alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY to entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
whipped like a motherf***er!: a slang used to describe a person, almost always a man, who is extremely submissive, obedient, or subservient to their romantic partner
Characters: Duncan the tall, Baelor Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon, Maekar and Aerion Targaryen
Warnings/notes: Wife!Reader, establish marriage, f!Reader, Aerion part lowkey may give of dark or yandere lol, spelling errors probs sorry made a few changes last minute-
Dunk
Dunk doesn’t even realize he’s whipped.
He’s just… enthusiastically embarrassingly eager to help you
“Dunk, could you—”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t finish—”
“Still yes.”
Half the time you weren’t even asking him to do anything and others times it would be easier if someone else handled it
It did not matter to him, for Dunk is already halfway through doing it.
Moving furniture twice his size, doing things a simple hedge knight has no business doing, climbing things he absolutely should not be climbing and nearly knocking himself over trying to help.
It was honestly a sight.
This seven-foot wall of muscle, famous for breaking men in tourneys, carrying half your belongings like a pack mule, gently holding the end of your cloak so it wouldn’t drag through the mud, hovering nearby like a very large, very anxious guard dog ready to jump at any command.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
The camp was quiet in the early morning.
Mist still clung to the grass, and the small fire crackled low while Dunk sat on a log pulling off his boots.
Across from him, Egg sat cross-legged, concentrating intensely on a small wooden ball-and-cup toy.
The very toy Dunk had said he was “certainly not getting because it was stupid and a waste of coin.”
They had spent the morning training the horses for the tourney and stopped by the market after. Now leaving the remaining of the day for rest and recovery.
Behind them, the tent rustled.
Dunk’s head snapped toward it instantly.
Egg didn’t even look up from his toy.
“…You do realize you react faster to that tent moving than you do to someone drawing a sword.”
Dunk frowned.
“That… that ain’t true.”
“It is,” Egg said, trying to land the ball in the cup again. “If you reacted that fast when Ser Addam charged you, you wouldn’t have had that limp for a week.”
“Shut up,” Dunk muttered. “Or I’ll throw that thing as far as I can.” There was no real bark in his threat.
The tent flap opened.
You stepped out, wrapped in Dunk’s oversized cloak, hair messy from sleep, eyes still half-closed.
Dunk shot to his feet so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.
“G’morning,” he said immediately, wearing that big, goofy smile you loved so much.
You smiled softly.
“Good morning, Dunk. Good morning, Aegon.”
Dunk immediately fumbled through his pouch nearly spilling all its contents.
“Oh! I got us biscuits and gravy for breaking fast. Reckon we can use the leftover sausage from last night and well be making your favorite meal.”
Your smile widened.
“’ I’ll make us some strawberry milk for the meal that'll be a nice end of the week treat”
Then your face fell slightly.
You remembered.
You had used the last of the milk a few days ago when Dunk couldn’t sleep.
“It’s alright,” you said quickly, smiling again. “We can just have straw—”
You blinked.
Dunk was already sitting back down, pulling his boots on again.
“My love?”
“Start without me,” he said, tying the laces. “Shouldn’t be gone long.”
Egg’s head snapped up in disbelief as the seven-foot knight immediately began striding back toward the road that led to town that they just came from.
“…Ser.”
Dunk paused.
“You’re walking all the way back to the market… for milk.”
Dunk shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world and off he went.
Egg stared after him, completely stunned.
Some men might call that submissive.
But to Dunk?
It was simply devotion.
Baelor
Baelor is unaware that he is whipped.
Not because he is ashamed of it, nor because he does not understand what the phrase means. It is simply that, in his mind, everything he does for his wife is perfectly rational. Surely any good husband would do the same no?
But the truth is that his entire schedule bends around you.
For example he knows how much you dislike early mornings and how you tend to sleep in, because of that, Baelor quietly schedules most of his important meetings at dawn so that his evenings are free to spend with you. Of course, being the Crown Prince means it cannot always be that way but he does try.
And if you personally ask him to do something together?
Baelor rearranges his entire day as though that had been the plan all along.
He prioritizes you more than he realizes. If the realm is not actively burning, nine times out of ten he will tend to your wishes first before anything else…..even duty.
“My prince,” a lord began, “now we must discuss—”
The door opened and you stepped inside
“Baelor?” your voice soft and uncertain
The quill stopped and he looks up immediately, tension leaving his body and his features softened
“Yes, my heart?”
“Oh- i apologize i had thought the meeting was over” you turn to leave but he stops you asking what you needed
“I had only wished to break fast with you but you are still busy so it is fine.” you smile genuinely not upset
Yet Baelor pushed the report back to the lord who'd just given it to him
“It is over” he says rising
“My- My prince?” the lord stammers shocked
“Yes yes I shall get to them after i break fast with my wife” he says as you wrap your hand around his forearm leaving the room
Baelor is still the composed prince and treats everyone with respect and kindness. However, that kindness should never be mistaken for weakness. He has no trouble telling nobles, lords, or even members of his own family no.
The council chamber hummed with quiet discussion as parchment shuffled across the long table. Several lords had gathered to review the Crown’s upcoming calendar. Important meetings, visiting envoys, and the various festivals and observances across the realm.
It was, for once, a relatively simple and uneventful meeting.
Baelor Targaryen had already noted it would end soon. He had even arranged for dinner to be served early, hoping that later you and his sons might spend the evening in a friendly game of cards and cyvasse. For now, however, he listened patiently as the maester read from his list.
“Next month will see the usual observances,” the maester said, scanning the parchment. “The King’s Day feast, the summer market in the city, and the Riverlands tourney.”
A few lords nodded.
“Your Grace,” Lord Alester Tyrell began. (He was your cousin temporarily standing in your father’s place). “There is another celebration approaching, the Harvest Bloom. It is widely celebrated throughout the Reach.”
Maekar Targaryen, who had been only half-interested the entire meeting, let out a short snort.
“You mean the one where you dress up like flowers and act strange because of your ‘special plants’?” he mocked. “We do not do that bullshit in the capital.”
Baelor raised a hand, silencing his brother before the comment could go further.
“I am familiar with the festival,” he said politely. “But it is primarily regional.”
Alester inclined his head.
“It is, Your Grace but I am certain it would be a welcome celebration here, among both highborn and smallfolk. I assure you, my prince, it is meaningful and does not involve… indulgences.” His gaze flicked toward Maekar with a glare.
Maekar let out a humorless laugh.
Baelor considered the suggestion for a moment.
“Forgive my brother I do not doubt it is a respected holiday in the Reach, but—”
“If it is a matter of coin,” Alester added quickly, “your father-by-law, as Master of Coin, would have no objection.”
Baelor shook his head.
“Coin is not the issue, my lord,” Baelor replies, more than aware of your fathers constant eagerness to flex the Tyrell wealth.”It is more because the court calendar is already crowded. It would be wiser to allow the tradition to remain where it belongs, among those who have long celebrated it.”
His tone was calm, respectful but final.
Alester leaned back, accepting the answer, and the council moved on.
…..
Later that evening, the castle had gone quiet.
You sat at your vanity, braiding your hair for sleep, while Baelor rested in bed with a book. After a moment, his eyes flickered up and he caught your gaze in the mirror grinning at him.
He smiled.
“What do you want now?” he teased, no real annoyance in his voice.
You placed a hand over your chest in mock offense.
“What makes you think such a thing? I am merely admiring my husband’s beauty.”
He gave you a knowing look.
You laughed softly, climbing into bed beside him. He pulled you close without looking away from his book.
“Sooo,” you began casually, “there’s an annual festival in the Reach coming up. It’s called the Harvest Bloom—and oh, Baelor, it’s wonderful” You cuddle him more.” back home, we would hang lanterns in the gardens and dance until late into the night the whole castle would smell like flowers for days.” you reminisce.
Baelor slowly lowered his book.
You continued, completely unaware of the morning’s council discussion.
“I was thinking… Perhaps this year we could celebrate it here. I would love to show you how we used to do it.”
You looked up at him hopeful.
He could already see the wheels turning in your eyes, you were already picturing lanterns, music, the gardens lit in gold.
He could explain.
He could tell you he had already declined the idea that very morning.
But the words never came.
Instead, Baelor smiled softly and warm.
“That sounds like a lovely tradition, it would be a delightful addition to the Capital .”
Your face lit up instantly.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
You leaned over to kiss his cheek extremely grateful, before settling comfortably against him going on all about all the preparations that need to be put in place to which Baelor nods in agreement as if it had always been that way.
…
The following morning, the council gathered once more.
Baelor reviewed a few documents before speaking.
“My lords.”
The room fell silent.
“Upon further consideration, the Crown will formally recognize the Harvest Bloom celebration this year, preparations may begin at once.”
Lord Alester Tyrell blinked in surprise.
Across the table, Maekar Targaryen leaned back slowly in his chair, eyebrows knit in confusion because his brother did not change his mind overnight on matters of governance.
Unless—
His gaze looks out the door of the room and just faith would have it he finds you passing by wearing more flowers on your dress than you'd usually do and following close behind you some servants carrying some form of flower decor with them.
Maekar sighed and rubbed his temple.
“…Of course,” he muttered under his breath.
Maekar
Maekar is most certainly whipped for you but he denies it like a guilty man accused of a crime he absolutely committed.
He will grumble, complain, roll his eyes.
“You are being impossible.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“You should not interrupt me while I’m working for such petty things.”
And yet, despite the scowling and sharp words, he still ends up doing exactly what you asked and most, if not all the time he goes above and beyond what you wanted still complaining however
You took no offense to his insults or complaints. You knew far too well how tightly you had the prince wrapped around your pretty finger.
Sometimes you even teased that power, because you found it terribly amusing how fast the man who claimed he did not care folded for you.
He claims he’s far too busy at the moment and you’re distracting him? Fine you threaten to leave the room
“…Stay.” he says a bit too quickly, pulling your chair closer to him to prevent you from going.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
The solar was quiet except for the scratch of Maekar’s quill and the occasional murmur from his advisor, Lord Beric.
You sat across from him with your arms folded, watching the prince stare at parchment as if the realm might collapse should he glance away.
Candlelight flickered across his sharp features, silver hair catching the glow.
His shoulders were hunched and tense again.
You had told him a hundred times not to sit like that.
After a long moment of silence you cleared your throat.
Nothing.
You tapped your fingers on the table.
Still no reaction from him.
Your husband continued writing as if the sounds you made were the mere wind passing by.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Maekar… it is night now.”
“Hm.”
That was it.
Just hm.
You leaned forward.
“You said we would walk the gardens before sunset.”
“I said we might,” he corrected without looking up.
You stared at him in disbelief.
“No. You said we would and I have been sitting here and waiting now would you look at that.”
You pointed dramatically toward the window where moonlight now poured in.
His quill stopped moving for a moment letting out a long sigh like a man plagued with nothing but trouble before he started writing again.
“Well, my dear wife,” he said dryly, extending a hand for another letter from Lord Beric, “ you may not be aware of this but the sun will rise again tomorrow. As it has for the past hundred years and will for a hundred more.” he responds with his eyes yet having to look properly at you.
You clench skirts in annoyance.
“You are impossible.”
“And you are insatiable.”
“Oh, I am insatiable?”
“You knew I had work.”
“You always have work.” You say with an eyeroll. “All I asked for was a simple walk with my husband and he cannot even keep that promise.”
His jaw shifted, eyes alas meeting yours, his dark violet eyes flash with annoyance.
“I did not promise I specifically remember saying we might.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
“You did.” you slam the table for more emphasis
The irritation on his face only grew, almost anybody who saw that look would shrink and back down like poor Lord Beric who visibly shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing to be anywhere else, but you weren't anybody.
“I cannot simply abandon matters of the realm for a lovely stroll in gardens I have walked a thousand times, wife.” he says the word with no warmth.
“Right,” you said sharply. “Because staring at parchment is far more enjoyable than spending time with your wife!.”
“Y/n—” his patience was on thin ice now
You stood abruptly.
“No no it is fine.”
You abruptly stand and grab your cloak.
“Finish your very important letters. I’ll walk alone.”
You turned and strode out shutting the door before he could utter another word out.
Maekar glares at the door for a moment or two his grip on the quill so tight lord Beric thought it may snap at any moment.
“Stubborn woman… vexing woman…” Maekar muttered, continuing to write but the words became illegible with how tight his grip in the quill was.
…
…
…
You make it a few steps down the hallway when the solar door opens again.
“Why must you be so temperamental?”
Your husband’s voice sounds behind you.
You didn’t even turn around.
“Am I? I thought it best to leave you to your work because you think I'm such a nuisance."
Your heels clicked against the stone.
Heavy boots followed.
“Do not twist my words woman,” Maekar snapped. “I would never call you that” he said but a bit quieter and oddly softer
You kept walking and faster
The footsteps grew faster too
Quite a sight, truly.
The Anvil of the Realm follows behind his irritated wife.
“How do you expect us to walk if you remain ahead of me?” he grumbled.
You stopped.
So did he, you had not realize how close he was behind you nearly hitting him when your turned
Maekar stood behind you looking on edge enough to start a war, which in many ways was similar to one when it came to you.
“I thought you had letters to finish.” you say coolly crossing your arms.
“I do.”
“And yet here you are.”
The stubborn man, tough as iron, sharp-tongued hesitated
“I… suppose a short break will not collapse the realm.”
You stared at him, then you couldn't help the snort that escaped pass your lips.
Maekar looked offended.
“What?”
“You dropped everything to chase me down the hallway.”
“I did not chase you.”
You hum, grinning up at him “You most certainly chased me.”
“I walked quickly.”
“That is called chasing.”
He scowled.
“You walk very fast for someone of your stature.”
He stared at you for a moment longer.
He then finally stands beside you, body brushing yours a small concession and his fingers intertwining with yours around it like it had always belonged there.
“…Come along,” Maekar muttered, still trying to sound gruff.
The prince who had refused to abandon his work not five minutes earlier was now walking beside his wife toward the gardens.
Grumbling the entire way, yet refusing to let go of your hand.
Lyonel
Lyonel never thought he could be whipped but welcomes the idea with open arms when it comes to you
Lyonel Baratheon has the calmness of a thunderstorm. He is wild, loud, reckless, and unpredictable. He is already a great lord, which leaves a very small number of people who can “control” him, but truth be told, if it weren’t for hierarchy and titles, no one tells Lyonel what to do.
Except his wife.
Before meeting you, he never cared about marriage. His idea was getting a pretty, obedient, quiet, mouse-like wife who would give him an heir or three while he continued partying and doing whatever he pleased.
But you changed that in the best way.
Lyonel is a force and a danger to himself and others with his impulsive ideas that could get him hurt, so at times he really does need your firmness to knock both literal and metaphorical sense into him.
Despite your threatening and “bossy” nature, he finds it incredibly attractive the way you command him.
“If you leave one more antler lying on our bedchamber floor, I will stab you with it.”
“Mhm, you are very attractive when you threaten me with bodily harm,” he gazes at you fondly.
“Shut up and do as you’re told.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Others are shocked that a lady could ever speak to her lord husband that way, but Lyonel does not care and does not need saving. He is exactly where he wants to be.
The festivities had been going on for five days now.
What had been meant to be a simple, quiet hunting trip had turned into a feast, which had turned into a drinking competition, which then briefly turned into strip poker??? supposedly in celebration of the soon arrival of Lyonel's firstborn child.
But you should have known better.
With your husband nothing (especially with alcohol involved) was ever simple.
Inside the great hunting tent, noise pressed in from all sides. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine. Tankards clanged as drunken laughter and terrible singing echoed far too loudly for the late hour.
At the center of it all sat Lord Lyonel Baratheon, long antler crown slightly crooked atop his dark, tousled curls, tankard raised high. His voice carried across the entire tent with the same subtlety as a thunderclap.
“And I told the man,” Lyonel declared loudly, slapping the table hard enough to make several cups jump, “if he thought he could outdrink me, he’d best start putting on his burial clothes!”
He let out a loud belch, laughing as the men around him erupted in cheers.
Across from him sat Dunk, who watched the display with wide eyes and the faint look of a man who did not belong here. He had not planned to stay in the Stormlands long; all he wished was to congratulate you both and be on his way, but Lyonel had a way of forcing people to do things they normally did not want to.
“Oy, half-man!” Lyonel suddenly pointed at Dunk. “Have I told you the story of how I killed my first man in battle?”
Dunk rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yes—you’ve told that story three times already, m’lord.”
Lyonel leaned forward, grinning like a mischievous green boy.
“Then you’ll enjoy hearing it again! This time with visuals!”
Lyonel grabbed Dunk, forcing the poor man to his feet as an unwilling volunteer. Dunk didn’t dare protest for whatever the laughing storm wanted, he got.
The tent exploded with laughter and cheers.
Tankards slammed on tables. Someone started chanting Lyonel’s name. A few of the younger knights began placing bets on how the “demonstration” would end.
Lyonel drunkenly looked around, trying to remember where he had placed his longsword, while Dunk silently prayed some god would intervene because he would very much like to leave Storm’s End in the same condition he came in.
Then the tent flap opened
Cold night air rushed inside
And with it—
Lady Baratheon
The change in the room was immediate.
The laughter quieted, conversations slowing as heads turned toward the entrance.
There you stood, your belly heavy with pregnancy beneath your gold and black cloak, your hair slightly disheveled from sleep, one hand resting against your lower back for support as you stepped inside.
But what truly silenced the room was the look on your face.
Angry.
No pissed.
Dunk felt the shift instantly
Lyonel looked up
His grin widened like he’d just received the best surprise of the night.
“Ah my lovely, beautiful wife has graced us with her presence,” he said cheerfully, clearly drunk out of his mind.
He walked to you, pulling you into a loose embrace and pressing a dozen quick kisses to your face. The smell of wine clung to him like armor.
You did not smile too exhausted and too angry to do so.
“I am certain they can hear this party all the way from King’s Landing.”
“Good,” Lyonel laughed. “Mayhaps they’ll come join us and bring more wine. I fear we may be running low.”
The men around the table snorted.
You were not amused.
“Bed. Now.”
Lyonel placed a dramatic hand over his heart.
“But I was just about to play out my best story!” he protested, punctuating the sentence with another drunken burp.
“Play out” his best story… you knew exactly what that meant. The last time he had attempted it, he’d nearly lost an ear and he’d been sober then.
“Lyonel—”
“Five more minutes,” he whined, words slurring together as he waved you off lazily. “I swear I’ll come join you.”
He said the same thing two hours ago, when you first tried to drag him away to bed.
He blinked slowly, swaying where he stood, before drunkenly scanning the room. His gaze wandered without purpose for a moment over the tables, the scattered plates, the poor servant trying to salvage what was left of a feast….until suddenly, he lit up.
“There you are,” he murmured to no one in particular, grinning like he’d just found buried treasure.
You followed his line of sight and felt your stomach drop.
His longsword.
It was lodged halfway inside a full roasted pig, the blade skewering straight through it killing the poor beast a second time. How it had gotten there he couldn't recall, he was just glad he found it. He took an unsteady step forward, entirely too pleased with himself, clearly intent on retrieving it and gods knew doing what next.
“Absolutely not,” you muttered under your breath.
Right before he could reach it, you stepped forward, catching him by the antler crown and yanking him back with far less gentleness than he deserved.
““Wow—!” Lyonel laughed, stumbling back as you yanked him towards you, his head tilting awkwardly as you began pulling him toward the tent exit.
“You are reckless,” you snapped, not loosening your grip for even a moment. “You drink too much, fight too hard and if you get yourself killed before this child is born, I will bring you back from the Seven Hells just to kill you again.”
Dunk’s eyes widened so much it looked like they might fall out.
The Lord of the Stormlands was one of the most intimidating men Dunk had ever met was now currently being dragged like a misbehaving dog.
You kept walking.
“My feet are swollen, my back is in pain and my breast are in sore-.”
Lyonel, still being dragged, looked up at you over with laziness, chewing on his bottom lip.
“And yet you still look so good.”
You yanked harder, causing him to yelp before letting out an amused chuckle.
“The last stressor I need is my husband losing a limb.”
“You’re so adorable when you worry for me.”
And just like that, the two of you were gone your threats and his fond, teasing replies fading into the night.
Dunk sat completely frozen.
“…Seven above,” he whispered under his breath, staring at the entrance for several seconds. “Should—should we help him?” he asked, genuinely concerned.
The lord across from him burst out laughing.
“Help him?”
He shook his head.
“Our lord is exactly where he wants to be.”
Aerion
Aerion Targaryen is utterly, hopelessly whipped…..but only in private.
In public, Aerion behaves as though the marriage is nothing more than a cold arrangement, a political contract with no warmth to it. He barely spares you a glance in court, his gaze distant and glacial, his words short and sharp, his presence deliberately detached.
But the moment the doors shut? He’s entirely a different man
Behind closed doors, he craves your touch like a man starved, like a flame reaching for air. His head on your lap, your fingers threading through his short silver hair, a gentle hand cupping his cheek, hells even your shoulders merely touching. He takes anything, everything, so long as he can feel you. Your warmth grounds him the only thing that can calm the restless dragon. The instant you pull away, even for a heartbeat, he grumbles low in his throat like a displeased cat, catching your hand and guiding it back as if he might wither without it.
Aerion is the most whipped of them all, the most undone by his wife of them all, though he buries it beneath layers of pride in public. In truth, he reveres you, worships you as one the seven themselves (though in his eyes you surpass them). He wants to breathe the same air, exist in the same space…..hells, if it were possible, he would fuse your very souls together just to ensure you could never be parted.
When you are upset with him, that ego he carries shatters. He becomes restless, unsteady, almost frantic, because your attention is not just wanted but vital.
Separate him from you for more than a day he becomes loses it, irritated, upset, impulsive more than usual which is why annoyingly so? You nearly accompany him everywhere a demand sent by the crown though you have suspicions it may have been Maekar who sent it, to control and calm his son.
And yet, despite this quiet obsession, Aerion maintains his facade, his pride unyielding. He would sooner choke on his own fire than allow the court to see the truth….
that behind closed doors, the dragon kneels,
and you are the one who holds the reins.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
It had started as something petty but it angered you all the same.
It was a small dinner, a few lords and wives, cups still overflowing, bellies full, the night slowly dying. One of them a Frey made a distasteful joke about a young serving girl who had just passed.
You were irritated but calmly and gracefully shut the joke down.
He spat back, turning the joke toward you.
That alone, you could have endured.
But Aerion, your husband, had done nothing-
Worse, he had added to it.
Somehow making the joke ever more humiliating.
But no….according to him, it was only a joke, a playfully drunk night and you should not be so soft.
The silence had lasted three days.
Three unbearable days….. for him
You moved through the chambers as if Aerion did not exist.
When he spoke, you answered with polite, short replies or not at all. When he entered a room, you continued whatever you were doing without so much as a glance, some evenings feeling bold you simply left.
You didn’t even spare a thought to Lord Brynden Frey, the one who started this whole thing sudden disappearance from court due to an injury from hunting?
Your anger and annoyance remained fixed on your husband.
At first, Aerion scoffed.
“Petty,” he muttered the first night. “You will tire of this soon enough.”
By the second day, he was following you from room to room not engaging but his eyes burning into you and following your every movement similar to how a predator would to its prey
By the third, you decided you would sleep in your own bedchamber.
You had not done so since the first week of your marriage.
That was when he broke
….
You sat by the window that morning, embroidering quietly in your own chambers when he entered without knocking.
You did not look up.
Aerion stood there for a moment, with a look in his eyes that could kill.
“Are you finished with this foolishness?” he asked sharply.
No response.
Your needle moved calmly through the fabric.
His jaw tightened.
He crossed the room, stopping directly in front of you, blocking the light from the window.
You could barely see now, likely ruining the pattern, but your hand did not stop.
“Acknowledge me,” he demanded, sounding more like a petulant child than a prince.
A soft knock interrupted him.
Before he could tell them to fuck off, you spoke.
“Enter.”
One of your handmaids stepped inside.
“Ah, Lysara,” you said, handing her a folded list. “These are the items I want moved from my husband’s chambers into mine. I would appreciate it be done by the morrow.”
She took the parchment and bowed. “Yes, princess.”
The door closed quietly behind her.
Something inside him shattered.
You had never slept apart not in two years. No matter how fierce the argument, you had always returned to him.
“Seven hells,” he muttered.
Then, suddenly, he dropped to his knees beside you.
The movement startled the embroidery from your hands, but you did not reach for it. Instead, you stared blankly out the window he had just blocked.
His deep violet eyes searched your face, filled with frustration and something close to desperation.
“Look at me.”
You didn’t.
His hands hesitated before slowly reaching for the folds of your skirt.
“Y/n,” he whispered, head lowering in defeat.
Then, with none of the dignity he carried in court, he leaned forward, trying to climb not onto the cushioned seat beside you but on you.
His head nudged against your stomach.
“Stop ignoring me.”
You tried halfheartedly to push him away, but he only made a frustrated sound and shifted closer, half kneeling, half leaning into you, his hands clutching your skirts.
“Aerion—” you grunted, more annoyed than anything at the weight.
Aerion’s voice broke into something that could not be mistaken for anything other than a whine.
“Please.”He pressed his forehead more into your lap, his hands clutching on your skirts tighter “please stop ignoring me.”
After what felt like eternity to him you finally let out a defeated sigh
Aerion stilled instantly, hope flooding through him.
Slowly, you lifted a hand and combed your fingers through his short silver hair.
He melted.
Relaxing against you like a man collapsing after a long, brutal war finally allowed to rest.
“Do you hate me?” he asked, voice muffled against your skirts.
“I should.”
He tensed.
“But I do not hate you, Aerion.”
The tension left him all at once.
He pressed even closer like trying to merge your bodies into one, clinging and refusing refusing to let go.
The terrifying dragon prince who delighted in cruelty, who made the realm tremble closed his eyes and held onto you as if your silence had nearly killed him.
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