summary: as the narrow sea calls, memories surface, two years of survival, silence, and carefully measured closeness. you were never meant to love him, only endure him. endurance, it turns out, has a limit.
warnings: aerion being aerion, emotional abuse, toxic marriage, implied violence, unhealthy power dynamics
𓂃۶ৎ:¨ ·.· ¨·˚⟡˖ `· . 𐙚 ˚⟡˖ ࣪. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ·.· ¨·˚⟡˖ `· . 𐙚 ˚⟡ 𓂃۶ৎ
Your mind had been made up long before you ever said the words aloud.
You would escape across the Narrow Sea and never be seen again.
The thought had first taken root two years ago, the night before your wedding to Aerion Targaryen. You remembered sitting alone in your chambers, your hands folded in your lap, listening to the distant sounds of celebration echo through the halls. You had tried to tell yourself that duty was enough, that obedience was survival, that this was simply the fate of women like you.
But you had never wanted to leave your home. Never wanted to be traded like a promise between houses. Never wanted to bind your life to a man whose reputation arrived before he ever did.
The first months of marriage were unbearable.
You learned quickly how to exist beside the angriest man you had ever known. Aerion’s temper was unpredictable, sharp as broken glass. A misplaced word, a breath taken at the wrong time, a look he didn’t like, any of it could set him off. You learned to read his footsteps in the hall, the sound of his armor being removed, the weight of his silence.
You learned when to speak.
You learned when to disappear.
But time has a way of changing even the cruelest arrangements. The anger never left him, but it dulled around the edges. You would never call what grew between you love. Love required care. This was something closer to understanding. A fragile truce. A mutual awareness of boundaries neither of you spoke aloud.
Now you stood before the window, the cold stone pressing against your palms, watching the distant movement of ships in Blackwater Bay. You thought of every moment you and Aerion had shared, the nights that left you shaking, the silences that felt heavier than blows, and the rare, dangerous moments where he looked at you as if you were something other than a burden.
It had been a lonely marriage from the start.
In the beginning, you saw him only at court, at royal events, and at night in your chambers or his. You paid servants discreetly to keep you informed of his moods. Who had angered him that day. Whether his father had scolded him. If someone had humiliated him in council. Anything that might send him seeking release.
Forewarning meant survival.
You understood early on that this life would either break you or harden you. And you refused to be broken.
You became what the court expected: composed, graceful, obedient. You secured the favor of nobles and common folk alike, smiling through whispers and speculation. You protected the image of your marriage fiercely, because you knew the truth, your worth here was not measured by happiness, but by usefulness.
You were meant to soften him. To keep the dragon presentable in public, even if you were burned in private.
To oppose Aerion openly would destroy you. To embarrass him would be worse. He did not forgive defiance. He punished it.
You thought back to one of the first memories you had with Aerion after you were married.
The throne room had been filled with noise that day. Laughter, compliments, the clatter of gifts being presented. Lords and ladies approached one by one, offering blessings that blurred together until they meant nothing.
When the lord of Riverrun stepped forward with his gifts fine armor, carefully crafted weapons, you thanked him with a practiced smile.
“Thank you, my lord. We are grateful for your generosity.”
The silence lingered too long.
The lord straightened, offended, and stepped closer. “His Grace speaks highly of this union,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “The dragon is finally tamed.”
Aerion’s arm slipped free of yours.
You felt it immediately, the tension coiling in his body, the way his breathing changed.
The lord stammered. “That—that isn’t what I meant, my prince—”
The words were quiet. Controlled. Far more dangerous than a shout.
The order was given swiftly. The man was removed from the hall. Aerion returned to your side, his grip firm, his expression unreadable. He did not speak to you for the rest of the day.
You had hoped he would part ways with you outside your chambers. He didn’t.
The silence followed you inside.
Once the door closed, he turned to you. “Did you know?”
You frowned. “Know what?”
He laughed bitterly and began to circle you, slow and deliberate, like a predator growing bored with the chase.
“Do you know who they think you are?”
“They think you were sent to control me.”
He stopped behind you. You stiffened as his presence pressed close.
“I did no such thing,” you said carefully. “I was sent to marry you. Nothing more.”
His hand caught your hair, yanking your head back. Pain flared, sharp and immediate.
“Do not let them believe you were sent to tame me.”
You shoved his hand away and turned to face him, heart pounding.
He stepped closer until your back hit the wall. His fists slammed into the stone beside your head.
“Look at me. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my prince,” you whispered.
He turned for the door, then paused.
“A dragon that is tamed,” he said without looking back, “is slaughtered.”
You never spoke of that night again.
You stared at the sea as another memory came to mind.
You had always hated tourneys.
They were meant to be celebrations, colorful banners, music, laughter, but to you they were only tests. Public ones. Dangerous ones. You had learned early that Aerion’s pride was a volatile thing, easily bruised, and when it cracked, someone always paid the price.
Lord Ashford’s tourney was no different. The stands were crowded with nobles and smallfolk alike, the air thick with dust and anticipation. You sat beside Gwin Ashford, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her excitement genuine as she leaned forward to watch the knights prepare.
You envied her for that. For the ease with which she watched.
When Aerion rode into the arena, the crowd stirred. He looked every bit the dragon they whispered about, black and red armor gleaming beneath the sun, posture rigid, expression unreadable. You clapped when expected, smiled when eyes turned toward you, playing your role flawlessly.
Across the field, Ser Humphrey Hardyng adjusted his grip on his lance. A competent knight. Well-liked. Safe.
Please, you thought, eyes never leaving Aerion. Let this end cleanly.
The first pass came and went, both riders missed. A murmur rippled through the stands.
They turned for the second charge.
You leaned forward without realizing it, fingers tightening around the edge of your seat. Something about Aerion’s posture was wrong. Too low. Too angled.
“He’s aiming too low” you whispered to yourself, dread blooming in your chest.
The horses thundered toward one another.
The impact was sickening. The animal screamed, legs buckling beneath it as it collapsed, throwing Ser Humphrey violently to the ground. Blood sprayed across the sand, dark and immediate.
You recoiled, turning your head away.
The crowd erupted, not in cheers, but outrage. Booing filled the arena. Objects were hurled toward Aerion as the injured knight cried out, clutching his leg, soaked in his horse’s blood.
For a moment, chaos reigned.
The Kingsguard moved swiftly, weapons drawn, forcing the crowd back as Aerion rode out of the arena without a glance behind him. Lord Ashford shouted orders. Maesters rushed to Ser Humphrey.
Lord Ashford later declared it only fair that Ser Humphrey be gifted Aerion’s horse. Reasonable. Merciful.
Aerion did not see it that way.
He raged openly in front of his father, his uncle, the Ashfords, and half the court. His voice cut through the air like a blade, pride wounded far more deeply than any horse.
“You intentionally killed that man’s horse,” his father snapped finally. “Now stop bitching about yours and go to your chambers.”
Before he turned away, he looked at you.
No comfort. No fear. No apology.
Inside, something hardened.
You had spent months crafting an image of unity, of restraint, of dignity, for both of you. And in a single afternoon, he had nearly destroyed it.
You excused yourself minutes later.
You knew better than to announce yourself when his temper was already splintering.
Aerion’s chambers were dim, curtains half-drawn, the smell of sweat and metal heavy in the air. He stood near the table, stripping pieces of his armor off with sharp, impatient movements. One gauntlet hit the wood hard enough to rattle the goblet beside it.
“Took you long enough,” he said without turning.
You closed the door behind you carefully.
“I needed a moment,” you replied. “So did you.”
That made him laugh,a short, humorless sound.
“Oh, spare me,” he snapped, finally turning to face you. “You watched it happen. You saw them turn on me.”
“I saw you provoke it,” you said calmly.
“What I saw,” he shot back, “was a knight who needed reminding of his place.”
“You struck his horse,” you said. “Not him.”
“And?” he challenged, stepping closer. “He still lives, doesn’t he?”
Aerion scoffed and reached for the wine, pouring himself a glass with shaking hands.
“You care far too much about what they think.”
“I care because what they think keeps us alive,” you replied. “It keeps you in favor. It keeps me safe.”
He drank deeply, then slammed the cup down.
“Safe,” he repeated. “You think I endanger you?”
You hesitated,just long enough.
His gaze sharpened immediately.
“You do,” you said. “Every time you lose control.”
Silence fell between you, heavy and dangerous.
“You forget yourself,” he said quietly. “Who you’re speaking to.”
“No,” you answered, voice steady. “I remember exactly.”
He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just short of you. Too close. Always too close.
“I could have any woman in this castle fear me into silence,” he said. “Yet you stand here lecturing me.”
“Because I am the one who pays for it afterward,” you replied. “Not them. Not the crowd. Me.”
“You should have defended me,” he snapped. “In front of my father.”
“I defended you by staying silent,” you said. “By not gasping. By not flinching. By not running when they started booing.”
“You think they would have dared touch you if I’d lost?” he demanded.
“I think,” you said slowly, “that if you had lost today, you would have come looking for someone smaller to punish.”
The words landed like a slap.
He stared at you, stunned, not because they were cruel, but because they were true.
“You scare me,” you interrupted quietly.
Not anger. Not accusation. Just truth.
“I spend every tourney wondering which version of you will come back to me,” you continued. “The prince who won, or the one who needs blood to feel steady again.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
“I am not your enemy,” you said. “But you are making yourself one.”
“You speak as if you’re above me,” he said bitterly.
“No,” you replied. “I speak as someone who refuses to burn for your pride.”
He turned away abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal.
“You think restraint is weakness,” you went on. “But what you did today was not strength. It was dishonor.”
“You sound like my father.”
“And yet,” you said softly, “you listen to neither of us.”
For a moment, you thought he might strike the wall again. Or you.
Instead, his shoulders sagged, just slightly.
“They took my horse,” he muttered. “As if I were some common knight.”
“They took it because you crossed a line,” you said. “And because Lord Ashford chose mercy.”
“No,” you corrected. “It’s a chance. One you don’t often get.”
He looked at you then, really looked, as if seeing you not as an extension of himself, but as something separate.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he said slowly.
“I am,” you replied. “I just refuse to let fear make me obedient.”
Finally, he said, “You should go.”
You inclined your head slightly, not a bow, not submission.
As you turned to leave, his voice followed you, rougher than before.
“No,” you said. “I saved you.”
You left him standing there, alone with the truth, and for the first time, he didn’t follow.
You were pulled from your memories by the distant shouts rising from the streets of King’s Landing. Life went on below your window, vendors calling, children laughing, the clatter of carts on stone,unaware of the war quietly waged within your walls.
Not all of your memories of Aerion were cruel. Some were almost gentle. And that was what made them the hardest to carry.
You remembered the first time you and Aerion shared something that felt intimate. Not passion, not affection, but honesty. It had been fragile, fleeting, and easily broken, yet it lingered in your mind longer than any cruel word he had ever spoken.
You were in the gardens when a servant came to find you
“The maester is searching for you, my princess,” she said. “It’s Prince Aerion.”
You follow her through the castle walls and see the maester.
“Prince Aerion was hurt during training he refuses treatment,” the man said, exasperated. “Would not even let me clean the wounds. I was hoping you—”
“I’ll speak with him,” you said quickly.
You found Aerion seated on the edge of his bed, shirt stained with blood, shoulders tense. He didn’t look up when you entered.
“You’re bleeding,” you replied, eyes scanning him despite yourself.
“What are you doing here?”
“A worried maester sent me.”
He tried to stand and failed, a sharp hiss escaping him before he could stop it.
You sighed and turned toward the door. For a moment, he thought you were leaving.
Instead, you spoke quietly to the guard outside. “Send for the supplies. I’ll tend to my husband.”
When you returned, Aerion looked… surprised. Guarded.
“I didn’t ask you to help me.”
“Take your shirt off,” you commanded, too tired to argue.
To your surprise, he obeyed.
The wound at his side was worse than you expected, clean, straight, bleeding steadily. You said nothing as you worked, hands practiced, movements deliberate. He flinched once, then forced himself still.
“What happened?” you asked softly.
“Training,” he said. “Valarr pushed too hard.”
When he hissed again, you shot him a look. “Stop moving.”
As you worked, silence settled between you,not hostile, not comfortable. Just heavy.
“Why do you and your cousin fight so much?” you asked at last.
“My father always compared us,” he said finally. “He’s loved. Admired. Everything I’m not.”
Your hands slowed, gentler now.
When you moved to clean the cut on his cheek, you had to step closer. Too close.
Your fingers brushed his jaw. His breath changed immediately.
“You’re so tense,” you murmured, barely realizing you’d spoken.
“And you’re close,” he replied quietly.
Your thumb lingered near the corner of his mouth. His eyes dropped to your lips.
The space between you felt fragile. Dangerous.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
That word hung between you.
When you stepped back, the loss was immediate and unsettling,for both of you.
You left without another word.
Standing alone by the window, you smiled faintly at the memory.
It was the first time intimacy hadn’t felt like a weapon.
His voice comes from behind you, low and measured. Not sharp. That alone sets your nerves on edge.
You don’t turn right away.
“Here I am,” you say, flat. Exhausted in a way.
Aerion steps closer, slow enough that you hear the soft scrape of his boots against the stone. He stops a careful distance behind you, as if afraid that closing the space too quickly might make you bolt.
“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” he begins. “I know that.”
You’ve heard this before. Variations of it. Shapes of it. Words that circle the truth without ever touching it.
“I was angry,” he continues. “I did not mean it-“
“Say it,” you interrupt quietly.
“Say what?” he asks, though you both know.
You turn to face him then. Really look at him. He looks almost human like this. Almost.
“Finish your sentence,” you say. “Say what you came here to say.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“This is beneath you,” he says finally. “I already told you I should not have taken my anger out on you.”
The words fall flat. Careful. Curated.
He frowns. “That is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“No,” you reply. “That’s what you wanted. For me to accept it and move on.”
He exhales sharply, frustration bleeding through his control.
“I came here to make amends.”
Silence stretches between you.
His mouth opens. Closes. His gaze drops for just a fraction of a second before snapping back to yours, defiant and cornered all at once.
“I am not in the habit of—” he starts.
You feel something in you break. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… finally.
The words surprise even you. They leave your mouth steady, but your chest tightens as if they’ve taken something vital with them.
“I cannot stand this anymore,” you continue. “The excuses. The half-words. The way you come to me only when your conscience bothers you, but even then, you're too proud to actually say you're sorry."
He stares at you, genuinely stunned.
You step past him, heart pounding, every instinct screaming that this is dangerous.
That’s what makes the next words land harder.
“So the Narrow Sea it is.”
“Aerion,” you say, your stomach dropping.
He’s watching you differently now, not angry, not defensive. Focused. As if the pieces have finally fallen into place.
“The questions,” he says quietly. “At first I thought you were merely bored. Or playing at curiosity.”
Your silence betrays you.
“You asked about travel times,” he continues. “Ports. Whether women pass unnoticed in foreign cities. You asked how long hair takes to grow back if it’s cut short.”
“You stopped asking about court,” he says. “Stopped asking about me.”
“You look at ships the way prisoners look at doors.”
“I wanted to leave,” you say, barely audible.
“No,” he corrects immediately.
The word is sharp. Instinctive.
“You wanted to escape me.”
The truth hangs between you, undeniable.
“You think I don’t notice when you pull away?” he asks softly. “When you flinch less, not because you’re braver, but because you’ve already gone somewhere I can’t reach?”
“If you cross that sea,” he says, voice dropping, “I will not survive it.”
This is not love. This is dependence. Possession. Fear of being left alone with himself.
“You will leave me,” he continues, “with nothing but the silence I’ve spent my life running from.”
You stare at him, chest aching.
Then, gently, mercilessly, you answer.
“Then you should have learned how to say you were sorry.”
For a moment, he looks at you like he might shatter. Like the words have struck something raw and unguarded.
You don’t stay to see what it becomes.
You turn and walk away, steps steady, back straight, heart in your throat.
Behind you, Aerion does not follow.
For the first time, he is left alone, not because you were taken from him…
…but because you chose to leave.
