his brow, checking for the heat of the fever, or simply ensuring he was still tethered to the world of the living. But the moment your fingers neared his skin, he flinched. He turned his head sharply away, his arm coming up like a shield to block your touch.

The rejection stung. You realized, with a sinking heart, that whatever demons were clawing at his mind were currently focused on pushing you into the abyss.

"Don't," you whispered. "Don't push me away. I don't deserve this. Not after sitting here for days, wondering if you would ever wake up, watching every breath as if it were your last."

Aerion didn't even acknowledge the weight of your words. He was in deep denial, or perhaps the thought that you actually cared for him was a reality he couldn't afford to face. To admit you cared was to admit he was human, and he was still clinging to the wreckage of his godhood.

"I should have had him killed," he hissed, his gaze still fixed on the empty air. You knew immediately who he meant. The young man from the trial, the commoner who had survived while a prince lay broken. "I should have finished it when he was under my mace. I should have ended him."

A bitter realization settled in your chest. Even now, freshly returned from the threshold of death, his heart was a furnace of vengeance. He cared more for the blood he hadn't spilled than the tears you had. You had spent days praying for his survival, only for him to wake up and mourn a missed opportunity for murder.

"Are you still not over it? Even now, with your body broken and the gods' judgment rendered, you still crave that man’s blood?"

"How can I not be?" he snapped, finally turning his head to look at you, his eyes burning with a feverish intensity. "He made me look a fool."

Driven by a sudden, manic impulse to prove he was still the dragon he claimed to be, Aerion tried to thrust the covers aside. He attempted to heave himself out of the bed, but the moment he put weight on his wounded thigh, he let out a sharp hiss of agony. His face went ghostly pale as the pain flared, and he collapsed back against the pillows, unable to move his leg.

When he tried to lunge forward again, his teeth bared in a snarl of frustration, you reached out and grabbed his shoulders, your hands firm against the cool silk of his nightshirt.

"Stop it!" you commanded, forcing him to stay still. "Forget about vengeance, Aerion. Look at yourself. You are hurt. You cannot draw a sword, let alone hunt a man across the Seven Kingdoms."

He let out a bitter laugh that ended in a wince. "And what am I to do then?" he spat. "Lie here like a corpse? What is supposed to entertain me while I rot in this bed?"

You looked down at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The fear was gone, burned away by a bold, desperate need to reclaim him, to pull him back from his own destructive thoughts before they swallowed him whole.

"You have me," you replied softly. "You have me right in front of you."

He opened his mouth to retort, but you didn't give him the chance. "I am your wife, Aerion. You do not get to push me away anymore. I won’t let you."

Without waiting for his permission or protest, you began to climb onto the bed. You moved slowly, careful to keep your weight centered so you wouldn't disturb the fresh bandages on his thigh or the fractured ribs beneath the silk. You straddled him, your skirts pooling around his hips like a silken trap.

Aerion looked up at you, and for the first time since you had been wed, the mask of arrogance completely crumbled. He looked stunned, his violet eyes wide and clouded with a confusion so raw it bordered on the childlike. It was as if he couldn't fathom the reality of the moment: that you—the woman he had mocked, the woman who had cursed him—were now choosing to be this close to him.

You didn't give him time to overthink it. You reached down, seizing his calloused hands, and pinning them firmly to your waist. His skin felt like a brand, a searing heat that scorched through your silks and into your very bones.

"Look at me," you whispered, your voice a soft command that brooked no defiance.

Then, you began to move, a slow, torturous grind against his hips that drew a sharp gasp from his lungs. You watched his face as the shock began to melt into something much darker and familiar, a hunger that even his shattered pride couldn't suppress.

The world narrowed to the frantic speed of your pulse. The friction sent a jolt of liquid fire through you, and you pressed more desperately against his hardness, chasing the desire that pooled like lead in your stomach. You knew he felt it too. The evidence was right there in the way his arrogant lips started to part, his breath hitching in ragged, uneven stabs. His violet eyes grew heavy and dark, clouded over with an undeniable lust that momentarily eclipsed every bruise and broken bone. You were his anchor, but in this moment, you were the one dragging him into the depths, drowning his vengeance in the salt and heat of your skin.

Aerion let out a low, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-moan—as his fingers suddenly found their strength. His grip on your waist tightened until it was almost bruising, his knuckles white as he grounded you to him. He was guiding you, his hips bucking upward in a pained instinct that urged you to grind faster, harder, deeper.

"You..." he choked out, looking up at you with a look of sweat-slicked agony and absolute devotion. "You miserable, beautiful…curse."

The medicinal scent of the room was drowned out by the rising heat between your bodies. You watched his head fall back against the pillows, his throat exposed and working as he swallowed hard, his entire focus narrowed down to the visceral sensation of you claiming him. You were both chasing a high that felt like a freefall, your breaths hitching in synchronization as the world outside the bed curtains ceased to exist.

Suddenly, at the peak of the friction, Aerion’s composure shattered. He surged upward as much as his broken body would allow, his arms wrapping around you in a crushing embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling with a vulnerability that was far more terrifying than his rage had ever been.

"Promise me," he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin. "Promise you won't leave me. Promise you will stay forever."

You gasped, the crushing weight of his plea hanging in the stagnant air. For a heartbeat, the Brightflame was gone, leaving only a broken man terrified of the very darkness he had spent a lifetime creating. You felt the cold iron chain of the anchor, coiling around your throat, dragging you down into the lightless depths of Aerion’s unstable soul.

You squeezed your eyes shut. "I promise."

You lied.

You knew, even as the sound left your lips, that you were tethering yourself to a monster who would eventually consume everything you were if you stayed. But in the heat of his embrace, with his heart drumming against yours, it was the only mercy you had left to give.

< part IV ends >

a/n note: baelor lives.... because i've decided we deserve nice things.

taglist. @13-09-01 @marianntorres2611 @satrryeys4eva @zaina96 @alexiaangelkisses @sugurise @pinkcanbepunk @dabishou @cyypress @madisban @thunderhawk727 @booblikerlhc @ladyhesperus @lanaimoney @no-one-noticed @feyres-fireheart @heavengirls111 @ladyhesperus @cutecupcakesm @faerrye @sinistralidocious @pinkraindropsfell @hermaeusmorax @white-olive @ohsunnyhoney @fxiryeon @embluesky @radiantdanvers @corbhn @selmge @cathyy222 @cowgurlatheart @lovingaphroditesworld @virginslut08 @cupidzslvt @vavafaure1994 @misshoneypaper @qardasngan @futuristicdragonprincess @spencerreidgirlfriend @fodenswhore @reggiesmoon @menacing-pfeffernusse @katherinepetrovawife @oh-miniso @gomen-tsukk1 @leyluna07 @solaceey @azkaybann @httpssorry

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

Will it js end in chp 5? Or will u continue to more chps love ur work <33

Final part (pt 5) is already fully mapped out in my brain lol 🤭 As for a sequel to TCP… never say never i guess? It all depends on where the creative juices take me next!

Read The Cruel Prince here!

[candyeager]

Part four of our cruel princeeeeee 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

...is coming veryyy soon!!!

Read The Cruel Prince here!

[candyeager]

your writing has me hooked, also AOT fan? 🙏🏻

I was a total sucker for eren, but his season 4 era had me so stressed 😔 like eren honey please… what are we even doing?

[candyeager]

https://www.tumblr.com/candyeager/809345835217387520/tempted-to-start-a-daeron-fic-after-watching-that?source=share

I'd kiss you for writing a Daeron fic. ❤🙏🏻

I’ve been on a total hopeless romantic playlist kick lately and it’s giving me so much Daeron inspo. I don’t know why i associate him with that kind of man but it just fits??

[candyeager]

Are you still going to continue Bonten’s numbers 2?

Yes!! I was just rereading my old chapters and realized how much i missed writing sanzu. He’s so complicated and messy, which is exactly my type for fictional men lol. It’s gonna take some time, but i’m definitely bringing BNT back!

[candyeager]

BONTEN'S NUMBER TWO

Sanzu Haruchiyo x fem!reader

in which your heartbreak over Mikey pulls you into the dangerous and irresistible orbit of Bonten's Number Two, Haruchiyo Sanzu.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, graphic violence, substance abuse, explicit sexual content, toxic & manipulative relationships, depression & self-destructive behaviour, strong language.

tags. female reader insert, bonten au, tsundere!sanzu, ex-boyfriend!mikey, angst with a happy ending, slow burn, heavy pining & yearning.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

PART I : he is melancholy.

PART II : he is—an abyss.

PART III : the face of love's rage.

SPECIAL PART : i yearn. i am sick.

PART IV

notes. gif banner creds here, moodboard creds here, divider creds @/saradika-graphics

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

Just checking… is the tokrev fandom still alive? Asking for a friend (and by friend, i mean my angsty fic about a loyal mad dog called BNT) 🫣

[candyeager]

THE CRUEL PRINCE. part III

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

divider creds. @/feimingo

PART III. 4.1k words | masterlist

The morning of the departure was a chaotic affair. You stood amidst the swirl of the Targaryen host, a pale specter caught in a tide of blackened steel and crimson silk. Around you, the rasp of squires scouring plates of armor competed with the shrieks of restless horses echoing into the gray sky. High above the din, the great banners of the three-headed dragon snapped violently, their heavy silk cracking against the wind like a whip across the heavens.

The court was departing for the Ashford tourney; a journey you had been coerced into by a man who seemed to find your misery to be his most exquisite form of entertainment.

You saw him then. Aerion walked across the gravel toward his warhorse, looking every bit the nightmare you were bound to. He was draped in a heavy cloak of red and black, the deep colors sharpening the aristocratic lines of his face. With his sword at his hip and his silver-gold hair catching the pale morning light, he was a vision of Targaryen beauty, as radiant and as pitiless as a winter sun.

It felt like a betrayal of the gods that such a face was merely a mask for the madness that drove him.

As if sensing your gaze, Aerion turned his head. That familiar, devastating smirk tugged at his lips as his violet eyes locked onto yours, pinning you in place even from across the distance of the yard.

You immediately looked away, pretending to be deeply occupied with the cinch of your horse’s saddle as he detoured from his horse to approach you. The crunch of his boots on the stone felt like a countdown.

"Do you need assistance finding your way onto the beast?" he asked as he reached your side. The question dripping with the implication that you were as incompetent at mounting a horse as you were at everything else. "I should hate for you to tumble off before we even leave the gates."

"I know how to ride a horse," you snapped, the fire in your gut overriding your caution for one reckless second, before you quickly added, "My Prince."

Aerion’s smirk only deepened. He leaned in closer, his voice a low rasp that only you could hear.

"Better than you can ride a man, I hope."

Your eyes went wide at the sheer crudeness of his remark. Humiliation flooded your cheeks, a traitorous crimson that burned all the more because you knew exactly what he was mocking. He was dragging the failure of your wedding night into the open air, stripping you bare in front of the court who saw only a prince speaking to his lady.

Before he could say another word, you gripped the pommel and hoisted yourself into the saddle aggressively. You stared fixedly between your horse’s ears, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of your gaze. Still, you couldn’t ignore the weight of his attention. The way his eyes rake unashamedly over your leather-clad thighs, watching the way the fabric pulled taut as you adjusted your stirrups. He studied you with a clinical appreciation that made you feel more like a prized hound than a princess.

The journey began, and Aerion took his place at the vanguard. He rode several lengths ahead with the other Princes of the Blood, his posture arrogant as he sat laid-back in the saddle. Even from behind, he radiated a terrifying authority, his red cloak snapping in the wind like a drop of blood against the dusty road.

"He does have a way of occupying the horizon, doesn't he?"

The voice startled you. You turned to find Daeron pulling his horse up alongside yours. He looked worse for wear, his face pale and his eyes clouded with the lingering fog of a heavy hangover.

"Prince Daeron," you breathed, adjusting your reins. "Should you not be at the front with the others? I imagined the princes would want to ride together."

Daeron offered a lazy shrug, his gaze drifting toward the glittering vanguard where his brothers rode. "I thought I’d join my sister instead." He glanced at you then, a flicker of genuine kindness breaking through his bleary-eyed haze. "You look like you could use the company."

He then sighed. "I can’t say I feel as enthusiastic as them about this tourney. All that clashing steel and posturing... it's exhausting. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Better than most," you agreed.

Daeron’s brow furrowed. "To be honest, I didn't expect to see you here at all. After the river... I thought you’d be content to stay in Summerhall for at least a moon."

"I was not given much of a choice," you replied bitterly, looking back at the silhouette of your husband at the front line. "Aerion made it quite clear that my presence was required."

Daeron shifted in his saddle, his eyes following yours to where the sun glinted off Aerion's polished armor. A weary, knowing smile touched his lips, the look of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating his brother’s storms.

"Ah. Well, perhaps the Brightflame has a heart after all," Daeron remarked. "It seems my little brother simply couldn't resist a week without having his lady wife where he can see her."

The words were meant to be a jest, but they sat like lead in your stomach. You knew it wasn't affection that drove Aerion to keep you close. It was the same territorial need for control that dictated every breath you took in his presence. You were not a wife to be cherished; you were a possession to be monitored, kept close simply because you were his.

The dusty road eventually gave way to the sprawling green meadows of Ashford. As the distant colorful peaks of the tourney tents began to rise against the horizon, Daeron offered you a final, weary nod before he spurred his horse forward.

Left alone, you felt the heavy weight of your duty. You kicked your horse into a swifter gait, weaving through the lines of squires and baggage wains until you reached your husband’s side. You were the Princess, and as you neared the gates, protocol demanded you ride at his shoulder, regardless of the bile that rose in your throat at the sight of him.

Aerion didn’t turn his head as you pulled up beside him. His posture hadn't shifted an inch, but you could feel the sudden change in the air, the way his attention snapped toward you without him needing to move a muscle.

"Enjoyed your journey, wife?" he asked. "You seemed rather well-occupied."

The implication hung in the air. You studied his profile, noting the rigid set of his jaw and the way his gloved hand gripped the reins just a fraction too tight. The air around him felt heavy, charged with that volatile mix of arrogance and simmering rage you had come to know all too well.

He was jealous.

"The company was pleasant enough, my Prince," you replied, keeping your voice steady despite the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

The sound of trumpets cut through the air as you reached the heart of the encampment. The royal herald’s voice boomed across the grounds, announcing the arrival of Prince Aerion of House Targaryen.

Aerion didn't wait for the fanfare to finish. He spurred his warhorse forward, and you followed in his wake, your horse trailing behind him. Both horses trudged to a halt before the royal pavilion. With effortless grace, Aerion dismounted before his squire could even reach for the bridle. He landed firmly on the grass, his heavy cloak billowing behind him like a dark cloud before settling against his heels.

A squire rushed forward, eager to assist you before the Prince could find a reason to be displeased. You accepted the boy's hand, stepping down from the saddle, but your legs were stiff from the long hours of travel. You landed a little clumsily, your boots catching in the grass for a brief, undignified second before you regained your footing.

You didn't dare look at Aerion, though you felt the prickle of his judgment on the back of your neck as he turned to enter the pavilion without a word.

The evening transitioned into a blur of gold as you were ushered into the grand tent. You found yourself seated at the long high table, flanked by the Targaryen princes and the Ashford lords. The air inside was thick with the scent of roasted meats, expensive oils, and the sweat of men who lived for the sword.

Below the dais, the tent was a riot of noise and motion. Hundreds of knights were gathered at their own tables, eating with a savage hunger and chattering so loudly the sound vibrated in your chest. Some had already abandoned their meals to dance joyfully to the strumming of lutes, their shadows leaping against the silk walls of the tent.

Your focus, however, was not on the dancers or the platters of honeyed swan. You were busy worrying, your gaze flickering repeatedly to the empty chair at your side.

Aerion had been there at the start, his presence a cold weight that seemed to suck the air out of your lungs. He had leaned close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he muttered about how "tedious" the hosts were and how boring he found the sniveling knights below. Then, with a flicker of predatory boredom in his violet eyes, he had simply stood up and vanished into the shadows of the tent.

He had been gone for far too long.

The seat beside you remained a glaring void. In his absence, the luxury of the tent felt thinner, more fragile. You knew Aerion didn't simply leave to rest; he left to find trouble, or to create it. Every time a roar of laughter erupted from the lower tables, your heart skipped a beat, fearing it was the sound of a confrontation he had ignited.

While the other princes were deeply embroiled in a conversation with the Ashford hosts—their voices rising in a boisterous debate over the morrow's lists—you saw your chance. You retreated quietly, slipping away from the high table with a ghost-like grace. No one seemed to notice you slipping through the silken folds of the exit.

Once outside, the cool night air hit your skin, but it brought no relief. You moved toward your husband’s personal knight, a man who stood like a stone sentinel in the flickering torchlight.

"Bring me to him," you said.

The knight offered no word of protest, only a curt nod before he began to walk. He led you away from the splendor of the royal pavilions, venturing deep into the outskirts of the encampment. It was a long walk, the grass beneath your feet becoming muddied and uneven as the luxury of the nobility faded behind you.

Eventually, you reached a cluster of smaller tents where the smell of cheap ale and unwashed bodies replaced the scent of roasted swan. This was the territory of the commoners and low-born spectators.

As you moved through the narrow gaps between tents, you felt the weight of a hundred eyes. You were a stark contrast to the gloom, draped in the unmistakable crimson and black of House Targaryen. The looks you received were a dizzying blur; some were wide-eyed with curiosity, others were surprisingly warm, but many were cold with a simmering resentment for the crown. You clutched your cloak tighter.

Why had Aerion come here? A Prince of the Blood had no business in the dirt with the smallfolk unless he was looking for something to break.

The heavy silence of the camp was suddenly shattered by a piercing scream that tore through the night. You watched in alarm as a handful of people scrambled out of a nearby tent, their faces pale and their eyes wide with a frantic need to be anywhere else.

Ignoring the warning instinct screaming in your mind, you ran. You shoved past the fleeing crowd and burst through the tent flap.

The scene inside was a nightmare bathed in flickering torchlight. A young man was being held down on a rough wooden platform by two of your husband’s guards, his face bloodied and his body racked with tremors. And standing over him, watching with the detached curiosity of a boy pulling wings off a fly, was Aerion.

His back was toward you, the dark velvet of his cloak looking like a dried wound in the dim light. He did not turn when you entered, too focused on the grim work at hand.

"Open," Aerion commanded.

The guards forced the man's jaw open, pressing his face against the edge of the platform. You realized with a sickening horror what was happening. He was going to have the man’s teeth smashed out against the wood, for some perceived slight that likely didn't warrant a scratch, let alone this.

"Stop!" you cried, your voice ringing with a desperate authority as you rushed toward them.

The guards froze, their eyes flickering toward you with an uncertain dread. They knew your rank, but they knew Aerion’s temper better. You shoved into the circle of violence, your heart hammering a frantically against your ribs.

Aerion finally turned. "You do not command my hounds, wife."

You ignored his dismissal and stepped into his space. "If there is a single spark of mercy left in your soul," you choked out. "Stop this."

Aerion let out a short snort of derision. "Mercy?" He leaned down, his breath warm against your cheek. "I am not some mewling lordling bound by petty mercies of men. The blood in my veins is the fire that forged the world. I am the Brightflame. A dragon in human skin."

You stared into those haunting, violet depths, and a cold stone of realization settled in your gut, heavier than lead.

He wasn’t posturing. There was no performance for the court, no mask of intimidation. He truly believed it. In his mind, he had already ascended, leaving humanity behind.

That perceived godhood radiated from him in waves. Inside the tent, the air was suffocating, thick with the copper tang of blood and the unnatural heat pouring off Aerion’s skin. You didn't know what emboldened you. Perhaps it was the desperate delusion Daeron had fed you on the road—the whispered hope that the Brightflame might possess a flickering heart—or perhaps you simply needed to believe that the man you were bound to wasn't entirely lost to the madness.

"Then show me the mercy of a god, not the cruelty of a monster," you whispered, your voice trembling as you leaned closer. "If you hold even a shadow of regard for your wife, then spare him. For me."

The effect was instantaneous. Aerion’s eyes widened, the manic fire in them faltered as if doused by cold water. He looked at you in confusion, his brow furrowing as if you had spoken in a language he had long ago forgotten.

For a heartbeat, you thought you had won. You thought you saw a glimpse of the man behind the madness, someone who might actually listen and admit he cared.

But the hope was a trap.

In a movement so swift and precise you didn't even see it coming, Aerion’s hand moved. It wasn't a strike meant to harm or mar your face, but a calculated blow to a nerve. A cold, tactical strike designed to render you unconscious.

The world tilted violently. Your knees buckled, your strength vanishing like smoke in a gale. As you began to limp toward the muddy floor, Aerion’s arms snapped around you, catching you before you could hit the dirt. He hauled you against his chest, his cloak wrapping around you like a shroud.

As the darkness rushed in to claim you, his voice drifted into your fading consciousness.

"My silly wife," he muttered. "To think a dragon could be tamed by a plea..."

Everything went black as Aerion lifted you fully into his arms, leaving the poor young man to his fate.

When you finally drifted back to consciousness, it was to the rhythm of a dull, heavy pulsing behind your eyes. Your head throbbed, and a nagging ache had settled into your lower back from the stiffness of your position. You opened your eyes to find yourself in a spacious tent, the air thick with the scent of expensive incense and stale wine. It was a cavern of Targaryen luxury, draped in heavy silks, the floor obscured by a sea of plush rugs and embroidered pillows.

This was the tent you were meant to share with him. The realization made your skin prickle with a renewed sense of confinement. You tried to shift on the bed, but the mattress was extremely uncomfortable.

The heavy flap of the tent was suddenly wrenched aside, letting in a gust of cool night air and the distant, muffled sounds of the camp.

Aerion stepped inside, but the predatory grace he usually carried was gone. He stumbled, his boots catching on the edge of a rug as he staggered toward the center of the tent. He clutched a dark glass bottle in one hand, the neck held loosely between his fingers. For a brief, hopeful second, you thought you saw Daeron—the slouch and the drunken sway were so characteristic of the elder brother—but as the light from the braziers hit him, the short, silver-gold crop of his hair confirmed the truth.

It was Aerion. And he was dangerously, violently drunk.

In the quiet, the memory of his hand striking your neck rushed back with a sickening jolt. The haze cleared, replaced by a fury so sharp it drowned out the pulse in your temples. You stood up abruptly, the movement too fast for your battered senses; the world spun, and you nearly collapsed back onto the bed, but you forced your legs to hold.

"You hit me!" you burst out. "You knocked me out like I was some common criminal! Tell me what happened to that young man, Aerion. Did you kill him?"

Aerion winced, his face contorting into a look of pained irritation. He reached up with his free hand to rub at his temple, looking genuinely pissed and almost hurt, as if the mere sound of your voice was a physical assault on his drunken state.

"Lower your voice," he growled, his words slurring at the edges. "Why do you care so much for a speck of dirt? He is a nobody. You don't know his name, yet you howl for him as if he were your own kin."

"It is because he was innocent!" you snapped, the defiance in your chest burning hotter than the ache in your head.

"Innocent?" Aerion let out a sharp laugh, staggering a step closer. "He shielded a mouthy peasant who dared to belittle the dragon. He stood in the way of my justice. In this world, wife, that is the highest treason."

"It still did not warrant such cruelty!" you countered. "You cannot simply break men because your pride feels—"

"I am the law in this place!" Aerion cut you off, his voice suddenly dropping into a low snarl. He dropped the bottle onto a thick rug with a dull thud and lunged forward, grabbing your wrists. His breath, thick with the scent of expensive wine, fanned across your lips as he hovered just inches away.

"You forget yourself," he hissed. "You dared to command me in front of my steel. You made me look like a fool to be led about by a girl."

Despite the venom dripping from his words, his gaze betrayed the lie. His bloodshot eyes kept flickering to your mouth, his pupils blown wide with a hunger that had nothing to do with rage. It was a look of jagged loathing tangled with a starving desire.

A dangerous, reckless urge flared up inside you. You were tired of being the victim of his whims, the silly wife to be put to sleep when he was bored. You wanted to shatter that arrogance. You wanted to remind him that you weren't some useless ornament, that you had the power to unarm a god. You wanted to find out exactly what happened when the Brightflame met a spark he couldn't control.

So, you didn't pull away. You reached up, grabbed the front of his silk tunic, and pulled him down, pressing your lips hard against his.

The world seemed to stop. Aerion went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat as his eyes widened in a flash of pure shock. For one heartbeat, there was nothing but frantic thrum of his heart against your chest.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The shock vanished, consumed by a starving hunger the moment his lips moved against yours. He surged forward, tilting his head to deepen the kiss with a feral intensity. He tasted of the dark wine he loved so much. Bitter, sweet, and intoxicating. You were quickly robbed of your breath, your senses spinning as he crowded your personal space, his hands tangling in your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you.

The heat of him was overwhelming. You stepped back, back again, until the back of your legs hit the frame of the bed, and you tumbled backward, falling onto the heap of rugs and pillows. You barely managed to catch yourself, your elbows propping you up as you gasped for air.

You looked up, and there he was, towering over you, a silhouette of Targaryen arrogance and unraveled desire. His violet eyes were darker than you had ever seen them, almost black in the dim light of the braziers, and his lips were glossed and reddened from the force of the kiss. He looked restless, his hands twitching at his sides as if he didn't know whether to strangle you or pull you back into his arms.

You knew in that moment you had undone him. You had stripped away the god and found the man, but as your heart hammered against your ribs, you couldn't exactly say you weren't ruined in the process.

< part III ends >

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© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

PLEASE RELEASE PART THREE OF TCP 🥀🥀🥀☹️☹️☹️🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

I hear youuuu! ✍️✍️✍️✍️✍️✍️

[candyeager]

please I'm begging you THE CRUEL PRINCE Please 😭😭😭 When is the next chapter?

Coming so soon!!!! I promise i'm writing it as we speak now😭

[candyeager]

Tempted to start a daeron fic after watching that last akotsk episode…….

[candyeager]

THE CRUEL PRINCE. part I

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

masterlist

PART I. 5.5k words

The dream was always the same: a blur of silver-gold hair and the scent of strong, spiced wine.

In the darkness of the nightmare, Aerion’s face was a masterpiece of Valyrian cruelty. He was eerily handsome, his violet eyes glowing like embers in a dying fire. You felt the suffocating weight of him, and then the sharp throb of pain that made the world tilt. Your lungs seized; you began to hyperventilate, the air in the room turning to ash.

You saw the flicker of genuine irritation cross his beautiful features. It was the look of a man interrupted during a holy ritual.

"Cease that noise," he hissed, his voice a jagged blade against your ear. "It is a singular honor to be touched by the Brightflame. You sound as if you are being put to the rack."

"Forgive me, my Prince," you gasped, your fingers clawing at the expensive silk around you. "I will... I will be silent..."

The pain flared again, and as your breath hitched into a broken sob, his lips curled in unease. He pulled away, the sudden absence of his heat feeling like a slap.

"I have no desire to continue if you are going to make that noise," he grumbled, throwing his head back and cursing under the Seven. "You are… tedious."

The words began to distort, deepening into a low, rumbling roar that sounded like the ground cracking open—

You woke with a violent jolt, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

The morning light was a brutal intrusion, cutting across the massive Targaryen bed. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, but it wasn't the nightmare. It was the air. The chamber was sweltering. It was a thick, stagnant heat that made the fine silk sheets cling to your damp skin.

You shifted, and the movement sent a sharp reminder of the night before through your hips. Turning your head, you saw it: the rusty bloom of blood on the white Myrish lace. The proof of his entry, yet the evidence of a conquest he hadn't bothered to finish.

The last thing you remembered was the cold. After he had climbed out of the bed, cursing your name and your feeble spirit, you had lain there shivering in the darkness, watching the silhouette of him at the sideboard. He had stood there for almost an hour, naked and unashamed, pouring cup after cup of Arbor gold, as if he was alone in the world.

You didn't remember falling asleep. But as you looked toward the hearth, you saw the remains of a fire that must have been a pyre. The iron grate was warped from the intensity of the heat he had stoked before leaving.

He had let you cry. He had called you tedious. He had walked out on your union. But at some point in the dead of night, he had looked at your shivering form and decided that if he wouldn't hold you, the fire would.

A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy oak doors shattered your thoughts. You tried to bolt upright, but a white-hot flash of pain flared in your loins, forcing a gasp from your throat as you sank back into the sweat-soaked pillows.

Before you could call out, a flutter of handmaidens rushed in. Their faces were masks of practiced neutrality, though the heat of the room made them squint. As two servants moved to hoist you up, their hands cool against your feverish skin, you saw a third woman, the eldest, begin to strip the bed efficiently.

"Wait," you rasped, your voice dry from the stifling air. "Why are you taking those?"

The servant didn't look up as she bundled the white Myrish lace, the copper-scented stain of the marriage blood folded into the center. "The Prince’s lord father and the court require the proof, Your Highness. The bedding must be witnessed to confirm the union is consummate."

You watched in numb disbelief as the woman walked away with the evidence of a lie. The servants lowered you into a steaming tub, the water scented with crushed mint and oils meant to soothe the bridal ache. As the heat of the water met the soreness of your body, your mind spiraled.

Could last night truly be called a union?

The memory was a jagged shard: Aerion’s weight, the sudden, intrusive thrust, and then his immediate withdrawal. He hadn't finished. He hadn't found pleasure. He had simply looked at you as if you were a goblet of soured wine and poured himself out of the bed.

You gripped the edge of the porcelain tub until your knuckles turned white. The rumors of the Brightflame had painted him as a monster. A man who delighted in the suffering of others. You had expected a beast who would feed on your pain, a man who would find your agony an aphrodisiac and force himself until his lust was spent.

But Aerion was a different kind of cruel. He was vain.

His rejection stung worse than his entry. He didn't want a victim, but a mirror that reflected his own perceived divinity. By crying, you hadn't just felt pain; you had insulted his ego.

A cold dread settled in your gut. In the House of the Dragon, to be boring was to be disposable. If Aerion grew bored of you, you weren’t just a failed wife; you were a political liability. And Aerion was a volatile man. He could discard you, replace you, or kill you, and the world would simply call it the whim of a dragon.

The gown the maids laced you into felt less like a garment and more like a set of gilded shackles. It was a heavy, blood-red velvet with black silk embroidery. The exact shade of the robe you had seen Aerion wear before. In the mid-morning heat of Summerhall, the fabric was punishing, a sweltering weight that clung to your skin, yet you said nothing. To complain would have been to show the same weakness that had turned his stomach the night before.

You found yourself lingering in the shadowed curve of a stone hallway, pretending to admire the sun-drenched gardens through the arched windows. In reality, your mind was a chaotic mess.

Where was he?

The last image you had of your husband was a silhouette against the firelight, pouring wine while you slept. You had sent a maid to find him, not out of wifely devotion, but out of survival. If you stumbled into Prince Maekar, his father, or the impeccably honorable Prince Baelor, what were you to say? “My husband found my pain boring and left me before the sun rose”?

The danger in this house never came for Aerion; he was the storm, the wildfire, the source of the rot. The danger was entirely yours alone.

"Good-sister? You look as though you are a thousand leagues away."

The voice was warm, steady, and entirely unexpected. You jumped, your heart leaping into your throat, and your hand flew to the heavy velvet at your chest.

Standing there was Prince Baelor. He looked at you with a kind gaze that felt entirely out of place in this den of dragons.

"Forgive me," he said, offering a slight, courtly bow. "I did not mean to startle you. I trust the morning finds you... well?"

The question was a trap of politeness. He was looking for the glow of a new bride, but all you had was the memory of an oven-hot room and the dried blood of a half-finished night.

You forced a brittle smile, your voice steady despite the way the heavy velvet of your gown seemed to be suffocating you.

"I am well, my Prince," you lied, the words tasting like copper. "The morning is... peaceful."

Baelor smiled, though his eyes, which seemed far more observant than Aerion’s, searched your face. He began to speak of the festivities planned for the morrow, a social gathering where the lords and ladies of the court would expect to pay their respects.

"I should very much like for you to be there," Baelor said, his tone turning light, almost teasing. "And do see to it that you bring that stubborn nephew of mine. The people are eager to see the new couple, and Aerion has never been one to shy away from an audience."

At the mention of your husband’s name, your mask must have slipped. Perhaps your breath hitched, or perhaps the sheer exhaustion of the night finally bled into your expression. Baelor’s smile faltered. He took a half-step closer, his voice dropping to a murmur.

"Has he been treating you well? My nephew is... a difficult man, even on his best days."

"He has been everything a prince should be," you answered, the irony nearly choking you.

Just as Baelor opened his mouth again, the maid you had sent earlier hurried down the hall. The girl was out of breath, her face pale, and she skidded to a halt before you. She glanced at Baelor, her eyes wide with hesitation, then looked back at you.

"Go on," you assured, your heart beginning to thud. "Did you see him?"

The girl swallowed hard, her voice a trembling whisper that carried far too clearly in the quiet corridor. "He... he was sighted at the mews, m’lady. And then... they say he was seen entering a house of ill-repute in the town. He has been there since dawn."

The world seemed to go very still.

It wasn't heartbreak; you didn't love Aerion enough for his infidelity to break you. It was the sheer, staggering humiliation. To be left in a bed of blood and sweat, abandoned in a room he had turned into a furnace, only for him to seek out a common whore before the sun had even fully risen? It was a public declaration of your inadequacy. It was his way of telling the world and his family that his new wife was so "tedious" he required professional entertainment to wash away the boredom of her.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at Baelor. You knew the pity that would be etched into his face, the judgment of a man who actually understood the meaning of honor.

The sunken feeling in your gut curdled into a poisonous rage as you realised he had just branded you a failure in front of the entire Seven Kingdoms.

The rest of the day was a long blurring exercise in avoidance. You moved through the shadows of Summerhall like a ghost, dodging the sympathetic gaze of Prince Baelor and the judgmental eyes of the court. Every whisper in the corridors felt like a serrated edge against your skin, every muffled laugh reminding you where your husband had spent his morning.

You were the bride of the Brightflame, a title that should have commanded terror and awe. Instead, after only a single day, you felt like a discarded trinket.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting shadows across the stone floors, you finally retreated to the bedchamber. You sat at the foot of the massive bed. His bed. Now, by law and by blood, it was yours and his.

What had you truly expected? You had arrived at Summerhall less than a week ago, but the stories had reached your ears long before that. They spoke of a prince who saw himself as a god among men, a man whose vanity was eclipsed only by his cruelty.

You let out a shaky sigh as the dread began to coil in your stomach again. If he returned tonight—and a part of you prayed to the Crone that he would stay in his brothels until dawn—he might decide to finish what he started. Your mind raced, replaying the agony of the previous night. You bit your lip, reminding yourself of the whispers of older women: the first time is for the man, the rest are for the wife. It was supposed to get easier. It had to.

You steeled your heart, clenching your fists in the thick fabric of your skirts. You couldn't cry tonight. No matter how much it hurt, you had to remain silent. You had to be the bride he wanted.

If Aerion deemed you useless, if he decided on a whim to nullify the marriage because you were too "tedious" to bed, the political fallout would crush your family. The Targaryens needed this alliance to steady the realm, and your father needed the crown's favor to keep his lands. You were the bridge between two powers, yet you could feel the stones crumbling beneath your feet.

Suddenly, the heavy latch of the door clicked. The sound echoed like a smith's hammer in the silent room. You sat frozen at the foot of the bed, your heart performing a traitorous skip at the sight of him. No matter how many times you braced yourself, Aerion’s beauty remained a violent assault on the senses. The spun-silver of his hair, the aristocratic lines of a face that belonged on a coin. But as the firelight caught him, the breath died in your throat.

His lip was split, a jagged crimson against his pale skin, and a deep cut at the corner of his mouth was still sluggishly weeping blood.

The anger that had been simmering in your gut for hours was momentarily eclipsed by an involuntary jolt of concern. You rose to your feet before you could stop yourself, your heart leaping into your throat.

Aerion paused, his violet eyes narrowing as they landed on you. He looked at you with a slow, dawning realization, as if he had truly forgotten that a wife was waiting for him within these four walls.

"Ah," he murmured. "You are still here."

He didn't wait for a response. He began to saunter across the room, his movements fluid despite the obvious signs of a brawl. He tugged at his leather gloves, tossing them onto a side table with a careless flick of his wrist before reaching for the fastenings of his heavy robe.

"Aerion, what happened?" The name slipped past your lips unbidden. You didn't think of him as a prince in that moment, only as a man who was bleeding in your presence.

He paused, his back to you, his shoulders tensing under his tunic. He turned his head just enough for you to see the sneer curling the uninjured side of his mouth. "You will address me by my title, wife. I did not give you leave to use my name as if we were commoners in a hayloft."

You ignored the bite in his tone, despite the instinct screaming at you to stay back. "Your mouth is ruined. You need to tend to it, or the wound will fester. It looks deep."

You didn't realize how frantic you sounded, or how strange it was to be fretting over a man who had treated you like a nuisance only hours before. Perhaps he was a monster, but that made him your monster, and the sight of him damaged felt like a crack in the world's foundation.

Aerion turned fully now, his eyes darkening with a flare of genuine pique. He opened his mouth to likely bark another retort, but he stopped when he caught the look in your eyes. The genuine, wide-eyed worry that you couldn't quite mask.

A dark smile spread across his face, one that didn't reach his eyes. He probably saw your concern as a weakness to be exploited. He dropped into the chair by the hearth, leaning his head back and exposing his throat.

"Fine," he said. "Since you are so eager to play the healer, make yourself useful. Tend to it."

His mocking tone set your teeth on edge, but you clamped your jaw shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another outburst. You moved across the room stiffly, retrieving the small wooden chest of ointments and linens you had seen the servants use earlier that morning.

You pulled a low stool directly in front of his chair, invading his personal space with a clinical necessity. As you sat, your knees nearly brushing his, you dipped a clean cloth into a soothing wash and began to carefully dab away the dried crimson from his chin.

Close up, the cut was even deeper than you’d realized, a jagged tear in his perfect skin. You couldn't help but frown. You wanted to demand how he had gotten it. What brawl in what gods-forsaken alleyway had led to this, but you knew the game. He would only weaponize your concern against you.

So, you stayed silent. You focused entirely on the wound, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze. His violet eyes were fixed on your face, tracking the movement of your lips, the furrow of your brow. It took every ounce of your resolve to keep your eyes on the task and not meet that predatory stare.

"Look at you," Aerion suddenly drawled. "Such a doting bride you’ve become overnight. Does it please you to touch your master, little bird?"

The mention of his "doting bride" snapped something inside you. The memory of the servant’s whisper—sighted at a house of ill-repute—flashed in your mind. The genuine concern you had felt moments ago curdled, replaced by bitterness.

You pressed the cloth a little firmer against the wound than was strictly necessary, causing his eyes to narrow.

"I am merely ensuring you are presentable, my Prince," you said, making sure to lace his title with a frost that matched the ice in your veins. You finally flicked your gaze up to his, meeting the fire in his eyes with a flat look of your own. "Prince Baelor reminded me today that the court expects your presence at tomorrow’s event. It would be... unsightly... for the Brightflame to appear with a common brawler’s mark on his face."

The name Baelor acted like a douse of cold water on his vanity. Aerion’s face instantly contorted, his lip curling back in a snarl that reopened the very wound you were trying to close.

"Baelor," Aerion spat, the name curdling like sour milk in his mouth. He leaned back, a dark huff of annoyance escaping his chest. "He thinks he can manage me like a restive stallion. They all do. They think the Dragon can be tethered by schedules and social niceties."

You offered no reply. You were tired of his grandstanding and his ego. You reached for a small vial of pungent, stinging spirits, the kind the Maesters used to cauterize infection before it took hold. You soaked a fresh linen and, without warning, pressed it firmly against the split in his lip.

Aerion jerked, a sharp hiss of air escaping through his teeth as he recoiled. "Seven hells, woman! What is that? Are you trying to finish what the cudgel started?"

You met his outraged glare with a blank look that masked the trembling in your knees. "It is necessary, my Prince. Unless you wish for your face to swell and fester by dawn?"

He clicked his tongue in a sharp show of irritation, but he didn't pull away again. He sat there, simmering, his brow furrowed in a deep frown as you continued your work.

The silence that followed was heavy. You became lost in the task, focusing on the jagged line of the cut. Still, you were hyper-aware of the way his chest rose and fell, and the way the firelight caught the silver threads of his hair.

When you finally finished, you pulled back to inspect your work. That was when you made the mistake of looking up.

You met his eyes, and the air seemed to vanish from the room. He hadn't been looking at the fire or the walls; he had been studying you.

Suddenly, the space between you felt electric. The "tedium" he had complained of last night was gone, replaced by a suffocating pull of a man who knew he terrified you and found it intoxicating. Your heart hammered against your ribs, and your breathing grew heavy, betraying you. You hated him, you feared him, yet in the sweltering heat of the room, your body seemed to lean toward him of its own accord.

Aerion didn't move away. He slowly, agonizingly, inched his face closer to yours. You could smell the wine, the iron of his blood, and the scent of stale smoke on his skin. It was a repulsive mixture, yet you were paralyzed all the same.

His violet gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily. He was so close that his wounded lip was almost brushing yours. You half-expected him to take you right there, to replace the memory of the night before with something equally violent but final.

But just as the tip of his nose grazed yours, his lips curled into that familiar, devastating smirk.

He retreated abruptly, the tension snapping like a frayed cord. He stood up in one fluid motion, towering over you as the heat of his presence vanished.

"Better," he drawled, his voice restored to its arrogant pitch. "At least you are good for something other than weeping."

The humiliation hit you like a physical blow. You sat there on the stool, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, while he turned his back to you and began to unlace his tunic, completely indifferent to your existence.

The banquet hall was a sea of shimmering silk and clattering gold, but the air felt thin, as if the Targaryen presence alone consumed all the oxygen. You sat stiffly in your chair, the heavy velvet of your gown a stifling reminder of your new station. Beside you, Aerion was a study in brooding elegance. In his dark red velvet, he looked every bit the prince of the blood.

To a stranger, he might have looked like a solemn lord deep in thought. You knew better. You watched the way his jaw remained tight and how his fingers drummed a restless, erratic rhythm against the table. Aerion was bored.

The warnings you had received before arriving at Summerhall echoed in your mind: A bored Targayen is a dangerous one. When the Brightflame lacked amusement, he became a predator searching for a spark to ignite.

One by one, noblemen stepped forward to present gifts for the new union. They offered finely balanced daggers and ornate shields to Aerion, and rare silks to you.

"May these silks find their way into a gown that matches your radiance, Princess," one lord remarked, bowing low.

You felt Aerion’s head turn slightly toward you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the smirk. The one that always felt like a private joke at your expense. Surely, this wasn't a look of pride in his wife. No, you knew that look: it was the look of a man admiring a well-dressed hound.

The atmosphere shifted when a minor lord from the Reach stepped forward. He was older, perhaps too emboldened by the wine, and his congratulations took a turn into the intimate.

"A fine match, truly," the lord boomed. "We all look forward to the fruit of this union. A house is only as strong as its legacy, and a son of the Brightflame would be a terror to the realm's enemies."

The table fell into an expectant silence. You felt a cold weight sink into your stomach as every eye in the hall drifted to you, searching your face for the first sign of a royal heir.

You thought of the dried blood on the sheets and the cold rejection of the night before, and your face burned with a shame they couldn't possibly understand.

Beside you, Aerion went perfectly still. He didn't look at you. He looked down at the nobleman, his violet eyes darkening until they looked like bruised plums.

"A son," Aerion repeated.

"Indeed, my Prince!" the lord laughed nervously, unaware of the precipice he was standing on. "It should not be long now, with a bride so fair—"

"You dare?"

The words cut through the hall like a whip. Aerion leaned forward, his face contorting into a mask of unadulterated rage.

"You dare stand in my hall and command me when to father a child?" Aerion’s voice rose, vibrating with a volatile energy that made the wine in your glass tremble. "As if the dragon’s blood answers to the whims of a common lordling?"

The lord’s face drained of color, his mouth hanging open in shock. The entire hall froze. It was a reaction so disproportionate, so violently uncalled for, that it felt as though the air itself had caught fire.

"Scourge him," Aerion commanded, as he pointed at the trembling lord. "Let his back bleed for every word that crossed his wretched tongue."

You looked toward the high table in a panic. Prince Baelor had his face buried in his hand, a gesture of profound exhaustion, while Prince Maekar looked at his son in utter disbelief.

"What is this nonsense you are spitting now, Son?" Maekar’s voice boomed. "The man offered a blessing, nothing more."

"He offered an insult," Aerion snapped, his eyes flashing with wildfire light as he turned on his father. "I do not like being disrespected in my own hall. Nor do I care for commoners counting the moons of my wife's blood."

Maekar’s lip curled in a sneer of pure frustration. "If you have no stomach to father a child, then so be it. If the girl does not inspire the blood of the dragon in you, we shall find another use for the match. But stop this theater."

The words struck you. If the girl does not inspire the blood.

The insinuation hung in the air, toxic and heavy. Maekar wasn't just blaming Aerion; he was suggesting that you were the failure. You were the inadequate bride, the woman so "tedious" or plain that a prince of the blood couldn't even bring himself to bed her. You felt the eyes of the other lords and ladies turn toward you. Some weary, some pitying, all confirming your worst fears.

Behind you, Aerion was still barking orders at the guards, his voice a distant roar over the ringing in your ears. The humiliation of the morning, the heat of the night before, and the shame of this public rejection converged into a single blinding point of pain.

You had reached your limit. You didn't care about the political fallout. You didn't care about the King’s peace. You didn't even care if Aerion dragged you back by your hair.

You stood up abruptly, the heavy screech of your chair cutting through Aerion’s tirade. Every head in the hall snapped toward you. Without a word, without a bow, and without looking at the monster you had married, you turned and walked off the dais.

The velvet of your gown felt like a leaden shroud as you strode toward the exit. You knew that walking out on the royal family was a crime that could be met with a cell or worse, but as you pushed through the heavy doors and into the dark night, you realized you were too far gone to care anymore.

The cool night air hit your skin like a mercy, but it couldn't reach the feverish hum of humiliation beneath your ribs. You stumbled toward the edge of a stone fountain in a secluded corner of the gardens, the scent of night-blooming jasmine cloying and thick. You waited for the sound of iron, for the guards to come and drag you back to face Aerion’s wrath, or perhaps for the Prince himself to find you and make you pay for your public defiance.

Instead, the sound that reached you was the uneven, heavy crunch of boots on gravel.

You spun around, only to see Prince Daeron swaying slightly as he approached. In the moonlight, his silver-gold hair made him look like a ghost of his younger brother, but the resemblance ended there. His eyes were bleary, and his posture lacked the predatory tension that defined Aerion.

He pulled a small, dark flagon from the pocket of his tunic and offered a lopsided smile. "Do you mind? It’s far too loud in there, and the wine is better out here where I don't have to watch my father’s face turn purple."

You nodded silently, shifting to give him space on the stone bench. You felt a heavy weight in your chest; you were the catalyst for that noise, the bride who had broken the royal protocol.

As Daeron sat, the smell of sour wine and old sweat followed him. He was the Drunkard Prince, Aerion’s elder brother. The one who preferred to hide in a bottle rather than play the games of the dragon. You studied his profile, marveling at how two men born of the same blood could be so jarringly different. Daeron was soft, gentle in a way that felt like a bruised fruit; Aerion was a jagged piece of obsidian, beautiful and meant to cut.

"Did he hurt you?" Daeron asked suddenly.

You pursed your lips, the question echoing Prince Baelor’s from the day before. It seemed to be the only thing anyone ever asked about the wife of the Brightflame. Did he hurt you?

You thought of the wedding night. Aside from the singular violation of your virginity, Aerion hadn't laid a violent hand on you. When you had sobbed in agony, he hadn't forced you. He hadn't been the beastly rapist you had feared; he had simply been... revolted.

"No, my Lord," you whispered, the words brittle and hollow.

You and Daeron lapsed into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the wet sound of him swallowing more wine. The garden air was cool, but it couldn't wash away the stagnant heat of the banquet hall that still seemed to cling to your skin.

Daeron let out a long, ragged sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He fought it, you know. My brother. He was quite nearly feral when Father first spoke of an arranged match. He raved about dragons and purity, about how no mortal line was fit to mix with his." He gave a humorless chuckle. "It got so bad they were ready to foist the duty onto me. They almost made me the one to stand at that altar with you, Sister."

The statement hit you like a physical weight, making your chest ache with a fresh wave of inadequacy. You felt sunken, a pawn that neither brother truly wanted, a burden that had been tossed back and forth between a drunkard and a madman. You looked down at your hands, the red velvet of your skirts looking like a pool of blood in the moonlight.

Suddenly, Daeron turned his head, his bleary eyes catching yours with a strange lucidity.

"But then he saw you," Daeron murmured. "The moment Aerion laid eyes on you when you arrived at the gates... he changed. He became strangely obedient. He stopped his raving and simply... agreed."

You nearly laughed aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. The idea of the Brightflame being obedient or moved by a single glance was a fairytale that didn't fit the man who had called you “tedious” and left you alone on your wedding night. You didn't believe a word of it. In your mind, Aerion had simply found a new toy to break, a new audience for his vanity.

You remained silent as Daeron continued to ramble, his voice growing thicker as the wine took hold. You realized he was trying to make you sympathize with a brother he likely feared as much as he loved.

And yet, despite the scars of the last three days, a small, treacherous part of you felt a flicker of something. Not quite sympathy, but perhaps a devastating curiosity. You knew Aerion was a monster, a volatile storm of ego and cruelty that you should never pity. Your instincts screamed at you to run and keep your heart behind iron bars. But as you sat there in the dark, you couldn't help but wonder if the fire he had built in your room that first night hadn't been an act of cruelty, but the only way he knew how to say he was watching you.

< part I ends >

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.

[candyeager]

THE CRUEL PRINCE

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

married to the most volatile man in the Seven Kingdoms, you have committed the ultimate sin: being too human for a dragon’s blood. now, you must find a way to be useful to the cruel prince, or risk a war that will leave the kingdom in ashes.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V

© CANDYEAGER. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works in any other platforms.