Just my 2D universe

23 header by @sylusz

[osarina]

LIFE IS STRANGE

FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether you’re going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences. 

WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah

You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.

By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away. 

You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.

It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.

You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.

Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.

The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.

Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.

This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.

This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.

But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again. 

You should leave him.

The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.

By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all. 

It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—

As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.

You feel sick to your stomach.

He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.

He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.

The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—

—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.

The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.

You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.

And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not. 

His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.

He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.

He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous. 

Cold. Hurt. Dying.

You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path. 

A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name. 

If this boy lives, others will come looking for him. 

And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.

Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t. 

He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.

Except, he didn’t, did he? 

He should be dead—any other man would be dead.

Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.

The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.

The Stranger came for him and left him with you. 

Why?

There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.

So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?

You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.

You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.

Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment. 

If there is life, you will do what you must.

If there is not, you will turn and walk away. 

You have never prayed for someone to be dead before. 

Please, you think now miserably. Please.

Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—

There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.

Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.

You know that this boy could be the death of you.

The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.

Worse still, he could recover.

Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.

The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.

“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need. 

His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir. 

Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.

With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.

—————————

He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you. 

You spend the first day trying to keep him alive. 

You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.

You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood. 

You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.

It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone. 

And then there were the arrows. 

The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.

You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands. 

It should have been agony—any man would have cried out. 

The prince does not so much as flinch.

You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there. 

A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died. 

A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.

A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.

But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.

The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life. 

You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway. 

You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever. 

Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.

His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.

You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.

Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. 

At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.

Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”

You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore. 

You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.

The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.

You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince. 

You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.

You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.

Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives. 

When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death. 

The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.

It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.

But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches. 

Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.

Then you remind yourself that this is her doing. 

Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of. 

There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen. 

You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded. 

Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life. 

You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince. 

There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.

You—

“Who are you?”

There is a knife to your throat.

You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper. 

“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”

You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back. 

You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed. 

For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive. 

Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”

The prince stares at you. 

As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns. 

To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.

He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.

His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”

You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”

“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”

The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face. 

Shame crosses his expression instantly.

“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”

He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet. 

Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?” 

You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers. 

Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face. 

“I suppose not.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.

You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.

“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.

Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.

“I am fine,” he insists.

“You should sit, my prince.”

“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.

“Barely.”

The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days. 

Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."

You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."

His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument. 

You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries. 

The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale. 

Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles. 

He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.

You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.  

You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.

You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.

Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.

One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.

"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”

“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”

You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.

You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.

“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”

Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed. 

You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”

His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.

“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”

Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table. 

You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.

You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely. 

“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”

“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”

How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then? 

Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands. 

Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.

Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away. 

It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week. 

You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.

“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?” 

You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head. 

“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours. 

You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back. 

You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. 

If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate. 

It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.

Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—

You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”

“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”

“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”

You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”

“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”

It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread. 

The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.

“I do not—”

“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”

Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.

If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him. 

“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin. 

What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head. 

“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no. 

“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”

He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed. 

“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”

For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him. 

Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind. 

One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.

You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.

Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run. 

He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer. 

“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”

He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.

“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”

He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table. 

“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.

With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better. 

————————————

The sea is on fire.

Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries. 

He tries to focus.

He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena. 

He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.

Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—

—and Vermax is falling. 

Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.

He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax. 

Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.

Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe. 

When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too. 

There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.

But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time. 

He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—

He wants his mother.

He just wants his mother. 

He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.

And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.

The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.

And then—then all he remembers is sea. 

White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—

“... prince, the stew is ready.”

Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…

The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—

You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.

He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.

He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.

Is he crying?

Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table. 

Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger. 

Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.

Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.

“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”

You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”

“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body. 

Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.

He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.

You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”

“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”

You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.

“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well. 

You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.

You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore. 

“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”

“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips. 

The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.

His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.

Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”

“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.

Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further. 

“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”

You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.

“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”

You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.

That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away. 

From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up. 

You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely. 

“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”

You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.

“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”

Jace opens his mouth.

He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.  

He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here? 

That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.

His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly. 

You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.

He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.

[osarina]

ঌ LACUNA

FEATURING: Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Aerion returns to Lys, unsure if you're still waiting for him after three months of silence. You have foregone a path home, and one more lies before you, but you must finally decide what, exactly, you are willing to sacrifice for it.

WARNINGS: fem!reader. Volantene!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Aerion-typical threats of violence and possessive behavior. Aerion-typical paranoia. Reader & Aerion physically fight twice—one swordfight, one wrestling for control on the bed. Switch!reader. Switch!Aerion. Blood play. Spitting. Fingering (m!receiving). Implied Valyrian exceptionalism in passing. Referenced dubcon/noncon/power imbalance in passing (Aerion makes a mention about how some knights fuck their squires when they can’t find a whore). Westeros-typical homophobia referenced in passing (acknowledgment that in Westeros men fucking other men isn't as accepted). 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: YAYYYYYY NEXT PART OUT!! I'm so excited because we are officially 2 installments away from their great return to Westeros, where things will get very messy. Our girl is still scheming a way to get home, and unfortunately is keeping Aerion in the dark about it, which is not going to turn out well. LOL. Comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: LAMENTABLY YOURS

Lys is in sight. 

Aerion stands at the hull of the ship, arms crossed over his chest, heart thudding painfully in his chest. There are men around him—fellow sellswords, the captains, all chatting about the new contracts they can pick up now that the Golden Company has left. Some of them are talking about him: whether he will remain with the Second Sons now that he can return to Lys, or if it’s time for him to return to Westeros. He does not like thinking about that, because if he thinks about that, he has to wonder if this scare would even be enough for his father to call him back, or if he’s just going to let Aerion stay in danger instead, so he ignores all of it. 

He has ignored almost everything for the better part of the voyage. 

“The Golden Company raised their sails at dawn. Every ship in the harbor has sailed east.” 

Why would they sail east?

“—too volatile,” one of the older captains mutters somewhere behind him, voice lowered but not enough. Aerion’s gaze cuts over his shoulder in his direction, irritated. “Good in a fight, but gods help the man who shares a camp with him another year.”

Aerion rolls his eyes.

Another snorts. “You say that now, but you’ll miss him the first time some fool charges our line. Half the company fights harder just trying to impress the bastard.”

That’s more like it, he thinks, half-smug, half-bitter, but mostly just—he’s unsettled. There’s no reason why the Golden Company would sail east. No reason. The only Free City east of Lys is Volantis, and the only reason why they would sail to Volantis is if—

—is if you had taken the deal, and Volantis is going to war against his family. 

But you would not do that to him, he tells himself desperately. You wouldn’t. Not after everything. You would have at least told him; you wouldn’t have disappeared without saying anything. You wouldn’t have.

But the last letter. 

Your brother had written to you, and Aerion knows well that if there’s one person you would always choose over him, it would be Viserys. It wouldn’t even be a matter of the Blackfyres or the Targaryens, or you and Aerion; it would be a matter of you and your brother, the gentle expression that crosses your face whenever you speak of him, and the way your voice softens when you say his name. 

There are some battles a man recognizes he cannot win. Aerion has never been foolish enough to think he could compete with your brother.

He can almost picture it. It makes him furious. Aerion has never been to Volantis, but you have described it well enough. Black walls and gold jewelry, red gems and obsidian. Tiger cloaks snapping in the wind, and war councils lit by firelight. He can picture you standing amongst them, dressed in dark armor instead of silk, hair pulled back from your face, expression cold and distant as you plan how to butcher his family and give the throne to the pretenders. 

Aerion’s stomach flips, eyes sliding shut. 

He does not want to picture that. He wants to picture you, wants to picture what he knows and yearns for. He wants you lounging on sun-warmed rocks and sprawled on soft cushions, hand reaching out for him so that you can pull him on top of you. He wants you tangled in his sheets, arm draped over his chest, nosing the crook of his neck.

“Brightflame,” one of the sellswords calls from his left, and Aerion’s eyes snap open, temper flaring as his head falls to the side so that he can look at whoever is addressing him. “You good?”

Aerion stares at him for a long moment. “What sort of question is that, you imbecile?” 

The man lifts both hands immediately. “Damn, forgive me for asking. You looked pale.”

“I am not pale.”

“A little bit,” the sellsword disagrees with a shrug. “Like you’re going to hurl.”

“I am not going to hurl,” he says flatly. “I am tired, irritated, and trapped on a rotting ship full of illiterate drunkards who smell like stale ale, returning to a city full of politicians and thieves. Naturally, my temper is poor.”

“Your temper’s always poor,” someone mutters from farther down the deck.

Aerion does not even look at him. “And yet you continue speaking to me. Curious.”

He ignores the next snide comment from a younger sellsword as he turns his attention back out toward the sea, toward Lys, hopefully toward you. 

“An hour until docking!” the sea captain shouts across the deck. “Prepare for harbor!”

Aerion feels bile rise in the back of the throat; pride alone forces the nausea back where it belongs. 

You will be there, he tells himself firmly. You will be there waiting for him on the docks, all sharp smiles and casual arrogance, the way he’s always known you to be, and he will finally be free of the crushing anxiety that has been plaguing him since he received your last letter. 

You will be there. You have to be.

————————

You are not there when the ship docks.

Everything is muted around him. Distantly, he can hear everyone talking: the other sellswords are chattering about going down to the square to talk to the merchant princes and magisters about new contracts, and Magister Vyrano and his household are discussing hosting a dinner to commemorate his return. They were waiting for him on the dock, but you were not. He even briefly sees your whore standing up on the ledge overlooking the harbor area, but he disappears before Aerion can think to call for him. 

You are nowhere to be found.

His gaze slides through the crowds rapidly once, twice, three times, because he must have missed you. He must have. A woman with your hair color nearly makes his heart leap from his chest, and a flash of red silk across the dock almost has him calling your name, but you are not here. 

You are not here.

His throat bobs as he swallows. There are too many people around for him to let any of the turmoil show on his face, so he shoves it down. It is logical, he tells himself. He never truly expected you to stay, not really, he always knew better in his heart. You would go home, and Aerion would—he would—

—you have to be here. 

He looks through the crowds again. Again. Again. Your hair color. Your eye color. Someone with both, but not you. Aerion feels sick—really, truly, genuinely ill. For one horrifying moment, he thinks he may actually disgrace himself and vomit directly onto the harbor stones like some weak-stomached child.

He locks his jaw. He refuses. Aerion Brightflame does not fall apart on a dock in front of half of Lys because a woman failed to appear for him—even thinking the sentence feels humiliating, and yet…

And yet, Aerion cannot seem to stop looking for you. It is pathetic—every time he sees a flash of your hair color, his pulse spikes violently before crashing a heartbeat later. Every glimpse of red silk catches his attention. Every laugh in the crowd twists something ugly beneath his ribs because, for one foolish moment, he thinks it might be yours.

“You didn’t really think I’d leave you, did you, dragon prince?”

His pale lashes flutter as your voice rings through his head. 

For one humiliating heartbeat, Aerion actually believes he hears you. He turns so quickly that his shoulder clips against a passing harbor boy hard enough to nearly send him sprawling. His eyes sweep the harbor wildly—left, right, across the marble terraces overlooking the sea.

Red silks, gold jewelry, your hair color, your eye color—but not you.

Fuck. 

You have to be here, he thinks desperately. You have to be here. Aerion does not want to know a world where you are not; he cannot know a world where you are not. You have to be somewhere on Lys still; if not on the docks, then maybe you’re still in the First Magister’s manse? With his chest and the egg? Waiting for him, lounging in bed, tangled in your sheets—took you long enough, dragon prince. Or maybe at the cove? You had said it once, that it was only yours and only his; you brought him there in the dead of night during a storm, made him chase you across rooftops and cliffsides. Maybe you expect the same now, for him to find you, maybe—

Aerion’s gaze cuts toward the east side of the island, and he’s moving before he even realizes where his feet are taking him. The harbor noise fades behind him as he takes off, and he hears Magister Vyrano calling his name somewhere in the distance, but he ignores all of this, too; he’ll ignore everything until he finds you, because you are not gone. Something must be wrong, because you are not stupid enough to disappear without telling him. Because if you have, he intends to kill you personally.

You cannot be gone—he will not accept it.

His boots strike hard against the wood of the docks as he pushes through the crowds with growing impatience, jaw tight enough to ache. A woman curses as he nearly shoulders past her into a fruit stall, and someone shouts something angrily in Lys’s bastardized Valyrian, but Aerion does not slow. 

The docks blur around him in flashes of dark wood and bright silks as he cuts through familiar streets almost on instinct now. Past the walkway where you once nearly shoved him into the water for insulting your singing voice. Past the wall where you had sat together until sunrise, drinking stolen wine straight from the bottle while you mocked half the magisters in Lys and trailed open-mouthed kisses along his neck. Past the narrow alcove where he kissed you hard enough to startle you silent for all of three seconds before you bit him bloody for the offense.

When he reaches the cobblestone roads leading from the harbor area to the rest of the island, he stops in his tracks. The road splits in three—west toward the cliffs on the far side of the island, in the direction of the cove you brought him to, north toward the city and the First Magister’s manse, east toward the shores where he first met you on that sun-warmed rock, lackadaisical and aggravating, before either of you knew just how thoroughly you would ruin one another.

He hesitates for half a second before he turns east. 

That stretch of pale sand he’d disappeared to when he first came to Lys, hoping for a few moments alone because he was sick of Magister Vyrano’s household pawing at him less than two hours after meeting them. Where he had met you, arrogant and careless and irritating, sprawled across the rocks like some spoiled brat, laughing directly in the face of a Targaryen prince too proud to understand he was already doomed. You had looked at him like you knew exactly what he was beneath all the pride and violence, and Aerion had hated it. 

He wanted you dead; he still does, sometimes. 

You have to be there, he thinks, and he wishes he were half as confident as he wants to be. You have to.

The city thins around him gradually as he moves farther from the crowded harbor districts. Marble gives way to worn stone paths hidden in tall grass and jagged cliffsides. The scent of salt grows stronger here, cleaner, untouched by perfume and wine and the suffocating sweetness of Lys.

His heart is pounding so violently that he can feel it in his throat; he forces himself to slow down as he reaches the long stretch of sand on the east side of the island. He sees the bend up ahead, and you will either be there or you will not. And if you are not, Aerion does not know what he will do. He knows what he threatened, what he promised he would do if you left, but—but it is not so easy. 

And what if you are? What does he even say to you? You vanished for months. You left him drowning in silence and paranoia and nightmares of Volantis and war and losing you forever. Part of him wants to seize you by the shoulders and demand whether you understand what you did to him; he wants to put a dagger to your throat and threaten to slide it in. Another part wants to drag you into his arms so fiercely it bruises, to bury his face in your hair and press his hands into your skin.

Both impulses horrify him deeply, but he forces himself forward anyway. His feet drag against the sand as he reaches the bend in the beach; he does not even realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs start to burn, but he holds it still as he makes his way around the bend, heart thudding painfully in his ears, pulse roaring, throat tight. 

You will be here, or you will be gone. You will be here, or he will—

All of the air whooshes from his lungs in one staggering breath. 

You are stretched across the same rock where he first met you, sheer red silks spilling around your body, floating in the water on either side of you. The afternoon sun catches the gold at your throat and wrists, fingers tracing the water lazily. You are not facing him, but he knows that you know he is there. 

He makes his way closer, feet shuffling against the sand until he stands at the edge of the warm water, the gentle waves licking his boots. What does he say? Should he be accusatory? Angry? He had been furious only moments ago. Furious enough to imagine shaking you until answers fell from your mouth, to imagine putting a knife to your throat. You vanished. You ignored him. You left him drowning, but now—

—now you are here. Real. Waiting for him. Close enough that the sea wind carries those lavender oils you like so much toward him. And suddenly, Aerion cannot remember how to be angry with you at all.

Gods, he hates what you do to him.

“You may come closer,” you finally say, head falling to the side so that you can look at him. Aerion feels as though his chest might cave in when his eyes land on the soft smile curling at your lips. “If you wish to inspect me properly, that is.”

A breath leaves his lips—something caught between a scoff, a huff of laughter, and a sigh of relief. The tension bleeds from his shoulders, and Aerion finds himself moving toward you before he can stop himself, feet dragging through the shallow water, soaking his leather boots through to his socks. 

“You are wretched, wench,” he tells you, but does not even bother to hide the relief bleeding into his voice. 

He reaches you at last, stopping beside the rock as seawater laps at his calves. Up close, the exhaustion in your face is clear; shadows linger faintly beneath your eyes, and there is a heaviness in them that makes his chest tighten painfully. His hand lifts before he consciously decides to move it, fingers brushing against the side of your throat, then your jaw, before he cradles the side of your face. You lean into his touch instinctively.

“I am yours,” you correct, voice teasing, but Aerion feels wrecked. 

His, his, his—he is yours, and you are his. 

Aerion’s hand slides into your hair, pulling you up half off the rock as he kneels down into the water to press his lips against yours hard. It is desperate and messy and more teeth than anything else. 

You make a soft, startled sound against his mouth before kissing him back with equal force—always equal, infuriating woman, always meeting him halfway where he needs to be, the only one. Your fingers wrap around the fabric of the front of his tunic so that you can drag him closer, and all of the weight that has been bearing down on him, all of the dreams that have haunted him and thoughts he has been plagued with—they all wash away with a vengeance, because you are here, you chose him, you are his and he is yours, and the relief is so overwhelming it almost hurts.

His free hand braces hard against the stone beside your head as he kisses you again and again and again, like he is trying to make up for every unanswered raven and sleepless night all at once. Saltwater laps against his thighs, and Aerion does not care that his clothes are drenched and his boots are soggy, pulling back just enough to breathe and pressing his forehead against yours, lashes fluttering when you tilt the bottom half of your face up to press your lips against his one last time.

“Nyke ozmijīnna ao,” you say softly, hand sliding up from his chest, cradling the side of his neck, thumb grazing along his jawline. Aerion’s eyes slide shut as your words sink in, breath shuddering as you ghost your lips to his again. “Bisa tēgembōñ iksis mundagon mijegon ao.”

I missed you. This island is dreadful without you.

“Nyke ozmijīnna ao,” he echoes, voice rougher than he intends. He lets out a shaky exhale, pressing his lips hard to the corner of yours, then to your jaw, your cheekbone, and then he rests his forehead against your temple. “Nyke pendagon hen ao tolvie tubis, maegi. Emā pryjata nyke.”

I missed you. I thought of you every day, witch. You have cursed me.

You turn your face toward his, and he fights another sigh when he feels the way your lips are curved up. 

“Eman,” you murmur, and he does not have to look at you to know you’re about to say something infuriating. “Nyke pālegīon ao ezīmagon iā jorrāelagon, gōntan nyke daor?”

I have. I turned you into a romantic, didn’t I?

He scoffs lightly, but he cannot even muster the proper offense at your words. His retort comes out entirely lacking the bite he intends. “Kesan qūvy aōha ēngos hen, ao mundagon līve.”

I will tear your tongue out, you miserable wench.

You let out a soft laugh against his skin, and Aerion inhales deeply when he feels the way your breath fans warm against his skin, fighting a shiver as you mouth messily at his neck. He barely chokes back the moan that almost slips from his lips when you drag your tongue up the length of his throat, licking playfully along the underside of his chin before swiping along his lips.

“Ao jorrāelagon arlie gīmēdenon, zaldrīzes dārilaros,” you murmur against his lips, lips curved up slightly when he shifts so that he’s out of the water completely, body hovering over yours. “Īlon lanta gīmigon ao raqagon ñuha ēngos tolmiot tolī olvie.”

You need new threats, dragon prince. We both know you enjoy my tongue far too much.

“Careful, wench,” he tells you, one hand sliding up your body to circle your throat, not quite tightening enough to cut off the airflow, but pressing his thumb in deep enough to warn you. 

It only seems to further egg you on from the way your smile widens and eyes light up.

Fuck, he’s missed you. He’s missed your touch, your lips, your body, your cunt. Your nails cutting through his skin and your teeth drawing blood. His lashes flutter, lips parting as you press forward into his hand so that you can capture his bottom lip, rolling it between your teeth. You have ruined him entirely—the steel to his fire, sharp enough to cut and reckless enough to actually try, and he loathes to ever know a world without you. 

“Do not get ahead of yourself, prince,” you say, eyes glittering when he starts to kiss down your neck, sliding the silks off your shoulders. “We agreed tonight I’d get to take you apart, did we not?”

Aerion stares down at you for a moment, blinking once, twice, and then his face heats up so furiously that he’s sure he must be bright red, grip on your throat immediately loosening.

“I—” he starts to say, but fumbles over the words, flustered. “You—”

You laugh loudly, prettily, the sound makes Aerion ache—he hates how much he missed it, and then—

Aerion chokes on salt water as you push him off of you, right into the shallow sea. He flails as he sinks down, seeking something to grab onto as a wave smacks him in the face and sends him sprawling back, fingers slipping against the slick surface of the rock.

By the time he gets his footing and pushes himself out of the water, enraged, you’re already at the shore.

“Do not dare—” he starts to say when he recognizes the bright expression on your face. “Wench, by the Seven, I will—”

“Catch me!” you shout, taking off before you even wait to see if he’ll give chase.

His teeth grind together as he glares after you, barely withholding a litany of curses that threaten to burst from him—worse, barely suppressing the smile that threatens to tug at the corners of his lips, relief and offense equally debilitating. 

He has missed this. He has missed you. But—

“You better pray I do not catch you, you wretched woman!”

—but for some reason, there is a pit in his stomach that he cannot seem to rid himself of. 

Something is still wrong, and he needs to figure out what.

————————

They call us twins as though that word adequately explains what it was to be you and me. I do not think I ever learned how to tell where I ended and you began. The gods may have given us separate bodies, but I have spent six years discovering they were far less successful at separating everything else.

It is easier to pretend that nothing is wrong.

You lounge against the couches in Magister Vyrano’s triclinium for dinner, laughing when Marcellus makes a fool of himself after drinking too much wine, and listening to Vyrano’s disingenuous complaints about the Golden Company, as though he hadn’t been the one primarily benefiting from their continued presence in Lys this past year. No one notices the way your smile hardly reaches your eyes, or how your eyes glaze over when Vyrano’s grumbling draws on too long.

Well, almost no one. 

Aerion’s attention remains pinned on you, even as he entertains the First Magister with tales of his time with the Second Sons. You can feel how hyperaware he is of you—every time you move around on the cushions, his gaze cuts in your direction, and when someone addresses you, he quiets down briefly to look at them before returning to his own conversation. If you start to drift, he catches it before anyone else does, shifting closer so that he’s lying closer to you, shoulder flush to yours, grounding in a way that scares you more than it helps you, because since when has Aerion been able to read you so well?

I have spent all this time trying to hate you and have failed with a consistency that should embarrass us both. Do you know what it is like to lose someone and be expected to thank them for it?

Now, the end of the night draws near, and the First Magister and Magister Vyrano are busy discussing a new trade agreement with Myr. Marcellus is flirting with one of Vyrano’s daughters, and all of the others are deep in wine and conversation with each other. You want to go back to your chambers for the night, but the host must be the one to commence the end of the night… and a part of you is desperate to avoid the conversation with Aerion that you know is imminent when festivities come to an end.

Aerion’s gaze is already fully on you, elbow propped up on the cushions, head resting in his hand, a goblet of wine in hand—it is sharp and calculating in a way that has you full of dread. You try not to let it show on your face, raising your eyebrows just enough for him to take as a challenge. His eyes narrow immediately, but before he can ask what you know is on his mind, you speak up.

“Did you know Jaenys was my first friend?” you ask quietly, gaze sliding away from him to your wine, desperately trying to draw yourself from the memory of your brother’s letter and the imminent conversation and everything in between. There has not been a day that has gone by that you haven’t been haunted by his words. You force your lips to curve up into a small smile as you let out a puff of air. “He doesn’t know that, though.”

You made yourself a martyr and left me to live with everything I ever wanted, and somehow took the only thing that mattered. There are nights when I miss you so much that I could mistake it for hatred, and mornings when I hate you so fiercely that I could mistake it for love.

“He doesn’t know he was your first friend?” Aerion drawls, and you glance back over at him. 

There’s a curious expression on his face—you haven’t told him much about your friends back home, you realize. By the time he arrived, you found that talking about them only made you homesick. You can use this, maybe, to distract him from the other conversation that’s definitely coming—and yourself.

“No. To this day, I think he still believes that Naera, Aenar, and I were friends before him,” you tell him, eyes sliding shut as you take a long sip of your wine. “I didn’t have friends when I was young—I mean, Naera and Aenar were there, we were grouped together because we were the best in our cohort, but we weren’t friends. Well, I had—he doesn’t count.”

You exhale, throat tightening as you swallow away the sudden lump in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to think about Viserys. 

You haunt me incessantly. I have shared my bed with men and women whose names I cannot remember and spent the entire night thinking about a conversation we had when we were twelve. I do not know how to live without you, and I despise you for trying to make me learn how.

You blame the wine.

“We were… seven, eight? Naera and Aenar teamed up against me during war games because I kept winning. I couldn’t take them both on at once because they decided to play dirty—one of them went after Viserys, the other went for my territory. So, I had to enlist an ally, and Jae’s territory was closest to mine, so I set it on fire—” Aerion snorts “—and forced him to go after Aenar while I tried to catch up to Naera before she got to Viserys,” you explain, smiling lightly now as you trace the soft fabric of the cushions beneath you. “I only really expected him to hold Aenar long enough for me to deal with Naera and get back, but he actually managed to take him out, so the elders started treating Jae like how they treated me, Aenar, and Naera.”

You don’t really know why you’re telling him all of this. This is hardly better than your brother’s words echoing through your head over and over and over again.

You don’t dare look over at him, because you do not want to see the expression on his face. Your jaw tightens as that familiar heavy feeling begins to weigh on your chest, but you force yourself to continue. 

I would rather have died in the Sorrows than live like this, and I think you know that. You are not a hero—you are selfish, and I will never forgive you for what you’ve done. Every day for six years, I have been forced to live with a choice that should have been mine to make.

“I guess it looked like the three of us were friends from the outside, because Jae treated us all like we’d been friends all our lives, and he was the new one to the group. The first time he got us all to hang out together, he kept asking what we usually do in our free time together, and we just looked at each other because we had no idea what he was talking about,” you say quietly, voice a bit rougher now as you fight through the need to change the subject. “Aenar finally saw some older kids playing cards, so he said that. I guess we were all just too embarrassed to admit we hardly knew each other besides training and war games, so we went along with it. We spent the whole day playing with some random card deck, making up stupid rules mid-game to rile up Jae. Then we spent every day together for the next decade. Visedor eventually joined us; he was a year younger than us, followed us around like a duckling for five years before we finally let him start actually hanging around us.”

You miss them.

Having Jaenys here with you the past year—it was nice. 

Better than nice. It was easy in a way things haven’t been since you left. He made it easy to pretend that Volantis was not half a world away, that six years had not passed since you had all been together; you lounged with him, and if you closed your eyes long enough, you could almost imagine that the rest of them might walk through the door to join you. And then the letter from Viserys—

I do not know whether I want to see you again or make certain I never do. Sometimes I wake convinced you are beside me, and for a few moments, I am happy, and then I remember you are gone, and I do not know how to breathe.

You cannot think about that now.

“I do not think I realized how much I missed them,” you finally say, quietly so that only Aerion can overhear. You hate feeling weak, hate the way your voice wavers over the words, hate even more the way Aerion is looking at you right now, the contemplative expression that scares you more than anger ever could. “A part of me—I think a part of me never accepted this was permanent.”

The admission sits sour on your tongue; you stare down at your wine, lip curled up in distaste. For all of the times you acknowledged that you would never go home, all of the times you mourned because you would never walk through the gardens of your family’s palace or sit in the atrium sharpening your sword while your brother played the harp, a part of you always found it ludicrous. 

Because of course, you would go home one day—it is where you are meant to be, it is the only future you ever saw for yourself, even after years of exile. If you are not to go home and become Triarch, if you are not to go home and be with Viserys, then you were better off dead. 

I have cursed your name more often than I have spoken any prayer. There are days when I convince myself I have finally gotten over it, and then something happens that only you would understand.

“I knew what happened, obviously. I knew I was exiled. I knew that six years had passed. I knew that my exile was permanent—in place of execution—but I just…” You exhale through your nose, fingers tightening around the stem of your goblet, because you do not know how to explain it. You hardly understand it yourself. “I think some foolish part of me still always believed that it was only a matter of time before the Triarchs realized their mistake and welcomed me home. And then—”

You cut yourself off, sighing as you shake your head and look away. 

I cannot even bring myself to look in the mirror most days, because all I see is you. It is a cruel thing to be haunted by the face of someone who is still alive. And yet there are mornings when the sight of you reflected back at me is the only thing that gets me through the day, because after six years, it is the closest thing to your presence that I have left.

And then Jaenys came to Lys with a plot to actually get you home, and for the first time since you were exiled, you had your situation laid bare. Before he came, exile had been something abstract. Painful, certainly, but distant—a wound you could ignore if you fucked and drank enough. You could tell yourself that one day things would change, and never have to look too closely to examine exactly what that meant.

But Jaenys arrived carrying the thing you had spent six years pretending was inevitable, and suddenly, you had to examine what that actually meant, because home would never be handed to you on a silver platter. The Triarchs would not accept you back unless the Tigers somehow obtained majority without you there to lead them to it, and if they would not accept you back, the only way back was war, and if war was the only option, then the Tigers would need allies, and if the Tigers needed allies, the only real option was the Golden Company.

And if you aligned with the Golden Company, you would lose Aerion. 

Suddenly, all of the confidence you had that one day you would return home was gone, because the costs—how are you supposed to justify these costs? How are you supposed to—

I sometimes think I would have forgiven your death more easily than your absence.

Your gaze lifts as a loud crashing noise interrupts the gathering, and you watch as Marcellus shoves away one of Magister Vyrano’s servants, stumbling over his own feet, face flush with alcohol, rage in his eyes. You raise your eyebrows and share a long look with Aerion, who snorts softly into his wine before he takes a sip.

“Marcellus,” the First Magister says, voice cool but strained, trying not to make more of a scene than his son has. “Sit down.”

“Sit down?” he echoes, voice a hiss. “Sit down, this fucking—”

“Marcellus!” the First Magister interrupts loudly, slamming his palm against the cushion beneath him as he rises into a sitting position. “Enough.”

The First Magister exchanges a look with Vyrano, who inclines his head and rises from the cushions, signaling the end of the night before Marcellus could further make a fool of the First Magister. You turn your attention back to Aerion as Vyrano begins his spiel, and your gaze slides over him once, appreciating the soft glow of the candlelight against his skin and the way his silver hair slips into his face. 

He raises an eyebrow at you, silently beckoning you to stop staring at him, but you only wink at him, hand darting out to grab his, pulling it close to you so that you can ghost your lips against his knuckles before he even realizes what you’re doing. His face burns red as he yanks his hand back, giving you an accusing look.

“You—”

“I’ll meet you back at my chambers,” you cut in smoothly before he can spit an insult at you, mighty pleased with yourself. “I have to go take care of something quickly.”

I thought it would become easier over time, but I feel as though I am forced to live without a part of myself that I was never meant to live without. Please come home—whatever the cost. 

There is one path left still, but are you willing to risk ruining everything when you've already sacrificed so much to keep him?

———————

In retrospect, you should have realized something was wrong sooner. 

The way Aerion was acting at dinner was unusual—he was never so quiet, never so eager to listen without commentary. He was studying you as though he was bracing himself for something, like he knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t place what. You assumed it was because he was tired or maybe he could sense how hesitant you were to have the conversation about why you stopped responding to his ravens, but you should know by now that nothing is ever so simple with him.

“What are you doing?”

You do not think you’ve ever actually raised your voice at Aerion before—you have been irritated and angry, you’ve mocked him and teased him, but you’ve never yelled before. Until now, at least. You do not actually mean to raise your voice, but the words rush out of you, sharp and loud, with a simultaneous thrill of panic and fury, because he is standing at your desk, and the parchment in his hand—it is—

“Whatever the cost,” Aerion echoes the last words of the letter your brother sent. “How quaint.”

Your heart drops, and your throat tightens, because you do not want to deal with this. You do not want to have this conversation. You do want to think about your brother. You knew it was coming, but you were hoping to avoid it a little longer.

You let out a soft scoff as an odd expression twists onto Aerion’s face, not catching it in your irritation. Your lips part to tell him to put the letter down, but before you can, his jaw tightens, and he puts it back down on your desk on his own, fingers splayed across the parchment as he stares down at it for a moment.

“Where were you?” he asks you, barely looking at you as he stares down at the desk. “Where did you go after dinner?”

“None of your fucking business, Aerion. Where do you get off snooping through my shit?” you ask furiously, blood pressure rising.

“None of my business—I’m sure. You know, I was wondering what the catch would be,” he says more to himself than to you, voice quiet, strained. There’s something off about it that finally makes you pause, eyes narrowing when his lips curl up into a smile that does not reach his eyes. When he looks at you over his shoulder, there’s a feverish look on his face—one you haven’t seen on him since he was half-mad raving in your chambers a year ago when the Golden Company first arrived. “How long do I have?”

“What?” you ask, voice riddled with confusion. “What are you—”

“How long do I have before the fucking Blackfyres are here?” he demands, voice shrill now, eyes wild. “Are they here now? Was the fleet leaving a decoy? How long before they get here? This was all just a play for you to get home, wasn’t it? Draw me back to give the Blackfyres what they wanted, all so you can—”

Your blood is roaring as soon as the words register, disbelief plain on your face. You are desperately, desperately trying not to lose your temper. 

You tell yourself that Aerion has had a long year with the Second Sons. You tell yourself that he has only just returned to Lys after a long voyage. You tell yourself he is rightfully on edge because you went silent for three months after receiving Viserys's letter. 

You tell yourself all of this, but the longer he speaks, the more something hot and vicious begins to coil in your chest. Your nails draw blood from your palm, fists so tight that it borders on painful.

He cannot be serious right now.

“You cannot be serious,” you scoff, pride warring with rage and indignity and worse, hurt. “I—”

“I cannot be serious? You vanished for three months,” he continues, palm slamming against your desk as he whirls on you. “Three months, and I spent every day wondering whether you'd left. Wondering whether or not you’d decided to go home. I stepped off the ship, and you weren’t on the dock, and I thought you were gone. But then you weren’t. Then you were here, and all I could think to ask was why. All night I’ve been trying to figure out what the damn catch is because none of this has made any sense.” He lifts the parchment again before flinging it back down. “This is the catch. This is the catch, you wretched—how long do I have before they come? Tell me—tell me now. I will not let you make a fool of me. I will not—”

You’re not sure whose hand drops to the hilt of their sword first. Did Aerion reach for his? Did he move forward, and you reached for yours? Why did he reach for his? Why did you reach for yours? 

For one awful heartbeat, neither of you seems entirely certain of how you got here. One minute, you were lying on the cushions in Magister Vyrano’s triclinium, and things were how they should have been the past year of separation, and the next, you’re in your chambers, both of your hands on your swords, looking at one another from opposite sides of the room like enemies.

You stare at him for a long moment, and he stares at you. Neither of you moves—the room is silent, and the moonlight casts an eerie glow over the two of you. Somewhere below the balcony, you can hear the First Magister’s guards having a late-night chat, undoubtedly gossiping about whatever went down between Marcellus and his father once they returned to the manse, because you’re sure the man was screaming before he got halfway through the door.

Your pulse is hammering, and Aerion’s chest rises and falls rapidly, pupils dilated as his gaze focuses on where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt of your sword. You see the exact moment he believes he’s cornered—his gaze flies from where your hand is on your sword toward the balcony, calculating, looking for exits and enemies, the trap he has convinced himself exists—and you see the exact moment he chooses to fight his way through, body tensing, inhaling deeply.

He really believes this, you think in disbelief—furious, betrayed, hurt. You gave up your surefire shot at going home, you chose him over your brother, and he’s here accusing you of concocting this elaborate trap to give him to people who would torture and kill him. He cannot possibly think you’re capable of handing him over to them, can he? After everything?

“Aerion,” you start to say, but his name comes out harsher than you intend, and his grip visibly tightens on the sword you gave him. 

Your hand flexes on the hilt of your sword, tightening before you plan to release it entirely in hopes of de-escalating the situation, but Aerion’s gaze zeroes in on the movement, sees your knuckles tighten around the hilt, already half-mad with fear and exhaustion and paranoia, and he lunges forward, steel sliding from the sheath at his side with a clean hiss, trying to beat you to first strike.

For one long moment, you can only stare, and then instinct takes over. Steel clashes against steel hard enough to send a violent jolt up your arm, and the force of Aerion’s strike drives you half a step backward into the wall.

What the fuck is even happening right now?

You stare at him in disbelief as he goes in for a second strike, faster than the first, and you barely catch it in time because you’re so stunned. He doesn’t give you time to breathe, and that, more than anything, tells you how badly he’s falling apart. 

Aerion is a cruel fighter—he is ruthless and violent, but more than anything, he is patient. He likes to toy with people, likes to make them feel slow and stupid, dismantle them piece by piece until they’re too frustrated to think clearly. You’ve seen him do it countless times over with whatever household guard or mercenary he sweet-talked into a spar, but this is… this is not that. It is not him. This is feral; a cornered animal trying to free itself from the predicament it's found itself in.

“I will not let you do it,” he tells you, and he is smiling, teeth bared, shaking his head. You lean back as his next strike arcs toward your neck, purposely not blocking the strike in hopes of catching him off guard with the over-swing. “I will not—”

You drive your foot forward before he can regain his balance after the missed strike, catching him hard in the side, sending him stumbling backward. He tries to twist with the blow rather than against it to minimize the opening for you to capitalize on, one hand slamming against the edge of your bed to stabilize himself. His free hand shifts to the dagger you know he keeps sheathed at his forearm, and you are furious, because he is genuinely trying to put you down before whatever imaginary enemies he thinks are coming through that door arrive to finish him off. 

“Aerion!” 

“Shut up!”

He flings the dagger at your face, and it lodges into the wood of your door where your head just was. You hear the First Magister’s guard panicking downstairs as the sound of steel clashing and shouting reaches them. You need to end this before they get up here—you lunge forward when he’s still regaining his footing. 

“Iksā iā qogralbar doru-borto! Gaomagon ao sesīr rȳbagon naejot aōla?” you spit as you grab his wrist before he can go for another strike. 

You are a fucking idiot. Are you even listening to yourself?

“Eman hāre hūra naejot rȳbagon naejot nykēla!” he hisses right back, voice shrill, eyes wide and wild as he drops his sword into his free hand to jab at your stomach. His blade cuts through the fabric of your clothes; you’re barely able to twist out of the way this time. “Ao pendagon nyke raqagon pendare tolvie tubis lu ao mōrī ivestragon īlen daor iderēbagon? Ao pendagon nyke raqagon iōragon va bona nopāzma lōgor jurnegēre syt ao? Nyke gīmigon bisa iksin jāre naejot massigon. Nyke gīmigon ziry! Ao daor mittys nyke. Kesan daor ivestragī ao ondos nyke toliot naejot morghūljagon—iā qubykta."

I had three months to listen to myself! Do you think I enjoyed wondering every day whether you finally decided I was not worth choosing? Do you think I enjoyed standing on that damned dock looking for you? I knew this was going to happen. I knew it! You cannot fool me. I will not let you hand me over to die—or worse.

You twist his wrist, relishing in the pained hiss he lets out, and then you drive your knee into his gut, forcing him to double over, putting your elbow into his face hard. He tries to swing his arm out, but you shove him backward so that the back of his knees hit your bed and he topples back onto it. He immediately tries to scramble away to put space between the two of you, gaze flying around your room for another weapon to use against you, zeroing in on the dagger you leave on your nightstand, but you grab his ankle before he can make it across, dragging him back to you. 

His boot nearly catches your jaw as he tries to kick free, and you swear viciously beneath your breath, climbing onto the bed so that you can put your knee into the small of his back to pin him down. 

“Enough! Nobody is trying to kill you, Aerion,” you tell him, exasperated, heart still pounding, one hand reaching to grab his hair to pin his head down to the mattress when he thrashes again, more concerned with him hurting himself than you now. 

He glares at you from the corner of his eye and spits, “That is exactly what someone trying to kill me would say.”

The sheer insanity of the statement almost makes you laugh.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks, both of you breathing heavy, adrenaline racing, desperately trying to calm down. You can see his back rising and falling rapidly and unsteadily, fingers trembling slightly as they curl around the familiar fabric of your sheets. His throat bobs as he looks back at you again.

“Iksan daor iā mittys,” he says again, quieter now—a thin veneer of pride desperately trying to mask the hurt beneath. “Nyke gīmigon konīr iksin iā ūndegon. Nyke gīmigon kesā dōrī iderēbagon nyke toliot jāre lenton.”

I am not a fool. I knew there was a catch. I knew you would never choose me over going home.

He is a fool, you think, bitter and fond and frustrated and heartsick all at once. You remember every time you sat at your desk to finally respond to one of his ravens, only to throw the parchment aside as soon as you finished writing, because you did not know how to put into words that you had been given everything you ever wanted and could not bring yourself to take it. You imagine dozens of sleepless nights after months of unanswered ravens, and the way he must have stiffened whenever someone mentioned Lys or the Golden Company. 

How were you supposed to explain it without it feeling like a betrayal?

How were you supposed to tell Viserys that you loved him enough to start a war for him, but not enough to come home to him?

How were you supposed to tell Aerion that you loved him enough to stay?

Neither felt fair or forgivable, and every time you picked up that quill, you heard your brother’s voice in your ear: please come home—whatever the cost, and you just could not bring yourself to write anything at all.

“I did, Aerion,” you tell him. “I chose you. Nyke iderēbagon ao.”

I choose you.

“Pirtirys,” he rasps, voice sharp and accusing, but there is no hiding the way it wavers over the word. “Iksā iā pirtirys.”

Liar. You are a liar.

“Oh, certainly,” you agree easily, sitting back slightly to pull your knee from where it’s jammed into the small of his back, releasing his hair when you realize he’s mostly calmed down. He rests his cheek on the sheets, looking at you from the corner of his eye, sharp and calculating, full of doubt. “But not about this.”

Aerion only stares at you, silver hair tangled where your fingers had been twisting it to hold him down, mouth bloodied from where you’d struck him, clothes rumpled and torn and still smelling of the sea, because neither of you had even bothered to change properly before dinner. He looks ruined in the moonlight—beautiful and furious and humiliated, exhausted and yearning, because he wants what you say to be true even if he cannot bring himself to believe it.

“You cannot expect me to believe that,” he says, scoffing under his breath. “You really expect me to believe you had Volantis within reach—your precious brother and all of your precious friends—and you simply decided not to take it? Do not insult me, wench. I am not stupid enough to believe I am worth more to you than that.”

He laughs again, sharp and bitter, no humor behind it. You can see his teeth grinding, and you half-shake your head as you look away, gaze turning to the side, because you have been bracing yourself for this conversation for three months, and you are no more prepared for it than you were when you first read your brother’s letter.

“I will have another chance to go home,” you say, even if you do not believe it yourself. Relying on Aenys is a fool’s errand—he’s as fickle and capricious as you are. One minute, he had you lying in bed, kissing your wrist, neck, every inch of your body he could reach, and the next, he was poisoning your wine with a pretty smile, draped over your body as he waited for you to drink it. He might say he’s working to get you home today, but tomorrow he could be sending another assassin your way. You’ll find another way. You have to. “One that does not come at such a high cost.”

Aerion’s breath catches at your words, eyes widening slightly as he realizes that you might actually be telling the truth, that you might have actually chosen him. Then his expression becomes guarded again, as though he caught himself hoping for something that he ought not.

“I do not believe you,” he says, voice thinner now, uncertain. “If that was the case, you would not have disappeared for months. You would have sent a raven, and you would have—”

You exhale through your nose, tired, and drag a hand down your face. Your free hand rests on Aerion’s lower back, thumb rubbing absent circles into the crease at the small of his back through the thin fabric of his clothes. You should let him up now that he’s calmed down, but you have little desire to move, suddenly far too exhausted.

“Dear Aerion,” you say, voice mocking. “My brother finally wrote to me after six years of silence, begging me to come home. Instead, I will remain in Lys. Hope you’re well.”

His jaw tightens, face flushing lightly. “Do not play the fool. Obviously, that is not what—”

“Then tell me what I should have said.”

His mouth opens to make a snide remark, and then he closes it again—because there is no snide remark, no answer, nothing you could have said. The truth sounds monstrous and traitorous, no matter how you phrase it. Even Aerion must understand that, considering how certain he was that you couldn’t have possibly actually chosen him over going home. 

“I spent six years telling myself I would go home eventually. Six years.” Your voice comes out quieter now, and you look away again, toward the balcony this time. “Every miserable day in this city, every morning I woke up and remembered where I was, every night I drank myself stupid enough to sleep—I only got through it because I never really saw this as permanent. I thought that eventually someone would come for me or the Triarchs would realize they were wrong. Then Jaenys arrived carrying the thing I’d spent over half a decade waiting for, and I turned him down. Do you know what the worst part is?” 

Aerion doesn’t answer. You do not really expect him to.

“It wasn’t even a difficult decision,” you admit what’s truly been haunting you this whole time. You can feel him looking at you now, eyes sharp and calculating, studying you with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. “As soon as I realized what the cost would be, I knew I would never get on those ships. And then my brother sent that letter, and I—I thought, was I making a mistake? And I just—” You shrug helplessly, shoulders slumping slightly. “How was I supposed to write to you when I didn’t even know—”

You cut yourself off again, looking to the side. When you didn’t what? You didn’t know what you wanted? Or you didn’t know how to justify what you wanted without it feeling like a betrayal to yourself? Without it feeling like a betrayal to your brother? Your father, friends, and future? You still do not know how. 

Aerion scoffs, but it’s light this time, lacking heat and bite. He murmurs, “You are an idiot, wench.”

“That's rich coming from the man who started a sword fight because he convinced himself I was secretly working with the Blackfyres.”

Aerion’s face flames red, and any lingering tension between the two of you disappears as you laugh and Aerion lets out a dramatic huff, turning his face into the mattress. He mutters, “You were acting suspicious, you wretched woman. You provoked me.”

“Oh, certainly,” you reply sarcastically, smiling when he glares at you from the corner of his eye.

You lean down, chest to his back, so that you can kiss the crook of his neck—you feel him hum, tilting his head slightly to the side to let you drag open-mouthed kisses up the side of his neck, but before you can settle atop him, there’s a panicked knock at your door.

“My lady, we heard—” you hear one of the First Magister’s household guards call from the hallway. 

You scowl into Aerion’s hair at the interruption, pulling back to glance at the door as you snap, “You heard nothing. Leave us be.”

“… As you say, my lady,” the guard answers after a moment. 

You wait until the sound of retreating footsteps fades down the corridor before letting out a long sigh and dropping your forehead against the back of Aerion’s shoulder. Your lips part to say something, but before you can, you feel his hand snap back to wrap around your right calf; you realize what’s happening a second too late, barely biting back a curse as he drags you off of his back and flings you onto the bed next to him. 

Your back hits the mattress hard with an oof, and Aerion scrambles on top of you, knee jabbing into your side, hand finding your throat to keep you pinned down before you can knock him off. A thrill runs up your spine when you catch the wide-eyed expression on his face, pupils dilated, breath unsteady.

“Skoro syt?” he breathes out after a moment, fingers biting into your neck with just enough pressure to make your pulse thrum harder, not enough to cut off the air to your lungs. “Ivestragon nyke skoro syt”

Why? Tell me why.

Your throat bobs under his touch, and your lashes flutter as his thumb drags along the length of your neck. His gaze slides down, rapt as your throat spasms beneath his touch. 

You tell him, “Ao gīmigon skoro syt.”

You know why.

Aerion scoffs, jaw tightening as he looks down at you, gaze meeting yours. He presses his lips together tightly, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply before he says, “Ivestragon nyke mirre ñuhoso, mundagon ābra.”

Tell me anyway, miserable woman.

You have half a mind to clam up and evade the question with a snide remark about how he’s needy, or tease him about the faint flush high on his cheeks, but then you feel the way his fingers twitch against your throat when you take too long to answer, the way his next breath catches. He is still on edge from his earlier assumptions, and if you were any less generous, you would needle him into drawing another blade, but you are a magnanimous person at heart, truly—he should be grateful you’re granting him this reprieve.

“Kesrio syt avy jorrāelan,” you say quietly, tilting your head back slightly as his grip loosens on your throat. You see the moment your words register, because all of the lingering wildness in his eyes drains away, lashes fluttering as he tries to hide the way your words undo him entirely. “Kesrio syt gaoman daor jaelagon naejot ojughagon ao. Kesrio syt gaoman daor jaelagon iā ābrar mijegon ao.”

Because I love you. Because I do not want to lose you. Because I do not want a future without you.

His lips are on yours before you even finish speaking, swallowing your words, breath hot and ragged; your eyes slide shut as his thumb presses into your jaw to tilt your head back more so that he can kiss you even deeper. You sigh into him, lips parting as his tongue traces along the roof of your mouth. You can taste the metallic ting of iron from where you’d driven your elbow into his face, and the faint flavor of the sweet grapes you’d been tossing at him earlier in the night in Magister Vyrano’s triclinium. 

“Dīnagon nyke,” he breathes against your lips, not for the first time and certainly not the last, breath ragged. He kisses you again, teeth catching on your bottom lip; a third time to draw blood, tongue lapping at the shallow wound he made. “Rȳ ānogar se perzys. Kosti gaomagon ziry kesīr. Sir. Bantis.”

Marry me. Through blood and fire. We can do it here. Now. Tonight.

You smile into his mouth as he lets out a muffled gasp, hips instinctively rolling against yours. Your hands come up to cradle his face between your palms, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss when he tries to pull away for air. You know his lungs must be burning from the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the way it spasms as he sucks your bottom lip between his, biting down hard, but he kisses you still, harder even.

You feel him reach down to push your silks out of the way, and you let out a huff of laughter, grabbing his hand to stop him. He gives you an irritated look, but his expression smooths out when you lean up to press your lips against his again, slow this time, one leg curling around his waist until his body is flush against yours, giving yourself some leverage to flip him over when this inevitably escalates. He is too busy letting his body melt into yours to recognize the ulterior motives. 

“Gaomagon daor jiōragon isse naejon hen aōla, zaldrīzes dārilaros,” you murmur, nipping at his bottom lip. 

Do not get ahead of yourself, dragon prince. 

You do not know if you’re referring to his words or actions—both, maybe. You think that he realizes, too, because a hint of suspicion flickers across his face as he pulls back to look at you, trying to figure out what you were telling him not to get ahead of himself about. He’ll take offense to both, certainly, but one more than the other by a long shot, so your lips curve up into a teasing smile as you lean up to drag your tongue along his jawline, relishing in the way he cannot hold back a shudder.

You add quickly, “Vesti bona kesan sagon se mēre naejot kostilus ao naejot bantis, gōntan īlon daor?”

We agreed that I would be the one to pleasure you tonight, did we not?

You’re smiling into his skin until you feel his fingers wrap around your throat again so that he can pin you back to the bed. His eyebrows lift, lips turning up into a sharp smile. You match it, lashes fluttering as his hand slides up to hold your face, nails digging into your cheeks to force your eyes on him. 

“Iksā daor isse mirre dīnagon naejot mazverdagon va bona kivio, issi ao, līve?” he taunts, the fire returning to his eyes as he stares down at you, challenging you.

You’re not in any position to make due on that promise, are you, wench?

Your blood roars at the prospect of another fight, even if this one wouldn’t be with steel. You hardly give Aerion the time to process what you’re doing, the leg around his waist tightening as you flip the two of you over. 

He bares his teeth at you, reacting quicker than you anticipate as he bucks his hips up to throw you off, but your hand drops down to his throat the same way he did to yours, wrapping around his slim neck and squeezing hard.

His eyes widen, breath catching as you cut off the airflow to his lungs without missing a beat. His hand drops from your throat to your wrist, trying to pry your hand off his neck to no avail, and he sneers at you as though his face isn’t steadily reddening, lips parting over air that won’t reach his lungs.

“Aw, mijegindita zaldrīzes dārilaros, qilōni iksis daor isse paktot dīnagon sir?” you mock, much more smug than you should be, considering Aerion has two free legs and a free arm to use to throw you off of him. “Kesan—”

Aw, poor dragon prince, who is not in the right position now? I will—

Aerion does not let you finish the sentence, free hand flying to your waist the moment you move to settle on his hips, tossing you off right as you’re putting your weight on you’re balancing on your left knee to make yourself comfortable on him.

You let out a surprised yelp, barely reacting fast enough as Aerion lunges at you. You catch wrists in one hand by sheer chance, and your other drops down to his waist to stop him from landing on top of you and ending the struggle, but you’re straining now, effectively trying to hold all of his weight midair. Aerion might be smaller than most men, but he’s all lean muscle, and you’re still tipsy from the wine the two of you were drinking earlier.

Too focused on trying not to let Aerion drop on top of you, you don’t catch the way his expression drops down to your biceps, lips parting slightly, pupils blown wide. You take advantage of the distraction to jerk hard to the side, using his own momentum against him. The maneuver is sloppy—you are both still half-drunk and exhausted—but it works.

Aerion lets out an undignified noise of surprise as his weight carries him past you. You roll with him, shoulder bumping against his chest, and then he’s hitting the mattress beside you instead of on top of you.

He tries to push himself up immediately, but the moment his hands plant against the mattress, you’re grabbing his bicep to drag him forward. His chest hits the mattress, and you’re on him before he can fully process what happened, grabbing his wrists to pin them to the small of his back, straddling his upper thighs to hold him down.

He’s panting—you’re both panting. The room feels too warm all of a sudden, moonlight spilling across the tangled sheets and the two of you, casting a pretty glow over Aerion’s face as he looks back at you. His hair has come loose entirely, strands sticking to his forehead and cheeks and the nape of his neck, and his back rises and falls beneath you in uneven breaths. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves, and then Aerion twists beneath you. You tighten your grip on his wrist and then reach up with your free hand to fist his hair, craning his head back so that he’s forced to look at you. He’s glaring at you furiously, amethyst eyes slivers around his pupils, lips wet and swollen from your shared kisses; he winces when you tug his hair harder, forcing his neck at an uncomfortable angle so that you can lean in to ghost your lips against his. 

He bites down hard, teeth sinking into your bottom lip deep enough to draw blood, and you laugh as iron floods your mouth, pulling back and pressing his face hard into the mattress, ignoring the disgruntled noise muffled against your sheets. 

“Do not pout because you lost, dragon prince,” you mock, leaning down over him to kiss behind his ear. “You are a terribly sore loser.”

“I am not pouting,” he hisses, glaring at you again from the corner of his eye. His face is flushed, but you do not think it’s from anger this time. He adds petulantly, “And I did not lose.”

“No?” you question, tilting your head to the side with a lazy smile. “What do you call this then?”

Aerion bares his teeth at you, silent as he tries to search for an answer that preserves his dignity. Unfortunately for him, he is currently pinned to your bed, one cheek half-squashed against the mattress, hair in complete disarray and wrists pinned behind his back.

“This,” he says loftily, as though you are the fool here, “is strategy.”

“Strategy,” you echo, amused.

“Mm.”

“You are face-down in my sheets, prince,” you murmur, relishing in the way he inhales sharply when you tug at his earlobe with your teeth, kissing slowly down his neck. His whole body shivers when you release his hair to slip your hand beneath his tunic to drag your nails against his spine. “I’m curious to know how this strategy of yours is faring.”

“It is going exactly as I planned, wench,” he says, as though his lashes aren’t fluttering every time your lips press against his skin. “I am luring you into a false sense of security.”

“I’m sure,” you agree easily. 

Aerion makes another disgruntled noise, but his shoulders tense when you drag your scratch lightly at the base of his spine, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of his pants. You feel him attempt another experimental twist beneath you, as though he has suddenly remembered that he is supposed to be escaping, but it is wholly unconvincing. You tighten your grip on his wrists anyway, and he huffs.

“You are insufferable,” he mutters into the mattress. “I became distracted. You would not have won otherwise. You employed dishonorable tactics.”

You raise your eyebrows, amused.

“Oh, so I won, did I?” you tease, biting his neck lightly before nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. “What distracted you, esteemed dragon prince?”

“Do not mock me, wench,” he spits, face steadily reddening as he glares back at you, pointedly ignoring the question.

“I would never,” you say, giving him a bright smile to which he promptly rolls his eyes at the blatant lie. “Well? What distracted you?”

Aerion’s expression shutters instantly. “I do not owe you that information.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, bright smile becoming sharper, eyes glittering with mischief as you purr, “Oh? And why is that?”

Aerion’s jaw tightens, realizing his mistake immediately. He says simply, voice high and imperious as ever, “I simply see no reason to divulge my battle assessments to the enemy, you wretched woman. You will take advantage of it in the future—I am not a fool.”

“Hmm,” you hum, shifting so that your chest is flush to his back, pinning him beneath your bodyweight. 

When he turns his head to scowl at you again, you lean in to press your lips against his. You lift one hand to cradle his cheek, fingers tangling in his silver hair, and when he starts to melt into the kiss, you purposely press your thigh hard into his ass, pushing his hips forward and grinding his cock into the mattress. He chokes, letting out a pitched, muffled moan into your mouth, hips instinctively rocking forward the moment you force pressure onto his straining cock.

You smile against his lips, sharp and delighted. “Ao limagon sīr gevie, zaldrīzes dārilaros,” you breathe, nipping his bottom lip and devoting both hands to freeing him of his tunic.

You moan so pretty, dragon prince. 

“Sagon lyka,” he hisses.

Shut up.

His face is flushed as he shifts his upper body so you ease off the soft fabric—you can’t tell if it's from need or embarrassment, and you do not really care when he’s half bare beneath you for the first time in nearly a year. All of the months of stress and uncertainty, and all of the nights you woke with ragged breath, panicked, reaching for someone who was not there—at once, they all become worth it, because you cannot imagine a future without Aerion anymore, and you finally have him within reach again.

He is yours, and you are his—there is no world where the two of you are separated. Even if you cannot rely on Aenys to bring you home, you will figure something out yourself. You will, and he will come with you. You will bring him into the Black Walls and show him your family palace and the gardens, you will take him to the shores of Old Valyria as you once did as a child, you will celebrate the Syranaelia festival with him—more than one, if you have it your way. You will. 

You will have everything you want one day: your home, your friends, your brother, Aerion, and one day, you will look back at this and laugh because of how you felt as though it was the end of the world when it was the only path that would lead you to everything you desire. You will, because you have to, because that is the only future you will accept for yourself.

“What are you thinking about, wench?” Aerion asks, because you do not even realize that you’ve stopped peppering kisses along his neck. “Hm?” 

“I’m thinking of all the ways I’m going to take you apart tonight, prince,” you say with an easy smile. 

He knows you’re lying, you can tell from the narrowed look he casts over his shoulder, but you do not give him the chance to call you out on it, because you immediately press your lips to the base of his neck, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the length of his spine, savoring in the heat of his skin and how he arches slightly into your touch. 

Your hand slides down his body, fingers playing with the waist of his pants. You ghost a kiss over a mole halfway down his back, relishing in the way he’s physically holding back a shiver.

“Has anyone ever fucked you here, prince?” you murmur, hand gliding over the small curve of his ass before settling on his upper thigh. “Or will I get to be the first?”

“By the gods, must you phrase everything in the most vulgar way possible, wench?” he hisses at you. “I am a prince of the blood—a dragon.”

“I fail to see how these two things are mutually exclusive,” you drawl, “but I will take that as a no. I’m glad I get to be the first. I might have had to kill anyone else who got to see how I’m about to.”

He shoots you a vicious look over his shoulder that seriously loses effect, considering his face is so red that he looks on the verge of passing out.

“You will take it as nothing,” he says sharply, as though his lashes don’t flutter when you suck a bruise into the small of his back. “And if you repeat that sentence, I shall throw you from your balcony.”

“So dramatic tonight,” you muse.

“I have had a very trying four months, no thanks to a certain someone,” he shoots back through gritted teeth.

“You may be right,” you say absently, admiring the pretty mark you left on him—in the shape of a heart right above his tailbone. “Allow me to make it up to you, then.”

Aerion’s breath hitches, stiffening when your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his pants to slide them off. You know he’ll only grow more defensive if you point out that he’s tensing because he’s nervous, so you lean up to press your lips to his shoulder blade instead, waiting until the tension melts away.

“Gaomagon ao daor pāsagon nyke?” you murmur, gaze lifting to his face as his cuts back toward you.

Don’t you trust me?

“Gaomagon daor sagon iā mittys,” he counters with a lofty scoff. 

Do not be a fool. 

You smile into his skin as he lifts his hips up just enough for you to slide down his pants. You inhale deeply through your nose, sitting up fully now; you press both of your thumbs to the top of his spine, dragging them down slowly, relishing in the way his breath hitches, back instinctively arching into your touch until you reach his waist, pulse jumping briefly at the way your fingers ghost over his sides easily. You continue lower until your thumbs reach the small of his back again, and then you slide his pants down over his ass, just enough down his thighs.

“Undress,” he commands, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“No,” you say simply, distracted, thumb running over the curve of his ass. You catch his ankle easily when he kicks at you hard, shifting so that you can pin his leg down with your knee. “It never fails to astound me how prudish you Andals are. You miss out on so much pleasure because you turn everything into questions of dominance and shame. Half of what scandalizes you would barely warrant a second glance in Volantis—much less here in Lys.”

You do not actually know enough about Westerosi customs to know whether coupling like this would truly scandalize them, but you know enough to understand that men warming the beds of other men is considered unseemly, so you assume this would be viewed similarly. Through the grapevine and your scant knowledge of the Faith of the Seven, you've heard it described as sins and vices, one of the many "deviances of the Free Cities." But the Targaryens were never typical Andals with their Valyrian blood, diluted it may be, and Aerion has never struck you as a man particularly concerned with what septons find proper.

Aerion clicks his tongue. “Do not call me Andal, wench,” he replies, watching you carefully from the corner of his eye. “And it is not so unheard of. Many knights take their young squires when they cannot find whores on the road and want to get their cock wet. It is just not so openly discussed.”

“Were you a squire?” you ask curiously.

“All knights start as squires, wretched woman,” he answers with a roll of his eyes, as though you should know this already. You give him a questioning raise of your eyebrows, and he raises his right back, like he isn’t sure what you expect from him. When you’re about to ask, he scoffs and adds, “I would have had Ser Willem gelded and fed him his own cock if he tried to put it anywhere near me.”

You snort and then settle on the backs of his thighs. You say, “Spread your legs.”

He sneers and counters, “Make me.”

Your gaze lifts, amused, and then you shift off his thighs so that you can force your knees between them, keeping them well-spread. Aerion chokes over air, face burning as he quiets down real quick. You palm the pale skin of his ass, finger tips skimming along the tan line at his waist before you slide your thumb down to his hole, putting just enough pressure to make his thighs tense—when he shifts his hips, your lips curl up at the wet stain beneath him where his cock is leaking steadily, betraying his apparent nerves. 

“I’ll only use my fingers tonight,” you muse more to yourself than to him. “That will be enough.”

Aerion shoots you another look over his shoulder, face still red, and you lean forward again, keeping your knees positioned between his thighs so he can’t kick you away or snap them shut again. 

Your hand slides back up his body, and you press two fingers to his bottom lip, humming lightly when he does not immediately part them for you. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, and he gives you a mocking look.

“Open,” you order.

“Make m—”

You laugh when Aerion gags over your finger, unable to even finish the taunt as he falls for your trap. He glares up at you, livid, and you only press harder against his tongue in response, delighted when his eyes begin to water. He bites you hard enough to hurt, teeth sinking deep into your skin, drawing blood, but the sting only makes you more giddy, your grin turning sharp and a little wild as you force your fingers farther down his throat. A second laugh bubbles up when you push deep enough for a tear to escape, sliding from the corner of his eye and down his cheek.

Only when he gags hard, one hand coming up to tug your wrist, do you finally slip your fingers out of your mouth, slick with saliva and blood—good enough, you decide, settling back between his thighs, hand settling on his ass as you wait for the imminent explosion.

As expected, he bares his teeth at you, furious. He spits, “Qupēgrie aspo. Se hembar jēda eman ao gōvilagon nyke, iksan jāre naejot—”

Vicious bitch. The next time I have you beneath me, I am going to—

Aerion cuts himself off abruptly when he feels the tip of your finger press halfway inside of him, breath hitching, fisting the sheets beneath him. His whole body tenses, eyes flying open, and you hum as you smooth your free hand over his lower back, rubbing gentle circles over the heart-shaped bruise you’d left above his tailbone, trying to help him relax. 

“Ao sagon sīr ȳrda, zaldrīzes dārilaros,” you murmur, swallowing thickly. “Kesan ezīmagon ao isse lanta lo nyke gaomagon mirros tolie pār ñuha ondos

You’re so tight, dragon prince. I’ll split you in two if I use anything but my fingers.

Because you would—you’re barely breathing yourself now that you can feel him warm and tight around you, and all you can think of are the ridiculous number of toys tucked away in the carved cedar chest beside your wardrobe. 

Lys makes acquiring such things laughably easy, and you’ve acquired quite the collection over the years you’ve spent here—merchant princes gift them to lovers the way the Volantene gift jewelry. Artisans carve them from polished wood and ivory, shape them from blown glass in every imaginable color, set gems into their handles, engrave them with poems and prayers and obscenities. You bought some out of curiosity, some because they were beautiful, and some because a courtesan swore they would change your life. 

You bought some specifically for him, too. 

But not tonight, you think again. 

You’ll have to ease him into it—you like blood, and the two of you get a thrill out of fighting one another, but you want him to feel good. That’s the whole point of this—you want to take him apart until his brain is mush, reduced to pretty moans and pitched whines, blinking up at you with a dumb expression because he’s forgotten how to argue altogether. You will not be satisfied if he’s gripping the sheets from pain, expression twisted instead of dazed.

You lean down to kiss his back again, dragging your tongue from the base of his spine up to the nape of his neck, savoring the low moan that spills from his lips when you bite down hard and press your finger deeper inside of him. You’ve not yet even pushed in to your first knuckle yet, and you can already hear how his breath is ragged, knuckles white around your sheets. 

You pepper kisses across his shoulder before pushing any deeper, lingering at his jawline and then his cheek. He turns his face toward you, and you nip at his bottom lip, watching the way his lashes flutter as his breath fans hot against your mouth.

“Do not treat me as though I am delicate,” he hisses, as though he isn’t half-breathless and his voice doesn’t catch over the words. “It is insulting. I am—”

“Hm?” you ask, lips curling up slightly as the words abruptly die on his lips, jaw falling half-slack when you push your finger into the second knuckle without warning. He tries to say something else, but chokes when you curl the tip of your finger inward, head falling flush against the mattress again, face half buried in your sheets. “Do not rush me, dragon prince. I told you I would take my time with you, did I not?”

You move forward, arm caught at a bit of an awkward angle, but you do not care, leaning in to press your lips against the side of Aerion’s mouth. He turns his face toward you, eyes half-slid shut, panting. You bite down on his bottom lip, tugging to get him to open up. This time, he decides against playing coy, lips parting instantly so you can lick at his inner lip, dragging your tongue along the roof of his mouth.

“Hah,” he gasps when you shift atop him to get more comfortable, inadvertently pushing your finger another half an inch deeper. Your lips curl up, pressed to the corner of his mouth, when you feel him shudder beneath you. “You—you are wretched. You—oh—”

His body seizes up beneath you when you start to push a second finger inside him, jaw ajar as you finally brush up against that sweet spot deep inside him. You let out a huff—half a laugh, half a moan of your own—and lift your free hand to cradle the side of his face, tilting it back toward you so you can swallow his breathy moans. 

His lips slide against yours messily, breath hot and ragged into your mouth, hitching into a whine every time he inhales. You pull back just enough to look at him, and when he tries to chase your lips, your hand drops to his throat to stop him so that you can look at him properly. 

Silky, silvery hair falls into his face, plastered against his cheeks and forehead, and his lips are wet and swollen, still stained with the blood he drew from your fingers. His eyes start to slide shut as he fights the urge to grind his cock into the mattress, and you have half a mind to grab his cheeks to force him to look at you, but you refrain.

“Where—hah—where did you learn to do this?” he tries to sound demanding, but your lips curve up when his voice wavers over the words and his eyes half roll back as the feeling of you scissoring your fingers deep inside him. His voice is rough as he forces out, “Tell me.”

“Even if you will not like the answer?” you ask, mocking, ignoring his sneer, trying to gauge whether or not you can fit a third finger inside of him yet.

You finally move them at a steady pace, tiring of stretching him out—maybe a bit too soon, considering he instantly chokes on a breath, expression twisting, but you cannot help yourself. In, out, in, out, pulling out just enough to enjoy the way his hips instinctively start to push back against your hand. 

Your gaze slips over to the chest on the opposite side of your room again, because if he’s this fucked out just from your fingers—panting, whining, desperately trying to stop himself from fucking himself back on your hand—then you can only imagine how he’d be split open on one of the toys you bought for him. 

Your teeth grind together as you force your train of thought to halt, focusing on the situation in front of you instead when you realize he’s glaring at you from the corner of his eye—or trying to, at least, because each time you fuck your fingers inside him, his eyes knock half back, and his lips part over a silent moan.

“Jaenys,” you finally answer, and as you expect, he is aggravated by it, bristling beneath you, teeth baring briefly until you drive your fingers into him so deep that he chokes, a pitched moan spilling from his lips before he can bite it back. “I told you that you would not like the answer, dragon prince. I am not fucking you well enough if you can still ask questions like that.”

“Who—hah—who’s fault is that, wench?” 

You cannot believe that he still has it in him to be snide, even while choking over a moan and rocking his hips back into your hand. 

You would almost be impressed if you didn’t take it as a challenge.

You cock your head to the side, fingers stilling inside of him as you stare down at him for a moment. 

Frustrated, he hisses a curse and tries to push his hips back on your hand again, but you shift so that you’re no longer lying half on his back, kneeling beside him and dropping your free hand to his hip to keep him still. You tilt your head down and spit down above his hole, watching the glob drip down to where your fingers are buried deep inside of him.

He lets out a vicious string of curses, head whipping around to glare at you fully, but before he can, your free hand darts up to fist his hair, craning his head back at an awkward, painful angle, savoring the low moan that rips from his lips when you force the third finger in, keeping steady pressure on his sweet spot.

You ghost your lips against his temple in a deceptively soft kiss as you murmur, “Iksā paktot. Shijetra nyke, dārilaros. Kesan mazverdagon ziry bē naejot ao.”

You’re right. Forgive me, prince. Allow me to make it up to you. 

He visibly shudders at the sound of your honeyed High Valyrian, instinctively tilting his face toward yours when you do not immediately resume moving. You take one last long look at him—his long, pale lashes fluttering every time you shift, his wet, swollen lips and flushed cheeks—and then your lips curve up into a small smile.

He chokes, eyes flying open when you snap your wrist, quicker and rougher this time. Your fingers drag hard against his walls, right into the spot deep inside him, pressing down until his whole body is tense and writhing. Strangled, pitched noises spilling from his lips—when he starts trying to grind his hips into the mattress, desperate for relief, you pull your fingers out of him fully, watching the way his hole spasms as soon as it’s empty, stretched and wet and aching for more. 

Just as he’s about to bark out an order for you to continue, you sink all three fingers back into him to the hilt, lips curving up slightly when his part for a choked moan, face half-pressed against the mattress, barely able to hold his eyes open as you fuck your fingers deep inside of him. You shift up on your knees to give yourself more leverage, letting go of his hair to press your hand against the small of his back, holding him down so that you can plunge your fingers in quicker, listening as each moan hitches into a breathy whine.

“Jurnegon rȳ ao,” you breathe softly, hand sliding back up his body so that you can run the back of your knuckles along his cheekbone, “se naejot pendagon ñuha gierion emagon iā gār jēdri vēdros aōha lentor. Skoros iā mundari syt Volantis—ēzi daor idea skoros iā gevie run they’ve issare ozmijegon mirre bisa jēdri. ”

Look at you, and to think my people have spent a century hating your family. What a tragedy for Volantis—they have no idea what a pretty thing they’ve been missing out on all these years. 

You brush your fingers along his bottom lip, breath catching when he parts them for you, letting you slide them into his mouth. His eyes are slivers, half rolled back as he tries to look up at you—his tongue curls around your finger, and you press down gently this time before easing it out of his mouth to cup his chin. 

You hold his face steady as you lean in again to press your lips against his. To think that your people have spent a century hating his family, to think that you have spent your entire life hating and mocking them, and now you have a Targaryen prince moaning pretty into your mouth after you’ve given up a chance at getting home just so you can have him. Your ancestors are probably looking down on you disappointed, but you think they’d understand if they were in your position. 

“Hah—” he gasps, tilting his face up slightly to chase your lips when you pull away to look at him again. “I—”

You smile faintly against his lips when he strains his neck to brush his against yours one last time, and then you pull away, ignoring the whine that slips from his lips before he can stop it. You kneel back at his side, one hand slipping beneath him to fist his cock, and Aerion chokes, hips rocking forward into your hand, forehead dropping to the mattress, reduced to a symphony of ah, ah, ahs that make you feel lightheaded. 

You lean down to press your lips against his back one last time before you curl your fingers hard into his sweet spot and tighten your hand around the base of his cock. He chokes over another pretty moan, body tensing up violently, finishing in your hand, cum spilling messily between your fingers onto the sheets. 

He falls limp against your mattress, lashes fluttering as he breathes heavily, and you hum lightly, peppering kisses across his shoulder, still slowly fucking your fingers in and out of his hole as he slowly comes down from his high. It’s only when he hisses, thighs tensing and spasming, trying to kick you away, that you finally ease them out of him and settle at his side.

He still looks half out of it as he turns his face toward you, eyes dazed, lips pink and swollen, breathing heavy. You think that if this is how he is just after taking your fingers, you cannot wait to fuck him properly. 

You wiggle your arm under his shoulders, ignoring the disgruntled noise he lets out so that you can pull him closer. He settles on your shoulder with a sigh, and you lift a hand to wipe away the spit pooled at the corner of his lips before you card your fingers through his silky hair. 

“Well?” you ask smugly after a few moments pass.

“It was acceptable,” he replies as though he still isn’t half out of it, head heavy on your shoulder. “I had expected slightly more from all your boasting, admittedly.”

You stare at him.

He stares back with all the dignity of a king issuing judgment from a throne instead of a man whose cheek is pressed against your shoulder and whose hair is tangled beyond saving. He raises his eyebrows at you when you do not say anything. 

“Had you?” you ask, voice dripping with derision.

“Mm.”

“What a tragedy,” you murmur, twirling a long lock of silver hair around your finger. “I shall have to endeavor to do better next time.”

“You should,” he says at once. “You are lucky that I am a generous man. I believe in second chances.”

You laugh outright because you know damn well that’s the furthest thing from true, and he scowls at you. He says, “Do not mock my benevolence, wench.”

“I would never dream of it, dragon prince.” Your smile turns sharp. “In fact, I have several ideas for how I might improve upon tonight.”

There is a brief pause. Then, suspiciously, he asks, “What sort of ideas?”

“Oh, all manner of things. I have accumulated quite a collection in Lys over the years. Some I bought specifically for you.”

He frowns, a curious, if not guarded, expression on his face. “A collection of what? What did you buy specifically for me?”

You only smile. He instantly gives you an alarmed look, but you lean down to ghost your lips against his forehead, and his eyes droop shut, worn out by the excitement of the day. 

You exhale through your nose and press your face briefly into his hair. He makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, but you do not know how to ask what’s plaguing you.

You can almost imagine it, you think bitterly as he noses into your collarbone with a huff—lounging in the gardens with him and Viserys, listening to your brother play the harp like he used to do before everything went to shit while the three of you drink cherry wine and gossip about whatever took place in the forum earlier in the day. You can imagine walking with him along the top of the Black Walls, bringing him to the highest point where you used to climb to show him the ruins of Valyria in the distance. You can imagine sitting with him and your brother on the dais in the rōvalaem to watch the azantys shows and chariot races.

You think he would like Volantis. You do. You really, really do. 

I thought it would become easier over time, but I feel as though I am forced to live without a part of myself that I was never meant to live without.

“Would you come with me?” you finally force out, fingers tensing in his hair. He hums as though he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, and your teeth grind together as you press, “If I got a second chance to go home. Would you come with me?”

He cracks an eye open to look up at you. For a moment, he says nothing. The question seems to sober him more effectively than a bucket of cold water ever could. The laziness leaves his expression, replaced by something calculating. 

“To Volantis,” he says at last, as though testing the word.

You nod once. You suddenly become acutely aware of the way your fingers have tightened in his hair and force yourself to relax them. Perhaps it is a cruel thing to ask. Perhaps it is selfish. Asking him to come with you means asking him to leave Westeros. 

He asked you the same, though, didn’t he? 

But it’s different. 

Aerion wasn’t asking you to abandon your home because he was of the belief you would never be able to return to it. Aerion will be able to return—soon, most likely, because you doubt the Targaryens will leave one of their princes at risk in the Free Cities after the scare the Blackfyres and the Golden Company just caused—and you are asking him to leave it all behind.

You brace yourself for a snide remark or an insult.

Instead, he asks quietly, “Would I be allowed?”

You blink. “What?”

He props himself up on an elbow, looking at you properly now, all traces of his earlier loftiness gone. “Would they let me come?” he asks again, brow furrowing slightly. “I am a Targaryen. You have been quite clear that the Volantene do not hold my family in high regard.”

“Of course they would,” you answer. “Anyone who comes on invite of the Old Blood is allowed in. No one would deny my family; even with blood as diluted as your own, you—”

“Silence, wench,” he scowls. “Must you ruin everything with your nonsense?”

You huff out a laugh, tilting the lower half of your face up just enough to beckon him to lower his to yours. He does so immediately, brushing his lips against yours in a deceptively gentle kiss—one so unlike the two of you that it almost has you bracing yourself for rejection.

“I would come,” he says simply.

You stare up at him, gaze quick and searching.

You echo quietly, “You would come?”

“That is what I said, wench. Have you grown dull in the moons I’ve been gone?”

“Why?” 

Aerion withdraws slightly at the question, expression becoming a bit more guarded. He finally says, “Because I should like to see the city.”

“Is that right?” you drawl, gaze a bit softer now as you look up at him.

He hums in response. “Indeed.” 

But his expression has softened too—as marginally as yours has—and you know the truth. Because it is the same truth as yours. Because if he remains in Westeros and you return home, he will spend the rest of his life wondering what became of you. Because ravens would never be enough, and he would be furious hearing stories of you secondhand instead of first. Because he loves you, and you love him, and he is yours, and you are his. You would follow him to the ends of the world, and he would follow you the same. 

Please come home—

“Avy jorrāelan,” you murmur, eyes sliding shut as he leans down to ghost his lips against yours again. “Iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon.”

I love you. I am yours, you are mine.

He hums lightly, lashes fluttering as you tug gently at his bottom lip. “Iksā ñuhon,” he echoes, holding your chin, pulling back to look you in the eye. “Iksā ñuhon, se iksan aōhon. Kesan daor sagon qrīdrughagon hen ao—kesan aderī ūndegon ao morghe.”

You are mine. You are mine, and I am yours. I will not be apart from you—I would sooner see you dead.

“You are too romantic, dragon prince,” you tell him sarcastically, but you are smiling, hand lifting to run your fingers along his cheekbone. He nips at your fingers. “When I return with you to Westeros, we will wed. Rȳ ānogar se perzys.”

Through blood and fire.

Aerion stares at you for a moment, lips pressed together, gaze searching yours. He asks after a moment, “Ao nūmāzma ziry?”

You mean it?

“Nyke nūmāzma ziry.”

I mean it.

Aerion kisses you again, harder this time, hand resting on your throat as he tilts your face back to drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Your hands slide up his body to tangle in his silky hair, one leg hooking around his waist so that you can pull him closer.

Your gaze flicks up to the ceiling as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck, trying to ignore the heavy feeling weighing on your chest.

You cannot rely on Aenys to bring you home—you can only rely on yourself—and that means there’s one last surefire way of returning home: making yourself a political prize that neither faction can afford to leave beyond the Black Walls. 

A Targaryen prince is not a husband—he is an alliance. He is trade agreements and prestige; he is diplomatic influence and a much-needed foothold in Westeros. Neither the Elephants nor the Tigers would permit such a prize to belong to an exile. The moment this marriage becomes a real possibility, it ceases to be a personal affair between you and Aerion and becomes a matter of state between Volantis and Westeros. 

But if Volantis intends to reap the benefits of this match, they cannot allow Aerion to marry you, the exile and political embarrassment. He must marry a daughter of Volantis, the scion of House Maegyr and almost-Triarch—only the firstborn child of the current Tiger Triarch would be of the proper standing to wed a Targaryen prince. 

Which means that, before they can claim him and this marriage for themselves, they must first reclaim you.

So if it means weaponizing a marriage to Aerion against the Elephant Triarchs to get what you want, then so be it.

You will go home one day—one day soon maybe—and you will have your brother, you will have your home, you will have your future.

And you will bring Aerion with you. 

He will forgive you for scheming behind his back, surely.

Right?

—whatever the cost. 

[adoringhaikyuu]

hiii!!

i’ve been reading your work for quite some time now and I have to say it is absolutely *chefs kiss*

could i please request haikyuu boys reacting/taking care of a tipsy s/o

i would love to see sakusa’s and kuroo’s reactions:]]

thank you <33

if i say how old this ask is...but wow first writing on here in a year!

kuroo's keeping an eye on you at all times, watching you have fun with your friends. but as soon as you stumble on your way over to him, he's quick to catch you and sit you down next to him, a warm, possessive hand on your waist, "woah there. you okay, sweetheart?"

your giggly and buzzy when you look up at him with a smile, nodding.

he grins, "yeah?" he takes the glass of water he'd ordered just in time and brings it to your lips. "take a sip, baby." his voice is smooth and gentle when you take a sip, your eyes closing. "there you go, good job."

the tender smile never leaves his face, but his eyes are watching everyone like a hawk. he's aware of your surroundings even though you're not, eyes ready to turn sharp if anyone looks at you for too long or tries to touch you.

sakusa is like a jaguar, silently tracking all your movements, making sure you're okay. he'll sit in the section, guarding all your stuff if you want. but if you want to dance with him or you're only out with him, he's behind you, hands on your waist as you dance, or guiding you with a hand in yours when you need to go to the bathroom or get another drink.

he's on you all night, keeping a watchful eye on you. he knows you so well, you don't even need to say anything.

when you lean into him and look up at him, a dramatic pout on your lips, he knows your feet are hurting you. he silently guides you to sit down, spreading his legs cause he knows you prefer to sit in his lap or at least have a leg over his. you get clingy when you drink and he knows this.

he leans in to talk in your ear, "30 more minutes and we head out." it's said like a suggestion but he knows that's what you want, you'll want to get in your pjs soon. you nod and lean into him and he kisses your forehead.

[osarina]

ঌ LAMENTABLY YOURS

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: an excerpt of letters exchanged between you and aerion during his time with the second sons. or, a collection of aerion being the fakest idgafer of all time.

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Aerion typical threats of violence and possessive behavior. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A shorter part today! The next part is likely going to be quite long & rather intense, so it will take a while, please be patient with me!!! I'm considering putting a taglist together for the next part just because I anticipate it will be a handful of weeks before I post it, so if you'd like to be included on that taglist, please comment below! I had a lot of fun with this part because it was different from what I usually write, so it was fun trying to convey both of their deteriorating mental states without any internal narration. BUT WE'RE ALMOST BACK TO WESTEROS!!! I have two more parts planned set in Lys, and then we are heading across the Narrow Sea, and things are going to get #complicated for our favorite toxic couple. Comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: IKSAN AŌHON, IKSĀ ÑUHON

Wench, 

I find myself despising you more and more each passing day.

I have spent the better part of four moons surrounded by filthy mercenaries who smell of sweat and blood, and somehow you remain the most aggravating creature I have encountered in all of that time. I blame you entirely for the state of my mind. The men here seem convinced I am moments from slitting someone’s throat over a misplaced goblet, and perhaps I am. If you had not made me so accustomed to your company, I would not find everyone else so intolerable by comparison.

The fighting is dull now. It was enjoyable at first—I am sure you would understand. There is a clarity in battle that Lysene politics lacks. But the novelty has worn thin. We spend more time waiting than fighting, and idle men are irritating company. 

The captains insist that this contract is a worthwhile endeavor, but I fail to see how squabbling over half-starved bandits is meant to impress anyone. The men here fight well enough, I suppose, but they lack refinement. Most of them are brutes with more scars than sense. They stare at me after battle as though they have never seen a man fight with real skill before, which, considering the company they keep, may very well be true, but it is at least preferable to the simpering cowardice of Lyseni nobles. I have carved through enough men these past weeks to satisfy lesser appetites, yet I remain in poor temper regardless. Curious, that.

You, meanwhile, have written almost nothing of substance. Three lines in your last raven, and one of them was mocking me. You do not even bother to properly address or sign your letters. If you insist on corresponding so infrequently, you might at least have the decency to be detailed when you do so. It is nearly time for the midsummer festival, is it not? I wish that I were there. I am tired of this.

You’d best not entertain that pretender too heavily during the festivities either. You may think yourself clever for provoking this sort of reaction from me when I am too far to do anything about it, but I warn you now that my patience is not infinite and I do not forget insults easily. In fact, I forget very little where you are concerned, which is precisely why one particular detail in your letter has… stuck with me. You wrote that you returned to your chambers “late.” A curious choice of wording. Late with whom? Late doing what? You see how readily such vagueness invites suspicion. If you wish to avoid interrogation, you should be more precise.

Regardless, I suppose if you insist on tormenting me from afar, I deserve some form of repayment. Tell me exactly what you plan to wear for the festival this year. In detail.

Do not take too long responding this time. If your next raven contains another useless two sentences, I will see to it that the next time we meet, you will not have hands to waste with your mediocre writing skills anymore.

Yours,

A.T.

————————

My most illustrious and brilliant dragon prince,

You are becoming terribly dramatic in your exile from exile. I returned to my chambers late because the festivities lasted late, as festivities tend to do. There’s naught to do here but drink and fuck. Am I not allowed to entertain myself anymore? Haegon remains alive and moderately entertaining—he is enthralled by the tales of my campaigns in the east. Though I must say, your fixation with him is becoming somewhat concerning.

I plan to wear the black silks I wore to Magister Lorento’s revel—I am sure you recall the ones. You were quite fond of them. 

Your most beloved wench

(I do hope this address and signature suffice.)

————————

Wretched woman,

I send you half a dozen paragraphs detailing my days, and you only respond with barely two, and that loathsome address and signature? I would almost prefer the letters without them. 

You are fortunate that this raven reached me after battle rather than before it, otherwise I might have gutted the first man who spoke to me out of sheer irritation. “Moderately entertaining,” you say, as though that is meant to reassure me. I know precisely the sort of man Haegon Blackfyre is—vain enough to mistake your attention for affection and stupid enough to think himself special because you allow him near you. I dislike him more every time you mention his name. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that you only bring him up because you enjoy imagining how foul my temper becomes while reading your letters.

And yes, it does concern me. I am stranded on the mainland while you lounge about Lys in black silk beside a Blackfyre pretender who is apparently “moderately entertaining.” I think my fixation is entirely justified under the circumstances. Frankly, I find your lack of concern for my deteriorating state somewhat offensive. Another man is hearing stories that ought to be told to me and receiving smiles that ought to be directed elsewhere. Meanwhile, I am left in the company of mercenaries and whores. I find myself missing your incessant insults and aggravation—that alone should convey the severity of the situation.

As for the black silks, you should not wear them while I am away. I am entirely serious. The thought of you walking through the festival dressed in them while that Blackfyre whore trails after you has already ruined my evening. I hope this pleases you.

I miss you,

A.T.

————————

It pleases me immensely. You should not be so needy, prince—it makes you ugly. 

Though if it soothes your deteriorating state at all, you need not concern yourself with the black silks anymore. The First Magister’s guards caught a thief in my chambers several nights ago. A thief who curiously did not take any of my jewels, but instead tossed my favorite silks into the hearth. I assume this was your doing. Frankly, I find it difficult to believe anyone else would be deranged enough to send someone sneaking into my chambers over a dress.

Anyway, the festival was boring. Too much incense, too many musicians, too many people trying far too hard to impress one another. Haegon spent the better part of the evening attempting to convince me to accompany him back to Tyrosh after all of this is over—I’m sure you will enjoy imagining that. I drank enough cherry wine to tolerate the conversation and watched the First Magister interrogate half his household over my poor, murdered silks.

You would have hated it. I almost missed you enough to become sentimental about it. 

————————

Wench,

I did warn you that the Brightflame’s reach is endless, once, did I not? You only have yourself to blame, and you ought to consider yourself fortunate that I had them destroyed when you weren’t wearing them. Honestly, I thought the restraint displayed was admirable. 

In fact, I resent that you sound so amused by the entire affair. You accuse me of derangement while describing the incident with enough fondness that I suspect you enjoyed knowing someone was possessive enough to burn the damned thing in the first place.

As for Haegon Blackfyre, I am beginning to suspect he suffers from some lingering injury to the head if he truly believes you would willingly follow him anywhere. The fact that he asked at all offends me on your behalf. Even tolerating the offer was idiotic of you.

The company has become insufferably dull these past few weeks. The men drink, gamble, whore, boast about battles I could have won half-asleep, and then expect me to sit amongst them as though I find any of it remotely engaging. I have taken to sleeping later simply to avoid them. 

One of the captains attempted to drag me into some tavern two nights ago because he claimed I looked “morose.” I nearly split his skull for the observation alone. I am not morose. I am simply tired of sleeping in hot tents and waking to men shouting before sunrise. There is no conversation worth having here, no one capable of holding my attention for longer than a few minutes, and the whores have become intolerable now that I know what it is like to share a bed with someone who actually bites back.

Do not let this inflate your ego too terribly. I am merely observing that exile is considerably less entertaining without someone nearby to aggravate me properly.

A.T.

————————

Dragon prince,

You have become alarmingly soft, haven’t you? Complaining about lonely tents and disappointing whores in writing now? I’ll keep the proof of this tucked away safely, don’t you fret. What would your captains say if they knew the terrible Bright Prince spends his evenings sulking because no one nearby can keep up with him properly?

Still, I understand the feeling. 

I miss you. Try not to die of boredom before you return to me.

————————

Wench,

I have reread your pathetically short letter so many times over the past three days that one of the men finally asked whether the raven had delivered battle plans or a love confession. I nearly fed him his own teeth for the question. You should feel honored. Very few people survive long after becoming irritating in my presence lately.

Your timing, as usual, was atrocious. The raven arrived shortly before dawn, just as I was preparing to ride out with the others, and I made the mistake of reading your letter immediately. 

Do you have any idea what it does to a man to march into battle after reading the words “I miss you” in your hand?

Things here have worsened. The waiting is the worst part of it. Battle at least occupies the mind for a few glorious moments, but the hours before and after drag endlessly. The men drink and shout and boast while I sit there wondering what you might be doing in Lys. I find myself imagining your chambers with alarming frequency—whether you have filled them with half the city, or whether you are draped across that ridiculous nest of cushions on your balcony, a cup of wine in hand. Most days, I suspect you have found some unfortunate magister to torment for your own amusement.

It has become a genuine problem. I wake in foul moods now for reasons that have nothing to do with the campaign. Every morning, there is a brief moment where I expect to hear your endless complaints, only to remember that you are several hundred leagues away, making yourself everyone else's problem.

I dislike it immensely.

Before you, solitude was uncomplicated. I was perfectly content with my own company. Most people were tolerable only in small doses and became tiresome shortly thereafter. Then you appeared and ruined the arrangement entirely by insisting on inserting yourself into my life. 

Now I know things I never wished to know. I know the sound of your footsteps in a crowded hall. I know when you are drunk before you have spoken a word. I know the look you get when you are about to say something outrageous simply because you know it will irritate me. I can tell the difference between when you are genuinely angry and when you are merely seeking attention. Do you understand how disastrous this is for me?

And despite all of that, I think the truly humiliating part is that I would endure every miserable mile of this exile twice over if it meant returning to find you still waiting for me at the end of it. You see what you have reduced me to? It is revolting, and you will pay for it.

Do not take too long writing again. I find myself growing restless whenever the ravens are delayed now, and I dislike the sort of thoughts that begin occupying my mind in the silence between your letters.

Lamentably yours,

A.T.

————————

Aerion,

I received a raven from my brother this morning. The first in six years. 

Lys suddenly feels very small. Everyone keeps speaking to me, and I can scarcely hear them properly. Even Haegon has noticed something is wrong, which is irritating in its own right.

I do not know what to do anymore. I think things are changing. I am so tired.

————————

You are being terribly vague again, and ordinarily I would accuse you of doing it intentionally just to worsen my temper, but I suspect this time you scarcely realize you are doing it at all.

What did your brother say? More importantly, what do you intend to do now?

You write as though the ground beneath your feet has suddenly shifted. I do not like it. I like it even less because I am not there to see your face while you write these things.

The men here have begun speaking of movements within the Golden Company at last. I would ask directly whether you intend to leave Lys with them, but I suspect you would only become evasive out of spite if I did. So instead, I will simply remind you that disappearing without warning would be a very poor decision where I am concerned.

Write again soon. 

A.T.

————————

Your silence is beginning to aggravate me beyond reason.

At first, I assumed you were merely being cruel again. After several days, I concluded you had most likely become distracted by some revel or you were ignoring my ravens for your own amusement. It has now been twelve days, and I am running out of explanations that do not involve either catastrophe or deliberate malice on your part. I find both possibilities equally offensive.

I warned you before that I dislike silence where you are concerned.

Answer me immediately, even if it is only to insult me properly. 

A.T.

————————

You are testing my patience now.

Four ravens unanswered ceased being amusing weeks ago. If this silence is meant to provoke me, then congratulations—you have succeeded. Now answer me.

If your brother has filled your head with dreams of home and you intend to leave Lys with the Golden Company, then say it plainly instead of vanishing like a coward. I expect you to tell me yourself before I hear it from anyone else. Gods know you have never lacked for cruelty before, so why begin sparing me now? Do not make a fool of me.

And if you have truly decided to disappear from my life after spending months convincing me that I mattered to you, then I swear to every god still listening that I will never forgive you for it.

A.T.

————————

Wench,

It has been two moons. I have sent over half a dozen ravens. 

If you are alive, write back.

If you are angry, write back.

If you have decided to abandon Lys and chase whatever ghost your brother’s letter awakened in you, then write back and tell me that, too.

Just do not leave me waiting in this silence any longer.

A.T.

————————

“Oi, Brightflame,” a familiar voice drawls from his left as Aerion finishes cleaning his blade—your blade. The one you pressed into his hand before he left Lys a full year ago. His gaze flicks up, already incensed by the thought of you crossing his mind, and he raises his eyebrows questioningly. “We received word from Lys.”

Aerion’s heart skips a beat, grip tightening on the hilt of the sword. He rises to his feet, casting a questioning look over to the sellsword. A letter from you, maybe? You stopped sending them three moons ago, but what else could—

“The Golden Company raised their sails at dawn. Every ship in the harbor has sailed east.” 

East?!

————————

The only free city east of Lys is Volantis ………. JK our girl will be there when he returns, but fun fact: this is where I headcanon that the timelines split, so to speak. There is a universe where our girl is not there waiting for him when he returns to Lys, and war breaks out between Volantis/the Blackfyres and Westeros

[seijorhi]

Uneven Ground

Part 4 of the Betaverse Masterlist Kuroo Tetsurou, Bokuto Kotarou, Akaashi Keiji x female reader w.c 8.7k tw: a/b/o, yandere, noncon, smut, ptsd, blood and minor violence, forced claiming, nsfw

“You can’t not go.”

“I’ve spoken two whole sentences to the guy, and I’ve never watched a game of volleyball in my life,” you reply. Both of which are true. Not the entire reason, but valid objections all the same. “Besides, it wasn't like he invited me specifically. He invited the whole team, it was a general thing. He won’t even notice if I’m not there.”

Ino shrugs. She glances over her shoulder to check no one’s around and leans in close, lowering her voice.

“Yeah, but it’s not about him. The boss’ got a hard-on for Kuroo. His packmate’s some big-shot player in the league and he’s obsessed. Like, ultra fan-boy. He was standing right next to us when we got the invite. If you don’t go, he’ll notice and trust me, he’ll make it a thing.” She gives you a meaningful look as she draws back, patting you on the shoulder. “It’s a few hours, you’ll be fine.”

Your fucking boss. 

The sole reason you went out with the rest of the team for drinks, the reason you didn’t – couldn’t – make a polite, if not hasty exit after finishing your first. The invite would’ve gone out regardless – you work in the same building, a few of the guys on your team close enough to call drinking buddies, hitting the same bars and hole in the wall joints after work – the only difference being that you wouldn’t have been a part of it.

‘Nothing beats courtside, ‘course, but it’s tradition to kick off the season at mine.’ Stuck between your coworkers, insides twisting into knots when those hazel eyes flicked your way, ‘You guys should come.’

And now, apparently, you don’t have a choice in the matter.

—

Not counting your boss, there’s ten of you on the team. One happily bonded omega, seven betas – including you and Ino – and two alphas; Sakai, in her mid-to-late 30’s and Junya, who’s two years younger than you and already working his way to his next promotion. 

Nearly four months in, and you’ve finally gotten to a place where you don’t have the urge to flee any time either of them walks into the room. That’s progress.

Sakai’s got an omega of her own and Junya’s not interested in women, much less betas, and those facts should matter, they should make a difference, but they don’t.

Still. Baby steps.

—

There’s butterflies in your stomach. Not the kind you used to get back in school, making eyes across the room with your crush. Not the type to leave you warm and giddy. You feel faintly ill. 

Your hands are clammy too, but short of anyone reaching for a handshake or a hug – unlikely – that’s a problem you can deal with.

You’ve been at Kuroo’s for twenty minutes already and the game doesn’t start for another fifteen. 

You wander around with a glass of wine someone handed you that you haven’t touched, flitting on the outskirts of conversations that don’t include you, and while you do make an effort to appear present and attentive, laughing when everyone else does, a hum of agreement here and there, you find yourself more often that not staring at the furniture, the framed pictures on the walls. No specially lit trophy case or wall of medals, but–

“You look bored.”

The glass in your hand slips. Blame the sweaty palms or the way you spook like a startled animal – it crashes to the ground at your feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor, the wine you hadn’t touched drenching the front of your skirt and your shoes.

“Shit.”

Kuroo, who’d snuck up beside you, makes a choked noise of surprise. People stop talking, turn to gawk – only for a moment, but that moment stretches infinitely, in slow motion with a spotlight shined directly on you. Stupid, awkward, clumsy beta. Your cheeks burn.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a jumpy little thing?” he drawls, nudging his shoulders teasingly against yours. Like you’re friends. Like this is funny. 

And that, more than the shards of shattered glass at your feet or the wine staining your clothes, cracks like a hammer to your defences.

“I, um–” your throat’s too dry. “Sorry. I’ll go get…” you’re backing away, stumbling over your heels when there’s a light, fleeting touch to your wrist.

A pretty, auburn haired omega you hadn’t noticed before stands at your side, next to Kuroo. She offers a small, reassuring smile, “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “I’ll clean this up. Bathroom’s just over there,” she points, “if you need a sec.”

You take the out. Not a word to Kuroo or her or anybody else, scarpering off without a backwards glance. 

There’s not a whole lot to be done for your skirt. With trembling hands and vision that blurs with stupid, ridiculous tears, you sponge it off best you can, leaving a giant wet spot that doesn’t look much better.

You need to pull yourself together.

It’d be bad enough if everyone out there were strangers you’d never have to see or speak to again, but these are the people you work with. They already believe you’re awkward and probably socially inept, you can’t have them thinking you’re going to unravel after a simple startle.

The worst part is, you’re fully aware this is an overreaction.

If you could, you’d change it. Rewire your brain so logic would overrule blind panic. One alpha hurt you, years ago. You can’t be spiralling into hysterics every time you’re forced into close proximity with another. By and large, alphas aren’t interested in betas, most won’t pay you a second thought, most don’t have bad intentions.

You need to get a fucking grip.

Deep breaths. Inhale through your nose, hold it, exhale through your mouth. Inhale, hold–

Exhale. 

You breathe like that until your hands stop trembling and your pulse calms down. Until you don’t feel hunted, and when you stare in the mirror and school your features into something less haunted, still wan, still a little wide-eyed, the image of it holds.

As good as it’ll get.

You emerge from the bathroom steadier than when you went in, but rather than slipping back into the fray, you head for the balcony. The sun’s set, it’s cooler outside and you desperately need another minute to just breathe. 

This time, you see him coming. Clock him peeling away from his friends’ conversation to follow you out. Dark haired, glasses, handsome with a somewhat serious mien. An alpha. He’s in a few of the photos you’ve seen tonight – the last of Kuroo’s packmates, if you had to guess, though if anyone mentioned his name, you’ve since forgotten it. 

He stops a few feet away, leaning against the railing, head tilted your way. Casual, relaxed. Not far enough. 

Your heart thuds off kilter.

“He wasn’t trying to be an asshole,” the stranger says after a long beat, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. “It’s a natural talent of his, unfortunately.”

“W-what?”

“Kuroo,” he elaborates. “With the wine and all that. He wasn’t looking to scare you off.”

“Oh.” You swallow hard. “Um, yeah. No, it’s– it’s fine… Sorry I broke one of your glasses.”

“I think we’ll survive the loss.” 

You don’t get it. He’s smiling, lightening the mood with dry humour, apologising for his packmate. There’s no move to close the distance between you, no hint of hostility or derision, and none of it is the slightest bit reassuring. None of it eases the prickling on the back of your neck or the vice-like constriction around your lungs. You turn to face the view, the glittering city lights miles away set against the violet sky, the whisper of a breeze blowing. It’s beautiful. Peaceful – or it would be, if he wasn’t boring holes into you with those flat, blue-grey eyes. 

“Since I doubt Kuroo said anything, I’m Akaas–”

He’s cut off by someone calling your name. Both of you turn on instinct, you half expect it to be Ino, but standing in the open doorway, a faint frown marring her otherwise flawless face, is Sakai.

“The game’s about to start,” the female alpha says, a sharp, assessing gaze flickering between you two. It softens fractionally when it finally settles on you. “You should come back inside. It’s cold out here.”

You can count on your fingers the number of times Sakai’s spoken directly to you when it wasn’t work related. There’s no mistaking the concern etched in her brow, though. The look she flicks the other alpha when you wordlessly scurry past him.

She steps back, giving you plenty of space to get past her, and for the first time you wonder if the carefully maintained distance between you hasn’t entirely been a one-sided endeavour.

In a quiet voice, she asks, “You okay?”

“Mhm,” you lie. 

—

Six days later, you’re waiting on the ground floor for the eternally slow elevator to ride up to your office when a woman steps up behind you, an omega, if the sweet scent of honeysuckle is anything to go by.

Since you don’t make it a habit to ogle random omegas, you simply shift a bit to the side to give her more space, attention already sliding back to the digital display above the elevator, tracking its crawling descent. For the life of you, you cannot understand how in a twenty storey building with three elevators, only one ever seems to be working at a time. 

“Hi,” she says.

You don’t glance over, positive that she’s talking to somebody else. It’s only when there’s no immediate response, not even a tinny echo from down a phone line, that you turn to look at her fully, and in doing so, realise she’s speaking to you. 

“… Hi,” you parrot back, awkwardly and a beat too late.

And then it hits you.

Auburn hair, pretty smile. You couldn’t smell the honeysuckle that night because, well, you weren’t exactly working at full capacity, what with your incoming breakdown and all. But you recognise her face now that you’re looking at her properly.

“Himari,” she supplies, not perturbed in the slightest. “I’m Himari, we met at Kuroo’s for the opening match the other night, I don’t know if you remember…” she trails off.

“Yeah, I remember.” Burned into your memory, more like. “Thank you, by the way.” 

She waves off your gratitude as the elevator finally deigns to arrive. Both of you step inside, you first, with Himari behind you. “Which floor?” you ask, punching in fifteen for yourself. 

“Eighteen.” 

…Where Kuroo and the rest of the JVA work. Huh. 

You suppose it makes sense. She was standing by Kuroo at the time, had offered to clean up the mess, which strongly suggested she was familiar navigating their home, either a close friend or their–

“You um, you and Kuroo?” you ask. With the sweater, skirt and boots combo she’s wearing, you can’t spot any claiming marks, but omegas aren’t always about flaunting those things. “You’re their mate?” 

She blushes a darling pink. “Well, kind of. Almost. But I’m actually really glad I ran into you.”

The elevator climbs.

“You…are?”

She laughs, “Yeah, I am. I think we should go get coffee.”

The invite, if you can call it that, isn’t the strangest thing she could’ve come out with. People in elevators probably get asked out for coffee on a semi-regular basis. Doesn’t make this situation any less bizarre. 

“Coffee?”

“Or boba, or matcha, tea. Milkshakes. The beverage isn’t really the important bit.” She may as well be speaking French for how you blink uncomprehendingly at her. “Here, pass me your phone, let me give you my number.” 

She holds out an expectant hand, and without conscious thought you dig through your purse and pass it to her, unlocked. 

She hands it back a few seconds later, right as the elevator arrives on the fifteenth floor and the doors slide open.

“We’re gonna be good friends, I’ve got a sense for these kinda things.” She winks at you, “I’ll tell Kuroo you said hi.”

—

Back in high school, your best friend was an omega. She’s on the other side of the country now, all packed up and happily mated, but every now and then either she’ll reach out or you will, and it’s like no time’s passed at all. They can be finicky about odd things, and they get a little weird around their heats, but overall you’ve never had issues with omegas.

You don’t even have an issue with this omega. You’re just… a bit bewildered. 

It has to be pity, right? The chances that watching you spin out in a giant overreaction to an alpha striking up a conversation endeared you to her in any way are slim to none, you can’t understand what else it could be if not pity. 

There’s no denying you’re a mess – last week proved that –  you’re working on it, but you aren’t some broken doll for anyone to fawn over and fix.

And yet, in spite of those misgivings, here you are. Standing outside the cute little brunch spot she’d messaged you about, wondering, not for the first time, whether you’re overthinking things. There is a slight possibility, you can concede, maybe, that there is no ulterior motive. That Himari’s genuinely interested in being friends, terrible first impressions notwithstanding. You’re afraid a lot of the time. Overwhelmed and easily panicked, but you aren’t a coward. 

What’s the worst one over-friendly omega can do, you muse, dithering on the doorstep before you take a deep breath, force your shoulders to loosen and walk on in. 

The universe, ever giving, is quick to provide you an answer. 

In the cozy, well lit cafe, it’s easy to spot the auburn haired omega, and the tall, bespectacled alpha sitting beside her.

The sudden nausea that yanks deep in your belly, the panic sawing raggedly through your chest, those are familiar to you. Familiar, and deeply unpleasant.

He’s the one who catches sight of you first, a faint smile as he raises a hand in greeting.

You consider running. Well, running might be a bit dramatic. You consider ducking your head and sneaking out the door you just walked through, pretending you never saw them, never left home this morning, never responded to Himari’s messages at all. Much more rational. 

Himari follows the alpha’s gaze and lights up when she sees you, beaming like you’re old friends. 

Too late.

Mechanically, your legs jolt you forward. You work with alphas. You live and breathe and exist with alphas. You can handle coffee with one. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Himari gushes when you reach the table. She’s already standing, leaning in to give you a hug. From your experience, omegas aren’t usually all that touchy feely with strangers, but she pulls you close enough that you swear she’s trying to scent you. “You remember Akaashi, right?”

Akaashi. He hadn’t told you his name that night– no. Sakai had interrupted him before he had the chance. Now, he’s watching you with the same placid expression, seemingly unbothered by his almost-omega’s overt affection towards you.

“Yeah, we only spoke for a minute, though.” 

Akaashi hums, but chooses to say nothing. Fine by you.

“Anyway, don’t mind him,” Himari breezes on through. “If I’m out on my own for too long they get antsy, even if it’s just coffee with a friend. Trust me, if the other two weren’t busy, they’d be here, too.” She says it with an eye roll and a sigh, but there’s no real irritation there. Her hand’s resting on Akaashi’s, her chair tilted towards his. She thinks it’s dreamy. It sounds like the beginnings of a horror story to you. 

For her sake, you hope they loosen up a bit after they bond. If they bond. 

“You haven’t eaten, have you? This place does the most amazing pancakes. I know we said coffee, but you’ve got to try them. We can share if you’re not feeling all that hungry…?” she trails off with a hopeful expression.

“Uh, sure. Sounds good.” 

“Don’t. She’ll order the matcha mochi ones. No one deserves that.”

Himari turns on him, mouth agape in mock offense. “What’s wrong with matcha mochi pancakes?” she demands.

Akaashi doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Tea doesn’t belong on pancakes.” His voice carries no heat, only a familiar sort of exasperation that makes you think this is an argument they’ve had before. To you, he says, “The strawberry one they do is pretty popular, you should go for that instead.”

You do, in the end, order the strawberry pancakes. Not because you particularly want them – the thought of eating could not be any less appealing right now – but because it is easier than picking up a menu and trying to parse it out when your brain won’t cooperate with you, and not ordering food will only make this whole thing more awkward than it already is.

“So,” Himari begins after the waitress leaves with a promise to return shortly with your drinks, “Kuroo’s only told us the basics. You started at your job a few months ago, right? Were you already living here, or did you move to the city for work?”

And so it begins. 

You tell them bits and pieces. Nothing that comes close to touching your damage, nothing that you wouldn’t share with the friendly girl from your weekly, beta only yoga class.

You like your job just fine, but it wasn’t what you planned on doing career wise, you just sort of fell into it. No, you grew up in a smaller town down the coast, you’d be surprised if they recognised the name of it. You’ve been in the city for about a year now.  A few of your cousins live here too, which is nice.

Only child, though you always wanted a big sister. Yeah, your parents are both betas, too. Most of your family is. 

No, not really a volleyball fan, or a sports fan in general, but seeing the game was kind of cool, you guess. Your hobbies? Well, you’ve been getting into baking lately, um– stress baking. You’ve found a beginners yoga class nearby you like, even though you’re not great at it. 

When your food arrives, you take it for the blessing it is. 

You aren’t in the least bit hungry. You bite and chew and swallow, and all you can taste is the cloying sickliness of your own discomfort. But, with your mouth full and a stacked plate in front of you, there’s a temporary reprieve from the rapid fire interrogation, which means you’ll eat and be thankful for every bite. 

Himari pouts at your pancakes like they’ve personally wronged her, and you wonder why Akaashi bothered to order at all when he spends less time eating than he does staring across the table at you. You can’t decide if there’s too much going on behind the blank affect, or if he’s genuinely bored out of his mind listening to his girlfriend/omega/almost-mate pepper you with questions. 

To be polite, you ask a few in return between mouthfuls. How they met, whether she was a volleyball fan first, or if that came after, and while Himari answers each happily enough, it inevitably swings back to–

“What about you? You seeing anyone?”

“I’m married.” 

You don’t know why you say it. You aren’t and never have been, and as far as jokes go, it isn’t particularly funny. It becomes even less so when, in an almost creepy synchronicity, Akaashi and Himari’s expressions drop and they snap their attention down to your left hand. Your bare left hand.

Made you look. 

You chuckle awkwardly. Himari laughs, too, after she realises you’re joking. 

Akaashi doesn’t.

—

Late Tuesday, Kuroo strolls into your office. 

It’s well after six, which means the girls who work reception either already left for the day, or they took one look at the handsome alpha and let him pass regardless. 

You spot him from the corner of your eye, scanning the floor, and assume he’s there to corral some of his friend-slash-drinking buddies into heading off somewhere. Your plans involve the spreadsheet on your screen, and staying put at your desk until your boss finally finishes up for the night to head home. Four-ish months in, you don’t yet have the goodwill the others take for granted.

Ino left twenty minutes ago. Her workspace is neat and tidy, a few post-its stuck to the monitor, chair tucked in – until Kuroo pulls it out and collapses into it with a dramatic groan.

“You gonna stare at that thing all night?”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. “I have a deadline,” you manage to say.

Kuroo grins. Stretches his long legs out into your side of the desk, fingers laced over his lap. There’s no attempt for subtlety or discretion. Your boss’ in his office, door open, and while some of the office had left, plenty of your coworkers remain. If they weren’t watching this, gawking at the two of you, you’d eat your laptop. 

God, you’d give anything to just disappear right now.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to spring you. I need you.” When you don’t immediately jump to your feet and start gathering your things, he adds, “C’mon, it’s for Himari. Please?”

Himari. Why else?

She’s messaged you a few times since pancakes. Without her alphas hovering around, you find you actually kind of like the omega. She’s sweet, if a little… intense. 

You aren’t sure you like her enough for whatever this is, though. 

“I can’t, I’ve got–”

“A deadline, yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. Thing is, I need your help, and it absolutely has to be tonight.”

“Kuroo–”

He rolls Ino’s chair closer. Your pulse ratchets in response. “Don’t make me beg. C’mon, you don’t want to be here for the next three hours pretending to work, do you?” You open your mouth again, and he cuts you off, again. “Your boss won’t care. It’s one night, help me out. Please?”

He takes you by the wrist and urges you to your feet, and though every cell inside you recoils at his touch, you let him, well aware of the audience the two of you have attracted. There’s a weight to the stares burning into the back of your head, the pindrop silence growing louder from the moment he sat down beside you. 

“I’ll– meet me downstairs. I need a few minutes to finish up,” you mutter, every word pulled from your teeth with hooks. 

“That’s my girl.” He raps his knuckles against Ino’s desk, satisfied in spite of the fact you resolutely won’t meet his gaze. “I’ll be out front.”

Kuroo stops briefly at your boss’ door on his way out, winking back at you and heat suffuses all the way to the tips of your ears. 

Mechanically, you gather your things, refusing to look up, to meet anyone’s stare or find out if they’re watching at all, now the show’s over. No one would’ve blinked if it were Ino, or any of the other betas in the office, but because it’s you, the new girl, the weirdly skittish one no one’s quite sure about yet, they’ll be whispering and giggling about it in the break room come morning, you’d bet money on it. 

Your boss’ office is situated between your desk and the front door, there’s no option but to walk right by, and with glass partitions, there’s no sneaking past. He glances up from his screen long enough to call out a friendly goodnight, and your shoulders drop another inch. 

Kuroo’s waiting for you by the elevators.

“Shall we?” 

Biting back a sigh, you offer a resigned nod. The ride down is near silent. You put as much space between you and him as the small confines of the metal car allows, as much as you think you can get away with without it coming across as rude, and Kuroo leans against the opposite wall and watches you do it with a stupid, irritating smirk. 

You’ve yet to meet the volleyball player, and Akaashi’s decidedly unsettling with all the dead-eyed staring, but Kuroo’s fast becoming your least favourite of Himari’s almost-mates. 

“Where are we going?” you ask when you finally have the space to breathe. And when can I leave? 

“Kuroo.”

It’s an echo of another night, another alpha too close when you were stripped down. Though the voice is much deeper, you turn half expecting to see Sakai by the door again, that same leery frown. Silly, because Sakai hadn’t been in these past two days, thanks to her omega’s heat, and the voice wasn’t calling for you. 

You both turn, and it’s Kuroo’s expression that drops. You recognise the alpha approaching. He looked bigger on Kuroo’s TV. Not physically – roughly the same height as his fellow alpha, the jacket he’s donned for the late autumn chill doing the bare minimum to mask his build –  just… more, somehow. Possibly because of the scolded puppy expression on his face.

Bokuto, though Himari only ever calls him Bo. 

Kuroo’s hand clamps down around your wrist, not tight, but firm, like you’re an errant child about to sprint blindly into traffic. “What happened to training?”

Bokuto shrugs, eyes shifting guiltily between you both. A non-answer. Eventually, he says, “We’re doing the thing, right?”

“The thing?” You tug at Kuroo’s grip, pulling back, but he doesn’t let you go. Not at first. Not until you make a strangled sort of noise, tugging harder, and his attention snaps like a rubber band back to you. He releases your wrist, plastering an easy grin on his face.

“You haven’t met Bokuto yet, have you?” 

You don’t particularly want to. 

“What thing?” you ask again, ignoring the other alpha. 

“Are you this prickly with everyone, or am I just lucky?” He doesn’t sound all that put off by the prospect. “The polite thing to do is say hello. He won’t bite.”

He’s joking. Of course he’s joking, Kuroo hasn’t wasted a single one of your interactions being serious, that doesn’t stop the ice that drips through your veins, the echo of abject terror slicing away at your insides. 

Without his hands on you, there’s nothing keeping you from stumbling a step backwards, and then another.

“I–” you swallow, something sharp lodged in your throat. You remember your manners long enough to glance in Bokuto’s general direction, “It’s nice to meet you, really,” you lie. “But I can’t do this tonight. Sorry,” you add hastily to Kuroo.

“Relax. We’re going shopping, it’s nothing nefarious, cross my heart.” He isn’t smiling anymore. Reaching out to stop you, a hand in the dark–

gripping your hair, blood dripping down your face

– “I– I can’t do this. I can’t,” you gasp out, jolting backwards.

“Alright, okay, that’s fine, we don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “But we should take you home. Neither of us,” he shares a look with Bokuto, “would feel good about leaving you on your own in this state.”

They’re tracking you, both of them. Every twitch, every inch you put between you, caught and catalogued. Kuroo’s palms are up in front of his chest placatingly. Bokuto looks like he’s a hairsbreadth from lunging at you, a fervent, frankly unsettling desperation bleeding through the loose, lax, ‘non-threatening alpha’ pose he adopts.

Pretending they both aren’t trying to hem you in. 

Around you, the street hums with activity. Office workers heading home, off to find somewhere to eat and drink the hours away. Friends catching up. Date night. Shoppers and tourists milling about. Plenty of bystanders and witnesses. If any of them spares the standoff between you three a second glance, they decide it’s not worth intervening. 

From the outside looking in, the alphas aren’t doing anything untoward, they aren’t threatening you, they aren’t even touching you. You’re the one falling to pieces over nothing.

“I-I’m fine.” Neither of them buy it. Wide eyed, trembling like a fawn, you suppose it isn’t all that convincing a performance. When it comes down to it, though, you don’t need them to believe you. You need them to heed it. “I can get an Uber.”

“What if– what if it was just me?” Bokuto offers. “Kuroo stays here, and I could take you home.”

As if Kuroo is the sole problem here. 

From the corner of your eye, you spy an empty taxi driving along the road, and you don’t think, your body moves with a will of its own, hand shooting out to hail it down. 

Your legs are steadier now there’s an escape route in sight. “Thanks. I’ll take the cab.”

There’s more you should say. Another apology, probably. The feigned politeness you hastily toss out in your bid for freedom won’t win you any favours. Tomorrow, later tonight maybe, you’ll curse yourself for it, remember the reason you walked out with Kuroo in the first place, and stew over what he might tell your coworkers. Your boss. 

Emotionally unstable. Paranoid. Bitchy. A few carefully placed words, and it all goes up in smoke. 

For now, you side step the two of them and slip into the cab with as much dignity as you can claw back.

You don’t properly exhale until they’re specks in the rearview mirror.

—

Blood drips from your face onto your forearms, onto the gravel beneath.

You can’t breathe through a busted, bloodied nose. You wail instead; choked, animal. Fingernails scrabble for purchase. Break. You can’t drag yourself away. You can’t move with the heavy weight draped over your back.

The pain like a hot knife thrust into your insides. 

And then– 

exponentially worse.

The taste of warm copper heavy on your tongue. You thought the bite would be the worst of it. The knot. 

‘Rookie, where the hell did you–!’

Four of them, featureless in the dark, obscured by tears. Arguing. Rough hands pulling at you both, yanking him away far, far too soon.

A shriek ripped from your lungs. Snarling. A warm splatter on the ground, seeping red. 

The haze of rage and fury, pounding in your head. Not yours.

More swearing. Snapping of teeth, fists meeting flesh. 

‘D’you wanna fuckin’ help me with him?!’ 

One hangs back. Watches you attempt to lift yourself up, crawl – but the agony swallows you whole. Spits you back out. 

‘Shit, shit, shit! Fuck– uhh, you’re gonna be fine. You’ll be okay. We’ll send for help. We’ll… we’ll– Fuck!’

And he runs. 

—

There’s no gasping breath as you wake. 

You don’t shoot bolt upright, clutching at your chest.  Your eyes open, adjust to the dim confines of your bedroom, and you wait for the paralysing dread to balefully relax its claws and slink back to the shadows it inhabits. 

The scar on your neck’s long since healed, fading into nothing as the bond did, but on nights like tonight, it throbs and itches and aches beneath your skin. A wound that never healed right. 

There’s no chance you’re going into work once the sun rises and the day begins proper. The reserves have bled dry, there’s nothing left in you to cobble together a convincing enough performance for your boss, your coworkers, Kuroo – any of them. You can’t even call it a decision, there’s no reality in which you roll out of bed in a few hours fully functional and go about your day like normal. 

Your normal is already a struggle. 

When you grab your phone, intending on setting an alarm to message your boss in a few hours’ time, an unopened notification from Himari catches your eye. 

kuroo said you left upset :c whatever they did, they’re idiots. 

And then, ten minutes after that:

can i come over? i think we should talk, no alphas just us girls <3 

Being that it is the very, very early hours of the morning, you don’t respond right away, but you will. She’s right, after all – the two of you do need to talk.

The second time you wake, sunlight’s beginning to creep through the gap in your blinds. 

The third time, when you finally drag yourself from bed, bleary eyed and bone weary, it’s well into the morning. 

You make coffee, eat breakfast. One of your cousins messaged you about catching up for dinner soon – a thin veneer for what is essentially a check in – you respond to her and then shoot a reply back to Himari as well. 

A few hours later finds her at your door, the brightness of her expression dimming when she takes in all that the long, scalding shower couldn’t wash away.

The air goes thick, redolent with her honeysuckle scent. 

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, and wraps you up in a hug.

Loosely, you return it. 

After messaging her your address, you’d gnawed at your lip and picked at your cuticles, pacing about and wondering how to broach it, what you’d tell her. In some ways, you’re strangers to each other. There’s something there, though. Fledgling and fragile, and you’re about to take a hammer to it.

And to do that, you have to tell her the truth. Problem is, you don’t know how. 

But before you can open your mouth, she’s drawing back, a soft crease between her brows, lips downturned. 

The words, “I feel like this is my fault,” are the very last thing you expect her to say. 

“What do you mean?”

She takes your hand in hers, soft and warm, and smiles a little sadly. “Come sit,” she says, which is a little weird when she’s not the one who lives here. Even so, you find yourself following along when she leads you to the couch, settling down beside her. 

“Have you ever been in love?”

You blink at her, surprised by the sudden left turn the conversation’s taken. 

“… No. Never.” Love always seemed like one of those things you’d get around to eventually. Once you finished school, once you figured out who you were, once you had a bit more life experience under your belt.

And then the goalpost shifted.

“Omegas don’t always have that luxury,” she says. “We get a choice with an invisible timer attached to it, counting down to an unknown point in time where our bodies turn on themselves and our heats eventually kill us.” 

None of this is news to you. No one likes to talk about it, but it’s a simple, brutal truth that every child learns at some point. One of the reasons you grew up thankful for your own boring beta biology. 

“We have a limited time to pick alphas who will treat us right, take care of us during our heats, provide for us, be good fathers to our kids, and once we do there’s no taking it back. Sometimes…” Himari breaks off, her eyes dropping to where your hands are joined. She sighs again, “They told me they wanted a beta mate.”

The quiet admission hits you in a delayed sort of reaction, the crack of a slap registering seconds before any pain does. Your eyes widen, but she misinterprets your shock, laughing gently.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I knew pretty much from the get-go, no surprises, no rugs pulled out from under anyone. I could’ve walked away if I wanted to, I just,” she shrugs, “didn’t want to. I thought it wouldn’t matter. They’d bite me, we’d bond and fall in love, and if one day they met someone, it wouldn’t take away from my own happiness. I’m not a jealous person. I want my alphas to have everything they want.”

Her eyes are beseeching when she squeezes your hand and delivers the final blow.

“But Kuroo came home one day, and he had this look on his face, and I thought– I thought if they liked you, and you liked them, we’d finally be able to bond. We’d be a pack, all of us. I gave them my blessing, and then I met you and–”

“I can’t,” the words slip out without you meaning them to. “… It can’t be me. I’m sorry.” 

Himari flinches, a tiny, likely involuntary response, but you catch it all the same. “You can’t give them a chance? Give me one? I know they came on a little strong, and that’s partially my fault, but–”

“In my first year at university, I was walking home from a friend’s place one night when I was attacked by an alpha in a rut.”

She falls silent, frozen and wide eyed. Whatever she thought you were about to say, it wasn’t that.

You tell her how you were jumped from behind and wrestled to the ground, how it was so dark that you never got a good look at him. You tell her about the other alphas that showed up after he’d raped, bitten and knotted you – his friends, presumably – the damage they did prying him away.

You tell her that they promised to send help, and they ran, and no one came. For hours. 

You tell her, briefly, about the months you spent in recovery, hindered by the bond sickness that quickly and brutally set in. 

By the time you’re finished, Himari’s got streaks of tears running down bloodless cheeks, gripping your hand so tightly you’d think she was the one clinging to a lifeline. 

There isn’t much to say after that. 

She hugs you on her way out, burying her face in the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.” 

It isn’t her fault. Some things just are the way they are.

“Me too.”

And then she’s gone.

The silence in your apartment feels louder in her wake. 

There’s a few hours of daylight left yet, but you were exhausted when you woke up, and more so now. An exposed nerve, dredged up in the muck of your past, that leaves you feeling raw and deeply uncomfortable, now that you try to settle back on the same couch you spilled your guts on. 

TV might help, you eventually decide. You don’t particularly care what, anything to fill the silence, give you something to stare at rather than wallowing through the last two days. 

A knock at your door sounds just as you reach for the remote.

The only reason you get up at all is because you assume it’s Himari, having forgotten something. Your phone’s been on silent all day, left on the kitchen bench – if she’d messaged you after leaving, there’s every chance you wouldn’t’ve heard the notification go off.

Either Himari or a delivery driver with the wrong address.

Only, when you flick the lock and crack open your door, it isn’t the auburn haired omega standing on the other side, but one of her alphas.

“Bokuto?” You step back on instinct, fingers tightening on the doorknob. You force yourself to smile, to soften the image, grim as it may be. “Are you looking for Himari? She left like ten, fifteen minutes ago.”

For a split second, you think he’s just going to stand there, all six foot whatever of him, looming in your open doorway like a sentinel, and then–

A smile like wonder breaks across his face, “Fuck, say it again,” he groans out. 

He moves quicker than a man of his size has any right to it. A foot in the doorway first, stopping the door from slamming on him when you shove it with all your might, and then he’s in your apartment, catching it on the rebound and swinging it shut himself. 

Your mouth opens on a scream, but you never get the chance. Two steps, and he’s on you. A hand fisting through your hair, parted lips crashing into yours. “Say it again, baby. Please?” he groans lowly, attacking your lips again with a near feral desperation.

You can’t answer him even if you wanted to. 

Fear floods through you. There’s no kick of adrenaline to spark your feral resistance – you plummet into a pit. Sapped of what strength you have, a slow acting paralysis. Rather than the pilot, you’re demoted to a passenger, and it is all you can do to draw your palms up to his chest and shove ineffectually back while he wraps his free arm around your back to haul you closer.

Your elbows fold. You collapse against him wholly, every part of you entangled with him. His tongue hot in your mouth, the scent of him suffocating. 

He loosens his grip on your hair fractionally. Draws away from your lips only to mouth openly and suck at your jaw and the tender flesh beneath. 

You remember how to scream as an old, poorly healed wound throbs at the junction of your neck–

And his teeth dig in.

It’s lightning. The bond burns you from the inside out, robbing you of thought, of sight, of control. You are alight and in pain, clutching at him blindly, lips parted on a strangled whine, and he uses that disorientation to move you into your bedroom and onto the bed. 

“Missed you,” he pants, laying you down and caging you in from above. “Missed you, missed you, missed you so fuckin’ much.”

He rips through your clothes like they’re paper, treating each inch of exposed flesh like territory he needs to map and stake a claim upon. It’d strike another cord of terror if you weren’t half out of your mind with fear already, reckoning with the foreign and familiar sense of alpha forced into your chest.

Bokuto.

Tears brim and spill, and your eyes fall shut. Himari’s words echo in your head, over and over in a never ending loop. They wanted a beta mate.

An alpha in a rut is mindless and ferine. This is a conscious choice. 

Rough hands glide over your breasts, pinching and flicking at your nipples ‘til they peak under his touch, a low appreciative growl leaving his throat. “I know, baby, you missed me too. You shouldn’t’ve left.”

W-what?

Your eyes fly open of their own volition. Golden irises, sharp, focused, predatory, flit from your tits to the oozing bite on your neck to your tear stricken face, like he can’t decide which he likes looking at best. Somewhere between the door and now, he’s shed his hoodie. His own chest heaves above yours, not with tears or exertion – he’s barely broken a sweat so far – or terror like yours is, but quivering with excitement. Even without the waves of lust assaulting you down the bond, the strain of his erection pressing against his jeans is evidence enough.

And you remember the feel of it, splitting you apart. 

“Please, please, Bo,” you beg, adopting Himari’s nickname for the hulking alpha. Your alpha. Your mate. “You’ll hurt me again. I can’t,” you draw in a sharp, ragged breath, “I-I can’t–”

A quiet tearing sound, and cotton scraps of your underwear are shoved aside. 

“‘Course you can. We’ll take it nice and slow. It’s been a while, huh?” But his voice is thick and roughened, dripping with excitement, and he either doesn’t realise his hips are already jerking clumsily against yours, desperate for the friction, or doesn’t care enough to stop. His hands tremble when he settles back and fumbles for his belt buckle. “We love each other. We’re mates,” you whimper at the word, and the bond goes liquid between you, “This is how it’s s’posed to be.”

A year or so after you were attacked, your parents pushed you into taking self defence classes. On a rational level, you understood that what happened was a freak occurrence. The chances that anything similar would happen to you again were next to negligible. 

But you weren’t thinking rationally when you’d accidentally bump carts with an alpha while doing your groceries, or when one would take the seat next to yours on a busy train. 

Your parents were under the impression that if you had confidence in your ability to defend yourself – at least to the point of being able to escape – being around alphas in public wouldn’t be so hard on you. 

It was too early, maybe. The instructor was a beta, and the class split between betas and omegas, mostly women, but not all. That wasn’t a magic fix, though. The second anyone got too close, it didn’t matter their designation – you were right back in the alley.

No one ever said as much, but the truth became obvious fairly quickly. A thrown elbow might be enough to wind the slow moving omega trying to ‘overpower’ you. It wouldn’t stop the alpha twice your size, with a hold on you from inside yourself.

Metal clinks, the hiss of a zipper sliding down. Bokuto’s low, throaty groan sounds as he works at his own cock. He shifts forward, large, calloused hands sliding down your trembling thighs to push them further apart, all whilst his heavy cock bobs threateningly between you. Your tears come quicker, choked, frightened little sobs. You shake your head back and forth, pleading wordlessly with him – your alpha. Your mate. 

“Hold onto me, baby–” he grunts a little, moving your arms so they stretch over the back of his shoulders. “Yeah, like that. Good mate.”

Maybe if you sink your nails in, claw at his back. If one of your knees comes up, if you can just–

“Ready for me?” His cock slides along the seam of your pussy, a testing push at your entrance.

“Please,” you beg, your voice pitched and frantic. “Please, Bokuto, don–” 

Sharp, blinding pain. The shriek that replaces panicked pleas is smothered under another hungry, demanding kiss as he pushes his cock deeper.

Reality fractures. Gravel digs into your skin, the mattress springs creaking beneath your combined weight. You taste blood on your tongue, you taste him, his scent. It wraps around you. You’ve never been colder, exhausted in the darkened alley. Never burned hotter. Battered under a barrage of emotions that aren’t yours, held down, clawing at the ground, nails splitting, breaking, twisted in your own bedsheets, gasping, crying out. The panting in your ear. Snarling. Moans and grunts, the slick sound of your pussy squelching around him and his heavy balls smacking against the back of your thighs. 

Agony, ricocheting like forks of lighting. He doesn’t let up, won’t give you a second to adjust or squirm away. 

No matter his promises to take it slow, he fucks like it’s the only chance he’ll ever have to do so, like he’ll die if he can’t bury himself deep enough to reshape your insides around him. 

You don’t think it can get any worse, and then you feel the unmistakable swelling at the base of his cock, notching at your entrance on each downward stroke; his knot. 

There aren’t words for the visceral wave of terror that ripples through you, but you must clench down around him, because Bokuto moans loudly above you, cursing as he picks up the pace.

“My mate, all fucking mine,” he pants in your ear, hunched over you like an animal. 

Carried along with the motion of his thrusts, helpless, just a ragdoll tossed about beneath him. “You ca-n’t–” you cry out. “Bo, your kn-ot, pull out! You’ve g-gotta pull out–”

“Gonna knot you so fucking good,” he slurs out, “gonna keep you right there on the end of my dick all night. My mate.”

It all becomes too much, the force of Bokuto’s cock punching into you, the deluge from the bond, your memories, the pain and the sudden, stark terror.

Pushing, pushing, pushing, and then–

Unbearable fullness.

—

You come to some time later.

The light in your bedroom’s different. Golden, now. You blink blearily, a confused noise slipping out as you register the strange sensation between your legs. Stinging, an ache that throbs, and…

Warmth suffusing your core. 

Hands on your inner thighs, keeping them spread. A drag of something wet and hot along your pussy–

Bokuto appears in your eyeline, naked, loose, a dumb, satiated grin wide across his face. “Stay down, baby. ‘Kaashi just wanted a taste.”

You scramble back immediately, ignoring the sharp burst of pain moving so suddenly earns you. 

Laid out on his stomach between your spread legs, hair lightly mussed, glasses gone, mouth and jaw glistening with– with you, Akaashi’s lips twitch faintly upwards.

“I don’t think I was done, angel,” he remarks with a dry laugh. “Not very good with instructions, are you?”

Your stomach churns, heart pounding sickly in your chest.

It isn’t the sight of the bloodied mark on your thigh that can only have been another bite, or Bokuto’s resumed pawing. It’s Akaashi’s eyes. You always thought them flat, cold and lifeless. Shark-like. Serial killer-esque if you were feeling particularly unkind.

Nosing along your thigh, nipping lightly just to hear the catch of your breath, they shine with an unsettling fervor, too bright. Too much. 

“I-I don’t think–”

“You don’t need to,” he tuts. He rises smoothly from his elbows and stalks up your frozen body. His lips, wet with the remnants of you and Bokuto, hover mere millimeters above yours.

You think he’s going to kiss you. You’re close enough to count his long, dark eyelashes, and every breath you take he shares. 

The hand that takes you by the throat is gentle, the touch dare you say loving in its caress – right up to the point it tightens. Not harshly enough to restrict your airway, not enough to bruise. Just enough so as to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his fingers, watch your eyes widen in instinctual fear.

Into your lips, he whispers, “That’s what you have your alphas for.”

—

Kuroo arrives a few hours later. 

The three of you are still in bed. You’re nestled between Bokuto and Akaashi, sweat slicked and shivering. The front door opens and you don’t even have the strength to flinch. There’s a soft thud, something heavy being set down, shoes kicked off and toed aside. A coat flung over the back of one of your chairs. 

Seconds later, he’s walking through your bedroom door like he belongs there, making a beeline for your bedside.

Ignoring for the moment Akaashi propped up between you two, he leans down and tilts your chin up for a languid, simmering kiss. “Hey, babe. Sorry I’m late.”

The noise that leaves you is a wounded, confused thing, but Kuroo just laughs. “They really wore you out, huh?”

“Might’ve waited if you’d showed up when you were supposed to,” Akaashi taunts with that half grin of his, a stray kiss pressed to the crown of your head, resting now back on his shoulder. 

Kuroo groans, scrubbing a hand through his already messy hair. “What was I supposed to do? Tell the division head to sort his own fucking problems?” 

Akaashi raises a brow and Bokuto makes a half-hearted grunt, sprawled face down over your chest and clearly more interested in napping. 

“Ugh, whatever.” He waves them both off with a huff, straightening up to start taking off his clothes.

There’s no dread, no flash of panic. There’s nothing but cold numbness inside of you, an echo of pain washed out by the contentedness of the two alphas you’re already bonded to.

Soon to be three. 

And though he doesn’t say anything to them, Akaashi kicks at Bokuto, and after a little grumbling from Bo, they both begin to withdraw, shifting you like a doll between them to make space for Kuroo to kneel on the mattress and crawl to you. You never thought of your bed as small before – it’s a double, and it’s only ever been you. With three alphas added into the mix, it feels claustrophobic.

Your whole apartment does.

You wonder how much of it shows on your face, because Kuroo snorts, cupping your tearstained cheek in his palm. “We can handle a bit of close quarters cuddling for a night, beta. We’ll have you back home in the nest tomorrow.” His smirk grows ever so slightly, “Could’ve picked out some new pieces just for you, if you hadn’t run off on us.”

“What… what about Himari?” you manage to croak. 

If you expect him to be bothered in any way at the reminder of his almost-omega, you’re sorely disappointed. Kuroo shrugs and drags the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “Home, I guess. Poor thing learned some hard truths today. Needed the space.” He presses down ‘til your they part and accept the digit. 

Thumb resting on your tongue, Kuroo appraises you with a tilted head. “She’s not gonna help you, little beta. You’re all ours tonight.”

[osarina]

♱ THE DEVIL

FEATURING: chrollo lucilfer x fem!reader, former kurapika kurta x fem!reader

SUMMARY: a bad night turns into an even worse day. you make mistake after mistake, and there is no end to this miserable contest in sight.

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, kakin prince!reader, soulmate au, canon divergent, enemies to lovers, abusive relationship with tserriednich/grooming (the first half of part 2 centers around this. it is not intended to be read as sexual), character death (not chrollo or reader), dark themes (carne levare, imperialism, etc), world & character building (i took some creative liberty with what we know for Plot purposes—particularly kakin, meteor city, the mafias, and many of the characters), age gap (reader is 20 for plot reasons—order of princes & relationship with kurapika) angst with (mostly) happy ending, (wc 26.5k)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part 2, chapter 2!!! probably will be monthly updates from now on—it's a lot to sit through and edit each chapter, because a lot of the scenes end up getting rewritten, and I've got too much going on to be able to keep up with weekly updates! All reblogs and comments are appreciated! even if you only just boost!

SEE: REQUIEM IMPERIUM SERIES MASTERLIST

You dream of him again for the first time since that night.

You have never been to the Lukso Province, but you’ve heard about it from Kurapika. He didn’t often speak about his past, even less his home and his people, but sometimes, when he woke up from a bad dream, pale and shaking, he would tell you what it was like before blood fertilized the earth and traces of rot could be smelt in every gust of wind. You could tell he was afraid of forgetting what it was like before the massacre, but he was equally afraid of remembering what he lost. 

Still, he told you enough that you recognize where you are instantly. The lush grass and crystalline lakes, the trees that tower up toward the sky, trunks twice as thick as anything you’ve ever seen in Kakin, the massive land birds darting between them, chasing one another playfully—Piko, you remember Kurapika recalling them with a soft smile, the Kurtas used to ride them to the province from their village when they were picking up goods. He described it as paradise, and now that you’re here, witnessing it with your own eyes, you can’t help but agree. You traveled a lot when you were away from Kakin, but you don’t think you’ve ever been somewhere so beautiful before.

It’s almost enough to make you overlook the putrid scent of death.

Why are you in Lukso? 

Dread pools in your stomach as you walk forward. There are only two possibilities: you’re here to witness the massacre through Chrollo’s memories, or you’re here to talk to a younger Chrollo in the immediate aftermath of it. 

You don’t know which is worse. 

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest as you make your way through the forest. Now that the illusion of paradise has been shattered, you see the haze of smoke in the near distance, the faint red and orange glows, and when you reach a small wooden bridge, that stream runs red beneath it.

You don’t step onto the bridge immediately, not ready for what you’re going to see once you cross the treeline on the opposite side of it. You can imagine it. Kurapika broke down in your arms on the fifth anniversary of the massacre—gouged eyes, strung up bodies, children tortured in front of their parents.

This is who you’re bound to. This is your other half. What does it say about you? The same thoughts that crossed your mind weeks ago badger you again. They hit harder now that you’ve finally started to accept Chrollo and this bond. More accusing. How could you?

Breathe, you tell yourself. Breathe.

Why would the bond show you this now? You—you felt so relieved when he pulled you into his arms earlier. For the first time since everything went to hell, you could let the weight drop from your shoulders. Nearly three weeks of thinking you’d been abandoned, of Tserriednich’s ever-looming presence twisting up your mind—you finally felt as though you’d caught a break, that the universe wasn’t just punishing you.

Punishing you.

Tserriednich’s words ring through your head. That’s what punishment does. It reminds you of what you can’t have, over and over again. It dangles meaning in front of you, calls it destiny, but it’s something that hurts you to accept. Is he right? Is that what all of this is? The first dreams were to make you warm up to the idea of accepting him, to give you hope that maybe something could actually come from the bond you’ve longed for your whole life, but it always planned to rip it away from you again by showing you exactly who he is and what he’s done.

Punishment.

You take a deep breath, trying to pretend that you can’t taste death in the back of your throat as you step onto the bridge. Each step forward feels like you’re pushing yourself through waist-deep mud. You try to steel yourself—you really, really do—but no amount of time or preparation could have made you ready to see what’s past the treeline.

The first body you see is right at the forest’s edge. It’s a teenager, a boy no older than Kacho and Fugetsu. He was fleeing the massacre—bullets riddle his back, dirty tear tracks stain his cheeks, his arm is still extended outward. The glassiness of his eyes does nothing to dull the fear written in them, even in death. 

Already, you feel the nausea building. You try to count your breaths—in three beats, out two, but all you do is inhale rot and smoke. You can hardly bring yourself to lift your gaze. One body becomes two, becomes three, twelve, twenty-four that you can see, one hundred and three out of sight. Corpses hang from threads that you’ve seen Machi use with your own eyes, heads twisted off and thrown carelessly to the side. You’ve seen death before, you’ve killed before, but never like this. The skirmishes on the southern border, the Hunter Exam, the Chimera Ant incident—nothing you’ve seen or taken part in comes close to the carnage before you.

Punishment, you think, dizzy, Tserriednich is right. This bond is punishment.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

You don’t even hear him approach you. You’re standing at the edge of the first row of homes, staring at the flames flickering in the buildings and the dead bodies strewn about the once idyllic village. You can’t even bring yourself to turn and look at him, not until you feel fingers wrap around your wrist.

Instinctively, you yank out of his grip and pull your hand to your chest, whirling around with an accusing expression. He doesn’t flinch when you recoil, but you certainly falter when you see him. The past two dreams, you’d hardly recognized the boys in them as Chrollo—too young, too innocent, too uncertain—but this one. This is a Chrollo you recognize. His expression is terribly impassive; his gray eyes are eerily empty, and his lips are flat. There’s nothing young and boyish about him anymore, none of the kindness and tenderness from the eleven-year-old you first met, none of the gut-wrenching uncertainty from the fifteen-year-old in the abandoned hotel in Sairen.

He’s older than you now, you recognize, trying to ground yourself in something that’s not the horror show around you. He must be. Kurapika was twelve when the massacre took place. You would’ve been thirteen. So, Chrollo, he must be… twenty-one? Trying to put numbers to faces fails to ground you; it serves to only make you feel more sick, because how is he barely a year older than you and has—you see another corpse from the corner of your eye, the arm is too thin to be an adult, you avert your gaze to the bloodstained dirt beneath you—done this?

“Will you say it?” He has the audacity to sound amused. Your gaze snaps up, furious. He’s wearing that gaudy coat now—he must’ve gotten his hands on it sometime between the last dream you had and this one, and he doesn’t wear a shirt beneath it, so you can see the blood splattered all over his chest and abdomen. When you look up at his face, you realize there’s blood smeared there too, across his lips, over his eye and cheek. It’s disgusting. It’s— “I’d like to hear it, just to know what it sounds like coming from your lips.”

“Fuck you,” you say instead, voice sharp and angry. “That’s what you have to say. What is wrong with you?”

He comes closer, and you pointedly angle your head back to the ground, refusing to look him in the eye, but not daring to step back in fear of that child’s body entering your field of vision again. Your expression twists in disgust when you feel him lift his hand to your chin, tilting your face up toward him, forcing you to look him in the eye. His lips are curled up into a faint smile, but his eyes belie the apparent smugness, still far too void of emotion.

“There it is,” he says softly. You can feel his breath on your lips. “I’ve been waiting for this. For you to look at me the way you really feel. You were so kind during our last two meetings—telling me your words were an accident, a mistake, offering me comfort, holding me. But I knew the truth, even if you wouldn’t say it to my face. You could hardly stand the sight of me. I’m glad you’ve finally stopped pretending.”

You jerk your chin out of his grip, but the motion only barely frees you—his fingers drag across your jaw as if mapping out the shape of it, and his thumb ghosts the corner of your mouth, smearing a streak of someone else’s blood onto you. The taste of iron forces your lips apart on a small, involuntary inhale. His eyes flicker down, then return to yours. 

“Will you say it?” he murmurs. “The words?” When you don’t respond—just continue to stare at him, aghast—he sighs and looks away, eyes sliding shut. “You don’t need to. It’s written all over your face.”

“What is wrong with you?” you breathe out. “How can you—how can you stand here and act like this? Like there aren’t—”

You can’t even finish the sentence, gaze shifting to the side and landing on a woman’s corpse several feet to your left, eyes gouged out. You fight a gag, and turn your attention back to him, sharp and accusing. He watches you with an unreadable expression before his gaze flits to the side, as though he’s bored with this conversation already.

How dare—

“Because it’s not real,” he intones. “Or, rather, it’s just a dream. This has already happened. This isn’t the first I’ve dreamt of it, nor will it be the last.”

“You dream about it?” you ask him, voice catching over the words as he steps past you, around a severed arm with no more hesitation than if it were a fallen branch. You have to close your eyes to ground yourself again before you can bring yourself to look at him again. “What you did?”

“Do you think I’m exempt?” he asks mildly, gaze sliding to the side to look at you before he tilts his head up to look at the hazy sky. “This was always going to happen. The Kurta Clan found its way to the darker side of the internet. If it wasn’t us, it would’ve been someone else. They were never going to make it through the month alive.”

“You think that justifies it?” you spit out angrily, ignoring the curious look he gives you. That’s right, you realize, this Chrollo wouldn’t know about your ties to Kurapika. You’re not sure if you want him to. “It didn’t have to be you.”

“I’m glad it was,” he counters, and you stare at him for a moment, blinking as the words process.

“What?” you ask, voice little over a breath. “You—”

“I said, I’m glad it was,” he repeats, tilting his head absently. “While we were here, we found a book that belonged to a missing friend of ours. Pakunoda feared the worst when she stopped answering her calls. You should know, originally, we were just going to complete the job without any fanfare—half a dozen pairs of eyes was what they called for. This—” He spreads his arms as if to display the carnage behind him. The flickering flames cast an eerie glow over his face. “—is consequence. Consequence of the world they lived in. Consequence of the world we were born into. Consequences of choices made years before any of us ever set foot here.” He lowers his arms, lets them fall loosely at his sides as though this is all so self-evident that it hardly bears repeating.

“And I suppose,” he adds after a beat, “consequence of taking what belonged to us.”

You let out a noise. You’re not sure if it’s a scoff or a laugh, some mixture of both. “We’ll accept anything you leave, but don’t ever take anything away from us,” you echo the words that have been ingrained into you since you learned who Chrollo was to you. “That’s why you left the note. Because of a book that you thought connected the Kurtas to your missing friend. Tell me, did you even bother to get a confession out of them? If they did something to your friend? Or did you just see the book and go into a blind rage?”

Chrollo’s lip twitches in irritation, expression darkening just enough to be noticeable. “We didn’t need a confession. The book was more than enough.”

You scoff in his face. “You think so?” you ask coldly. “You know what I think? I think you were angry because you lost another friend. I think you were furious that you couldn’t do anything. That someone died again, and yet again, you weren’t there. Just like the first time.”

Chrollo’s eyes narrow, just slightly, but for him, it’s as good as a flinch. He realizes that you’re talking about Sarasa, and a part of you feels guilty for using it against him like this, but you force yourself to continue.

“You could never get your hands on the people that killed Sarasa,” you continue. “Never got justice.”

He instantly looks away at the sound of her name, shame crossing his face. He glances back at the carnage, as though just the name of the girl could summon her and force her to bear witness to the slaughter he committed in her name. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says coldly, jaw tight. “I would proceed very carefully.”

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” you correct, “because I’m the reason you get your hands on her killer seven years from now.” His lips part as he looks up at you, brows furrowing, but before he can press on the subject, you continue with where you were going to begin with. “You realized something might’ve happened to your other friend, and then you found this book in the village, it was enough for you. Convenient. Close enough. You didn’t want a confession because you didn’t want to be wrong. You were afraid this would be like Sarasa all over again, and you couldn’t stand it happening twice. You don’t even know if she’s dead, do you?”

He laughs, the sound is razor-sharp and condescending. “You think you’ve got me figured out,” he drones, voice low with derision. “It’s cute.”

“Don’t I?” you counter. “Tell me I’m wrong, Chrollo. Tell me that you went in there, got solid proof that they did something to your friend, and then you butchered them. Tell me this wasn’t a guess. Tell me this wasn’t just the closest place to put your anger.”

Chrollo doesn’t respond. You scoff and shake your head.

“You should know that this decision you made here, in five years' time, leads to the death of two of your friends,” you say quietly, watching his expression shift as your words process. “I’m telling you this because I know there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll wake up with no memory of our meeting tonight, but you’ll know the regret and inevitability here.” You press two fingers against his chest, pointing to his heart. “In five years, a survivor from the Kurta clan will come for revenge, and he will kill Uvogin and Pakunoda, and he will leave you nenless.”

Chrollo’s eyes are slightly wider now, and his throat bobs slightly. He tries to hide the uncertainty that crosses his face, but he can’t. His voice is strained as he accuses, “Liar. You’re saying this to upset me.”

“I’m not lying,” you tell him, and you know he believes you, because he takes in a ragged breath, lips parting as his gaze shifts to the side. He looks young again, suddenly, more like the boy from the last two dreams than the man you know, but you force yourself to press on. “I hope you still think it was worth it.”

He stares at you, eyes blown wide, not with anger, but something uglier and more fragile. He looks as though he’s just been cornered; the dizzying horror of realizing the future is not a blank page, and he’s written the deaths of the people he loves with one mistake. His lips part like he’s going to say something, but you turn on your heel and walk away, intent on getting as far from the slaughter as possible.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice cracking over the words. He clears his throat when you don’t answer and tries again, “There’s nowhere to go until one of us wakes up.”

“The smell is nauseating,” you say more to yourself than him. You don’t know if he hears what you say, but you can tell he’s following you because you hear him picking up the pace to catch up to you. 

You cross over the bridge back into the forest, and you keep walking, intent on getting back to the lake you started at. Chrollo doesn’t try to talk to you again as he slows to match your pace. You can feel him staring at you, but you don’t dare look over at him. You keep your gaze trained ahead until you reach the picturesque clearing half a mile away from the carnage the Phantom Troupe caused. You hear Chrollo let out a soft puff of air as he glances around, and you make your way to the edge of the lake, sitting in the dirt and watching the water ripple.

Chrollo takes a seat next to you, too close; you can feel his thigh brushing yours, shoulders nearly pressed together, the heat of his body, and the rise and fall as he takes each breath. You want to tell him to move away, but you don’t have the energy.

Punishment. Tserriednich is right. The bond is punishment. It spent weeks trying to ease you into accepting him, only to pull this as soon as you start to. It’s cruel; your heart aches so badly that you think you feel physical pain. You pull your knees to your chest and rest your forehead on them, trying to steady your breathing.

“You know him?” Chrollo finally asks, voice quiet. “The survivor? Is he the person you mentioned last time? The one you care about?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “he is.”

“Of course,” he replies bitterly. You don’t have to look at him to know what expression he must be wearing. “Fate really does have a cruel sense of humor.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you don’t. You hear him lean forward, water splashing lightly as he cleans the blood off his hands and body. You only look back over at him when he settles back next to you. Your gaze passes over the crystalline waters, trying to ignore that it’s now stained red with the blood Chrollo washed off, and lands on him. He’s staring up at the sky, an unreadable expression on his face. You almost want to say something to break the silence, but you can’t think of anything.

“Why did you tell me?” he asks quietly after a moment. “Knowing I can’t do anything to change it?”

“I wanted you…” You start to say, voice trailing off, when you realize what you’re about to say. You exhale, eyes sliding shut, and then admit, “I thought it would hurt. To know.”

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “For me to hurt?”

Your lips part, and then press shut again. Because the answer is no, even after seeing the carnage, after he taunted you, after everything—you don’t want him to hurt, and that realization makes you feel even worse.

“No,” you finally tell him, voice cracking. “I don’t.”

“Do you… still understand?” he asks after a moment. 

Ah. You realize that he’s referring to what you told him last time—that you can’t hate him because you understand how he became the way he did. He wants to know if it’s changed, if you hate him now, seeing what he did with your own eyes.

You sigh. “I knew this had happened already. I—”

“It’s different seeing it for yourself,” he interrupts, and the words come out smaller than you expect. You think smaller than he expects, too, because his expression twists with something close to embarrassment. He adds, “I wouldn’t blame you if your opinion changed. If my theory was right last time, then this is probably another turning point for you. I, ah, doubt it’s for me. I don’t think there are any left for me, I’m long down this path.”

A turning point, but what would it be? Well, you consider, there are probably several coming up, or maybe they’re all the same, just in different shades. Tserriednich or Chrollo. Two halves of the same whole or punishment. The crown or love. By the time the Black Whale docks at the Dark Continent, you’ll have had to have made your decision. 

Is this a final test of the bond, or is it just another way to hurt you?

“It’s… for me,” you say after a moment, rubbing your hands on your thighs. “It’s definitely for me.”

Chrollo hums, and when you glance over at him again, there’s an oddly docile expression on his face. He’s looking down at the dirt, tracing his fingers through it absently, as he asks quietly, “It’s whether or not you’ll accept me, isn’t it?”

You don’t reply, sighing as you look away again.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” he tells you, voice soft. “I doubt I would in the future, either. I’ve known for a long time that I’m not someone who deserves to be chosen.”

Your head jerks to the side. You weren’t expecting that—not from this Chrollo—but he says it so simply, like it’s a matter of fact, a conclusion that’s no longer up for debate, and not a realization that he’s been desperately trying to swallow since boyhood. You could almost forget that this is Chrollo, the head of the spider, the bandit, the king of thieves, the murderer and manipulator. You could almost forget that half a mile away, there are one hundred and twenty-seven corpses and blood still drying under his nails. You see the boy from Meteor City, bloody-knockled and brilliant, too kind for his own good, who learned painfully young that the world is cruel and violent, and decided he must become crueler and more violent in order to survive and protect the people he loves—regardless of what it might cost him.

You consider, maybe, that this is another attempt at manipulation, but his expression is too unguarded, and there’s no faking the way his throat bobs and lashes flutter as he tries to calm himself down.

“I’ve known from very early on,” he repeats, softer this time, barely audible, drawing another line through the dirt with his fingertips. “It’s okay if you don’t. I don’t expect you to forgive me, and I don’t expect you to choose me.”

“Can I… ask you something?” you ask after a moment. He gives you a questioning look, but nods. “What did you—What were you taught about the bond growing up? In Kakin, we’re taught that bonds are two halves of a perfect whole—”

“Sun and moon, heaven and earth.” He remembers what you told him during the first two meetings with a soft smile, but the smile falters when he remembers what comes next—me and you. He doesn’t dare say it out loud. Then he sighs and continues, “It’s… different than that. Father Lis—the priests back in Meteor City, they were very, ah, god-fearing, I suppose. They often preached that god abandoned us in every earthly way, considering where we were born, but he allowed us one mercy—one person whose soul is tied to ours, so that we never truly have to face the world alone. They told us that even if the world rejects us and calls us garbage, the bond is proof we’re still worthy of love and life.”

Your eyes slide shut, throat tightening as your mind is drawn back to the child who lived eight years without any words on his forearm, doubting whether or not he’s worthy of love and life. The relief he must’ve felt when the words finally appeared, only for them to be what they are. “Do you believe in god?”

“No,” he answers softly, “but I believe in… Ah, never mind.”

I believe in this, you finish what he can’t. Your gaze lowers to the dirt again, and you bite back a sigh as the edges of your vision begin to darken, the grass beneath your hands turning to sand that slips between your fingers.

“You’re waking up,” Chrollo realizes, and then exhales. “I’m… glad I got to see you, even considering the circumstances.”

You look at him again, and you find that he’s already looking at you, gaze desperately tracing your face as though trying to memorize it, only allowing himself the luxury of wanting now that he knows you’re leaving.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, “that I can’t be what you deserve.”

“What I deserve,” you echo bitterly, glancing away from him. “That’s not your decision to make.”

You wake up, heart racing and breath shaking, instinctively reaching to the side where Chrollo was before you fell asleep, only to find empty air.

Gone. You expected it—he had to take whatever chance he could to sneak out without getting caught, but still… you think you would’ve liked to talk to him after that dream. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not sure how that would’ve gone down, so you should take some time to gather your thoughts before you see him again.

When will you see him again?

Who knows? You think ruefully that it could be days before there’s another chance. Tier One has been heavily monitored since Tubeppa’s death, and the Troupe can’t risk anyone catching sight of them, or it will be right back to square one with them having to flee to the lower tiers. You sigh as you sit up in bed, gaze sliding over to the clock at your bedside—five am, you still have two hours before you have to meet Tserriednich for morning tea and—

What’s that?

You pause as you see a piece of paper tucked beneath the book on your nightstand. You slide to the edge of the bed and reach out to grab it, brows furrowed as you read what’s scrawled on it.

Casino. Tomorrow. 23:30.

Ah, you think, exhaling softly as uncertainty eats away at your chest. You lean back against the pillows and let your eyes slide shut, holding the paper carefully between your hands. 

How the hell are you going to get to the casino without tipping off Tserriednich?

————————

You’re fixing your necklace in the mirror, preparing to head over to Tserreidnich’s quarters, when a commotion breaks out in the main area of your quarters. You immediately fear the worst, dropping what you’re doing to rush out of your bedroom, afraid that you’ll come out to find Otocin, Momolly, Borksen, and all of the others butchered at the hands of a nen user trying to get to you.

Instead, you find an argument taking place between your brother’s friends and a group of unfamiliar people—four men and one woman. Who the hell are they? They’re not wearing uniforms, so they can’t be from the military, and you don’t recognize them as any of the provisional hunters. Both groups go silent when you enter the room, and Otocin is quick to position himself between you and these newcomers.

“Go back into your room,” Otocin tells you, uncharacteristically serious. “We’ll take care of this. These bastards—”

“Otocin,” you interrupt, speaking slowly as you recognize the sheer amount of nen emanating from these individuals. These… are not ordinary nen users. “Stand back.”

Your gaze flicks between them. A man with slicked-back black hair and dark eyes. A man wearing a dog mask. A taller man with strange scars across his forehead. A woman with fair hair and sharp eyes. A young blonde man with light eyes and a charming smile. Who are these people? How do they have so much nen? You don’t like the way the man wearing the dog mask is looking at you—you can’t even tell how he’s looking at you because of the mask, but you know it makes your skin crawl.

Otocin gives you an uncertain look from the corner of his eye, and you shake your head at him, warning him not to argue with you. He doesn’t like it, but he does step aside. You turn your attention back to the newcomers and raise your chin, hoping that your voice and demeanor don’t come across as uneasy as you feel. You’re still rattled from the dream you had last night—the last thing you need to be dealing with is something else on top of it. You wanted to take some time to think.

“Introduce yourself,” you say coolly. “What faction are you from? How did you get up here?”

The five exchange looks, and after a moment, the blonde man steps forward with a pleasant smile. It does not reach his eyes. He places a fist over his chest as he bows his head slightly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, prince. My name is Quorolle. I’m a member of the Heil-Ly Family. Miss Morena sent us up here to relieve your, ah… guard?” He stands up straight and rubs the back of his neck with an awkward laugh. It still doesn’t reach his eyes. It looks so uncanny that you can hardly hold his gaze, but you force yourself to, so you don’t look weak. “Although I don’t really see how they’re your guard, considering they can’t even protect themselves if it comes down to it.”

Otocin bristles, but Momolly and Borksen share an unsure look with one another.

“Morena sent you?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest. Fuck, you think. Why the fuck is the Heil-Ly here? Ah, you hate pulling the brother card, but if it has to be done… “Is my brother aware that you’re here?”

“He is,” the black-haired man interjects, stepping forward. How gross, you think—the only man you’ve ever seen who has been able to pull off a slickback is Chrollo, and even he’s treading on thin ice with it. His gaze roves over your body once, and Otocin barks out a ‘What the hell are you looking at?’ that the man promptly ignores, lips curving up into a small smile. “He approved of the switch. We could go get him, if you’d like.”

“I would like,” you reply with a tight smile, and the woman instantly turns on her heel to leave your quarters. You exhale, mind racing as you try to figure out why Tserriednich might’ve agreed to something like this. You know damn well he doesn’t trust the Heil-Ly, so—

“Your nen,” the man with the dog mask begins, inhaling greedily, “it smells good. Are you… a specialist?”

What the fuck?

“Dogman,” Quorolle complains, “don’t be weird, alright?”

“Hah? I’m just saying, it’s a compliment, you know?” Dogman—how delightfully fitting, you think dryly, at least it will be an easy name to remember—replies. “If you could smell it, you’d be saying the same. Smells sweet, like fresh strawberries. Man, I want strawberries. You think the upper tiers have them?”

“Ignore him,” Quorolle tells you. “He gets overly excited when he’s near someone with… promise.”

Promise?

“And you think you have the right to evaluate my promise?” you reply, voice flat.

Quorolle just smiles politely again—it’s too rehearsed, like he’s mimicking the appearance of civility to try to put you at ease. 

“Miss Morena is very interested in people like you,” he says mildly. 

People like me?

You don’t like this at all. Quorolle takes half a step closer, but Otocin immediately shifts, hand going for his gun. For a second, the gentlemanly mask drops, and Quorolle turns a horribly cold look onto Otocin, who shifts uncomfortably. But then he smiles again, holding his hands up in a pacifying gesture.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you. “We’re on your side.”

You narrow your eyes. “My side? And what am I on?”

Quorolle looks amused, but he doesn’t get the chance to answer your question, because the door to your quarters reopens, and the woman steps inside again, with Tserriednich a step behind her. His gaze flicks over the room carefully before finally landing on you. He gives you an easy smile as he crosses the room.

“Brother,” you greet, lashes fluttering shut when he bends his head down to ghost his lips against your forehead. He lifts a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and your heart seizes for a moment when something strange passes through his eyes. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, little bird. How did you sleep?” he asks.

Does he know?

Does he know that Chrollo was here last night?

Can he tell?

Did someone see Chrollo leave last night?

Is that why he approved nen-users taking over your guard?

Shit, you think, shit.

“Uneasily,” you say honestly.

“Ah, my fault, perhaps. We shouldn’t have had such an unfortunate conversation right before you went off to sleep,” he murmurs. It unnerves you how easily he accepts blame when you expect disdain and punishment. That odd clawing feeling returns, nails digging into your heart—guilt, why? You know this is only a facade. “You can sleep in my quarters the next few nights, if you want. Perhaps, you’ll sleep better.”

No, you think instantly. You can’t do that. Not if Chrollo wants to meet at the casino tomorrow. It’s already going to be difficult trying to sneak out with Tserriednich’s friends keeping an eye on you; if you’re stuck in the same room as Tserriednich himself, you’ll never get a chance to make your escape. You’re already anxious about spending time with him generally because you don’t want him to catch on to anything, and he’s always been terrifyingly perceptive.

“No, it’s okay,” you say, giving him a practiced smile. Tserriednich gives you a fond smile and pets your head like you’re a dog. You bite back the mortification, and instead ask, “They say they’re part of the Heil-Ly. That you approved them taking over my guard?”

Say no, you scream it at him through your eyes. Say no, Tserriednich. We can’t trust the Heil-Ly. 

He lets out a heavy breath, glancing over at the five members of the Heil-Ly Family, and then back to you. You don’t like the expression on his face. You don’t like how his lips are pressed together tight, and you don’t like the conflict in swimming through his eyes. It’s so… unbefitting that it scares you. He has the look of someone who has been backed into a corner, forced to go along with something he doesn’t want to. No way Morena Prudo managed to back your brother into a corner, you can’t believe it. You won’t. It’s ridiculous, it’s—

“I did,” he says finally. “We’re in the last three weeks of the voyage. Our brother and sister will start becoming desperate to get their hands on you. You need guards trained in nen.”

“Tserried,” you breathe out, horrified, “you can’t be serious. The Heil-Ly? You—”

He gives you a cool look from the corner of his eye. Do not argue with me in front of people, and you silence yourself immediately, words catching in the back of your throat. You feel so frustrated that you want to cry, staring at Tserriednich in disbelief. He exhales through his nose, gaze flitting up to the ceiling briefly.

You don’t have to accept it, you realize, the thought hanging tauntingly in your mind. You’re both children of the First Queen—just like how you didn’t have to accept Benjamin’s guard earlier in the voyage. Tserriednich seems to recognize where your thoughts are heading, because he squints at you, curious. No, you think, you can’t. No rebellion. Not yet. You need to keep up appearances. You can’t give him any reason to be suspicious.

You avert your gaze down to the ground, silently accepting his decision. He gives you another easy smile and says, “Atta girl.”

“Tserri,” Otocin protests, the only one capable of talking back to your brother without getting shot. Tserriednich only gives him a sharp look and shakes his head.

“Not now.”

“But—”

Not even Otocin dares to continue when Tserriednich’s gaze becomes cold and flinty. He gives you an apologetic look and mouths, I tried, and you give him a tight smile in response. Tserriednich flicks imaginary dust off his jacket before turning a disdainful look onto the five members of the Heil-Ly Family. 

“I’m sure that woman told you what the consequences would be if even a hair on my sister’s head is displaced,” Tserriednich says coolly.

“Yessir,” Quorolle replies with a smile that’s too sharp to be respectful. He hardly even feigns respect—what the hell is up with these people? Who do they think they are? Why is Tserriednich putting up with it? “We’ll take good care of her.”

“Watch your tongue,” Otocin spits loudly, taking a step forward, only to freeze when Terriednich holds his hand out to stop him. “Tserri—”

Tserriednich hardly spares a glance back at his friends. “Enough,” he says, and Otocin shuts his mouth with a choked, angry noise. 

Tserriednich returns his attention to the Heil-Ly members. “You will stay at arm’s length with her at all times,” he says, voice frigid. “You will not speak to her unless she addresses you first. You will not interfere with her personal routine. You will not step into her private chambers uninvited. You will not so much as breathe on her without permission. Are we clear?” 

Quorolle spreads his hands, palm outwards, and says, “Crystal.”

Tserriednich nods once and then looks away dismissively, “Good. Now leave until I have things settled here.”

Quorolle offers you one last, almost sweet, smile, before turning sharply on his heel. The others follow him out, Dogman’s head turning at the last second to sniff in your direction again, like some deranged hound. Then the door shuts, and you can breathe again. 

Tserriednich turns toward his friends. “You guys,” he says, more relaxed now. “You’re dismissed. Go back to where you were stationed on Tier Three.”

Momolly and Borksen go still, looking at each other with wide eyes. Otocin’s expression cracks clean down the middle, fury flaring.

“What the hell, Tserri?” he tries again, stepping forward and grabbing your brother’s arm. Anyone else would be shot, but Tserriednich only raises his eyebrows at Otocin. “The Heil-Ly, you really trust them to look after her?”

“I won’t repeat myself again,” Tserriednich says, pulling his arm from Otocin’s grip, who blanches at the blatant dismissal. Otocin looks at you, waiting for you to say something, and your throat tightens with the urge to say no, to ask that they stay.

Then, Tserriednich’s gaze shifts to you, and he raises a single eyebrow—a warning. A dare. You almost do, but you cannot afford the slightest fracture with him right now, not when you need him to remain certain that you belong in his hand, not when you need him blind. If this is what he wants, then this is what he’ll get.

You swallow and look away, saying nothing.

“Good,” Tserriednich murmurs. His hand falls on your shoulder, thumb rubbing a soothing circle as he says, “This will all work out. It’s only temporary.”

Only temporary. Then… this is with purpose. What purpose? You study him carefully, and his lips curve up into a small smile, like he’s waiting for you to figure it out. If he’s saying it’s only temporary, then he doesn’t plan on keeping the Heil-Ly as your guard for the rest of the voyage. So… until the masquerade banquet?

Your eyes widen slightly. That must be it. He wants the Heil-Ly available at the masquerade banquet. He won’t be able to sneak them in unless they’re a prince’s assigned guards. Is he going to try to have Benjamin assassinated there? Or one of your other siblings? Luzurus or Zhang Lei? To cripple the opposing mafias before they can get on their feet? Camilla? Halkenburg? One of the children?

You?

No, not you. He wouldn’t risk killing you off when he needs you to keep the military in check. It has to be Benjamin, but maybe—maybe if he succeeds in assassinating Benjamin… Would he turn on you next? You still aren’t sure what Tserriednich’s plans with you are. At the beginning of the voyage, you counted on him saving you for last because he saw you as his, a possession that only he should have the right to destroy. But the way he’s been talking lately… if you didn’t know any better, you would think he wants to take you along with him. Is it just to get you to lower your guard so you don’t expect it when he inevitably turns on you?

Damnit, you just don’t know.

“That’s my girl,” Tserriednich praises. “I knew you’d figure it out. You can stick through a few days with them for me, right?”

“Yeah,” you agree, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, I can.”

“Good girl,” he says softly. “Come, eat breakfast with me. I had them bring up your favorite.”

————————

You don’t like your new guards. It’s barely been twenty-four hours since the Heil-Ly took over, and you already feel like a caged animal. You’ve hardly left your bedroom besides when Tserriednich comes by to walk you over to his quarters. 

You have no idea how you’re supposed to get down to the casino to meet Chrollo in three hours. 

One of them—the woman you think—has her en spread across your whole quarters. You can feel it—it’s gross, slimy and uncomfortable and it curls against your skin like it’s something living and breathing. She’ll feel it the moment you leave its perimeter. Sneaking out is impossible. And convincing them to let you go willingly? Without reporting to Tserriednich first? Even if you manage that, you’d still have to lose them once you get to the casino—long enough to reach Chrollo without revealing who you’re meeting.

You sigh, pressing your hands to your eyes hard as you try to push away the raging headache that’s been pounding at the back of your head. You still haven’t even decided how you’re going to go about bringing up what you dreamt about to Chrollo yet. He wasn’t exactly receptive the last time you mentioned the dreams, and this conversation is going to be even less pleasant considering what you dreamt about. 

Shit, you think, why can’t things ever be easy for you?

Someone bangs on your bedroom door, and your lips curl into an irritated snarl. You wait to see if they’ll stop knocking, but when a minute passes and they continue steady-paced thumps against the wood, you rise to your feet and yank the door open.

“What do you want?” you hiss through gritted teeth. The black-haired one, Daemon, is standing there with a smile that makes your skin crawl. “My brother and I both specifically said you weren’t to disturb me while I’m in my bedroom.”

“Your brother wants to meet you in one of the lounges,” he tells you. And then adds, “Now.”

What?

You stare at the man, uncertain. It’s seven thirty. You didn’t meet Tserriednich for dinner today, because he wanted to hunker down on his nen training before the banquet in a few days. You can’t imagine that he would want to meet you right now, and at one of the lounges on the lower floors, of all places. It would be in his quarters, so he could continue practicing nen while you’re there and as soon as you leave. He wouldn’t want to waste the time traveling.

Do you call him out for the lie, or go along with it?

“Liar,” you say after a moment, watching as he narrows his eyes at you. Behind him, the blonde, scarred man is watching the two of you, nodding toward someone out of your field of vision. Ah, you need to tread carefully. You’re confident in your nen abilities, but you still have no idea what these peoples’ are, or what their nen is; it feels unlike any type of nen you’ve ever encountered. “Who really wants to meet me?”

“Daemon,” Quorolle complains, making his way over. “I told you we should’ve just been honest with her. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Daemon shrugs lazily. “Just for fun, I guess. Wanted to see if she’d realize we were lying.”

A test, then, you realize, and from the look the two of them briefly exchange, you think they were both in on the test, despite Quorolle’s words. They wanted to see if they could successfully lie to you, or how you would handle it if they couldn’t. Why? God, you don’t like any of this. You hate that Tserriednich put you in this position.

“Miss Morena wants to talk to you,” Quorolle tells you. “She’s waiting for you on one of the lower floors.”

Morena?

Fuck.

Your face doesn’t reflect the anxiety that instantly tears your chest open, but you suppose it doesn’t need to, because Quorolle’s lips curve up into an unsettling smile anyway. They’re not going to give you a choice, you recognize. They intend to get you down to Morena, one way or another. You could fight—you think you’d be able to kill at least one of the two in front of you before the other could react —but you don’t know what to think about their nen. It’s… far more immense than you ever could’ve anticipated, and you think it’s grown over the last twenty-four hours. The woman’s aura has definitely strengthened since she arrived yesterday, and you’re not quite sure how she could’ve accomplished that in such little time. 

“What does she want?” you finally ask.

“To talk,” Quorolle replies, infuriatingly amused.

“About what?”

Quorolle raises his eyebrows. “And ruin the surprise?” He sighs when your gaze sharpens. “Miss Morena thinks that your… interests might be aligned. She only wishes to make a proposal to you.”

You don’t trust a word out of that woman’s mouth, but you wonder, maybe, if you should see what exactly it is that she wants to propose to you, because you don’t know what it is that Morena wants. You know she wreaked havoc on the lower tiers for whatever reason before she decided to throw her cards back in with Tserriednich, but you don’t know what drove either of those decisions. And information is always useful, even if you have to collect it in hell. 

You consider that it could be a trap set by Tserriednich to see whether or not you’d entertain an offer from someone else. Or maybe it’s a trap from Morena to see how entrenched Tserriednich’s claws are within you. Either way, you don’t know whose game you’re walking into, and it leaves you unnerved.

“Fine,” you say, the word coming out stiff. “Lead the way.”

Quorolle brightens, like the answer was inevitable, but Daemon looks bored again. You wonder if he was hoping they’d have to bring you by force. You push the thought from your mind as the two turn to leave your quarters; if you’re going to parley with Morena Prudo, then you need to be focused on the situation at hand. You hate how the others immediately take up the rear—you feel boxed in. Like a prisoner being escorted rather than a prince.

They lead you to a staircase on the west side of the floor, bringing you down to a hallway that’s much quieter and less guarded than the floor you were just on. Why are there no soldiers down here? There should definitely be soldiers patrolling this hall. You think you might have made a mistake. This… is not going to be a parley, this is—

No. That’s too bold, even for Morena Prudo.

Right?

You enter the dimly lit room and immediately press your tongue to the back of your teeth in frustration when you realize there are two other Heil-Ly Family members there already. You’re way too outnumbered if this comes to conflict. You force your posture relaxed as you turn your gaze onto Morena Prudo, who watches you, thrilled, like the stars have finally tilted in her favor. You don’t like it.

“Is this where you make your pitch?” you ask dryly.

Her lips curl up into a slow smile. “I don’t make pitches,” she answers, voice low, almost affectionate. “I offer revolutions.”

You let out a noise that’s half-scoff, half-laugh, gaze flicking down to the table in front of her as you fold your arms over your chest. There are two decks of cards—tarot? No, something else, you can’t tell what they are turned over—a bottle of wine, and a single seat across from her; Morena catches you looking, and tilts her head to the side, waving her hand for you to join her at the table. You hesitate, casting one last wary glance across the room before making your way to the chair opposite her.

“Where are the soldiers supposed to be patrolling the halls?” you ask, leaning back in your chair and folding your arms over your chest.

Morena gives you a look of mock surprise, lifting a hand to cover her mouth. “My, I have no idea, were they not out there?”

You’re not amused by her display of deceit. “If you plan on playing that game through this discussion, then I might as well leave right now. I don’t parley with liars.”

Morena sighs dramatically. “You’re right, you’re right,” she agrees, easy smile shifting into a colder one as she meets your gaze again. “We killed them.”

To your credit, you don’t react to Morena’s declaration beyond a short inhale through your nose. Shit, you think, what the hell have you gotten yourself into? Why would she so openly admit that to you? Is it to try to build rapport? To prove she won’t lie? Or is it an intimidation tactic? Her declaring she’s not worried about the consequences of her actions? But that brings a whole new set of issues—why would she not be worried about the consequences of her actions when she just declared she murdered royal soldiers to a prince? … Unless, that is, she doesn’t plan for the prince to leave this room alive. 

“We just didn’t want to be interrupted, you see,” Morena continues, pretty smile returning to her face, but her eyes are far too black and far too empty. God, what is wrong with these people? “And we didn’t need any, ah, unwanted to eyes reporting back to brother dearest.”

“I see,” you reply flatly. “So, what revolution are you offering, Morena?”

Morena hums to herself, as though considering her words, and then she reaches to pick up both decks of cards. “I would like to convince you to join us—” You immediately scoff, but Morena is unperturbed, lifting the cards in front of her face with upturned eyes. “—I know, I know, it must seem like a very unappealing decision right now, but that’s why I propose we play a game! A negotiation game.”

“A negotiation game?”

“Mhm,” Morena agrees. She passes one deck of cards to the woman on her left and the other to the man on her right. The man on her right shifts over to your side of the table, placing five of the cards face down and seven face up. A bullseye, nen, QA, QB, yes, no, and D—what do they mean? “Now, usually, we play with one dealer and one player, but I was bold enough to presume that you might want something from me, too. So, I thought, how fun it would be if we were both dealers and players at the same time!”

What the hell is wrong with this woman? Your jaw tightens as you look back down at the cards. You shouldn’t agree to anything—could this be a condition for an ability? But… if what Morena wants is for you to join them, then can your goal for this game be to usurp Tserriednich’s position as benefactor of the Heil-Ly? Could you convince the Heil-Ly to answer to you instead of him? It’s a huge risk if it goes wrong, but is it worth taking?

“What does the negotiation game consist of?”

“I’m so glad you’re willing to hear me out,” Morena says with another smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. This woman really makes your skin crawl, you think bitterly. “The premise of the game is that the dealer—or dealers, plural, for us—makes a request of the player, and the game continues until the player is left with an answer. We’ll treat them as two separate games, so if, for example, my game as dealer ends before yours, yours will continue. Similarly, the results of one game won’t affect the results of the other… unless, of course, the requests directly contradict each other.”

This must be nen binding, you realize, uncertainty spreading through you as you stare down at the cards. You chew the inside of your cheek and stop yourself from rubbing your hands against your thighs, not wanting them to know just how unsure you are right now. Could you leave without taking part in this game? Or will they try to stop you? They killed the soldiers patrolling this area for a reason, and you’d be willing to bet it was more than just to avoid interruptions.

“Is this a condition of a nen ability?”

“Hm,” Morena hums, smile falling as she studies you carefully, suddenly looking much more serious. After a moment, she finally says, “Yes.”

You knew it. You exhale through your nose, trying to figure out what you should do. Daemon and Quorolle are on either side of you, and Dogman is by the door, leaning against it casually, but you know damn well it’s to prevent you from escaping easily.

“A manipulation-type ability?” you press.

Morena exhales, suddenly looking a bit more irritable as she turns her face to the side. “I won’t answer any more questions about my ability. It ruins the game.”

You scoff. “You expect me to enter a game that serves as a condition to an unknown nen ability without any information?”

Morena is smiling again in an instant. “Yes,” she confirms. Your expression twists in frustration. “It’s part of the risk.”

“It seems like I’m the one taking on a lot of risk here,” you say coolly. 

“You don’t think my game is fair?” Morena frowns. “I think it’s plenty fair. I’m taking on risk too, you know? I have to reveal a lot about me throughout the game.”

“So do I, if I’m playing as dealer too,” you counter, “but you’re not at risk of being bound to an unknown nen ability, are you?”

“Hm, that’s true,” Morena agrees, tapping her chin. “Very well, I’ll tell you that you’ll only be bound to one thing once the game begins, and that’s not lying or cheating. I’ll be bound to the same restrictions. If you do lie or cheat, there will be consequences!” 

Morena smiles at you again. You almost want to tell her to stop that because it’s unsettling, but you refrain, looking back down at the cards on the table. Is she telling the truth? You can’t tell. Morena Prudo is impossible to read. Even if she is telling the truth, she pointedly did not say what the consequences would be for lying or cheating, and you don't think she’ll divulge any more information about the ability if you ask.

This is a huge risk, you think anxiously, but what choice do you have?

“And if I don’t want to play your negotiation game?” you try.

Morena doesn’t answer, just continues smiling at you softly.

As you thought. Not playing isn’t an option. She’s only giving the illusion of choice. Would she really kill a prince right in the heart of military territory? Tserriednich would lose his mind if he found out that she killed you, and Chrollo—no, you don’t want to think about either of them right now. You need to focus on the issue at hand. Morena Prudo is definitely crazy enough to try to kill you right now.

Could she kill you? You’re outnumbered, that’s a fact you can’t deny, and their nen—something is definitely… off about it. Their aura feels all wrong, and you still don’t know how the woman, Souffle, managed to amplify her aura in a matter of twenty-four hours. You would be able to get off Golden Standard, and you’d probably be able to conjure your glaive, but would it be enough? What type of condition and punishment could you set that would amplify your own aura to match the eight in this room?

“Explain the rules of the game,” you tell her.

“Ah, this makes me so happy,” she says airily. Her bland smile belies her apparent gratitude. “As the dealers, we have seven cards that are placed face up. As the players, we have five cards placed face down. We select one of the dealer's cards, and the dealer answers whatever question the card represents. Then the card goes to the graveyard. Next, the dealer selects one of the player’s cards and turns it face up. That card then also goes to the graveyard. This will continue until the player has a single remaining card, and that remaining card is the answer to the request made at the start of the game.”

What the fuck is happening right now? So, you don’t even get to make a decision at the end of the match. The decision is made for you by… what? By luck? By chance? Or… is it rigged, maybe? Are all of the cards that you hold yes cards?

“I would like to see what cards I have face down,” you say, and Morena raises eyebrows and then motions for you to look.

You flip over the first card. Yes. You half expect the second card you flip over to be another yes, but you’re pleasantly surprised when you find that it’s a no. You pause for a moment, gaze flicking up to Morena.

“Self-explanatory, I believe,” she says with an easy smile, “but as the dealer, you have the opportunity to set conditions to using each of the cards.”

“Conditions?”

“Conditions,” she confirms without elaborating.

So, could you, in theory, place a condition that if she refuses your request with a no card, it will be the equivalent of forfeiting her life? … Is that what will happen if you say no? You cast a long glance at her face-down cards, then at your face-up ones, looking at the no card with a question mark in the background. That must be to figure out what exactly no entails. That needs to be your first question. You exhale and flip over the next card. 

Joker. You look up at Morena again.

She rests her chin on her hand and points at the card. “The Joker can transform into either yes or no. If it’s the last card you have, then it’s your choice.”

Next is a card with two Rs. She smiles easily and says, “If the R card is your last card, you can exchange it for the card that will give you the answer you want.”

There are too many ways to get the answer you want, you note in the back of your head. There must be a trick somewhere. Are both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ wrong answers? You assume that yes will be the final step in whatever condition is set for her nen ability. You have to go to whatever lengths to avoid having that card in your hand at the end of the game.

But no—no must be a trick.

You shake your head absently and turn over the last card.

X.

Morena smiles lightly. “If the X card is the last one in your hand at the end of the game, you can leave without answering yes or no, and we’ll continue on as though this game never happened. Or, my request, at least. It will have no effect on your request. Like I said, they’ll be treated as separate games.”

You press your fist to your mouth as you think. If she’s telling you the truth, there are only two cards worth your time—X and R. Two out of five cards aren’t the best chances. But… if it’s two out of five for you, then it’s two out of five for Morena, as well. And if your requests directly contradict one another: becoming benefactor of the Heil-Ly versus becoming a member, then if you let her have the first move in this game, she’ll run out of moves first, and you’ll get your answer, and might not even have to finish your own game.

“Okay. Explain each of the dealer cards.”

Morena hums and then points at the bullseye card. “This is the purpose card. If you select this card, I’ll explain my purpose to you. Why I brought you here, why I’d like for us to be allies, and what my ultimate goals are. I’ll explain everything I can, but if you have any more questions, I’ll gladly explain further. I hope you’ll give me the same courtesy.” Morena gives you a too-sweet smile, which makes your face instinctively twist in disgust. She giggles at that before she continues, pointing to the arm surrounded by nen. “If you select this card, then I’ll explain my ability to you.”

Oh. Your gaze sharpens onto the card. 

That needs to be one of your first cards chosen, then.

Morena points to the QA card. “The Question A card. For any other questions you might have. However many you want, whatever they are, I’ll answer as many as you need. However, I won’t answer any questions about my purpose or my ability. You need to pick those cards for those questions,” she explains, and then says, “Additionally, I can only give three answers to your questions. They are: yes, no, and yes and no.”

How irritating, you think. Yes or no questions, and even those can be circumvented with both. What would you even want to ask her that isn’t encompassed in the purpose and ability cards? About the other Heil-Ly members, maybe? But how much can you gather from yes or no questions? Their nen type?

Morena points to the QB card. “If you want to know more about a question asked with Question A, then select the Question B card. However, with the Question B card, only the last question from Question A can be elaborated on. So be careful how you finish Question A. Any questions so far?”

Too many, you think bitterly, but instead you say, “No. Continue.”

She points at the Yes? and No? Cards. “Once you’re down to your last yes or no card, I’ll explain what happens next. If you want to know something in advance, please select these cards,” she explains, and then points at the D card. “The Deal card. If there’s a card you want to bring back from the graveyard, you can select this one, and in return for fulfilling a small request of the dealer, it’ll be revived. If, after hearing the details of the request, you think it’s too much, you can decline it. In that case, however, I’ll take the turn to draw a card, and the Deal card will go to the graveyard.”

The first thing you need to do is figure out what exactly the trick of the no card is, so that has to be the first card you ask her about. Once you know what it is, you can figure out your plan, because there’s a huge difference if there are four avenues out of five versus two. 

If you can risk whatever the trick is, it’ll be best to extend the game as long as possible and shoot for as much information as you can get. That’s when the Deal card will come into play

If you can’t risk the trick, you need to decide whether you want to aim for ending it as soon as possible, or if you want to outlast Morena to try to win without finishing your end, but that’s risky, because if she ends with anything other than the Yes card, you’re screwed.

“Any last questions?” Morena asks, giving you a small smile.

“The conditions on the yes and no cards—can it be anything I want?” you ask. She hums in affirmation and nods. “How do you know I won’t switch the conditions during the game as it becomes clear you’re going to end with one of those cards? Or if I learn information that makes me want to change the condition?”

“Because that would be cheating,” Morena says simply. She doesn’t need to add, and cheating has consequences, but it rings through your head all the same.

Very well, you think, gaze darkening for a moment as you stare at her. 

Morena Prudo, if you end the game with a ‘no’ card, then your life is forfeit.

She smiles as though she knows exactly what condition you just put on that card. 

“And how do I know you won’t switch the conditions during the game?” you ask, voice low with accusation. Morena’s smile drops at the corners, eyes becoming a bit colder. She doesn’t like being accused of cheating, you realize, but you press on anyway. “Will you be held to the same consequences that I am? Or can you cheat freely?”

“I will not cheat,” she says, voice brisk. Then the cold demeanor disappears, and she smiles lightly again, “I will be held to the same consequences.”

What an eerie woman, you think, unnerved by how capricious her mood seems to be.

“So,” she continues, “could you please decide if you want to play the game?” 

You press your lips together. It pisses you off that she’s still phrasing it like you have a choice, but you say, “On two conditions.” She raises her eyebrows. “You take the first move as the player. I will take the second.”

“Ah, you’re so kind to let your big sister go first,” Morena sighs with a sweet smile. You can barely bite back a sneer. “And your second condition?”

You pause and then raise your chin. “I pick the player cards that get discarded. Both mine and yours.”

Morena frowns, eyes sliding shut as she looks away. “Now, that hardly seems fair, if you get to pick both.”

“It will ease my mind,” you counter. “The only third parties here that can shuffle the cards are Heil-Ly members. I would prefer to be the one to pick the cards after they shuffle.”

“I said I would not cheat,” Morena says with a thin smile, “and I said I would face the same consequences as you.”

“It will ease my mind,” you repeat, unflinching even as her aura becomes more sour. She really does not like being accused of cheating, you realize, eyes narrowing. Why?

“Very well,” Morena agrees after a moment. She motions for two of her people to come forward, and you watch raptly as the man to your left takes your player cards, shuffling them carefully before he places them face down in front of you again. “Shall we begin?”

You hum in response, staring down at the cards.

Are you making a mistake?

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s start.”

Morena lets out an excited laugh, rubbing her hands together. “Ah, I’m so excited. I really didn’t think you’d indulge me. You’re such a good little sister,” she coos. Then motions for you to speak, “Since I’ll be taking the first move as player, you have to say your request first.”

“I… want to take over as benefactor for the Heil-Ly,” you say after a moment, watching as Morena’s eyes widen slightly, and then she smiles. “You won’t answer to my brother anymore. You’ll answer to me.”

“Oh my,” Morena says, leaning forward slightly. “Right from under your brother’s nose? How promethean.”

“And you? Your request?” you ask. 

You know what it is, but you need to know her exact wording. You also need to figure out what route you’re going to take when picking your cards as a player, so you try to buy yourself some time to think by getting her talking. Since you’re allowing Morena to go first, she’s going to get information out of you before you get information out of her. It’s an unfortunate advantage, but you think it’s worth giving up to get your request answered first.

“When it’s your first turn as player,” she chides, giving you a teasing smile, much to your irritation. She finally points at the Question A card, much to your surprise. “Question A, please.”

Why? You feel uncertain, suddenly, as you slide the card off the table and turn it between your fingers. You assumed she would go right for ability or purpose. Ability, for obvious reasons—it’s always an advantage to have information on someone’s ability, especially when you’re sitting opposite a table from them as a potential enemy. Purpose, because if she’s sitting here trying to convince you to ally yourself with her, she needs to know your stance on everything that’s been happening on the Black Whale to properly tailor her response to your questions. 

So weird. Morena Prudo seriously unnerves you. You can’t predict her at all. It doesn’t matter. Focus on figuring out your own plan. Trying to understand Morena is a goddamn lost cause.

You need to ask about the no card first, you remind yourself. You can’t get distracted from that. Once you figure out whatever condition she placed on ending with the no card, you can start to decide whether or not you want to play to outlast. After the no card, you need to understand her ability. Or, you wonder if you should ask about her ability first, it—

“Have you met your soulmate?”

What?

Your thoughts grind to a halt as you stare at Morena, who gives you that unsettling smile as she waits for you to respond. Why is she asking about that of all things? What is her play here? She was at the meeting with your brothers and the rest of the mafia bosses. If you answer truthfully, she’ll definitely put together that your soulmate is part of the Phantom Troupe, and you’re sure she must know the members aboard the Black Whale at this point, with everything that’s happened. She could easily narrow down who it is, and that’s… dangerous information for her to have. You don’t think that she or any of her little underlings could do anything to harm Chrollo, especially now that he doesn’t seem to be sick, but that’s not your only concern.

“I figure we can start off the negotiation with a little sister-to-sister bonding,” Morena says sweetly, resting her chin on her hands, “just to ease us into it.”

“Yes,” you finally answer, jaw tight.

Morena lets out a theatrical gasp, hands clamping to her mouth, lips curving up into a smile. “Oh! That’s so exciting! Is he on this ship?”

Oh, what a cunt, you think bitterly. Acting all excited for you, like she’s just trying to make casual conversation. You stare at her blankly, but she’s undeterred by your frigidity, eyebrows raising as she beckons you to answer.

“... Yes.”

“My goodness, did you guys meet on the ship?” Morena asks.

Your lips curl up into a mocking smile as you say, “Yes and no.”

“How fascinating,” Morena says, leaning forward. “I heard some rumors you were involved with those thieves from Meteor City. Is your soulmate one of them?”

Just as you feared. You want to say no. You want to say no so badly. The air in the room feels terribly cold; all of your fight or flight instincts are screaming at you that Morena Prudo cannot know who your soulmate is. But you know very well that she probably already knows the answer to this question. She isn’t asking to learn. She’s asking to see how you flinch. She’s trying to throw you off your game before you can ask her questions.

“Yes.”

“Oh, I bet brother dearest wasn’t happy about that one,” Morena sighs, the picture of girlish fascination. “Was he angry?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not surprised. He always has been so possessive over you, hasn’t he?” Morena says with faux sympathy. “It must’ve been hard on you after that whole debacle on Tier Two a couple of weeks ago. Have you had the chance to see him since? Your soulmate?”

Morena smiles. A slow curve of her lips that’s far more dangerous than the rest of her fake ones had been. You stare at her blankly. If you admit this, and she runs off to tell Tserriednich, you’re screwed. What are the consequences of lying? The thought passes through your head temptingly—no, you can’t risk it. Maybe she’s not trying to rattle you. Maybe she’s trying to bait you into lying. She never said what the consequences would be. Would it automatically void your request? Worse, would it grant hers?

“Yes.”

“Ah, lovely,” Morena sighs dreamily. “How very star-crossed, sneaking around behind Tserriednich’s back like that. I do love a good romance. Which one of the spiders is it? Hmm, let me guess—the head?”

“… Yes.”

Morena smiles. It is a cruel and ugly smile that makes your skin crawl. The silence between the two of you draws on too long. This was a mistake, you realize. You were better off trying your hand at killing Quorolle and trying to take out the rest back in your quarters. Tserriednich would’ve heard the commotion. He would’ve come. It would’ve been fine.

Morena traces a fingertip against the table as she leans forward again, teeth sharp. “Chrollo Lucilfer,” she draws out his name long, like she’s tasting it on her tongue. Her lashes flutter as though she’s decided she likes the taste of it. “Your soulmate has a beautiful name—sinister, perhaps, but beautiful.” She pauses and then asks, “I heard rumors that he’s sick. Is it true?”

Is—present. 

“No,” you say. Chrollo isn’t sick anymore.

Morena pauses as though your answer caught her off guard. Her eyes narrow slightly, but then she smiles easily again. “He’s recovered, then. He was sick previously, though?”

Bitch, you think bitterly, barely withholding a roll of your eyes.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad then that he’s doing better. I suppose that means you’ve finally accepted the bond?” You blink once as Morena’s words process, and then, your face twists in confusion. Morena raises her eyebrows, amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “Hm? Black veins running through his heart… coughing up blood… nen turning against him? Those were the symptoms, right?”

You don’t even think to worry about how she knew that, staring at her in disbelief. Your mind is moving far too sluggishly for your current company. You desperately need to pull yourself together before you get in trouble.

“Yes,” you rasp out.

“Classic signs of a rejected soulbond, sweet sister,” Morena sighs, resting her chin back on her hand as she pushes out her bottom lip in mock pity. “You didn’t know?”

Liar, you want to accuse, but your tongue feels too heavy. She can’t lie, if you’re to believe she’s been held to the same conditions that you are. And if she wasn’t—the curve of her lips, the pleasure that briefly flashes through her eyes, you can tell that she’s not lying, and it’s precisely why she’s so amused. 

“… No.”

“Ah, well, I suppose you can’t be faulted for that,” Morena says easily. “It’s not exactly a well-known phenomenon.” Her voice goes soft on the word, like she’s almost trying to soothe you, and that makes your stomach lurch. She’s savoring how you’re trying to stop yourself from spiraling. “People rarely reject their soulmate, and most people who are rejected don’t live long enough for the rejection symptoms to become public knowledge. I only knew because someone I knew personally experienced it. Honestly, it’s impressive he lived long enough to woo you into accepting it.”

You were killing Chrollo.

You stare at Morena, counting each breath in and out to stop yourself from falling apart in front of her. You were killing Chrollo. Your ardent determination to hate and spurn him at every opportunity was killing him. You—you should’ve realized this as soon as Leorio said his nen was rejecting him. Nen is entwined with the soulmate bond, you knew that, so of course, it was rejecting him, because you were rejecting him. And when Leorio encouraged you to accept the bond, and Kurapika told you to stop punishing yourself for his sake, did they know too? That you and your rejection was what was killing Chrollo, and would eventually kill you too?

He deserved it, you try to rationalize. He brought it upon himself.

But—Shizuku and Kalluto, Chrollo slumped on the floor of a cramped cabin on Tier Five, Hisoka. Everything that happened because Chrollo was sick and dying and wasn’t at his strongest, you’re the root cause of it. You—

“Do you love him?”

Your head jerks up. The question lands like a gunshot. You can’t hide the way you let out a shaky breath this time, and when Morena glances down at your hands, you realize that they’re trembling just slightly, so you force them flat against the table to still them.

Do you love him?

You don’t even know the answer to that question yourself. You don’t think you do. You’ve certainly come to care about him—you can’t deny that anymore—but love? No, no, it’s not possible, and you can’t spare the energy to actually consider what you might feel for him, not right now. You need to keep your head on.

Get back under control, you tell yourself harshly. Tserriednich has put you through worse than this, and you’ve handled it unflinchingly. 

Who even are you, right now? Why are you acting like this?

(Because you’re tired. You’re so, so tired.)

“No,” you say coldly.

“Hm,” Morena replies, a bit surprised. “Ah, well, that’s all the questions I have for that card. Thank you for indulging me. You can pick a card for me to discard.”

Your gaze flicks across the five face-down cards, and you point at the one at the far left. Your tongue presses hard against the back of your teeth as Morena flips it over much too slowly, and the tension in your shoulders eases slightly when the no card is revealed.

Good. You would’ve rathered it be the R card, so she can’t retrieve the X at the end of the game, but the no is a good second. Best case scenario, she ends with the yes card, and you can take over as benefactor as the Heil-Ly. Having them in your pocket, and more importantly, out of Tserriednich’s, for the last three weeks of the voyage would change everything. You wouldn’t mind the no, because if she was telling the truth, it would mean her life is forfeit if she used it. 

A dead Morena is as good as a leashed Morena in your books. 

Worst-case scenario: the X card. The last thing you need is the game being nullified, and Morena running off to tell Tserriednich that you were conspiring to take the Heil-Ly from him. That would be… really bad. 

“Your request?” you ask her.

“I want you to join me,” she says simply, “as a member of my family. We will work toward the same goals, and help each other, as good sisters should.”

“I am a prince,” you reply coldly, and Morena doesn’t like that, because her expression goes cold for a short second. “I can’t become a member of a mafia.”

“Did I mention the mafia?” Morena asks with a mysterious smile. “Go on, pick a card, and I’ll answer truthfully.”

What? 

If she doesn’t want you to join as a member of the Heil-Ly, then it won’t matter if she ends your game first with a yes, because it won’t directly contradict the request of her game. She purposely misled you, you realize, livid—she knew you would assume that she wanted you as a member of the Heil-Ly, that’s why she brought up the results being contradictory earlier. But if she doesn’t want you to join the Heil-Ly—what the hell is ‘her’ family?

Focus, you remind yourself, suddenly in an even worse position than you were in five minutes ago. She already has the advantage of information now by going first. You need to be at the top of your game. You can figure out what ‘her family’ is through Question A, if it’s not answered by Purpose or Ability.

You point at the No? card. “Explain the conditions of no.”

Morena frowns, disappointed. “I really thought you’d want to know more about your big sister before anything else.” She sighs and then explains, “No means that you won’t be joining us, but because you’ll know too many of our secrets by the end of this game, we can’t let you leave, so you will be used as fodder to level up one of the members of my family.”

Fodder? Level up? ‘Her family’ again? No, you can’t focus on that right now; they’re just more questions to be asked with Question A if they’re not answered by other cards. You need to focus on the issue at hand. She did answer one central question: no is the same as death, just like the condition you placed on yours. 

That means you must end the game with the R or X card.

Two routes of five. 

“If X nullifies the game, I’ll still be leaving with knowledge I would have if I ended with no,” you note. “What is the difference?”

“Well, because it means the fact that you learned our secrets will also be nullified,” she says, like it’s simple. What the hell kind of dumb reasoning is that? Does she have a nen-ability that wipes memories? “We will trust that you’ll act as though none of this ever happened, and we’ll do the same.”

“But the risk is—”

Oh, you realize. The risk. It’s like Golden Standard. If this game is part of her nen ability, the death conditions, the lying conditions, and now this exposure risk—they’re all limitations to amplify the ability, like the punishments you set for yourself if you can’t meet your goal.

You need to figure out what the fuck her ability is, because if you’re right, then it’s going to be formidable. 

“No more questions regarding the no card,” you finally say. “I will send a card to the graveyard now.”

You flip over the second card, and let out a irritated breath when it is indeed the no card.

What a waste of a question.

Morena hides a giggle behind her hand, clearly amused by the turn of events, and you give her a flinty look. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says, hiding her smile with her laugh. “It seems no is no longer an option for either of us. How fun. My turn again!”

Morena rests her elbows on the table and laces her fingers together, resting her chin on top of them. “Question B, please.”

“If you want to know more about a question asked with Question A, then select the Question B card. However, with the Question B card, only the last question from Question A can be elaborated on.”

Do you love him?

Cunt, you think, chest twisting violently and heart squeezing painfully when you realize what she’s about to ask, this fucking cunt.

“Well then,” she says lightly, “if not love… what is it, exactly?” Her voice is curious, almost gentle, but you see the thinly veiled sadistic pleasure she finds in making you uncomfortable. You hate her. “What do you feel for him?”

“It’s complicated,” you say through gritted teeth.

“All things worth having usually are,” Morena replies softly. Then she asks, “Why is it so complicated?”

“It just is,” you snap, and Morena raises her eyebrows, silently warning you that not answering isn’t an option. “He hurt someone that I care about.”

“Hm,” Morena hums, studying you carefully, as though deciding whether or not she thinks there’s more to what you’re saying. Which, there is, but you do not need her knowing the extent of your issues with your soulbond. She already has too much that she can use against you. “How sad. I bet you wish you had a different soulmate, don’t you?” 

“Yes,” you reply after a moment, ignoring the tight feeling in your chest as soon as you say the words.

You do, don’t you?

“Would you choose a different one?” Morena asks, leaning forward, dark eyes gleaming dangeorusly. “If you had the chance?”

“What do you mean?” you ask her carefully, brows furrowing. 

“If you had the chance to choose a different soulmate, would you choose one?” she asks again, lips curled up. “Anyone in the world—say, even that person he hurt who you care about?”

How much does she know? You feel far too seen right now. You have to push away the discomfort to think of the answer to her question. Your instinct is yes, you would choose differently, if you had the choice. It’s the logical answer—you wanted Kurapika to be your soulmate long before you even knew who yours was, and finding out who it was only served to make those desires stronger. But—

But you hesitate.

Because being with Kurapika now feels… wrong. For better or for worse, when your eyes slide shut as you picture your soulmate, the only face you can see is his—Chrollo’s. You try to picture a life with Kurapika as your fated other half instead, and your imagination comes up frustratingly blank. You force yourself to think of something else instead—the corpses, the burning village, the gouged eyes, bringing back the revulsion you felt this morning after you woke up from the dream. And you feel it. You feel the disgust, the rage, the bitter: what does this say about me?

But you still cannot picture anyone else.

“No,” you say after a moment.

“No?” Morena asks, eyebrows raising, “why not?”

“Because it’s not right,” you answer simply after a moment. “I’d rather not have one than have another, if he’s meant to be it.”

“Would you follow in our father’s footsteps then?” Morena asks, leaning forward slightly. “Hypothetically, if you were to win this… contest, would you choose to sever the bond and become king?”

You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your ears as you stare at Morena. How many times have you considered this same question? King Nasubi told you himself that the crown and love cannot coexist. You know that all of the old Kakin kings sacrificed their bond with their soulmate to show their devotion to their people and gain favor with the divine. You know you’ll be expected to do the same. 

Would you do it? Is it worth it? If you genuinely believe that Kakin cannot be saved, then is sacrificing your other half, no matter who he might be, justified?

“I don’t know,” you say truthfully, and you feel distinctly unnerved by it, because you’re reaching the end of the voyage, and now more than ever, you need to understand what you want and what you’re willing to sacrifice to get what you want. This isn’t the time for uncertainty, and yet, you’re swimming in it.

“No further questions,” Morena says with a too-knowing smile. With a heavy feeling in your gut, you place the Question B card into the graveyard. “You can pick a card of mine to discard.”

You point to the one on the far right, heart beating rapidly in your chest as you wait for her to turn it over. Please, you think desperately, please be the X. You think Morena must be enjoying the show, because she takes agonizingly long to flip over your chosen card, and your heart immediately sinks when the yes is displayed plainly before your eyes.

No way.

“Oh!” Morena says, pleased, and you feel sick to your stomach, “looks like your request will either be nullified, or it’ll be up to me to make a decision. Heh. That means no more pulling teeth to get answers, you’re going to have to try your best to convince your big sister to say yes!” 

Fucking bitch, you think for the nth time in the past hour. As though Morena can sense your thoughts, she gives you a sweet smile.

“Your turn, please pick a card and I’ll do my best to answer!” 

You point at the Ability card, and say, “Tell me about your ability.”

Morena claps her hands together. “I’m so glad you asked! I’ve never gotten the chance to explain my ability to someone who knows nen already. So, you’ll be able to properly appreciate it!” She’s watching your face carefully for reactions, so you make sure to wear the mask that Tserriendich drilled into you. “I’m a specialist, and my ability is centered on awakening abilities in those who haven’t developed them on their own yet.”

Then, why is she so focused on you? You’ve already awakened your nen, and you’ve developed your abilities. She’s being purposefully vague. There’s definitely more to it than this.

“Elaborate.”

“Sure,” Morena replies. “To put it simply, my ability involves granting abilities—” Plural? Your eyes widen slightly in alarm. Plural as in granting abilities to more than one person, or multiple abilities per person? Both are concerning, but one significantly more so than the other. “—to those who share the same goal as me and growing that circle of influence. I’m the parent, and there’s a limit of twenty-two children. When the children accumulate a certain number of points, they can become parents themselves and create more children.”

Like a fucking plague, you think, gaze shifting around the room to the members of the Heil-Ly Family lingering around watching the game. Has Morena used her ability on all of them? Is that why their nen is so strange?

“How are points accumulated?” you ask.

Morena smiles, “By killing people. A regular person is worth one level, a nen user is worth ten levels, and a prince is worth fifty levels.” Oh, you think, suddenly understanding why the guards she sent up to watch over you looked at you as though you were a meal. This is why they were massacring people on the lower levels earlier on in the voyage. Morena gives you that sugary little smile. “You’re the rarest drop in the game, sweet sister. My little jackpot. So, you see, I can’t say I wasn’t a little disappointed that no was your first card out, but rest assured, I do hope that yes is your final answer still.”

“And how does that work?” you ask after a moment, feeling too much like prey in your current company. The only time you’ve ever felt like this before is with Tserriednich. “I’ve already awakened my nen and have developed abilities. What would I add to your family?”

“I’m glad you asked!” Morena purrs. “You would keep your original nen ability when you join at level zero, and each time you level up, your aura amount and output will increase. At level twenty one, you’ll develop another ability. Since you’re a specialist, I plan for you to develop an ability that will help us achieve our goals, but unfortunately, you must choose the yes? card if you want to know what it is.”

Ah, you think, irritated. Each question answered only leads to you having more questions about the other cards. What are Morena’s goals? What role does she want you to play in them?

“What are the conditions to become a member of your family?” you ask instead, eyes narrowing.

“Hm,” Morena hums, watching you with eerily blank eyes for a second. You wonder if she was hoping you wouldn’t ask. “There are three conditions,” she explains after a moment, lifting up one finger. “One, your final card in the game must be the yes card.” She lifts a second finger. “Two, we must share a kiss.” You give her a disgusted look, but she only hides her giggle behind her hand. “Three, you must be present while a member of the family commits a murder.”

Great. So, pretty much, if you end this game with the yes card, then you’re fucked. You have no doubt she’ll figure out a quick way to steal a kiss from you, and after that, it’ll be easy to kill someone in front of you with five of them as your guards. You can’t end this game with yes—you think you’d rather die with no instead.

“This game is part of your ability, then?” you press. 

Morena doesn’t respond for a second. “Yes.”

“What are the consequences for lying or cheating?”

Morena hesitates for longer this time, dark eyes cold and calculating in comparison to that unsettling ever-present smile. “If you lie or cheat during the game, you will be forced to use the yes card at the end, regardless of what card you end on.”

As you expected, you think, suddenly very grateful that you went with your gut and didn’t fall for the bait during the first two cards she picked. What else do you need to know? You know her ability acts as a type of contagion, infecting up to twenty-two people and drawing them into her family. You know the conditions to be brought into the family. You know how leveling up works. You know the game is part of her ability, and there’s a manipulative aspect if someone tries to lie or cheat. 

Oh—

“Once drawn into your ability, is there a manipulative aspect?” you ask. “Say I end on the yes card, and both other conditions are fulfilled. I will be part of your family, what’s stopping me from just taking advantage of the level ups and otherwise ignoring you?”

“Nothing,” Morena replies with a small smile. You blink. “You’re free to act as you please once you’re fully a member. For example, although I wouldn’t recommend it. Neither infighting nor betrayal is explicitly prohibited. And I cannot remove you from the family—as all families go, even if there are rough patches, you don’t stop being family. The effects of my ability will remain until you or I die.”

God, understanding this woman is impossible. With so much risk, you almost wonder if it’s worth it.

“More risk to make the ability stronger?” you ask dryly. She nods. “So, then, what benefit do you get for seeking out people that might betray you in the future?”

“Hm,” Morena hums, making that small noise in the back of her throat that she seems to do whenever she’s displeased with one of your questions. Your gaze sharpens, you tilt your head to the side. “Well, as the parent, I have certain ways of looking after my children, of course. Monitoring levels and points is expected, but I can also monitor my childrens’ locations and situations, too. I can see through their eyes and hear through their ears as though they’re my own.”

She wants to see everything that’s going on behind the scenes with Tserriednich and the rest of the princes. She wants to use you as a fucking walking surveillance camera. Morena smiles at you lightly, eyes upturned and head tilted to the side.

“How creepy,” you say snidely. “Your children don’t care about that invasion of privacy?”

“They do not,” she confirms. “Is that all about my ability? You had so many questions, it makes me so happy that you want to get to know your big sister better.”

Right, you think sarcastically. “Yeah,” you agree. “That’s all.”

You exhale and then glance down at your face down player cards. Four left: X, return, joker, and yes. You have a fifty-fifty shot at getting rid of one of the cards you want. It comes down to luck. You just have to pick the right one. You exhale through your nose before flipping over one of the ones in the middle.

Luck, unfortunately, has never been on your side.

The X card stares back at you.

To your credit, you don’t think the fear that shoots through you reflects on your face. You stare at the X card for a moment before placing it into the graveyard with the rest of the used cards. When you look up at Morena again, her smile is far more menacing. 

“I’m so happy,” she says. “One step closer to joining us.” She points to the Purpose card. “This one next, please. I would like to know your goals.”

So vague, you think, thrumming your fingers against the table. Should you be vague back? A comment about how your goal is to get off the Black Whale alive? But if your goal is to convince her, then maybe you should say more than that. The only issue is that you have no idea what Morena’s goals are, and you don’t want to say something that’s completely contrary to them, because then you’ll just fuck yourself over even more. Fuck, you should’ve asked for the Purpose card before Ability. 

You’ll start vague.

“My immediate goal is to get off the Black Whale alive,” you say simply.

“Hm.” Morena is displeased, tapping her fingers against her cheek as she studies you. “That’s not a very convincing reason if I’m left with Return or Joker at the end.”

You stare at her for a moment, thinking hard. What are her goals? Why is she making her family? Why did she choose leveling up through murder? And who—

Who was she targeting?

Countless civilians, a dozen members of the Cha-R, and almost four hundred members of the Xi-Yu Family. Was that an intentional choice, or just happenstance? Was she purposefully targeting them, or just a matter of them assuming the mafiosos would be more likely to have nen, and the Xi-Yu, on Tier Four, were easier to access than the Cha-R, on Tier Five?

No—what did you do to get her attention at that meeting? It was when you doubled down against Zhang Lei and Onior Longbao, wasn’t it? She definitely has something against the Xi-Yu. You can talk about that.

“I want to get off the Black Whale alive,” you repeat, “and I want to make sure my older siblings and the Mafia Familes do not.”

Morena smiles. “Ah,” she says softly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Why?”

“Because—” you cut yourself off abruptly, eyes sliding shut as you try to think of what to say. Chrollo, seventeen years younger. Sarasa, dismembered and stuffed in a bag. Carne Levare. “Because they’re rotten. Because Kakin—Kakin is rotten. That is my goal. To get off the Black Whale alive, and to make sure everything that’s rotten with Kakin doesn’t.”

Everything that’s wrong with Kakin.

What if—

What if that’s everything?

What if everything is wrong with Kakin?

No, you think, not now. You can’t do this right now.

Morena’s expression softens. Her lashes flutter, and for a second, you think her smile might almost be genuine. To your surprise, she says, “No further questions. You can pick a card for me to discard.”

You exhale and point at the middle of three cards. 

Please, you think, please be X.

She flips over the card.

The Joker card.

Fuck. You’re so fucked. Return and X—that’s all that she has left. She doesn’t even need to extend the game to retrieve a card. You’ve lost. You fucking lost. Morena will nullify your request, and two out of the three cards you have left lead to either death or becoming part of Morena’s fucked up family.

“Your turn,” Morena reminds you with a smile.

You sigh, barely refraining from rolling your eyes. “Purpose,” you say flatly, following her in suit. “Tell me your goals.”

“Ah, sister dearest, I think we’ll really bond over this card,” Morena says, nodding to herself. She lets out a giggle, wiggling in her seat. “You see, my goal is the destruction of the Kakin Empire. After that, I plan to focus on the extinction of humanity. We’re the same, you and I! I had a feeling that day in the meeting, but now I know for sure.”

What?

You feel a bit disoriented as you stare at her, but you’re careful not to let it show on your face. You steady yourself with an inhale and then ask, “Why?”

“I suppose, I should start with admitting something to you. Please don’t be angry at me,” Morena sighs. Your brows furrow, and Morena pushes out her bottom lip. “I’m… not actually Morena Prudo. The real Morena is in my grave.”

“What?” you demand, voice little over a rasp as you stare at her. “Who are you then? What’s your name? How did you become boss of the Heil-Ly? Are we even related?”

“I don’t know,” Morena says simply with a small smile, eyes hauntingly empty. “I don’t know who my mother and father are, and I was never given a name. I was only ever referred to as meat.”

You feel as though there’s a rock in your throat as you stare at her, a cold feeling settling in your chest. You brace yourself for whatever she’s about to explain to you, hands sliding off of the table into your lap.

“Meat?” you echo, voice little over a breath. 

“Meat,” Morena agrees, drawing out the word. “I was a Carnevale orphan, you see. My mother was kept from resting or sleeping while she entertained your family and their entourage for days on end. She apparently died when I was two, never even knew she was pregnant and had a child.”

Carne Levare. 

Everything comes back to that depraved fucking thing. Sarasa and the Phantom Troupe. Morena and the Heil-Ly. There is nothing to fix—that wretched thought passes through your mind again. Kakin is working precisely as it’s meant to, as it always has. It was never the ideal regime of the world. It’s been a pit of vices and depravity since its conception. Every inch of its glory and greatness was bought in blood, you were just ignorant to it, maybe even willfully so.

If there’s nothing to fix, because nothing is broken, then maybe the only mercy left for this dying empire is to put it out of its misery.

Morena hums as though she knows exactly where your thoughts are headed.

“I thought Carne Levare only happened every ten, twenty years,” you say, trying to ground your thoughts. “Two years ago, fifteen years before that, but you’re only what? Two years older than me? Three?”

Morena lets out a noise of agreement. “Carne Levare is the big, publicized festival. There were smaller carnevales to, ah, celebrate the births of our illustrious princes. I was born during the carnevale for the Ninth Prince.”

Does that mean there was one to celebrate your birth too?

You feel sick suddenly, eyes sliding shut as you try to pull yourself back together. God, it’s even worse than you imagined. Focus, you remind yourself—now isn’t the time for this. Be on the top of your game. 

“All of us carnevale orphans had our faces slashed at birth, and we were sent to a facility. It was the hideoeut for a human trafficking ring operated by the Heil-Ly. Here, we were sorted into Second-Track Fakers or meat. As I said, I was meat,” Morena continues. “I lived twenty years as meat. I was not given a name. I was referred to as meat or twenty-two, because that was the number I was labeled in my group of carnevale children, and I was expected to spread my legs, keep my mouth shut, and take whatever they had to give me, or they would kill me. So I did.”

You taste blood in your mouth. You realize that you’ve bitten deep into your tongue in an effort to not react to what she’s saying. In, out, in, out, in, out—breathe. Just breathe. Push down the vomit threatening to come up.

“How did you become boss?” you finally ask, voice steady in spite of how your fingers are trembling in your lap. “How did you take Morena Prudo’s name?”

Her smile becomes a bit more genuine. “She was weak, and I had grown tired of being meat,” Morena murmurs, tracing the table absently with a fond smile. “While fulfilling my role as meat, I became aware of a certain talent I had and gradually developed it. It eventually got me into a position where I could kill the Heil-Ly boss.”

“And take her name and place,” you murmur. “You wanted to inherit her criminal network.”

“Names are just another weapon, sweet sister,” Morena purrs. “Did you know, since my group of carnevale orphans, there have been seven more groups? A group dedicated to you—” You almost can’t bite back the bile that rises to your mouth. The taste in your throat brings tears to your eyes, but you blink them away. “—to the Eleventh Prince, the Twelfth, the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and soon, the Fifteenth, though those babies haven’t been born yet.”

“That’s six,” you say, voice barely audible.

“Mhm,” Morena agrees. “Those were the smaller carnevales. The latest group of orphans—ones who have been born, at least—came from the big Carne Levare that took place after the grand festivals commemorating Kakin’s democratization. I’m sure you understand what I’m trying to say. Kakin hasn’t changed at all, and it never will.”

Kakin cannot be saved.

“So, that’s the right sequence of events that led me to believe that Kakin must be destroyed,” Morena says, clapping her hands together. “Are you satisfied? Don’t you agree?”

“Kakin is rotten,” you say after a moment, “and the rot must be pruned, but you speak of more than just Kakin. You speak of humanity as a whole.”

“I do,” Morena agrees, smiling lightly, “because Kakin is a product of this rotten world. Therefore, the world must be destroyed, in order for a better one to be born.”

“I disagree with that,” you tell her, watching as she frowns. “There’s good in this world, and there are innocents who live in it. I cannot agree with a plan that sacrifices people who have done no wrong. I won’t see a world reduced to ash.”

Morena’s smile thins, then brightens with the ease of someone who enjoys being disagreed with. Your face doesn’t move. You keep the mask you’ve been told to wear for as long as you could remember. Inside, bile and anxiety churn, but you force them down with slow, even breaths. You will not give her the sight of your unease.

“How noble,” she hums. “And to think that you were the one raised by Tserriednich. I’m sure he, of all people, would’ve taught you that sentimentality is unbefitting of a prince. How did you end up like this?”

You don’t know if Morena means that as a compliment. You can’t read her well enough to figure it out. But you take it as one anyway. All your life, people have seen you as Tserriednich’s mini-me, and maybe it’s your fault, it’s an easy mask for you to slip into when you feel threatened, but there’s something… reassuring about someone seeing you as opposite him.

“It’s not sentimentality, it’s principle,” you say after a moment, finding yourself more at ease than you were a few moments ago. “Destroying everyone and everything that stands in your way is not a path to a new world. It’s meaningless slaughter, vengeance dressed in pretty words. I won’t be complicit in the suffering of innocents. I’m a—”

Prince. Soldier. Hunter. All your life, you’ve struggled to keep those roles from bleeding into each other, because you were taught they couldn’t. One demanded masks and spectacle, another discipline and order, the last, freedom and instinct. They were all contrary to each other, irreconcilable—you could not be all three at once, that’s why you had to choose. Were you a prince to the court you were bound to, a soldier to whatever line you were sent to, or a hunter to the sky you were told not to look at? 

You think, maybe, that you were wrong. They are similar, at least in one regard, and that’s why you pause before finishing your sentence.

A prince protects his subjects. 

A soldier protects the commonfolk.

A hunter protects the weak. 

You find yourself smiling for the first time in days, a small curve to the corner of your lips, eyes sliding shut. Perhaps that wishful, girlish dream of romance and fated love wasn’t the only thing that Tserriednich failed to crush. The girl that tended flowers and nursed wounded birds back to health does still live, she’s just learned to take on a thousand shapes since then. She adapted and survived, learned how to protect differently, in whatever form she had to inhabit to keep moving forward.

“That’s not who I am,” you finally finish, looking at Morena, who’s watching with you an uncharacteristically unguarded expression head tilted to the side curiously. “We disagree. Let’s move on.”

You exhale as you look down at your player cards and let out a soft puff of air. Three cards left. If you pick Yes or Joker to discard, you’ll have a fifty-fifty shot at coming out of this unscathed. You’ve already lost with your request—Morena will choose her next question and discard her last card with her next turn, and either way, she’ll be able to nullify your request. You just need to not pick the Return card.

Please, you think, jaw tightening for a moment before you reach out to flip over the middle card.

The Return card sits damningly in front of you.

“Oh my,” Morena giggles, “it seems you might be joining our family, sweet sister.”

Your lashes flutter as you try to collect yourself, quell the panic bubbling in your chest. It’s okay, you tell yourself—you have one more chance. You’ll use the Deal card to extend the game, get the X card from the graveyard, and then you’ll be back in the same position you were just in. 

Surely, you won’t have such awful luck three times in a row.

Morena points at the Power card. “I want to hear about your ability now. I heard rumors that it’s pretty incredible. And it must be, considering you went down to handle the Chimera Ant crisis all on your own. Tell me, tell me, I’m so excited to know my little sister better.”

You exhale. “I’m also a specialist. My ability is called Golden Standard. I set a goal or ideal to meet, and a punishment for if I don’t. During the period of time I’m trying to achieve whatever I set as my goal, my nen will amplify and adapt to help me obtain it. How much it amplifies and adapts is dependent on how hard the goal is to reach, and how harsh the punishment is if I don’t achieve it.”

“Fascinating,” Morena breathes out, “very fitting for you. Have you developed any other abilities?”

You pause, staring at her for a moment. “I have.”

Morena raises her eyebrows, beckoning you to continue.

“A conjuring ability,” you say simply. “I can conjure a glaive.”

“Ah, that’s what you did during that first banquet, right?” Morena asks, leaning forward. Man, she really had eyes all the way up here that early on, even when she was down wreaking havoc on the lower tiers. “Any other abilities?”

Bitch, you think bitterly. “Only a manipulation ability,” you answer after a moment. “If the person I target subconsciously acknowledges me as above them, I can issue commands that they’re forced to follow.”

“A lovely ability. You’re well-versed in nen, aren’t you?” Morena hums. “You must be quite the prodigy to have abilities that span three different nen types.”

You scoff. “It’s not that impressive,” you say, looking away. “I’m a specialist, I’m naturally more proficient in conjuring and manipulation abilities. Is that all?”

Morena hums in agreement and then motions for you to pick one of her cards. It doesn’t matter which one it is. If it’s X, she can simply use the Return card to get it back. And if it’s Return, then your request is nullified. You point to the card on the left, and you feel nothing when the X card bares its face to you. You exhale, watching as Morena smiles softly, flipping over her final card—the Return card—cradling it carefully in both of her hands and holding to her chest. The picture of peace, the opposite of you.

“Well?” you ask coldly. “Finish the game.”

Morena hums. “I’ll wait until we finish my request. We’ll come to a decision at the same time, as sisters should.”

“Seriously?” you ask, voice strained. “We both know what you’re going to pick.”

“Then, there’s no harm in waiting,” Morena replies with a small smile. “Your turn, please pick a card.”

You exhale through your nose, desperately trying to will away your irritation. You say, through gritted teeth, “Deal card. I want to bring the X card back from the graveyard.”

Morena’s eyes widen slightly. She smiles, dark eyes flickering with amusement, “Ah, then won’t you come kiss your big sister? A deep one. Mouth to mouth.”

You knew this was coming, but your stomach still drops. If you end with Yes after the kiss, then that’s two of the three conditions. It’ll be far too easy for them to complete the third. But, if you don’t get the X card back, you’ll be in an equally bad position. You’ll have to make your final move of the game, and it will either be the Yes or Joker, which might as well be Yes. 

At least with this, you have a chance. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless.

You rise to your feet and make your way over to Morena. “Don’t call me sister when you’re asking to fucking kiss you. That’s disgusting. You just said you don’t even know if we’re related.”

“It’s true,” Morena agrees with that infuriating smile, “but I’d like to believe we are. And I am Morena Prudo now, anyway.”

You roll your eyes, not bothering to hide it this time as you come to stand next to where she’s sitting. Morena flutters her lashes as she smiles up at you, and you bite back a sneer as you lean your head down to brush your lips against hers. You let out a noise of protest against her lips when her hands come up to cradle your cheeks, holding you down, keeping your lips pressed to hers. Her tongue darts out to swipe against your bottom lip, and you shove her back against her chair, pushing her off of you and taking a step away.

She only giggles, pressing her hand over her mouth with flushed cheeks. “Chrollo Lucilfer is a lucky man.”

“Don’t make me sick,” you snap, taking a seat back on your side of the table. 

You let out a shaky exhale, and then watch as Morena picks the X card back up from the graveyard and passes it over to the Heil-Ly member on your left. He picks up your three face down cards, shows you that they’re the X card, Yes card, and Joker card, before shuffling them and placing them back down on the table in front of you.

“Your turn again!” Morena declares, resting her chin back on her hand.

“Question A,” you say, motioning to the card. As she picks up the card and moves it to the graveyard, you try ot decide what you want to ask. It could be anything, and there are countless you have, but for some reason, you cannot think of a single one now that you have the opportunity to ask. You try to sort through what you do and do not know, and you finally decide upon: “There are currently twenty-one members of your family, not including you.”

“Yes.”

“You hope to make me the twenty-second?”

“Yes.”

“Of the twenty-one current members, there are no specialists?”

“Yes, there are none.”

“Of the twenty-one current members, there are at least five conjurers?”

“Yes.”

“Six?”

“Yes.”

“Seven?”

Morena looks grossly amused as she says, “No. Will we be doing this for all nen categories?”

“Yes. Of the twenty-one current members, there are at least five enhancers?”

“No.”

“Four?”

“Yes.”

“Of the twenty-one current members, there are at least five emitters?” 

“Yes.”

“Six?”

“No.” 

“Of the twenty-one current members, there are at least five transmuters?”

“No.”

“Four?”

“No.”

“Three?”

“Yes.”

So, that means…

“Of the twenty-one current members, there are three manipulators?”

“Yes.”

Okay. You feel a bit more at ease now that you’re getting some useful information out of her. Twenty-one members—no specialists, six conjurers, four enhancers, five emitters, three transmuters, three manipulators. Can you figure out what level they’re on now? Or, at least, how many are over level fifty? Are any at level one hundred? That would change everything, because then there could be way more than twenty-one members.

“Of the twenty-one current members, are any level one hundred?”

“No.”

“Are any level seventy-five or higher?”

“Yes.”

“Are there at least ten level seventy-five or higher?” 

“Yes.”

“Fifteen?”

“No.”

“Eleven?”

“Yes.”

Half of them are twenty-five levels from being able to create their own families. Twenty-five levels from the J-curve. You can’t even let a single one get there. How are you supposed to figure out who they are? How are you supposed to kill them?

Move on. What question do you want to ask with Question B, next? You need to end with something that will lead into it. Think.

Ah.

“Your ultimate goal is the extinction of humanity?”

“Yes,” Morena confirms with a smile.

“Your first step in achieving this goal was taking over the Heil-Ly Family and stealing Morena Prudo’s name?” you continue, and Morena squints at you with an amused smile, as though wondering why you’re asking questions about something you already know the answer to. 

“Yes.”

“Your second step was eliminating the former Heil-Ly Family and replacing them with your family?” 

“Yes and no.”

“Hm,” you hum to yourself, squinting slightly. “Your second step was eliminating the former Heil-Ly Family?”

“Yes and no.”

My god, you think, wondering if she’s being purposefully difficult. Yes and no to elimination and replacement; yes and no to elimination alone. So then…

“Your second step was to eliminate all of the members of the Heil-Ly who wouldn’t join your family?”

“Yes.”

Okay, you think.

“And that’s because of the part they played in your suffering?”

“Yes.”

“Because they handled trafficking for Carne Levare and the smaller carnevales?”

“Yes and no.”

You frown. “Because they handled the domestic trafficking for Carne Levare and the smaller carnevales?” you realize, eyes widening slightly. “Because they were the ones who made sure the carnevales happened, and they took over the handling of all carnevale orphans?”

“Yes,” Morena agrees, pleased that you put it together.

“And that’s why you were also targeting the Xi-Yu—because they handled foreign trafficking? They brought in more… entertainers for the carnevales, like your mother.”

Like the children from Meteor City. 

Like Sarasa.

“Yes.”

Okay, pivot, you tell yourself. Get to the question you want to ask with the next card. 

“Your next step is sinking the Black Whale?”

Morena’s smile widens, teeth glinting like knives in the dim lighting of the lounge.

“Yes.”

“You want to use me to make sure it happens?”

“Yes.”

“No further questions,” you murmur, ignoring how your chest tightens with anxiety. You glance down at the three cards. Yes, Joker and X. You can’t possibly pick the X right after you just got it. Your heart is in your throat as you flip over the leftmost card, and you let out a breath of relief when it’s the Yes card.

Morena’s lips curl down in disappointment. “Oh.”

“Question B next,” you say. Morena lifts the card with a teasing smile before tossing it into the graveyard. “Without explaining what the ability you want me to develop at level twenty one is, how do you intend for me to help you sink the Black Whale?” 

“Heh,” Morena says, smile returning slowly. “I plan to have you cut the power and open the cover of the ship when we get closer to the Dark Continent.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Are you—”

Insane, you finish silently, but you stop yourself because you know the answer to that question. Morena Prudo is a mad woman, and though you can understand where she’s coming from with her rage, there are children on this ship. Civilians who spent their life savings for the chance to go to the Dark Continent, who have nothing to do with the rot that’s spread throughout the empire. You won’t play a part in senseless slaughter. 

“And if I refuse? I thought you said there’s no manipulative aspect of your ability once someone joins your family. That even infighting and betrayal aren’t prohibited.”

“That is true,” Morena says simply. “You will not be forced to open the cover.”

It doesn’t make sense. “Then how can you rely on that?” you demand. “It can’t just be risk, not this time.”

“It’s not,” Morena agrees, aura suddenly becoming far more sinister as she stares at you. She finishes softly, “There are more ways to ensure an outcome than puppeteering nen.”

Ah, and the fangs finally show. 

“You care a great deal about people. It’s admirable, all things considered,” Morena says, almost kindly. She hums lightly, like she’s thinking out loud. “And when people care, they can be… encouraged. Gently. Indirectly.”

“Fuck you,” you tell her coldly. “If you think I’ll let you blackmail or extort me, you’re slower than I thought.”

She gives you that sweet, polite smile and says, “We’ll see. Is that all for Question B?”

“Yeah,” you say, jaw tightening as you look down at your last two cards.

One of them is X, and you will win. The other is Joker, and you will lose. A fifty-fifty shot at walking away from this. Morena watches you expectantly, a small smile on her lips. You give her a flinty look before reaching out to flip over the right card.

The Joker card stares back at you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, eyes sliding shut in relief. You hear Morena let out a noise of disappointment as she dramatically lets her head fall forward.

“I was so excited,” she complains. “I wanted us to work together so bad.” She sighs, pouting exagerratedly, “Oh, it can’t be helped. You win some, you lose some. I’ll pick my card, and you flip yours at the same time, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” you say faintly, still trying to combat the debilitating relief that flood you. You can’t let down your guard until—well, you don’t even know when. Not if the Heil-Ly are staying with you until the banquet. Maybe once you get to Chrollo tonight. Assuming you can, that is. 

Morena hums as she flips over the Return card that you knew she had, shuffling through her graveyard cards to find the one she wants. Once she has it, she looks up at you expectantly, and you let out a soft puff of air before you flip over your last turned over card, prepared to see the X card staring back at you.

Instead, it’s the Yes card.

What?

You stare down at the card, blinking once, then twice, harder the third time, as though the card might change shape and transform into the one you expected to see, but it does not. Your body feels cold, and your head feels light. You’re not breathing, you realize distantly, but you can’t even bring yourself to manually force yourself to breathe, because the fear that fogs your mind is paralyzing.

No, you think. No, no, no.

You reach for your graveyard cards. Your fingers aren’t trembling, but you think they should be. You flip through the cards numbly until you find the Yes card that you discarded, and then you place it next to the Yes card you just flipped over, staring at them both before you finally look up at Morena, who looks surprised as she stares at your cards.

“Liar,” you breathe out, and as soon as the word crosses your lips, the blinding fear and numbness of shock disappear, replaced by white-hot rage. “You lying bitch, I’m going to rip your fucking head off!” 

Your glaive is in your hand in an instant, and you’re throwing yourself over the table to drive it right between her eyes. The two men on either side of you move quickly—something wraps around your wrist, cold and thin, slicing through your skin down to the bone. A palm slams into your back, hard enough to make stars explode in the edges of your vision. Their nen is suffocating, there’s far too much of it; these two must be two of the eleven that are level seventy-five and higher.

You can’t beat them, not without activating Golden Standard, and you’ve lost the element of surprise. You taste copper in your mouth, and you glare up furiously at Morena, who hasn’t budged from her seat, watching you curiously.

“I didn’t lie,” Morena says simply, and then waves the two men to let go of you. Your body trembles with barely restrained fury, vision tinting red as you try to calm yourself down. “I wouldn’t lie to my little sister.”

“We both know my last card was the fucking X card, Morena,” you say, voice strained. “Why do I have two Yes cards now?”

Morena gives you an infuriating smile. “I told you, sweet sister, there’s no cheating or lying allowed in the game, otherwise you would be forced to use the Yes card at the end.”

“I didn’t lie or cheat,” you respond loudly, voice rising in fury. “I was honest. I played a fair game.”

“Lying to yourself counts as lying,” Morena purrs, leaning forward. “You should’ve been more honest with yourself when I was asking you about your soulmate.”

What?

You stare at her. Your immediate reaction is to reject her words—a convenient excuse to throw out as to why the Yes card appeared where it shouldn’t have, an easy way to make it seem like this whole game wasn’t a sham. But then you pause. Were you lying to yourself? About how you feel about Chrollo? How do you feel about him then?

No. You can’t do this right now, not when—

“I decided to go with the Yes card too,” Morena says sweetly, sliding the card across the table to rest next to yours. You stare at it, uncertain. There’s no way she willingly chose it. There’s no way. “I’m so happy we can be partners. I’m excited for us to work together.”

“What did you lie about?” you breathe out, staring at the card. “What the hell did you lie about to get that card? Did you cheat? What did you lie about?”

It’s about her ability. It must be about her ability. She lied and said that there wasn’t a manipulative element once someone joined her family. You knew it. You knew it in your gut. You need to get out of here before they can kill someone in front of you. You need to—

“I didn’t lie,” Morena says, expression becoming colder as she stares at you. “And I didn’t cheat. I chose the Yes card, because I’d like for us to be partners. A show of goodwill, if you please.”

Liar, you want to spit out again, you fucking liar.

You’re scared. Fear claws at your chest, and you don’t think it’s even fully dawned on you how badly you’ve fucked up. If Morena was lying throughout the whole game, willing to end on the Yes card, then who knows if anything she said was true? You think you might throw up. Your vision spins, you feel nauseous. 

“Now, let’s finish the last step, mkay?”

No, you think, immediately turning on your heel to make a run for it, but two hands wrap around each of your biceps, holding you in place. You extend your arm outward to conjure your glaive again, but you freeze when you see who it is that they shove into the room from the far door.

“Otocin,” you breathe out, watching as he pushes himself to his knees from where he went sprawling onto the ground. He recognizes your voice, and the terror that had been swimming in his vision starts to ease when he sees you, relief flooding his face. He sighs your name, and then before you can say anything else—

Blood bubbles at his lips, something warm and sticky splatters across your lips. You see the confusion cross his face, the way his hand lifts to touch the grotesque smile suddenly carved into his neck. He gurgles once. Twice. Then his body collapses forward into a heap on the ground.

Morena’s smile is malicious, her dark eyes unnervingly empty as she stares at you, finally dropping the benevolent act. You can’t draw your eyes from Otocin’s glassy blues, even as the blood begins to halo his head, staining his blonde hair red.

“Welcome to the family, sweet sister.”

————————

You hardly have any energy left when you finally get to the casino an hour later. The only upside to Morena landing on the Yes card was that you could do what you want without fear that they would go running back to Tserriednich reporting what you’d done. Still, it’s not enough to quell the weariness you feel. Worse, you realize, once you get there, that Chrollo did not tell you where you were supposed to meet him when you got there. 

The casino spans two floors and a quarter of Tier One. There are so many people that you can hardly see more than a few feet in front of you before before your line of vision is blocked by another group of people huddled around a machine or table. You find yourself increasingly more frustrated as you push through people, desperately searching for a familiar head of black hair or an obnoxious coat.

You’re too tired for this. You almost want to just go back up to your quarters, but he needs to know what happened with Morena Prudo. It’s only when you get your hands on a drink that you vaguely recall Chrollo arriving that night during the beginning of the voyage and leading up to the second level into one of the private rooms. 

Your gaze flicks up as you take a sip of the pink liquid, wondering if that’s where he’s waiting for you. You figure there’s no harm in going up to check, considering you’re making little to no progress on the first floor. You scowl as you try to make your way over to the staircase, shouldering away a drunken man who stumbles too close to you. Your feet hurt, and you have to pull your dress down with every step you take. You wish you’d just come in your uniform or something, but you didn’t want to stand out among the rest of the hedons, where the women are lacquered and glittered like rare birds. Just because the Heil-Ly won’t rat you out doesn’t mean that anyone else who recognizes you won’t.

Once you get to the staircase, you can finally breathe, but it’s an even more difficult process trying to get up them. Not because you’re drunk, but because every other person in this god forsaken place is. You realize, bitterly, that this place isn’t half as fun when you aren’t seriously inebriated.

After nearly knocking another man right over the railing when he misses a step and falls into you, you finally get to the second level. You let out a long breath, willing yourself some more patience and energy as you brush off your coat and make your way over to the receptionist who handles the casino’s private lounges. She looks up as you approach; if she recognizes you, she’s careful not to let it show on her face, which you appreciate.

“No walk-ins tonight,” she says simply. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Maybe,” you respond. “Lucilfer?”

Her eyes widen slightly, which tells you that not only she does know who Chrollo is, but she definitely knows who you are, too. Your eyes narrow, and she gives you an apologetic look before returning to the carefully practiced indifference. You internally sigh. You hope the casino wants to remain a neutral party in the conflict happening between the princes, otherwise you might’ve just doubly screwed yourself. That being said, you seem particularly prone to screwing yourself today, so who knows. You would think that they’d prioritize anonymity solely for profit purposes—the last thing they’d want is to piss off one of the princes’ factions and lose their patronage for the duration of the expedition, but you never know with these people anymore.

“Room ten,” the receptionist tells you. “It’ll be on your left.”

You let out a hum of thanks, taking a moment to finish your drink and place the empty glass down on her desk before you make your way down the hall. You think it should be alarming how quickly the weight seems to trickle off your shoulders as you make your way to where Chrollo is waiting for you, but instead, it just makes you move faster. You pause outside the room, hand hovering just shy of the door handle for a moment before you force yourself to open it, pushing in without bothering to announce yourself.

The room smells like wine and expensive perfume, and the light from the crystal chandelier is a dim amber that casts a pretty glow over the area. Everything in the room seems designed to tempt—velvet cushions, dark, polished marble, a haze of warmth that’s too deliberate to be coincidental. Chrollo is waiting for you, lounging back on the black sofa on the far side of the small room. His arm is draped lazily over the backrest, a glass of whiskey poised in his other hand. The liquid catches the light as he swirls it. When you enter, he looks up, expression unreadable save for the slight tilt of his head. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the distant noise of the casino, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in silence. 

His gaze slides over you once, curious, and then again, slower the second time. You can practically feel it tracing the lines of your body, from the low-cut neckline of your dress to the hem that would have the Kakin nobles blanching in horror if you ever dared to wear it to court. You swear you see his pupils dilate, the gray of his eyes darkening until they look almost black, and you regret wearing the dress. It’s not your typical style, and you don’t even really know why you went with it, but you feel out of depth with the way Chrollo is looking at you.

“I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost,” he says, tone deceptively mild.

“I did,” you bite out, crossing the room to stand in front of him. You slide the jacket you’re wearing off of your shoulders and place it down on the table as you pass by it. Chrollo inhales sharply. You ignore it. “You could’ve mentioned where to meet you. Or were you hoping I’d wander around until someone recognized me?”

Today was really bad, you want to say, but stop yourself, exhaling heavily as you turn to face him again.

Chrollo hums, distracted, and you catch his gaze slipping down again. You’re about to snap at him to control himself, but the words die on your tongue when he reaches out to grab your hand. His fingers are cool when they close around yours, and you watch as he turns your hand over in his palm, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist. Your breath catches when he lowers his head to brush his lips against your pulse point. He exhales, breath warm against your skin, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing as he lingers there for a moment before he finally drags his gaze back up to you, gray gone near-black.

“Do you have any idea what you look like right now?” he murmurs, thumb stroking your wrist, tracing small, absent circles that leave your head light and fuzzy.

“Chrollo,” you whisper, and you think you’re trying to tell him to stop, but you can’t push the words out, so it only comes across as a breathy plea of his name.

He lets out another noise of acknowledgment, dipping his head back down to your skin again, slower this time, a deliberate drag of his lips that makes you shiver. The second kiss lands just above the first, and you feel his breath hitch when he feels how your pulse races beneath his mouth. You feel dizzy, almost, and you think you should step back, but you don’t. In fact, when Chrollo gently tugs you closer to him, you follow along without any pushback.

His free hand finds your waist, and you swear that your mind goes blank when he pulls you down into his lap. You tense on instinct, hands lifting to brace against his chest—his skin is warm beneath your touch, heart racing just as fast as your pulse is. Your world narrows to the muted music from the casino outside the room and the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. With your legs straddling his thighs, your dress has ridden up even more. You don’t move to fix it. You can’t seem to do anything at all.

His hand stays at your waist, touch infuriatingly light, as though he’s testing the boundaries of what you’ll allow him to get away with. His other hand drifts from your wrist to your thigh, fingertips slipping just barely beneath the fabric. He looks up at you then, gaze lingering on your mouth for too long before finding your eyes again.

“You shouldn’t wear things like this,” he rasps. “Not around me.”

“And here I thought you had more self-control than this,” you reply, grateful that your voice doesn’t come out as off-kilter as you feel.

“If you think this is me without restraint, then you really don’t know me at all,” he murmurs. He leans in just a little, lips ghosting your jaw, and your lashes flutter shut. “I promise you would know if I’d stopped controlling myself.”

You let out a huff that you hope comes out closer to scathing than weary, but you think you fail, because Chrollo immediately pauses. His hands slide down to your hips, and he pulls back to look at you, gray eyes sharp and suspicious before he frowns.

“What’s wrong?” Chrollo murmurs.

Ah, you think, what a dreadful question.

Your lips part to respond, but you can’t push any words out. How humiliating, you think, lashes fluttering shut as you try to collect yourself. Breathe. In one breath, out two. Again. A third time. You try again, bracing yourself to force out the words this time, but before you can, you feel one of Chrollo’s arms slide around your waist, palm flattening against your upper back as he pulls you closer to him.

Oh. Your eyes slide shut as you let him hold you to his chest, arms instinctively slipping around his waist. Your face falls into the crook of his neck, and you take in a deep breath, basking in his warmth. His lips ghost the top of your head, and your lashes feel wet and heavy. It’s so wrong, you tell yourself desperately. You remind yourself of what you dreamed of last night, the smell and sight of the massacre, but it remains only a fleeting thought as the weight of the day continues to sink on your shoulders and his presence alone is enough to unburden you of it.

How screwed up, you think, but you find comfort in him anyway.

(What does that say about you?)

Enough. Enough. You need to tell him what went down with Morena. You need to figure out how to fix this—if you can fix this. Is she watching through your eyes right now? She could be. Fuck. The frustration that floods you is endless. You hate this ship, and you hate this contest, you hate Morena Prudo and you hate Tserriednich, you hate your father and all of your siblings, you hate Kakin, you just want to go—

Where?

You don’t have anywhere to go. You don't have a home. Your family has never been a family. Your home was always a cage. You have nowhere to go. 

“I messed up,” you finally say, voice raspy. “I really messed up.”

Chrollo hums. “Not as badly as I did three weeks ago, I’m sure,” he replies, and he’s trying to make you feel better, but it only makes you feel worse, because it might be as bad as what happened three weeks ago. You have no idea what it means for you now that you’re part of Morena’s family. If she picked the Yes card because she lied, then she could’ve lied about everything. Chrollo seems to sense your hesitation because he pauses. “What happened?”

You sit back slightly so you can look at him, and his hand drops back down to your hip from your back. He frowns as he studies your face, as though trying to figure out what went wrong without you having to say anything at all. You wish he would, because you swear you can taste ash in your mouth as your lips part to speak again. Your tongue is heavy with reluctance, your throat swollen with embarrassment. 

It’s mortifying to admit just how badly Morena got you. 

This whole voyage you’ve been a mess: you fucked up at the first banquet when you tried to kill Hisoka and Kurapika had to save you, you fucked up in Tserriednich’s quarters and Chrollo had to save you, you fucked up in your bathroom and Machi had to save you, you got tangled back up in Tserriednich’s web and fell right into old habits until Chrollo, again, saved you, and you were finally in a position where no one could save you, and you fucked up so badly that there might not be any coming back from it.

It’s not all your fault, you remind yourself. It’s not all your fault. You’ve been put in bad position after bad position. You’re doing the best with what you’ve been given. 

But you should’ve done better. You could’ve done better. You shouldn’t have gotten distracted by Kurapika. You shouldn’t have let Tserriednich get the better of you. You should’ve been more aware of your surroundings. You never should’ve allowed yourself to fall back into old habits. And you never should’ve played that game with Morena Prudo.

“I met with Morena Prudo earlier,” you say after a moment. “The Heil-Ly took over as my guards, I… I didn’t have a choice. I wouldn’t have been able to beat them five on one—their nen is… It’s hard to explain. I wrote everything down that I learned in the meeting. I’ll give you the notebook, but—”

Chrollo says your name quietly when you cut yourself off and then asks, “What happened?”

“She had me play a negotiation game with her,” you tell him, taking in a deep breath. “The negotiation game, if ended with a certain card, was a condition to her ability. I ended with that certain card. The other conditions of her ability were fulfilled as well, during and immediately after the game.”

Chrollo stares at you and doesn’t speak for a long while. His lips part, he presses them back together. Tears of frustration almost spring to your eyes, but you grit your teeth and look away, willing yourself to have some shame.

“It’s okay,” Chrollo says, clearly realizing that you’re upset, which only serves to further humiliate you. “It’s not the end of the world. You have the notebook with you?”

“Yes,” you respond quietly, pushing off of him to make your way over to where you put your jacket down. 

You fix your dress, slipping your hand into your jacket pocket to grab the small notebook. Your chest feels far too heavy as you walk back over to him, passing it to him before taking a seat next to him, leaving space between the two of you this time. His gaze lingers on you for a moment before he turns his attention to the pages. You watch him, his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he reads—an unconscious habit, probably, you find it endearing—and his brows furrow slightly. Studying him is easier than dealing with the thoughts currently threatening to consume you, so you keep your gaze trained on him; the corner of his lip twitches as he finishes the first page, he uses his middle finger to flip over to the next page, he presses his fist to his mouth as he gets to the middle of the third page.

“When did you learn how to read Kakin script?” you ask quietly.

His gaze flickers over to you, and he smiles softly before telling you, “Languages were a special interest of mine when I was a kid. I taught myself as many as I could with the books I would find around the junkyard.”

“The dubs,” you remember from the dreams, with a small smile. “You were the one who translated them.”

Chrollo’s eyes unfocus from the pages of your notebook briefly, lifting to stare at the wall opposite him. He looks as though he’s going to speak for a moment, but then he sighs and says softly, “Yeah. I was.”

“I had another dream the other night,” you tell him, rubbing the palms of your hands against your thighs. His gaze slides over to you, cautious, but you press on. “Did you?”

He hesitates but finally says, “I did.”

“Can we talk about them?” you ask, voice far too faint as you brace yourself for immediate rejection. You don’t dare to look at him this time, waiting for him to answer.

“... What was yours about, then?” 

You exhale. “The Kurta clan massacre,” you answer after a moment. Your lashes flutter, and you see the corpses again behind your eyelids, you swear you can smell the smoke and rot even now. “I spoke to you. I think it was a couple of weeks after it, but it was… there. I guess—did you used to dream of it?”

“I see,” he murmurs, fingers stilling against the parchment of your notebook. His gaze lifts again to stare absently at the opposite wall before he finally says, “Yes. I did. I, ah, apologize, you shouldn’t have had to see that.”

You look away. “I think it’s good that I did. I… needed to be reminded.”

You don’t mean it the way it comes out, but it seems to bother Chrollo nonetheless. But if you are to accept this bond, you need to look at its teeth, not just the parts that are sweet and flattering, not just the parts that can be dressed in theology and fate and pretty inevitability. You need to accept the parts that make your stomach churn: lies and theft and blood that can never be washed away.

You need the ‘why him? How could it possibly be him?’ and you need to understand it anyway. Choose him anyway. If you’re to accept this, it will not be because of the bond, it will be in spite of the bond. You will see him for him, all of the good and all of the bad, and you will say still, he is mine and I am his. 

Chrollo makes a noise in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if it’s a scoff or laugh or something in between. When you look at him, there’s a small, bitter smile on his face. “Of course.”

“That’s not what I—” You shake your head, stopping yourself. Instead, you ask, “Did you ever find out what happened to her? Your friend?”

Chrollo doesn’t respond for a long while. After what feels like an eternity, he finally answers, “No. We never heard from her again. Never found a body either.”

“Did you ever think that maybe she doesn’t want to be found?” you ask quietly. And then add more resentfully, “Instead of it being some big conspiracy because you found a book?”

Chrollo’s expression is oddly reserved as he stares down at your notebook. “I did consider it,” he affirms, and says nothing else.

You ask him, for the second time now, “Do you… regret it?”

Chrollo inhales through his nose, expression contemplative, lips curved down and lashes lowered. He tells you the same thing he did the first time you asked, “I don’t know.” Before you can press for an answer, he questions, “Does it change anything?”

“I already knew it happened,” you say simply, repeating what you told the version of him in your dream.

“It’s different seeing it for yourself,” he answers, and then adds, “I wouldn’t blame you—”

“Stop,” you interrupt, lashes fluttering as you shake your head. “I already had this conversation once. I have no interest in having it again. Tell me what your dream was about. Please.”

“It was… after we met,” he tells you. “After Yorknew.” Your eyes widen slightly, and he smiles wryly. “Yes, it was, ah, not a… pleasant conversation, but a necessary one, I think.”

You could imagine. Your wrath in the aftermath of the events of Yorknew was as biblical as your pain was. You spent half of the days drowning in cheap liquor and whatever powder you could get your hands on. Eventually, Nugui had to come fetch you in Ochima after you made too big of a scene and recommended that you reenlist to get yourself back into shape. 

“Before or after I returned to Kakin?”

“Before, I believe,” he confirms. 

“Ah,” you murmur, “how humiliating.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he tells you. “Everything that you said was well-deserved. I expected worse, truthfully, once I realized what had just happened for you.”

You let out a soft noise of acknowledgment. You think maybe Chrollo had the right idea with not wanting to talk about the dreams. It’s mortifying realizing that he remembers conversations with you that you do not remember, when you were younger and stripped open, be it by Tserriednich or your own shortcomings. You don’t like anyone seeing more than what you allow them to see. It makes you feel far too exposed. You think he feels the same.

Perhaps that’s why the bond forces it on the two of you like this. 

You change the subject by nodding to the notebook you passed over to him. “You finished reading?”

“I did,” he says after a moment, closing it carefully. “Can I keep this?” 

“Yeah,” you say, and then smile tightly. “I… really fucked it up this time, didn’t I?”

“No, this is my fault,” he says immediately. “If I hadn’t been so rash a couple of weeks ago, then—”

“Except, that’s my fault too, isn’t it?” you ask suddenly, gaze shifting to study his face. When his lips instantly press shut, and he gives you a careful look from the corner of his eye, you know that you’re right. “I was the one killing you. The rejection was killing you.”

Chrollo exhales through his nose, looking away.

“You knew, that’s why you didn’t want me to press the other night. Why didn’t you tell me?” you demand. “Why did I have to learn from Morena Prudo that you were dying because I was rejecting the bond?”

“You weren’t supposed to learn at all—”

“That’s not your decision to make,” you interrupt loudly. “How long did you know?” Chrollo’s eyes slide shut, and fury spreads through you. “How long did you know? Before I even got Leorio to research it?”

“What would it have done besides make everything worse?” he snaps, not harshly, but there is heat behind the words, and you blink in surprise, not having expected it. He keeps going. “You can’t force yourself to accept me. Forcing it might’ve only made it worse, and you were—” He pauses, and then continues quieter, “—you were already suffering enough with this contest. I thought I would be able convince you on my own terms, in my own way. I… did not anticipate how quickly the illness would worsen.”

“You didn’t anticipate how stubborn and hateful I am, you mean,” you say bitterly and look away.

You feel his fingers brush your cheek before he grabs your chin gently, turning your face so that you’re looking at him. His expression is terribly unguarded, gray eyes soft instead of the steel you’ve become used to. You force away the tears that spring to your eyes, but you let yourself lean your face into his touch.

“It’s not your fault,” he tells you quietly. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. Your hatred was justified, considering all I’ve done. Was the other night’s dream not proof enough of that?”

“But I left the words on your forearm—”

“Because of what I’ve done—”

“But you said it yourself, what if you never would’ve taken that path if—”

“Are we really going to sit here and debate chicken and egg?” Chrollo asks with a wry smile. You let out a a noise that you wanted to be a laugh, but your voice breaks over it.

“You should’ve told me,” you repeat, voice weaker. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to burden you with it,” he says, fingers tracing the curve of your face. God, the emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “It wouldn’t have changed anything. All it would’ve done was hurt you more—I didn’t want that. Don’t want that.”

Your guilt amplifies as you recall your dream from the other night.

“In the dream, I told you something that I knew would hurt you,” you say, averting your gaze, but he immediately taps his thumb against your lips to get your attention again. “I told you that Uvogin and Pakunoda would die because of what you did, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.”

The pain that flashes through his eyes makes your chest heavy with guilt, and then even worse, he instantly hides it with a light smile, running his thumb along your lower lip. “I deserved—”

“I told you that I said it because I thought it would hurt you, and you asked me, ‘is that what you want, to hurt me?’” you tell him, and then admit softly, “I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

Chrollo’s expression softens, his finger soothes a circle over your jaw, and you have to force yourself to keep speaking, wanting to get out your words before you can stop yourself.

“I think I’ve been lying to myself for a while now about this bond and… well, you. But I’m glad I had that dream last night because I needed to be reminded, not because I want to go back to hating you, but because if I want to accept this and try to… explore the bond with you, I need to accept all of it. I can’t just pretend that all of the lies and destruction and blood spilt never happened, because then I’ll never really be accepting anything. I need to get to a point where I can see all of the bad and say anyway ‘you’re mine, and I’m yours,’ and I’m not there yet, but I… I’m willing to try to get there, I want to try to get there. I don’t know when I will, with this contest and my—”

You let out a muffled noise as Chrollo presses his lips against yours, hands coming up to cradle your cheeks, fingers trembling lightly against your skin. You feel something wet drip down to your lips, and you taste salt, and you wonder if you’re crying or he is—maybe both of you. You don’t bother to check, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back, basking in the taste of him and the warmth of his skin against yours until your lungs burn and he finally pulls back to press his lips to your forehead instead.

“The last time you kissed me, you drugged me and took my ability,” you mutter when his arms slide around you to pull you close to him, forehead resting on the top of your head.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to make it up to you.”

You almost laugh at the absurdity of his response, but your mind shifts back to Morena Prudo and the predicament you’ve found yourself in. “How… should we handle the Morena situation?” 

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, fingers carding absently through your hair. “We’ll handle it. We’ll get our hands on one of their members and figure out how much she lied about, and then we’ll decide how to move forward from there.” 

“You shouldn’t say that in front of me, she could be—”

“Her knowing won’t change anything,” he interrupts, voice low with threat. “She can’t do anything to stop us.”

“If you say so,” you murmur doubtfully.

He guides your head backward so you can look him in the eye again, and he promises, “We’ll figure it all out. Everything is going to work out.”

You don’t want to believe him. This whole voyage, the last two years, your whole life has been met with disappointment after disappointment when you’d dared to allow yourself to hope, and you shouldn’t risk it now when you know how it ends but—

“Okay,” you say softly.

—but you suppose you’ve always been a fool in that regard.

[osarina]

ঌ IKSAN AŌHON, IKSĀ ÑUHON

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Aerion has the opportunity to return to Lys briefly for a supply run. He has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same? Or are you already halfway gone?

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from Valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. Dubcon (reader was drinking, but they’ve fucked drunk before). Brief somno. Blood play. Knife play. Aerion POV — probably the most unhinged we've had so far LOL. switch!reader, switch!aerion (as always). Mentions of underage sex. Mentions/implications of child abuse (reader's childhood). Mentions/implications of grooming (reader's childhood). A bit more of reader’s past is divulged and she is meant to be struggling mentally (especially when she was younger) but was constantly forced into high-functioning behavior and had insane expectations/responsibility so it was never really addressed and she kind of just dismisses it as normal (it is not normal). 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Omg I'm sorry this part took me so long </3 This was supposed to be a brief interlude for before he returns to Lys and it is not brief at all LOLLLLL I really enjoyed writing this part because 1) we get a POV of a new character and get to see more of our girl's past, and 2) Aerion is just so fun for me to write IKHDFAHSUFAUH he is so unhinged and the more he accepts that he loves her, the worse it gets. HAHAHAH Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: STARFALL

Aerion is going fucking insane.

It has been two months since he left Lys with the Second Sons—two months since he left you—and there is no end in sight. From the little news that he is able to gather from his fellow sellswords, who become increasingly incensed with Aerion’s badgering, the Golden Company has brokered a contract with the magisters until a pirates’ den in the Stepstones is duly dealt with. Thus, they have settled in the city for the time being. 

Aeiron thinks that it is fucking ridiculous, and if there is a pirates' den to be dealt with, then the magisters should have just contracted the Second Sons to do so. They have a long-standing relationship with the other mercenary company anyway, and in Aerion’s opinion, it is wildly disrespectful for them to turn so quickly to a rival company, but none of the captains seem to share his sentiment, because he is only met with a dismissive shrug when he raises his complaints.

He is sick of it. 

It was entertaining enough at first. The first few weeks, he could almost pretend that he hadn’t fled Lys with his tail between his legs because of the Golden Company. It was familiar, something closer to what he had been raised for—steel in hand, blood slicking his face and soaking the ground beneath him, men screaming and dying around him. There was something intoxicating about the way the company veterans looked at him after, eyes wide and a little afraid.

A dragon among mutts. It should have satisfied him—it almost did, for a time. He loves the violence, loves the reputation he has built, and the whispers that follow him through camp. He fights harder than he needs to, stays longer in the thick of it than is wise, and takes risks that make even the captains side-eye him when they think he isn’t looking. He likes the way it felt—how it drowned everything else out.

There was a clarity in it that he had not felt in a long time. No politics or having to watch his tongue, no pretending to be less than what he is. Just violence, clean and honest, and the undeniable truth that no one could stand before the dragon and live to tell the tale. He carved through men twice his size without a second thought and laughed when anyone had the nerve to ask for mercy. 

But the unfortunate thing about battle is that it ends, and when it ends, there is nothing left but the quiet, and the quiet is unbearable, because then all he has are his thoughts, and his thoughts are plagued of you. He lies awake more often than not, staring up at the top of his pavilion—he tries to find whores to occupy his time, but even with someone to warm his bed, it is your name he breathes, your face he sees when his eyes slide shut.

He hates it. 

What are you doing? What are you thinking? Are you alone? Are you thinking of him? Do you miss him? Do you remember him? Are you with the Blackfyres? Have you grown fond of them the same way you did him? Are you going to accept their deal? Do you think of him? Do you still love him? Do you—

He rolls onto his side with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching in his hair as though he might tear it out just to feel something other than this awful ache in his chest. 

He hates it. Hates that there are things happening to you and around you, and he is not there to see, to remind you that he exists. He feels sick every time he remembers the way people spoke about you and him, as though he were just a fleeting distraction that would soon be spent. There is a real chance that you moved on the moment he was out of sight and reach, and Aerion just does not know. Will not know until he returns to Lys and either finds you there waiting for him or long gone. 

The whore beside him—he doesn’t know her name because he didn’t bother to ask, and isn’t sure why she had the nerve to stay the night instead of fleeing the moment he was done with her—shifts slightly when he moves, murmuring something soft and drowsy as she presses closer to him.

Aerion goes still. For a fleeting moment, in the dim flicker of lamplight, he almost lets himself pretend. The curve of her shoulder beneath his hand, the warmth of her breath against his chest—he could close his eyes again and pretend that it is you. Pretend that when he turns his head, he will find your gaze waiting for him, glittering and knowing and far too amused for his liking.

He almost does. His eyes slide shut, and then—

Return to me, dragon prince. That is an order.

Aerion lets out a vicious hiss, the illusion shattering so violently that it almost makes him dizzy. He cannot be free of you—he will never be free of you. 

What are you doing? Who are you with? Are you thinking of him? Does he haunt you the same way you haunt him?

He shoves himself upright, and the woman beside him jolts at the sudden movement. She reaches for him, confused, but Aerion is already on his feet, pacing the length of the pavilion like a caged animal.

“Get out,” he says coldly, hardly sparing her a second look as his temper wanes. 

He tugs at his hair as he shakes his head, barely noticing as the woman scrambles to grab her clothes, fleeing his pavilion before she’s fully dressed. His name on your lips, your breath on his skin, the way your fingers feel tangled in his hair, and the warmth of your body sliding against his. Aerion misses you desperately. He feels fucking insane. What is he supposed to do if you are not there when he returns? What is he supposed to do? 

He knows what he is supposed to do. He will hunt you down. He will fucking hunt you down until the end of the world, if he has to, because you have no right to leave when you told him to return to you. If you make him out to be the fool, he will hunt you down, and he will kill you, because he would rather you dead than with anyone else. 

Furious with himself, he shoves aside the flap of his pavilion and steps out into the night air, chest heaving. The camp is quieter at this hour, though not silent—there’s always someone awake, always the low murmur of voices, the crackle of fire, the distant clatter of steel being cleaned or sharpened. The smell of sweat and blood and smoke hangs heavy in the air. He used to enjoy it, he thinks bitterly, now he finds himself longing for that sickeningly sweet perfume and thick incense, because he knows it’s where he will find you.

“Couldn’t sleep, prince?”

Aerion’s head snaps toward the voice, irritation already spiking before he even registers who it is. One of the captains—lean, dark-haired, perpetually unimpressed—leans back against a post, arms crossed as he watches him. 

Navario, Aerion recalls—a Braavosi who has been with the Second Sons for almost a decade now. He’s never crossed paths with him directly until now. 

Aerion’s lip curls up in disgust. “If I wanted commentary, I would have asked for it.”

The man huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. “You’ve been like this for weeks. Thought maybe you’d finally burned yourself out.”

“I am a dragon. I do not burn out,” Aerion says coolly, the words immediate and instinctive. “I am not one of your half-trained mongrels who needs to be dragged off the field before he keels over.”

“Naturally,” Navario drawls. “You know, I hear our lovely lady exile took a liking to you before we departed Lys. Is it true?” 

Aerion physically falters, gaze cutting to the side to focus on him, but before he can respond, he notices movement further down the line of tents. Lanterns bob in the dark, a cluster of men moving with purpose rather than the idle drift of camp settling for the night. Steel glints at their sides and packs are slung over their shoulders—a departure?

“What is that?” he asks, already moving before the man answers. “Where are they going? I was not told there would be any departures tonight.”

“Why exactly would you have been made aware?” Navario drawls, and when Aerion shoots him a vicious look, he shrugs carelessly. “If you’re curious, go ask.”

Aerion shoots him a cold look over his shoulder, half-tempted to remain behind and demand to know who exactly he is and why he refers to you so casually—if he’s familiar with you, if he’s heard from you, because you have not sent him a single raven in the two moons he’s been gone. He tries to tell himself it’s because you cannot be caught in communications with him if someone manages to intercept your raven, but he will be seriously incensed if you’ve been in contact with anyone else. 

Curiosity gets the best of him, though, so he doesn’t waste another breath on a retort, boots crushing the packed earth as he cuts through the camp to figure out what’s happening.

There’s a ship moored just beyond the shallows, its dark shape rocking gently against the tide, lanternlight catching along the edges of its hull. A smaller boat sits closer in, men already wading through the surf to load it with supplies.

“You,” he snaps, grabbing the nearest man by the arm before he can step into the water. “Where are you going?”

The sellsword startles, twisting to look at him, clearly not expecting to be manhandled. “The fuck—get off—”

“Answer me,” Aerion cuts in, grip tightening just enough to make the point.

The man scowls, but there’s a flicker of recognition when he takes in Aerion’s face—the reputation that’s followed him these past weeks does half the work for him.

“Supply run,” he mutters. “Couple of us are heading back toward Lys, pick up contracts, see what’s shifted. Now let go.”

Lys. The word hits Aerion like a gut punch. He goes very still, throat bobbing as he realizes what this means. If they’re going back to Lys, then—

“Back to Lys,” he echoes. 

“Aye,” the man says, jerking his arm free with a sharp tug. “Won’t be long. Just a day trip there, then back here. Why?”

Aerion smiles thinly. “I will be coming with.”

—then he will get to see you again.

—————————

Jaenys Saenor has been called many things: cruel and whorish, vicious and violent, a pretty little knife with too sharp of an edge for someone to hold without bleeding (he took this last one as a compliment, even though Laena certainly didn’t mean it as one; he likes being called pretty, and anyone who complains about sharp edges is too boring to have a place in his life anyway). Men curse his name in one breath and beg for his attention in the next, because he has always known exactly where to press to make it hurt—and how to make them come back for more anyway.

He has never been called helpless, and he has not felt helpless in almost two decades.

Until now, at least. 

It is an unwelcome thing. He leans back against the carved stone of the balcony next to your favorite courtesan, wine in hand, gaze fixed not on the city below, but on you, lounging on red velvet cushions, entertaining whores and Blackfyres with empty eyes and careless laughter that rings hollow compared to the laugh he knows so intimately.

“You are staring,” Caelyx murmurs beside him, amused.

Jaenys takes a sip of his wine, but it is not enough to wash away the bitterness in the back of his throat. He asks dryly, “Am I?” 

He is. He knows he is.

You are surrounded, as always. Silk and incense and gold, bodies draped across cushions, voices low and indulgent, wine spilling freely and lips brushing bare skin. One boy is at your feet, half-draped across your lap, and there is a girl at your side, fingers tangled lazily in your hair. Haegon Blackfyre, who took a quick liking to you and you have indulged more than the rest, sits on your left, arm draped along the back of the cushions behind you, mouths meeting in slow, lazy kisses.

Jaenys’s lips curl down before he can stop himself, brows furrowing.

“Indeed. Like you want to kill someone,” Caelyx drawls.

“I do enjoy bloodshed,” Jaenys muses absently, trying to figure out what about this situation bothers him so much. He tosses a wink at Caelyx, but a distracted one, and then he returns to studying you. “And I am quite skilled at causing it.”

It is a familiar sight—you have always surrounded yourself with people, even back in Volantis, so he should not be bothered. If you were not with Viserys, then you were with Jaenys and the others, and if not them, then Aenys (though you liked to pretend your affair with the snake-eyed Elephant cunt was a secret), and if not Aenys, then whores. You were always the center of something—Volantis’s own personal sun, Visedor liked to joke—so he is not bothered because of that.

He is bothered because it is different. 

The decadence and excess, that has always been you, but the absence beneath it that leaves a poor taste in his mouth. You have never been so—so dull. Like a shell. You have always been loud and bright, so full of life that people naturally gravitated toward you. You never did anything halfway. When you wanted something, you took it whole, burning through it until there was nothing left to take, and you cast it aside without a second thought.

That’s not to say you were never bored; you were frequently bored, but only because you exhausted things too quickly. This is—it’s different. Because however bored you were back home—however frequent and however terrible—you were always hungry for something new to capture your attention. 

Now, you do not seem to hunger for anything at all.

There is an absence of fire in the way you move that unsettles him. You let people touch you, let them kiss you, let them press close like it means something, and you give them just enough to keep them there, but there is no bite to it, no indication that you’re enjoying anything happening around you.

It is wrong. It is so terribly wrong that it makes Jaenys’s stomach twist. You have always wanted. Even your boredom had teeth, restless and searching, always reaching for the next thing to sink into and tear apart. You were never empty like this. 

Is this how your exile has been? Is this what those Elephant cunts did to you when they cast you out? Stripped you of the fire and brilliance that made you who you are?

“Is this what she’s been like?” Jaenys forces himself to ask, voice quiet. He’s almost afraid to know the answer, gut twisted, chest aching, because this is not you. Not the you he knows, not the you he loves. Caelyx doesn’t immediately answer him, so Jaenys shoots the boy a cutting look, stomach flipping when he sees the soft frown on his face. “Answer me.”

Caelyx’s gaze flits over to him briefly. “For a while,” he finally says simply. “Until the dragon prince showed up, at least.”

That’s even worse, Jaenys thinks miserably, because that means he cannot blame this on the Elephants for casting you out. That means this is his fault—that you were happy, that you had found something to hold on to in spite of the circumstances, and Jaenys had been the one to rip it away. Jaenys is the reason that you are miserable and drifting, hollow in your laughter and quick to find the bottom of a bottle.

It infuriates him to know he has played such a large role in this, but how the hell was he supposed to know you’d gone and acquired a Targaryen prince for yourself? You’d always mocked the dragons back home—their inheritance disputes, their dead dragons, all of it. You were the last person Jaenys ever expected to fall in love with one of the Andal cunts, so he thought this would be an easy way to bring you home.

And it is love, Jaenys knows that. You have only ever drawn your blade on him for Viserys before, and you did it so unhesitatingly for this western prince that, for a brief second, Jaenys wondered if you would actually kill him. Not only that, you gave the cunt your Valyrian steel, not knowing if you’ll ever see him again—Jaenys begged you to let him borrow it for a few hours for the Syranaelia six years ago, and you threatened to throw him from the top of the Black Walls if he ever asked you such a stupid question again.

It is love, and Jaenys might have destroyed it.

A few years ago, before you were exiled, he would have been smug. He loved watching you spurn people in favor of him, loved it even amongst friends. The others were always fine with sharing each other, and he was too, to an extent, but he could never rid himself of that vicious glee he felt whenever he was the one chosen—that’s why he could understand the Targaryen’s apparent disdain for both Jaenys and your favored courtesan that night before he left Lys. 

Now, the thought sits heavy and sour in his stomach, because you are his friend, and you lost everything once already, and now you finally found something to hold onto again, and he took that from you too. 

Across the room, you tilt your head back, laughing at something Haegon says. Your gaze flicks in Jaenys’s direction, as though you can sense that he’s talking about you, thinking about you, but it is like watching someone else wear your face, because there is nothing behind your eyes or the faint curve of your lips.

Haegon leans in to brush his lips against yours again, and you hold Jaenys’s gaze for a moment longer before redirecting that vacant attention onto the boy next to you.

His teeth grind together.

Jaenys has known you for a very, very long time. He has known you since you were thrown into the 209th Cohort together at the age of four, and he has loved you just as long, and he has never seen you like this before. Not in all the years he has known you—not in your worst moods, when you were all teeth and temper and violence, spilling blood before asking questions; not even in your worst boredom, when you would float about in the public baths for hours, drunk and fully clothed, wasting away until you could think of something to do. 

You have always wanted, he thinks again. You have always burned too brightly for the rest of the world to keep up, and it sickens Jaenys to think that you have finally burned out. 

That he is the reason you have finally burned out.

When you were all children, he remembers thinking you were the cruelest creature he had ever met. Cruel and radiant; even when you were young, the adults talked about you like you had been born for greatness, and everyone was waiting for you to grow into yourself. He had thought himself unlucky at the time, being thrown into a cohort with you, Aenar, and Naera—the three of you were everything he was not. Brilliant, brutal, and untouchable in ways that made the rest of the cohort orbit around you like lesser stars. Aenar with his strength, Naera with her skill, and you with your sharp mind and that relentless will that made even the elders hesitate when you set your sights on something.

Jaenys had been smaller then, quiet and easy to overlook when placed beside the three of you. He had almost accepted it—a life at the edges, pretty and pleasant and forgettable. He wasn’t meant for the blood and glory the other Tiger heirs were bound for, as much as he longed for it. 

Then you set his world on fire. Literally.

Jaenys’s lips twitch faintly at the memory—the 4th moon’s war game in 193. The stables had gone up in flames before he had even realized what you’d done, the scent of burning hay thick in the air, smoke clogging his lungs and stinging eyes as he stumbled out of the building. You stood outside on the garden wall, arms crossed over your chest, eyes meeting his, and you told him to conquer Aenar’s territory for you or die trying, because he and Naera had teamed together to bring an end to your unending win streak, and you refused to accept defeat. 

For one long moment, he was trapped in the blaze of you—it was the first time he ever was, and he knew he never wanted to be anywhere else.

All this to say, Jaenys loves you—he has loved you since the moment you set his territory on fire, maybe even before that, too, like many other hapless fools who fell in love with you from afar. You may have laughed in his face when he told you this, but he still means it all the same, and because he loves you and because he knows you, because he has stood in the blaze of you and felt what it was like when you burn, he knows that this is not right. That there is something seriously, seriously wrong, and he needs to figure out how to fix it. He has seen you furious and bored, bloodied and laughing, ruthless and brilliant and cruel in ways that made men fear you and love you all at once, but never empty. Your fire has never burned out, even when it’s been dampened.

Expect now.

He downs another glass just to rid himself of the bitter taste, tongue darting out to lap at the beads of the sweet cherry wine on his lips as he tries to figure out what the hell he should do. 

Naera and Aenar would know, Jaenys thinks pitifully—Aenar is always good at knowing how to fix things, and Naera is always good at getting things done. Jaenys has never pretended to be anything but what he is—cunning where others are strong, ruthless where others hesitate. He is good at strategy and tricks and schemes, and he has a taste for violence and cruelty—he is not a fixer. 

But there is no clever angle here, no hidden weakness to exploit, no knife he can slip between the ribs of the problem and twist until it resolves itself. There is no war he can plot that will give you back what he has unwittingly taken from you. This is not a game he can outmaneuver.

His shoulders slump as he sighs, unsure what to do. 

“Fuck me,” he sighs, putting his goblet of wine down on a nearby table a tad too harshly. Next to him, Caelyx raises his eyebrows, but Jaenys waves him off and makes his way over to you and Haegon Blackfyre. 

He flops down on the cushions on your opposite side, slinking an arm around your shoulder to tug you away from Haegon. You let him move you without resistance, and it makes his stomach flip uncomfortably. Jaenys receives a dirty look from the Blackfyre in response, and he tosses him a wink and a smug smile before leaning in to ghost his lips against yours, waving the boy off with his free hand to silently tell him to leave the two of you be.

You hardly kiss him back—it would fool anyone else, the way you move your lips just enough to feign interest, but not him.

He pulls back to look at you, gaze searching yours, and finds nothing waiting for him—not the sharp amusement he’s used to, not the lazy indulgence he typically finds, not even irritation at being interrupted. Just that same distant stare that has been haunting him for two moons. 

Jaenys’s smile falters. “Gods,” he murmurs under his breath, thumb brushing along your arm as though he might coax something out of you by touch alone. “You look positively dreadful.”

You blink at him, slow and unfocused, like it takes a moment for you to place who he is at all, and something ugly twists in his chest at that. Then your lips curl up into a sharp smile, but it still doesn’t reach your eyes. 

“Do not be cruel because you’re jealous I’m giving Haegon attention,” you say, head tilting to the side, familiar and playful, but off. Enough to fool anyone else, but not him. You lean in to whisper, “You know you’re my favorite.”

Jaenys lets out a soft huff of laughter at that. “Jealous,” he echoes, voice a low drawl, brows lifting as his thumb presses more firmly beneath your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on him when it starts to drift. “You wound me. We both know that if I were really jealous, he’d already be bleeding on the carpets. I’m good at sharing—when I need to be, that is.”

Something flickers in your eyes at that—disappointment, maybe? And he understands why instantly, because only ten minutes with that volatile little dragon told Jaenys that the boy would quickly and gladly spill blood if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way in his presence.

Ugh, Jaenys thinks, withering a bit. 

The dragon boy is troublesome; Jaenys does not like feeling guilty. It is a foreign feeling—he does not know if he’s ever felt guilty before these last two moons, and he resents it. Jaenys has never been the sort to dwell on the consequences of his actions, not when he’s always been so good at staying one step ahead of them by using his sharp tongue and quick mind to free himself of them, but this lingers in a way that’s impossible to ignore. 

He rests his thumb over your bottom lip, pressing down enough to get you to part them slightly for him. You raise your eyebrows at him, and he leans in. He continues quietly, thumb dragging idly along your jaw again, “Is that what you want? Someone to snarl and bare their teeth every time another man breathes too close to you.”

Your gaze is flinty now, jaw tightening beneath his fingers as you try to figure out if he is mocking you. For a second, your fire returns, and Jaenys is almost able to bask in the heat of it again. He exhales through his nose, eyes sliding shut briefly before he leans in close enough to press his lips against your ear, his forehead to your temple, speaking low enough so that Haegon cannot overhear what he’s about to say.

“I will fix this,” he says softly. 

When he hears you let out a confused huff, he presses his lips to your temple, because Jaenys has known you since the two of you were children, and he has loved you just as long, but as much as he wants you to come home, he is terrified to bring this version of you home. He left Volantis to fix things—to bring you back where you belong, back to something that looks like before everything went wrong—but not like this. 

Jaenys has never been afraid of a problem before—not a person or a war, not even when faced with insurmountable odds and an expectation of failure. 

But this—this scares him.

This is something that has already sunk its teeth into you, and he does not know if he, or Aenar, or Naera, or Visedor, or even your brother, will ever be enough to pry it out completely. If he brings you home like this, whatever part of you that is lost and drifting now after losing the dragon boy might be killed off entirely, and he cannot bear a world where you are forever longing for something you can never have. He cannot bear a world where you are not—where you are not you. Where you are not radiant and brilliant, and all teeth and knives and cruelty, a sun that burns too hot and drags everyone in too close, but no one ever cared what it cost them if it meant standing close enough to feel your heat.

Jaenys will fix this, even if it means waiting a little longer to get you home. He might be more prone to violence and cruelty than anything beneficent, but he has always been lucky—he was lucky that it was him you turned to during that war game when you were all children, luckier still when everything just fell into his lap after that. He might not know how to fix it right now, but Jaenys is the smartest person he knows, so he will figure it out when Lady Luck inevitably smiles in his direction again, even if it goes against his very nature. 

“Avy jorrāelan,” he murmurs against your temple, just for you to hear. “Iksan vaoreznuni. Īlen mērī sylugon naejot mazverdagon ra paktot, se eman mērī vēttan mirre qubykta. Shijetra nyke.”

I love you. I am sorry. I was only trying to make things right, and I’ve only made everything worse. Forgive me.

When you pull back to look at him, Jaenys’s throat bobs when he sees the warmth in your eyes as your lips curl up into a small smile. You say quietly, “Gaomagon daor sagon iā mittys. Konīr iksis daorun naejot shijetra.”

Do not be a fool. There is nothing to forgive. 

Jaenys exhales and replies, “Sesīr sīr.”

Even so.

A huff of laughter slips from your lips, this one sounding more real than any of the louder ones he’s heard you let out over the last two moons. “Pār nyke shijetra ao. Māzigon, ivestragī īlva jikagon vīlībagon isse se tistālion se orgoz hen se dārōñe vali arlī.”

Then I forgive you. Come, let us go spar in the market and piss off the magisters again.

Jaenys laughs, rising to his feet and holding his hand out to you. 

You take it. 

“Mērī lo mazemā se qilōnarion bisa jēda,” he tells you with a sharp smile.

Only if you take the blame this time.

“Deal.”

—————————

Jaenys is a pain in your ass, and five years apart made you forget just how much of one he was. 

Luckily for you, he was very quick to remind you the moment the two of you were reunited. 

You roll your eyes as he laughs wildly, dodging a strike that nearly takes his ear off; you circle one another in the market, ignoring merchants who are all tossing gold at one another, bets flying for first blood, first to the ground, and first to yield, voices rising in a chaotic chorus around you as steel strikes steel. 

“You have gotten slower,” Jaenys mocks, and your eye twitches, irritation swallowing the void that has been steadily consuming you these past two moons. “I noticed it the first time we sparred, but—”

He yelps when you drive your foot hard into his abdomen, sending him stumbling back; a chorus of boos rises from the crowd when he regains his footing before hitting the ground. You give him a taunting raise of your brows, and he lets out a huff of laughter, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as the two of you settle into a familiar routine. 

You do not know if it’s a blessing or a curse that Jaenys was the one to slip away from Volantis to come find you. He is somehow both the best and worst person who could’ve found you like this. These… moods didn’t happen often back home because there was no reason for you to really lose yourself in the way you’ve lost yourself without Aerion, but some days you just—you were just tired. Inexplicably so. You were tired and angry and bored, and you would get so wound up about it that you thought it was the end of the world and couldn’t stand anyone near you, so you would find the public baths and float for hours until it passed. 

Sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t.

Aenar and Naera never pushed, even if they were concerned, if only because they knew better when you were five seconds from self-destruction. They would linger on the edges of the water, not coming in, because you would bristle when anyone came too close to something you considered your territory, but they would wait. They would wait and watch and circle until you came back on your own terms. And you did come back on your own terms—usually, at least. That or Viserys interfered.

Visedor—he only really stepped in when it didn’t pass that first day, when these stretches of boredom and anger and helplessness would last for days at a time, so he would distract you by fucking or fighting or causing trouble and forcing you out for your head long enough to deal with it.

Jaenys is different. 

He is not like your brother, because Viserys would pull you out by force, because he could. He was the only one who could. He would find whatever bathhouse you usurped for yourself, glide into the water, and drag you out kicking and screaming if he had to. It was never often that he was the one who had to step in for you, but he always did when necessary—covering for you with your father when you didn’t show up to meetings or training because you were too busy floating in a bath, causing a scene to pull the attention from you when your father started to realize something was wrong, because failure was expected for Viserys, but it was entirely unacceptable for you. If your father ever got wind that something was wrong with you, he would have had you beaten until you learned not to be wrong at all. 

But Jaenys—

Jaenys schemes. He schemes, and he pushes, and he calculates, and he always gets what he wants in the long run, and it makes you suspicious. 

He is the worst one to be here with you, because he will never let this rest until he figures out how to fix it, and you hate that he sees through all of the facades, and that when all you want is to pretend that everything is okay, he never lets you. 

He is the best one to be here with you, because you do not know if you’ll be able to pull yourself out of this on your own this time, and he might be able to put together a scheme to return to you the only person other than your brother who might be able to. 

“You’re a cunt,” you tell him, and you mean it. He knows you do, because his smile widens, a laugh bubbling from his lips as your steel clashes again. “I’m gonna bloody up that pretty face of yours, Jae.”

Jaenys winks at you. “Will you kiss me better after?” 

“If you actually manage to land a blow, I’ll do a lot more than kiss you,” you purr, leaning back to avoid an arc toward your neck, “but we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Jaenys laughs, smile sharpening. “Careful, I plan to hold you to it.”

You snort, twisting away from the next strike, but the easy rhythm you almost allowed yourself to fall into falters anyway, because for a brief, stupid moment, you can almost pretend that nothing has changed. That you are back in Volantis with your friends, trading blades in the forum until someone runs to your parents to complain about the noise and steel. That there is no exile hanging over your head, no impossible choice waiting for you at the end of this. That Aerion is not somewhere far away and unreachable, on the opposite side of the scale from your brother, your friends, your father, and your promised future. 

The thought drains you so quickly that it almost makes you feel dizzy. Your blade catches Jaenys’s with a sharp clang, but the force behind it is gone now, attention drifting eastward for the hundredth time that day.

Jaenys’s smile falters, a heavy expression on his face.

“I want to go home,” you tell him quietly, lashes fluttering as you let out a breath. No one can hear what the two of you are saying over the crowd and steel, and everyone is far too caught up in their own excitement to notice the serious expressions suddenly on your faces. “I really want to go home, Jae.”

“I know,” he says simply, because he does. Because Jaenys has always known you best of your group of friends, because you have always relied on it and dreaded it in equal measure. “But not at this cost.”

Your jaw tightens as he speaks the words you’ve been refusing to say out loud for two moons now. You do not have to agree for him to know your answer—he already knows it well enough, sees it in you every time he looks at you with those irritating, knowing eyes. You miss Aerion so terribly that some mornings it feels difficult for you to breathe without him hogging all of your air. You miss the weight of him beside you at night, miss his voice and terrible temper and the way he looked at you like you were something worth giving up everything for. Some selfish, aching part of you looks at him the same, wants to throw all of this away, potentially your only chance of going home, just so you can have him again.

But how are you supposed to justify that? All of this, for a boy you have not even known for a year, who might already hate you for sending him away. How are you supposed to justify choosing him over your home and family, over the future you have spent your life bleeding for?

Still, you find yourself agreeing, voice mortifyingly weak even to your own ears, “Not at this cost.”

As soon as you speak the words, you feel as though you’ve swallowed poison. 

It feels like a betrayal. 

A betrayal to Jaenys, who has come all this way with all of these plans for you to finally come home. 

A betrayal to your father, who expects you home on the next ship with Jaenys, so you can finally pick up the mantle as the future of the Tiger party, the way you were meant to from the very beginning. 

A betrayal to yourself, because you do not even know who you are anymore, because there’s nothing you want more than to go home and reclaim your promised future—except Aerion, and that terrifies you.

A betrayal to Viserys. A betrayal to your brother—your twin brother—who is waiting for you back home, aching for you the same way you do for him. Two halves of the same whole; a single soul cleaved into two at birth, always yearning to return to one another. 

There are eight hundred miles between you and him, and you can feel every inch of it. Every time you look east, you try to imagine what he’s doing—playing the harp, drinking wine, lounging in the gardens. Sometimes, you pretend to be there with him, eyes sliding shut as you lie on a marble bench of some magister’s manse, pretending you can hear his music and laugh.

When you were young, you sometimes woke in the middle of the night with the same pull you feel incessantly now. You felt the moment he slipped away from your side, and you would find yourself wandering the halls, confused and half-asleep, only aware that something was wrong and needed to be fixed. Your feet would bring you to Viserys, who was curled in the corner of some hall or tucked away under an orange tree in the gardens, because sleep only brought him nightmares.

You had learned then to always follow it—that pull—to find him, to go to him no matter the cost.

When had you unlearned it?

How had you unlearned it?

It is a betrayal—to you, to him, to everything you have ever known as truth. How are you ever supposed to look your brother in the eye again? Would you ever have the chance to do so, if you give this opportunity up? How can you possibly make this decision if it means you might never see him again?

You barely dodge the jab to your side, lost in thought. Jaenys raises his eyebrows at you, taunting, but you are retreating again already, back into that cold, empty void you were in this morning, where you have been for the last two moons, trying to balance this impossible, impossible decision.

“You really love that dragon boy, don’t you?” Jaenys asks you softly, an unreadable expression on his face as his gaze slips over you. 

“What does it matter now?” you ask bitterly, becoming fed up with everything about this. “I will likely never see him again.”

You don’t want to talk about this anymore. You don’t want to think about it. You side-step the next swing of Jaenys’s blade, and you drive your foot hard enough into his side to send him sprawling onto the ground. You lift your blade to point it at his neck. The crowd erupts around the two of you, Lysene coins exchanged en masse as the gambling comes to an end. 

“I yield,” Jaenys sighs, head rolling back, silver hair brushing the ground before he holds his hand up, beckoning for you to help him to his feet. You roll your eyes—what a princess, you think, grabbing his forearm to pull him upright. He stands in front of you, so close that your chest brushes his. You tilt your head up slightly to look at him, waiting for him to back up, but he doesn’t. He tells you quietly, “I told you I would fix it, didn’t I?” 

“But at what cost, Jae?” You hate that your voice wobbles. You hate feeling weak. “The only opportunity I have to go home? To see all of the others again? Viserys? I lose no matter what happens. I—”

“This won’t be your only opportunity,” Jaenys says so firmly that you falter. He lifts his hand to brush his fingers against your cheek, tilting your face to force you to keep your eyes on him. Before you can spit out a ‘you do not know that,’ Jaenys continues, “Aenys—he has been… talking to your father.”

For a second, you don’t think you heard him correctly.

“What?” you ask, voice riddled with disbelief. “Aenys Vyninar? Aenys as in Triarch Vyninar’s son? Aenys as in bane of my existence and—”

“—and the boy you used to sneak out to fuck when you thought no one was paying attention,” Jaenys finishes lightly, one brow lifting when you scowl and look away. “He’s not happy about your exile either. From what I hear, he’s planning to run for Triarch in the next few years, whether his father approves or not. He will side with your father’s petition to revoke your exile, and you know what that means.”

If two of the three Triarchs approve the petition, then you can come home.

You blink, and a lump suddenly forms in your throat. “He would have to break away from the Elephant party to run against his own father. He would never have the support as an independent—you cannot expect me to believe he would risk his own political future for—”

“Except, he is,” Jaenys interrupts. You let out a shaky breath to steady yourself. “He’s already working at siphoning off votes from the Elephants, framing recent behavior as self-serving and vindictive rather than for the good of Volantis as a whole—”

“He’s trying to pull off a coup, then? He’s going to tear apart the whole Elephant party doing that,” you demand, voice pitching in disbelief. “I don’t—but why?”

Jaenys gives you a half-smile, head tilted slightly to the side. “You know why.”

Your eyes burn. 

Idiot boy, you think, remembering all of the days you spent lounging in his bed, trading insults and kisses, all of the twisted games where you would try to get information from each other while the other’s guard was down. Aenys was—you do not know what he was to you. He was not a friend, barely a lover, but he was important to you in a way you loathe to admit.

Clearly, you were the same to him.

You suddenly feel far too close to crying for comfort, considering you’re still in public. Jaenys snakes an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him casually under the guise of celebration rather than comfort.

“This was never the only way,” he tells you quietly. “I was just—impatient. I did not want to wait or rely on that Elephant cunt,  and I did not realize—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “Let me fix this. I can make this right without you having to give anything up.”

You remember the days when Aerion came down with fever, suddenly. You remember sitting at his bedside and telling him about Volantis in his rare lucid moments. You remember telling him about gardens and fountains, festivals and the azantys shows; you remember telling him that one day, you would like to bring him there to show him your home, and you remember the ache in your chest, the mourning you felt, when you realized you would likely never be able to. 

Jaenys ghosts his lips against your forehead, and for the first time in two moons—longer than that, much longer than that—you feel something close to hope.

—————————

Aerion does not know what he expected.

He watches blankly from one of the rooftops over the market as you trade blades with your friend. The two of you dance around one another, laughing, talking, like nothing’s changed, like you do not even care that Aerion is gone, like his absence means nothing to you. 

And Aerion is—he is furious. He is furious and embarrassed; he is upset that he has come all this way for someone who does not care, that he had hope, that he has spent two moons haunted by you, that he cannot even escape you in his sleep, and you have probably not even thought of him once since he left.

Aerion dreams of you almost every night. He is loath to admit it, but it is true. 

He dreams of the Blackfyres finding out you lied about him, and he dreams of returning to Lys to find your corpse waiting for him, because that is the only fate that awaits you if they learn the truth. He wakes up gasping those nights, fingers clawing at the shitty roll he sleeps on, sick and heaving and pushing himself out of bed to make his way to the officers of the Second Sons to find out if there has been any news from Lys. 

Sometimes, he dreams that there has been word from Lys. He dreams that Volantis is going to war. He dreams of returning to Lys to find you gone, of going back to Westeros, where his family is preparing to defend against you and yours. He dreams that the next time he sees you, it’s on the opposite side of the battlefield. 

Some of those nights, he dreams of killing you. He dreams of staring down at you, of you on your knees in front of him, his blade pierced through your abdomen. He dreams of blood spilling from your mouth, and he can tell you’re trying to say something to him, but you cannot hold on long enough to finish whatever it is, and he tries to put pressure on the wound he caused, tries to save you, but he cannot, and he feels helpless—so fucking helpless. 

And some of them, he dreams of you killing him, and it sickens him that he prefers those. He dreams of your sword cutting through his chest, your hand fisted in his hair as you force him to the ground; he dreams of the long, terrible moment where you almost look triumphant—until you realize what you’ve done, and your expression breaks, eyes widening, lips parting as you fall to your knees at his side.

He wakes up with phantom pain lancing through him, heart hammering in his ribs, choking over his own breath, fingers still twitching in your direction, even if you are no longer there. 

His heart hammers now, too—loud and painful, thudding in his ears like a war drum as he stares down at you from the place he first tracked you down during the days you used to make him hunt you. He realizes, dully, that of the realities he dreams of, one has become far more likely than the other, and the only question left is whether it will be you or him to fall at the other’s hand. 

Fuck. 

He feels like a fucking fool. His nails draw blood from his palms, the gift he brought you weighs heavily in his pocket, and his jaw is so tight that it is painful. He risked capture just to get a chance to see you again, just so he could know that you ache for him as much as he aches for you, only to find—to find you what? Playing around with your friend, laughing, smiling, teasing. 

You do not care. You never cared. It was just as he feared—the moment he was out of sight, you forget he exists, while he is tormented by the mere idea of you. 

It is sickening and infuriating, and he cannot seem to pull his gaze away. The fight comes to an end with your friend sprawled on the ground and your blade pointed at his neck, and Aerion stays in place on the roof, blood dripping between his fingers onto the tiles, breath ragged. 

He should go back to the ship, wait out the rest of the supply run in the cabin he stole from the other sellsword meant to join the trip. He should forget about you. He should, because you forgot about him, and Aerion is not—Aerion is a prince, a dragon. He does not pine, especially not for someone—

Someone he loves. 

Someone he loves enough to make him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. It is a foul, humiliating thing. Aerion is a dragon, not some soft-hearted fool sighing after a lost lover like the singers in the songs Daella is fond of, yet the thought of you with another man, the thought of you leaving him, leaves him sick with the urge to tear the world apart with his bare hands. 

Only his mother had ever known how to quiet that ugliness in him before it swallowed him whole, and he lost her.

Only you after her—has he lost you, too?

That is why he cannot drag his gaze from where you are standing close enough to your friend that you might be kissing him, though Aerion cannot tell from this distance and angle, and the thought makes something savage twist violently in his chest. That is why his heart feels lodged somewhere in his throat. That is why he cannot move from the rooftop where everything changed—when he had finally found you after days of those wretched hunts of yours, back at the very beginning of this, and you were always just out of reach, until you weren’t, and his gaze met yours from the square where you’re standing now, victorious. 

He had seen you, really seen you, and you had seen him.

Look at me, he thinks furiously. Look at me and see me, the same way I saw you.

But you do not. 

Your friend steps away from you, and you stand there for a long moment, back to Aerion, staring at gods know what, before you start making your way over to where one of those silver-haired pretenders is standing. His teeth grind. 

Look, look, look! Look at me, you wretched woman, I am right here, he almost shouts—enraged and desperate, because all he wants is you. He wants to scream at you for betraying him, wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze until you finally understand what you have done to him; he wants to tell you how badly he’s missed you, and he wants to ask if you’ve missed him the same, but he’s terrified your answer will not be what he wants to hear.

You do not look. 

But your friend does.

—————————

Aerion wakes up on the floor. 

He blinks once, twice, trying to remember what happened, where he is. Panic thrums through his chest briefly—was he caught? Did the Blackfyres realize he was here? Did one of the Second Sons give him up? Will his father care? Will you care? Will you care?

His fingers press down on the cool marble beneath him, and he winces as he pushes himself into a sitting position, head aching terribly. 

He does not seem to be in a cell, he realizes, head still fuzzy, half out of it. He seems to be—

He’s in your chambers.

Aerion blinks again as clarity washes over him. Your ceiling, your bed, your sheets, your sleepwear discarded haphazardly on the floor—he recognizes it all like the back of his own hand. He spent more nights in your room than his own, your warmth curled at his side. He finds himself crawling toward the silk, fisting the soft fabric in confusion, trying to figure out what’s going on.

How did he get here?

Another shooting pain spreads from his temple as he tries to remember, and he hisses through his teeth, half doubling over, tears blurring his eyes. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s lifting your sleepwear to his face, eyes sliding shut as he buries his nose into the soft silk and inhales deeply.

Instantly, the pain is replaced by a mortifyingly intense wave of relief, strong enough to make his shoulders shake as he greedily sinks into the familiar scent of you. Cherry wine and spice; that lavender oil you bought at the market with him the week before you left. It smells so much like you that it runs Aerion ragged, a noise building in the back of his throat that he desperately tries to swallow away. 

He’s missed you. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much, and you just—

“Ah, so we meet again, little prince! Do forgive me for this, but our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”

Aerion blinks once, head aching as an aggravating voice rings through his ears—whose? He recognizes it from somewhere, but he cannot place it. 

Mutual lover, he thinks irritably, trying to sort through what they said to figure out who it might be—he would’ve recognized your whore’s voice, and the Blackfyres never would have left him in your room for you to find, he would be strung up and half-dead right now if they had found him, so then who—

Your friend, Aerion realizes instantly, blinking once as he remembers what he had been watching before he had decided to go back to the ship. You had been sparring with him—Jaenys—in the central market, and Aerion had been sitting on the same rooftop you would lounge on, waiting for him to find you in the early days of his exile. He had been waiting for you the same, but—but you hadn’t looked. 

Jaenys had looked. Aerion had slid off the back of the rooftop, the way he had come from, to get back to the ship before Jaenys could catch up to him, but he’d hardly made it to the docks when he was thrown hard against the side of a building in a narrow alley. Aerion had drawn his blade, but—

But what? 

He can’t remember what happened after. He lets out a frustrated breath, fingers tightening around your sleep clothes before he forces himself to his feet, trying to ignore the shooting pain that spreads from his right temple. 

He needs to get out of here before you come back, because he does not want to talk to you. He does not want to talk to you, he does not want to see you, he does not want anything to do with you. You have made your choice, clearly, and he needs to—

He fists the silk tighter, pressing his face back into it, breathing in deep one last time before he looks up to the ceiling. 

He counts to three in his head, desperately trying to pull himself back together.

His gaze cuts over to the door, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he reluctantly lets go of your clothes to force himself to move. One foot, then the next—the room sways unpleasantly around him. He has to brace a hand against the wall, hard enough that his nails scrape against the marble. 

And then, he pauses.

There, by the fireplace, the black chest he asked you to look after for him, so he wouldn’t return to that poacher Vyrano having stolen and sold it. His throat bobs, breath shaky now as he takes half a step in its direction. He isn’t sure why he suddenly feels so thrown off. 

Because you had actually gone for it as you promised? 

Because he has never gone so long apart from it? 

Because it means you might actually be waiting for him?

Why else would you go after it when he asked? Why else would you keep it safe in your chambers? Why else, why else, why else?

He hates the hope that blooms in his chest. It grows and spreads like a fucking weed that he cannot contain; it festers and pollutes, depriving him of all common sense. It doesn’t make sense, he tells himself logically. Aerion knows what he saw—he knows it. You didn’t care. You were smiling—you must have been, because he heard your laugh, even if it did sound a bit off compared to the one he had grown used to. You were sparring with your friend the way you used to with him. You did not look. He was waiting for you to look, and you did not look. You cannot be waiting for him, because—

Aerion’s gaze cuts to the side when he hears footsteps coming in the direction of your chambers. He barely bites back a curse, gaze flying around the room to find somewhere to hide, eventually deciding to slide behind the folding screen in the corner of the room. He leans back against the wall, watching through the sliver of the screens as you stumble in.

“Fuck off, Jae,” you snap, glaring back at the door as you catch your balance on the pole of your bed. “Close my door and get the hell out.”

Aerion’s breath catches.

You are—

You are right there. 

You are right there, less than ten feet away. If he steps out from behind this folding screen and takes three long steps, he would be able to grab your wrist and pull you into his arms—hold you or fuck you or kill you, or all three if he so pleased. There is a lump suddenly in his throat, fingers fisting at his sides, nails digging into his palm deep enough to draw blood.

“Ah, but you promised you would do more than just kiss me if—” Aerion hears your friend pout from the doorframe. 

“Why must you test my patience?” you cut him off before he can finish, giving him a sharp but sweet smile. “Get out. You pissed me off, and you didn’t land a blow—as usual.”

Jaenys sighs dramatically. “You never used to condition our love like this, ñuha prūmia. It makes me sad. I miss your bed.”

My heart.

“You were in it last night,” you reply, and Aerion’s teeth grind together. He squeezes his eyes shut, hand darting down to the dagger at his waist, knuckles white around its hilt. It takes all of his self-control to keep in place. “Don’t get greedy, Jae.”

“I’m always greedy when it comes to you,” Jaenys purrs. “C’mon. I was good today, wasn’t I? Let me come in.”

Is this why your friend found him and left him here? To force him to watch while you and he—

Aerion feels apocalyptic. He will not suffer the insult. He will not. He will kill you both if that cunt comes within five feet of you. 

His eyes snap back open, focusing on you, and—

—and all of the will to fight leaves him immediately, shoulders slumping, instinctively taking half a step forward, until his chest is almost against the folding screen. He hates the way he longs for you; hates that he cannot even muster the will to remain angry. You’re leaning against your bed, dressed in the same black leathers you were wearing in the market square, but your hair is loose now, and you’re visibly drunk, unsteady on your feet, holding onto the pole for leverage. 

You look beautiful, Aerion thinks, furious and yearning and all things in between, because he is sick of how badly he wants to be with you, and he is sick of being apart from you at all. All of the tumultuous emotions that have been tearing him apart the past few days, weeks, months, come back with a roaring vengeance. 

Aerion misses you. It is impossible to deny. All he wants is to go back to the days he spent hunting you through Lys, lounging on cushions, and watching magister’s sons and merchant princes make fools of themselves, tangled in your sheets, bodies entwined. It is infuriating, because he has known all along that there would be no going back to a life without you—he has known it since the day he first won one of your wretched games, when you had him laid back on your bed, unraveling beneath your touch. He has known it before that, even, since the first time you made him say it in the cove—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon.

But it is incontrovertible now—he has had two moons of hard-packed earth and steel, bloodshed and violence and everything he has longed for that he could not have while trapped on this pillowed island. And in those two months, he has ached and raged and longed, forever unsatisfied because hard-packed earth and steel are not enough now that he has had a taste of a life with you. 

Nothing is enough if he does not include you.

Wretched woman, he thinks furiously, eyes tracing the length of your neck as you sigh and tip your head back. You have ruined him. You have ruined him in full, and Aerion does not even have the will to hate you properly for it. 

“Jae, if you do not get out of my sight in the next five seconds, I’m going to throw you off my balcony,” you say, head tilted to the side as you pull a dagger from your waist to point it lazily at him. “The fuck happened to your face anyway?”

Your lips curl up into a half-smile, and Aerion detests you—he detests watching you smile at someone else, and he detests that there are things happening around you that he does not know, and he detests that he cannot have you as completely as you have him. He never wants you to leave his side; he wants to possess you so fully that all you can think of is him. As long as Aerion lives, you would be his—and he would be yours.

“Don’t worry about it,” your friend drawls, and Aerion’s jaw tightens when he sees him peek into the room, eyes furrowed, and lips curled down in a slight frown as he looks around. He must be looking for Aerion, he realizes, seething. He is purposely trying to antagonize him. A vicious thrill runs through him when he sees that Jaenys’s eye is swollen and his lip is split, a slash deep across his cheekbone. “Whatever, get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow you won’t be such a raging cunt.”

You throw the dagger at him hard, but Jaenys only laughs wildly as he shuts the door, the blade burying in the wood instead. 

For a long moment, you only stand there, shoulders hunched inward, frowning slightly. You look so sad, so suddenly that Aerion falters, brows furrowed as you hang your head forward and let out a heavy sigh. He itches to make his way over you; to tell you that he’s here, just to see how you react. Will you be relieved? Will you look at him the same way you did when he left? Or will your eyes slip over him like he’s not even there?

Does Aerion really want to know?

No, he doesn’t.

He takes a step back, away from the folding screen, until his back is against the wall. His eyes slide shut again as he tilts his head back against the marble, fighting the heaviness that weighs on him. You fall asleep quickly when you go back to your chambers after drinking, so he’ll just wait for you to lay down and slip out from the balcony. You’ll wake if he tries to open the door, and—

His attention cuts back to you when he hears you push yourself away from the bed. He tilts his head slightly to the side, peering through the crack to figure out what you’re doing, and he pauses when he sees you making your way over to his chest. His brows furrow suspiciously as he leans forward again; you’re kneeling in front of the fireplace, back to him, and he cannot tell what you’re doing until he sees the glow of the fireplace emanating around you.

What?

Aerion blinks—it’s hot as hell. Aerion’s silks are clinging to him, even with the cool marble behind him. He can feel the sweat beading at his forehead and dripping down his sides. Why are you lighting a fire?

He watches, bewildered, as you prod at the embers with the poker. Firelight spills gold across your skin, and you sit there silently for a long while, staring into the flames before you finally sigh and open up his chest. Aerion blinks again, a second and third time, shaking his head slightly as he tries to figure out what the hell is happening, but he freezes when he sees you lift his dragon egg from the cushions.

The egg gleams in your hands, scales of deep crimson and black, beautiful and lifeless and so familiar that it makes the breath leave his lungs. 

Aerion has had it for as long as he can remember—some of his earliest memories are of clutching it clumsily in both arms while his mother laughed softly and told him not to drop it. He remembers dragging blankets beside the great hearths in his chambers at King’s Landing, placing his egg into it, and lying in front of it, watching the flames lick at the scales, begging the fire to breathe life into it. He remembers pressing his ear to it at night, convinced that he could feel warmth instead of the cool stone.

Everyone eventually stopped humoring him—they had all given up. The eggs were decorative stones to the rest of them, but he had never accepted it. He could never bear being parted from it for long. Not when they left King’s Landing for Summerhall, not when he was exiled to Lys. Even when everything else was stripped from him, the egg stayed. He carried it with him from city to city despite the weight of it; still woke up some nights, certain he felt warmth beneath the shell or heard movement from within. 

Ridiculous and childish, maybe, but he does not care. It is his dragon. It will hatch for him someday—it has to, he’s seen it, he knows it. And you—

—and you lift it like you know it too, which is ridiculous, because he remembers how you reacted during that argument the two of you had moons ago, remembers the way you looked at him when he implied maybe the right blood wasn’t being spilled to bring life to the stone eggs. When he was too close to admitting out loud that sometimes, in his dreams, he sees himself stepping into the flames with the egg cradled to his chest, that he does not die when he does, but transforms—into what he was always meant to be.

He had caught himself before he did, because the way you looked at him—Aerion is used to people staring at him like he’s half-mad, but he cannot handle it from you. The point is, you do not believe the egg will hatch, and you do not believe that dragons will return. 

He supposes he cannot blame you—the Volantene bloodmagickers have been trying for centuries, and they have made no progress, but the Volantene bloodmagickers are not him. They are not Targaryens. It is his family who retained their dragons when all of the other Valyrian dragonlords were lost to the Doom, and thus, it is they who are the true blood of the dragon, much as the Volantene old blood—you and your friends—like to claim otherwise. Only the true blood of the dragon can bring life to what was lost, he knows it, and you do not believe it, but… but you act as if you do. Right now.

Aerion is hardly breathing as he watches you settle the egg on top of the hearth, head tilted to the side as you watch the fire lick the scales, the same way he would back home. 

He almost calls out for you—his chest is all tangled, and he feels so uncertain that it almost makes him sick to his stomach. His first instinct is to convince himself that it’s not what he thinks. You’re not doing this for him; you’re doing this for yourself. You’re trying to steal his egg. It was never that you didn’t believe him—it was that you were trying to discourage him, it was that you knew the dragons would come back, but you wanted his dragon for yourself. 

It would make more sense, he rationalizes, hand dropping back down to his dagger. It would make more sense than you—than you, what? You doing this for him? You keeping the egg warm and taking care of it the way you think he would, because he’s not here to do it? How does it make sense? You don’t even believe it—he knows you don’t—so then, why?

You reach for the dagger you must have pulled out of the wall when Aerion was trying to calm himself down, and Aerion leans forward even more, until his face is almost pressed up against the crack, trying to figure out—again—what you are doing. His lips part when you press the blade hard against your palm, cutting through the skin there, and Aerion’s body locks up.

He shakes his head again, blinking to clear his vision, trying to make sure he’s actually seeing what he thinks he’s seeing, but—but he is. You let the dagger clatter to the ground as you hold your hand over the egg, and he hears you murmuring something under your breath, “… ānogar…  ābrar… dōron…” He cannot make out all of the words, but he understands enough to know what you’re doing. 

Blood… life… stone…

Aerion suddenly feels feverish, weak in the knees, sick to his stomach, so confused, so uncertain. He steps back once, twice, three times, until his back hits the wall and he slides down to the floor, pressing his face into his hands.

He does not understand. 

Aerion has spent his entire life chasing this—dreaming of dragons, reading old scrolls until his eyes burned, desperately searching for scraps of forgotten knowledge from the Freehold, trying to figure out how he could possibly bring life to stone. He has bled for this obsession before, fought for it, and no one ever took him seriously, not really. At best, they indulged him, but you—

You are sitting on the floor of your chambers with blood dripping down your wrist, murmuring old Valyrian rites over his cradle egg for—for him. Not because you believe that dragons are destined to return to the world, not even because you believe in him when he tells you he has dreamt of it, but because somewhere along the way, you started loving him enough that the distinction no longer mattered to you.

Aerion presses his face harder into his hands. His thoughts feel disjointed, half-feral with confusion and refusal to believe what is right in front of his eyes. He tries to make sense of it, and he cannot, because you should not love him like this. It makes more sense if there’s some underlying self-serving reason. You know too much about him to love him sensibly—you have seen the ugly parts, the obsession and arrogance and cruelty. He has pushed you away and threatened to kill you if you didn’t leave him be, and in the same breath, he promised to hunt you down if you ever left him, because he does not know how to deal with how strongly he feels for you, and it always manifests in the worst ways.

He feels overwhelmed. Aerion always feels overwhelmed, but never like this.

This is not—he does not know what this is. It does not feel like possession, or obsession, or the frantic, poisonous thing he has come to learn is love. It feels—

He squeezes his eyes shut harder, teeth grinding together.

—safe.

The realization is horrifying.

He has spent so long bracing himself for abandonment that he no longer knows what to do with devotion freely given. Every relationship in his life always felt conditional somehow, balanced on the edge of a blade. Useful, until he became too difficult. Wanted, until he became too much—and Aerion has always been too much. Too volatile, too intense, too quick to cruelty. He has been preparing himself for you to leave him since the moment he realized he loved you. Maybe even before that.

He thought that this would finally be it. You would look at the opportunity laid before you—the Blackfyres, your friend, your home suddenly within reach again—and you would decide that he was never worth enough to outweigh it.

And logically, why would he be?

He is a prince without a kingdom, exiled across the Narrow Sea with more scandal than allies to his name. His own father does not want him around; his brother will not even write him. You have known your people your entire life—your brother waits for you back within the Black Walls, your father wants you home, and your friend crossed half the world and planned a war just to bring you back where you belong. 

Aerion is just—

Aerion.

A mistake made in exile in comparison; a temporary madness born from loneliness and proximity and all of the ugly things the two of you recognized in one another. He would become nothing more than a strange chapter in your life. A lover from your years of forced humiliation. A dragon prince you once entertained in Lys before returning to your real life across the sea.

He thought that once the choice was finally in front of you, you would take one look at him and realize how absurd this all was. He spent two moons trying to harden himself against the inevitable moment you would decide your home mattered more than he did. He convinced himself of it when he was watching you with your friend from the rooftop, and it felt as though his ribs had been split open. 

You would survive it, and Aerion would not. You would grieve him, maybe. Miss him, hopefully, for a while, at least. But you would go back to your brother and your friends and your city, and life would continue on around you until the wound scarred over. Aerion thinks losing you would leave him maimed permanently—he knows it. The past two moons have proved it. 

But—you are here. You are waiting for him. You are bleeding over his dragon egg in the middle of the night because he once looked at you with desperate certainty in his eyes and said someday it would hatch. You would not do that if you had already discarded him, if you did not plan to choose him, and Aerion does not know how to cope with it.

You do not even know he is here. That is what ruins him most. 

It would be different if you knew he was watching. Aerion could dismiss all of this then. He could tell himself it was another game, another calculated attempt to keep him bound to you until you no longer had use for him. He could be angry then. Anger is easy. Suspicion is easier. Cruelty, easiest of all.

But you think you are alone. You think there is no one here to see the way your shoulders curl inward, the way your lips move around words you do not believe, the way you offer up your blood to the egg in hopes of bringing life to it, not because you believe it will, but because he does.

Something hot stings behind Aerion’s eyes before he realizes, with vague horror, that he is crying.

He wipes viciously at his face immediately, furious at himself, but it does not stop the next tear from slipping free. Or the next. 

He presses his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise that builds in his throat, desperately trying to force himself to calm down.

You are wretched. You are a wretched woman. Aerion regrets ever approaching you that day on the rock. He regrets ever indulging your games. He regrets it all, and most of all, he regrets that he cannot truly bring himself to regret anything at all. You have ruined him in full—you really, truly have—and Aerion cannot even bring himself to regret any of it. 

He inhales deeply through his nose, tilting his head back against the marble again. He counts—one, two, three—and then pushes himself back to his feet. He forces his eyes dry and his breath steady, and then peeks back through the folding screen to see if you’ve moved over to the bed yet.

You have. Aerion grinds his teeth together as another wave of longing washes over him. You are sprawled haphazardly over the covers—didn’t even bother to change out of your leathers, you rarely do whenever you’ve been drinking. 

He should be there with you, he thinks bitterly. At your side, you should be curled into his chest, and he should be toying with your hair, because you are a miserable, wretched wench, but you are beautiful, and the only time he can truly enjoy that is when your mouth is shut with sleep or busied with his cock.

He finds himself moving in your direction before he can stop himself; his feet drag lightly against the marble floors, body drawn to yours, like some pathetic, starved thing, finally catching the scent of food again after two moons of hunger.

Gods—he hates how weak you make him. 

Aerion stops at the side of your bed and stares down at you in silence. The firelight and setting sun spill soft gold across your skin; one arm hangs off the mattress, fingers brushing the floor, blood still dripping from where you’d cut your palm open for him. Your breath is slow and heavy with exhaustion and wine, and now that he is closer, he can see the faint circles beneath your eyes.

You look worn thin, now that he sees you up close, and it unsettles him more than anything else today has. He finds himself reaching out before he can stop himself, fingers tracing beneath your eye.

“—our mutual lover has missed you quite badly these past two moons.”

Is it true? He exhales lightly through his nose, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as you instinctively turn your face into his hand. Could it be? You had been laughing in the market square, sparring with your friend like nothing was wrong, but—but the laughter had sounded wrong, hadn’t it? It wasn’t the way you would laugh with him, bright and brilliant, all sharp edges and fire that Aerion wanted to bask in for the rest of his life. 

His fingers slip down your face—tracing the slope of your nose to the outline of your lips. His heart jumps when your lips part beneath his touch, breath warm and steady against his skin. He finds himself leaning his head down, lashes fluttering as he ghosts his lips against your cheekbone, lower still, until his mouth hovers just above yours.

He can feel your breath against his lips, can almost taste the cherry wine you’d been drinking, and then he closes the sliver of distance. The contact is brief at first, hesitant in a way that would mortify if anyone else were there to witness it. Aerion is not hesitant. He takes and burns and devours; he does not hesitate, not like this, but—but he cannot help himself. Because he has missed you desperately—have you missed him the same? 

His lips brush yours, and you taste the same you did two moons ago—cherry wine and spice, and for the first time in two moons, the unending ache within him is finally put to rest. Everything crashes through his chest so violently that it almost hurts.

His hands slip down to your leathers, fisting the fabric hard as he makes a quiet, broken sound against your mouth before he can stop it. He kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue easing open your lips so that he can lick the inside of your mouth, no longer hesitant, because he cannot be hesitant now that he’s had a taste of you again. The restraint snaps apart all at once, replaced by two months of hunger and fury and yearning condensed into something mortifyingly desperate and needy.

He has missed you. Have you missed him?

You stir beneath him, but Aerion is undeterred, bowing his head with a shaky exhale, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw, dragging his tongue up the length of your neck. He has spent two moons trying to survive without this—with hard-packed earth beneath him instead of silk sheets, with blood and steel instead of your hands in his hair—and he does not know how he survived it, how he could ever survive a life without you. It is impossible.

Wretched, wretched, wretched woman. 

He is ruined. He is ruined.

His fingers work at the strings of your leathers, fumbling as he tries to loosen them—you are stirring now, he can feel it in the way you shift beneath him, and the soft gasps starting to spill from your lips as his teeth graze your clavicle, before he licks up to the hollow of your throat, breath ragged and lashes fluttering as heat clouds all common sense. 

He shifts onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he moves to straddle your hips, sliding the fabric down your shoulders so that he can kiss down your chest, between your breasts, mouthing bruises into your skin.

“Wake up, wench,” he murmurs into your skin. He already feels too hot—the fire, the summer night, the feeling of your skin for the first time in two moons. He’s half out of it already, hips jerking, grinding into your thigh, because his cock is straining against his pants, and his abdomen is so tense that he almost feels like he’s in pain. “Wake up!”

“Aerion?” you murmur drowsily, not even awake yet, body twitching beneath his. 

His name on your lips chokes the air right out of his lungs. Aerion, Aerion, Aerion—he wants to hear you say it over and over again, wants to hear you cry it, scream it, wants the whole island to know that you are his. You are his, and he is yours—iksā ñuhon, iksan aōhon. None of the bastard pretenders, not even your friend—they cannot make you feel the way he does. Not in a million years. Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east; not until the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. It is only you, and only him. That is how it will be for as long as he draws breath.

Your hand lifts from where it’s brushing the ground to slide against his face, and Aerion lets out a low moan, turning his face into your bloody palm, kissing the wound briefly once, before he drags his tongue across the cut. The taste of your blood floods warm and metallic in his mouth, and Aerion groans deep in his throat at the sensation, eyes sliding shut as he laps at the wound, hips still rutting against your thigh.

You bled for him, he thinks, panting into your skin. You bled for him. You bled for him. You bled for him.

The thought is dizzying, all-consuming; for a moment, he chokes because he almost finds himself finishing in his pants just from it. You bled for him. You cut yourself open and spilled your blood for the egg, just because he had looked at you with certainty one night and confessed something no one else has ever taken seriously. You bled for him. You did it for him—you bled for him, for him—what else would you do for him? Would you choose him if he asked? Would you return to Westeros with him? Would you turn your back on your family? How far would you go? What could he ask of you that would make you deny him? Is there anything? You bled for him.

He’s drunk off the thought—off the cherry wine and spice he licked from your lips and the warmth of your body sliding against his for the first time in two moons. No one—nothing—can compare to this. He thinks it might kill him. You might kill him. How dare you? How dare you do this to him? How dare you make him feel this way? How dare—

“Aerion?” you breathe again, more awake this time, and Aerion’s eyes slide open, amethyst slivers landing on your face with his mouth still pressed to your open wound. 

You blink once, still sleep-heavy and unfocused, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Your fingers curl into his cheek, nails digging lightly into the skin there. There is a hint of confusion in your eyes, and Aerion is sure he must look mad with your blood smeared across his face, dripping from his lips, but he—he does not care. 

He does not care at all—he wants you, all of you, he wants you completely. Wants to possess you, consume you, have you, hold you, fuck you, kill you even, one day, because he loathes to allow anyone to experience something with you, take something from you, that he cannot. 

It is unreasonable—he knows it, logically, but he wants it all the same. Aerion wants to crack you open and crawl inside your ribs until there is nowhere you end and he begins. He wants to consume every thought you have ever had, every memory, every ugly and beautiful thing alike, until there is nothing left in the world that belongs solely to you anymore.

He hates that things happen around you that he cannot be around for. Hates that there are parts of you he cannot touch—that he cannot know every thought running through your head at any given moment, that there are twenty-three years of your life that belong to other people and places that he cannot reach. Your brother knows you in ways Aerion never will. Your friends know versions of you that he has never seen. There are pieces of you scattered across Volantis that Aerion will never be able to claw into his own hands, and he hates it so violently that it leaves him full of rage and helplessness all at once.

His thumb drags against your lower lip as he stares down at you, breathing unevenly. Your eyes are clearer now, more awake, and he hates that too, because he can see the moment your thoughts begin moving behind them again—quick and sharp and impossible for him to follow.

What are you thinking?

What did you think while he was gone?

Did you lie awake wanting him the way he wanted you? Did you think of leaving him? Did you stand on your balcony at night and picture Volantis waiting for you across the sea, or did you picture him? Did you think of your brother more than him?

The jealousy that cuts through him is vicious and ugly. His hand drops down to your throat, pressing down lightly on either side of it. 

“Are you—” you start to ask, blinking once, twice. Your hand slides against his cheek, against your blood still slick on his skin, thumb running over his lip once.

You do not finish the question. You surge upward, hand sliding behind his head to drag him down, surely staining the silver red, but Aerion does not care, because the moment your lips are on his, all coherent thought slips from his mind. 

His breath hitches, and he lets out a moan into your mouth, pressing his body into yours as close as he can. Your thighs part so that his hips can slide between them, and he bites down hard on your lower lip, just so he can feel how you gasp against his lips.

“How—how are you here?” you ask, fully awake now, disbelief lacing the words as his lips slide messily from yours down your jaw again. “Aerion—”

His grip tightens in your hair, cutting you off, and your eyes flash in response, taking it as a challenge. He has missed this—he has missed you. You are the only one who meets him where he needs to be, the only one who understands him, the steel to his fire, the only person in the world who does not bend away from the worst parts of him. Everyone else recoils eventually, but you bite back.

He asks, “How many people did you let touch you while I was gone?”

Your eyes flicker with amusement, and Aerion’s fingers tighten unconsciously in your hair before he forces them to loosen. His mouth drags slowly along your throat again, teeth scraping your skin, relishing in the way you shudder against him, still hazy with sleep, back arching into him until your breasts are flush to his chest. 

“Hm?” he presses when you do not immediately respond. The images fester in his mind—Jaenys’s hands on your body, the Blackfyre pretenders draped on the cushions at your side, while he rots in the Disputed Lands, thinking of you every waking second. “How many? Answer me, wench. Did you miss me, or did you just find someone else to fill the space?”

His lips brush your jaw against, softer this time; he feels almost feverish. He licks the line of your jaw, lashes fluttering as you roll your head backward to give him better access to your neck.

“You should not ask questions you do not want the answer to, prince,” you rasp, voice rough with sleep, and Aerion bites down on your neck hard enough to draw blood. You let out a bark of laughter instead of a yelp of pain—he loves it, loves you. “You first. You had whores in your camps. Did they help? Did they make you miss me less?”

You are mocking him, he realizes furiously. Not even a question of if he missed you, because you know he has. Aerion hisses against your skin, baring his teeth even though he knows you cannot see it. He drops his forehead to your shoulder, shivering when he feels your hands slip beneath his tunic and smooth against the warm skin of his back. A pitched noise builds in the back of his throat as he presses his face into your chest, and one of your hands leaves his back to hold the back of his head. 

“You are a plague,” he tells you, not for the first time, and certainly not the last. His voice is rough, cracking over the words. “I hated them. Every single one. I kept thinking of you—I would close my eyes, and it was your face. Your voice. Your hands. It was intolerable. You are intolerable.”

He grunts low in his throat, biting down again, this time on the plush skin of your breasts—you pull his hair hard at that, hard enough that his breath hitches and he cannot smother the whine that spills from his lips. He kisses messily back up your neck until his lips hover above yours, and his hand returns to your neck, not squeezing, not yet. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice low. “I know you let your friend into your bed. Did you let that Blackfyre cunt too?” 

“Are you mad about Jaenys, dragon prince?” you drawl, looking too amused as you roll your head back to look at him. How could he not be? It is not fair. You already live inside him like a sickness. A religion. A second heartbeat. He hates the idea of someone else getting to be with you. “He has been in my bed since we were barely fifteen. You are almost a decade too late to become jealous over it.”

Aerion hisses, volcanic rage flooding him instantly, grip tightening on your throat enough to cut off the air flow. You smile anyway, teeth sharp, delighted, and the jealousy twists into a vicious thrill, pulse pounding. The violence in him, the possessiveness, the cruelty that he spends so much time trying to disguise from everyone else—you look at it and smile, and Aerion feels something in him go warm and molten, the fight draining from him before it can even really take hold. He sinks into you, gaze loosening on your throat so that he can lean in and nose your cheek, letting out a ragged breath.

You like him like this, as he is—not the polished prince he learned to be at court, not even the sharp-tongued exile lounging through Lys pretending indifference to everything around him. This. The ugly thing beneath it all. Blood smeared on his face, violence in his eyes, his hand on your throat. Even two moons apart, and you still want him for what he is.

You are insane, he thinks wildly, panting as he tries to distract himself by dragging open-mouth kisses along your jaw. 

More than he is, maybe.

“And the Blackfyre?” he asks again, voice lower this time. “Did you let him touch you, too?”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes glittering in a way that puts him on edge. You ask sweetly, “Which one?” 

Aerion stares at you in disbelief, and then you laugh—it is bright and pretty as a bell, not like the hollow one he heard while you were sparring with Jaenys in the market square. You slide your hands up his body to cradle his cheeks, pulling his face from your shoulder to press your lips to his. 

He feels your leg circle his waist, and he knows what you’re doing, but he’s too consumed by the way your tongue dances along his to stop it—his back hits the mattress hard, air whooshing from his lungs, and you hover above him, straddling him, rolling your hips against his so slowly that he cannot stop the low moan that spills from his lips.

“You have no right to be mad, prince,” you tease, forearms coming to rest on either side of his head as you hover over him. “You spread your legs in my absence, did you not?”

“I did not spread my legs,” he hisses furiously, face flushing, disliking the way you phrase it. “And it is different. They were whores.”

You hum, rocking your hips again just to see how his breath catches. He glares up at you, silver-gold hair spread messily across your pillows, your blood still streaked across his mouth. 

“Jaenys is whorish,” you offer, as though that is supposed to make him feel any better. “I’m sure it counts for something.” You pause, and then add with a sharp smile, “And Haegon Blackfyre certainly fucks like one.”

Aerion stills beneath you, staring up at you in sheer disbelief, and you have the nerve to look inordinately pleased with yourself, eyes bright and smile even wider when you see the way he looks at you.

He hates that he pictures it immediately. Your hands tangled in that pretender’s hair, your mouth smiling against his throat, you tumbling backward into his arms while Aerion sleeps in dirt in the Disputed Lands, dreaming of you every night like a man cursed.

“You vicious fucking creature,” he says softly, the words coming out almost reverent despite the rage wreaking havoc on him internally. 

He grabs your hips hard enough to bruise and flips you onto your back in one swift movement. You let out a startled laugh, goading him as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and snatches the dagger from where it’s sheathed at its side with the other.

He presses the tip beneath your chin, staring down at you, hostility and desire so tangled together that they are nearly indistinguishable. And you—you are undeterred. Your head tilts to the side, gaze lidded as you stare up at him, unbothered by the blood dribbling at the underside of your chin.

He’s missed you, he thinks again desperately. He’s missed this.

No one else speaks to him like this, treats him like this. No one else grabs hold of the ugliest parts of him and drags them into the light without fear. Most people spend their lives trying to soothe him—soothe him, placate him, praise him, survive him. But you—you antagonize him. You provoke him. You want him. You want all of him. 

“How did he touch you?” The words scrape out of him harshly because he can not help himself. “Did he kiss you like this?” He drags his mouth hard across your jaw. “Did he hold you down?” The dagger shifts just enough to emphasize the point. “Did he make you feel like I do?”

Aerion can hear his heart thudding in his ears, pulse roaring, knuckles white around the hilt of his dagger. He drags it lazily down the length of your throat, watching the red line beading in its wake as his lips brush your jaw. He lifts his head so that it’s hovering over yours.

“Did you think about me while he touched you?” he presses, voice lower now—crueler and needier, desperate to know the truth of it. 

You tilt your head up, neck pressing deep enough into his dagger that it draws blood. Your lips ghost his as you whisper, “The entire time.”

Aerion kisses you again—harder this time. Something savage and triumphant tears through him so suddenly that it nearly hurts. His breath catches hard in his chest, fingers tightening instinctively around your wrists as he presses the blade in deeper with his other hand before he tosses it to the side haphazardly.

You kiss him back just as hard, yanking your wrists out of his grip so that you can hold his face between your hands. Your nails dig crescents into his cheeks, and your legs wind around his waist, and Aerion is—he is not close enough, not nearly, he needs to be closer, inside you, on top of you, beneath you, skin-to-skin, mouth-to-mouth, until there is not even a breath of space between the two of you. 

His hands fly down to work at the laces of his pants, and he does not pause when he feels you break your lips from his, not when you tilt his face up to get his attention either.

“How long are you here until?” you murmur, fingers running absently through his hair. Aerion’s lashes flutter at the feeling, and he has to force himself to pay attention. “Hm?”

His gaze flicks over to the balcony, toward the setting sun, lips curling into a frown. “Not long,” he admits. “It is only a day trip for supplies. I need to be back at the dock before the moon rises.”

You look disappointed, and Aerion gives you a questioning look, barely able to bite back a groan of relief when he finally frees his cock. You do not acknowledge the silent request; instead, Aerion finds himself on his back again, with you straddling his hips.

He blinks up at you, flushed and breathless, cock aching as you absently stroke it. His abdomen tenses and spasms as you push his tunic up so you can kiss up from his hip to his sternum. Even as you work him so easily that he fears he might come apart before you’ve even undressed, he can see your mind sharp and calculating, thoughts racing faster than he can follow. 

He hates that he cannot hear them.

Finally, you sigh and say more to yourself than to him, “There is not enough time, then.”

He bites back a moan when you squeeze the base of his cock, eyes half-rolling back. “Time for what?” he forces out.

“I had plans for you, dragon prince,” you murmur, almost sounding sulky about it as you shimmy out of your own pants. 

His lips part when he sees the wetness smeared against your inner thighs, chokes over air when he watches how you slide your fingers between your folds, gathering the slick on two fingers.

He raises his eyebrows, trying to pretend he’s half as affected as he really is. “Oh?” he drawls, a bit breathless. “And what exactly were your plans, wench?”

You tilt your head to the side and give him a lazy half smile. “You know.”

Aerion inhales so sharply, face flaming as he remembers exactly what you said the last time he was here. Beneath you, held down, stretched open, back arched, inch by inch—his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, chest heaving, and when you finally sink down on his cock, warm and wet and tight and so fucking familiar, Aerion’s whole body spasms in an attempt to stop himself from cumming immediately.

You grab his face when he curls inward, choking on air, eyes squeezed shut, and you tilt it up so that he’s looking at you. 

“My poor dragon prince,” you mock—his cock twitches hard inside of you at the my, and he at least is able to relish in the way it makes your breath catch briefly. “Were you really going to come untouched from two moons apart?”

Aerion will kill you.

He bares his teeth, but as soon as he does, you roll your hips, and the only thing that spills from his mouth is a noise that’s so pitched that he flushes from his face to his chest. 

You look delighted.

“You are wretched,” he gasps as your cunt squeezes his cock. His breath hitches into a whine when you finally start to fuck him in earnest, a slow, steady roll of your hips, taking him in full with each bounce. “Hah—fuck—”

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” you tell him, kissing up his throat, bruising and biting so he has something to take with him back to the Disputed Lands. He wishes your teeth would dig deeper, that your lips would press darker bruises—he does not want them to fade, wants the proof of your touch branded on him, and the proof of his on you the same. “I loathe to wait longer, but I want to take you apart properly.”

A vicious thought hits him at once, fingers digging so deeply into your hips that it makes you falter. He asks you, “Have you taken any of them like that since I have been gone? Your friend? Your whore? The Blackfyre?”

You tilt your head to the side, calculating as you slow the roll of your hips to a still, and Aerion’s cock aches, and his abdomen is on fire, thighs so tense that he feels as though they might be sore tomorrow, but he needs to know. The thought of you taking any of them the way you’ve promised to him, the thought of them—the Blackfyre—being able to have you this way when he has not been able to, it enrages him. Any jealousy he felt earlier is dwarfed compared to what he feels now: it is violent and furious and so all-consuming that he cannot breathe. His nails draw blood from your hips, and he cannot stand that look in your eyes as you stare down at him—sharp and curious, too quick for him to follow. He hates it, he hates it—he wants to know every thought in your head. He wants everything that has to do with you—every thought, every feeling, every experience, everything. 

“Does the idea of that upset you, prince?” you ask, as though you do not already know the answer.

His hand flies from your hip to your throat, squeezing just hard enough to threaten. “The idea of that makes me want to—”

He cannot even articulate it—the lust for blood, for death, for you. Luckily, he does not need to, because you know. You always know. And you look terribly satisfied as you sit back on his thighs, his cock still buried deep inside of you.

“I have not,” you tell him at last, and the relief hits him so hard that it almost feels like another form of anger. Your arms curl around him—one hand pressing between his shoulder blades to pull him into your chest, and the other slides to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair as you hold him. His arms wind around you, too, biceps flexing, holding you so tight that it must border on painful. “I have been waiting for you.”

Your voice is small at that last part, quiet in a way you rarely are. He does not think you are just talking about fucking anymore, and he feels wrecked, breath ragged as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“You have?” he questions, voice equally small, just for a second.

He feels you nod. “Kessa,” you say softly, pressing your lips to his temple. “Tolvie tubis, tolvie jēda, tolvie tȳne.”

Yes. Every day, every hour, every minute. 

He squeezes his eyes shut to fight the heat suddenly pressing behind them, letting out a shuddered breath into your skin. His arms tighten around you.

“Avy jorrāelan,” he tells you, hand sliding down the length of your spine, trying to pull you impossibly closer. “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”

I love you. I hate being apart from you.

You guide his face gently from the crook of your neck. Aerion’s breath hitches when you press your lips back against his, kissing him slow and deep, rolling your hips as you ease his lips open so that you can map the inside of his mouth. 

Aerion melts into it instantly. The way you cradle his face as though he’s something precious, the way you kiss him slow and easy as though you have all the time in the world, and the sun is not steadily setting just beyond the balcony. Your fingers comb through his hair as your mouth moves against his, and Aerion lets out a soft moan, lashes fluttering.

The heat in his stomach builds rapidly, despite the slow rolls of your hips, and Aerion cannot even bring himself to feel embarrassed when he realizes how close he already is to finishing. His hands flex helplessly against your back, but his body is too hot, and his eyes are half-knocked back, and his thighs and abdomen are so tense that they ache. 

“I—” he starts to say, breath hot against your lips. He pulls back just enough to look at you, and you are—you are beautiful. Lips swollen and parted, sweat beading at your forehead, lashes fluttering with each roll of your hips. You are beautiful, and you are his, and he is yours. “I’m close, I—”

“Me too,” you breathe, and then you kiss him again, like you cannot get enough of him, the same way he cannot get enough of you. 

He holds your waist tight, guiding you down, rocking his hips up into you, faster now, a bit rougher as the two of you chase release—it is filthy, the sound of his cock fucking deep into your cunt. He can feel the wetness splattering against his thighs and pelvis with each thrust, the lewdness of your cunt sucking him in deep. It is in such contrast to the chaste kisses the two of you are sharing that it drives him crazy. 

Your breath hitches on something that sounds like his name, and Aerion presses his forehead to yours, sharing the same sliver of air as he lets out a low moan. His hips stutter against yours, grip tightening on your waist as he holds you down and cums deep inside of you, spots dotting his vision and body spasming as he grinds his cock up into you, dizzy over the feeling of your walls tightening around him, cum gushing down his length.

You settle against him, panting, not even bothering to pull yourself off his cock as you wind yourself back around him—arms around his shoulders, legs his waist. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and he buries his into your hair, holding you just as tight. 

“They do not plan to leave any time soon,” you say after a moment, voice quiet and subdued, breath fanning hot against his neck as you nose into it. “They keep picking up more contracts.”

Aerion exhales, eyes sliding shut. Of course they are. Bitterness swells thick in his chest; he hates the images that immediately form in his head. Jaenys sprawled carelessly in your bed for another few months, laughing and sparring with you in markets, touching you without hesitation because he has known you your entire life, and Aerion has not. Haegon Blackfyre lounging on cushions with you, silver-haired and smug and more familiar with the shape of your smile than he should ever be.

“Henujagon lēda nyke,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple, and then pressing his nose into the side of your head. He repeats, “Nyke vēdros issare qrīdrughagon hen ao.”

Leave with me. I hate being apart from you.

You let out a heavy sigh. “Ao gīmigon nyke daor,” you say quietly, pulling back slightly so that you can brush your lips against his. Aerion’s eyes flutter shut, lips pressing chastely against yours once, twice, three times. “Jaelan ao naejot gūrogon mirros arlī lēda ao.”

You know that I cannot. I want you to take something back with you.

Aerion makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head to the side. He frowns when you shift enough to reach over to the table near your bed. He lets out a low grunt when you inadvertently grind down on his sensitive cock, fingers flexing at your hips, but you settle back down on his lap before he can hiss at you to quit it. 

You’re holding something long and thin in your hand, fine mahogany—it takes Aerion a moment before he recognizes it as a wax seal stamp. His brows furrow as you grab one of his hands and place it in it, forcing him to curl his fingers around it. 

“I could not write you without drawing suspicion. If anyone had seen a seal bearing the three-headed dragon… Well, you know what would have happened,” you tell him. The last bits of tension ease from Aerion’s shoulders as you answer the question that’s been haunting him for two moons. “Take my family’s seal. I have a spare. No one will question me receiving a raven that bears it.”

Aerion’s stomach flips violently. For a second, all he can do is stare down at the seal resting in his palm, his thumb tracing the sigil engraved in the stamp, circling the snake that devours its own tail and the skull within it. This is—this is not done. Noble families do not give away family seals to people. Anyone bearing this could write in your name—could command in it, could implicate your household in treason if it fell into the wrong hands. Even carrying it is dangerous—the kind of dangerous that only exists between people who trust one another implicitly. 

And you are pressing it into his hand.

You hold his gaze steadily despite the vulnerability creeping around the edges of your expression now. You are trying to pretend this is practical, merely a solution to the problem of ravens and suspicion, but he can see the truth beneath it. You are handing him something precious—something that belongs to your bloodline, and could destroy you and your family if he decided to misuse it.

His fingers curl tighter around the mahogany handle instinctively, and when he lifts his eyes back to yours, he can’t hide the way his throat bobs, how he can hardly hold your gaze.

“You trust me with this?” he asks quietly. 

He wants to withdraw. Wants to pull away from you and turn cruel because he does not like how vulnerable he feels. You drugged me, he wants to accuse viciously. You drugged him because you did not trust him to control himself, but you—you trust him with this? Trust him to guard it so it does not fall into the wrong hands? Trust him not to misuse it? How does that make sense at all? 

You do not hesitate in your response. “Of course.”

Aerion’s teeth grind, gaze lowering, head falling forward slightly. He catches sight of the fire from the corner of his eye, and he sees the familiar scales of his dragon egg, and Aerion can feel it. He can feel the way his skin starts to crawl, stomach twisting, chest tightening—too much, all at once. It builds, and builds, and builds, and he can feel it on the brink of exploding violently. 

“Why?” he asks through his teeth.

Why what? Why do you trust him? Why do you love him? Why are you waiting for him? Why are you actually considering choosing him over your home? Your friends? Your brother? 

“Why do I trust you?” you ask dryly, almost sounding amused. “Should I not?”

His hand snatches out to wrap around your hand, and he pointedly presses hard down on the wound there. You do not even flinch, squinting at him slightly, assessing. 

“Why?” he asks again pointedly.

Your gaze flicks over his shoulder to where you placed the egg in the hearth, brows furrowing slightly. For a second, you almost look embarrassed, and Aerion almost relishes it because he’s never seen you embarrassed before, but he’s so wound up that he cannot bring himself to fully appreciate it.

“Well, I wasn’t sure how you took care of it,” you start to say, voice clipped. “I—”

“But why?” he hisses. “You do not believe it will hatch, so why would you—”

He does not know how to finish the question, and he feels helpless as his gaze flicks back up toward you, but understanding crosses your face immediately. 

“Because you do,” you say so simply the words he has been dreading and yearning for in equal measures. 

Because you do, as though it is that simple, as though that alone is enough reason to bleed for his dreams, as impossible as you think they are. Enough reason to justify kneeling before a fire in the middle of the night with his dragon egg cradled in your hands and Valyrian rites on your tongue; enough reason to spill your blood and call upon old magic. 

Just because he believes. 

Aerion feels something inside him split wide open, and when you curl your arms around his shoulders to tug him close again, he follows without protest, sinking into you, face pressed to your neck, arms wound tight around your waist. Your fingers slide into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in that way that always seems to make the tension in him ease.

He presses closer anyway, breathing you in desperately—wine and lavender and spice and the faint metallic scent of blood still lingering on your skin. The fire crackles softly beside the bed, warming the room until the summer heat feels almost suffocating, but Aerion cannot bring himself to care. He would let himself burn alive if it meant staying here in your arms a little longer.

“You cannot say things like that to me,” he murmurs into your skin.

“But it is true,” you say easily, which ruins him even more, a ragged breath stolen from his lungs as he presses his forehead harder into your skin.

“You make me feel mad,” he admits, voice small. “I do not—I do not understand you. Or this. Or—”

—me.

“You were already mad. You did not need my help with that.”

“I am trying to be serious, you miserable wench,” he hisses, but you laugh—bright and pretty, full of fire and life. “You are wretched. I should have your tongue.”

“Your threats do not frighten me anymore, dragon prince,” you say, fondness lacing the words, and Aerion scowls into your neck as he feels you press your lips to the side of his, and then tug at his earlobe with your teeth. “We both know you are too fond of my tongue to rid me of it.”

“Do not be so vulgar,” he scoffs, but he is smiling, and he knows you feel it, because he feels you laugh. 

He feels warm all over—not just from the fire and the summer heat and your body wrapped around his, but from something infinitely worse.

In his pocket, the gift he brought for you weighs heavily. 

He feels it every time you shift against him—the ring he bought in Myr when the Second Sons passed through for supplies a few weeks ago, obsidian, ruby-embedded. He had seen it in the market and immediately thought of you, of your sharp smiles and warm skin and the way red jewels look so pretty against your skin. He nearly gutted the merchant for suggesting emerald instead. He imagined slipping it onto your finger himself, pictured it on your hand; he wanted to leave something of his behind with you when he returned to the Disputed Lands.

But now, it feels woefully insufficient. A ring is nothing close to the value of the Valyrian steel you put on his throat, nothing compared to the seal you pressed into his hand, nothing beside the blood drying on your palm from where you cut yourself open for his dream.

Fuck.

“Aerion?” you ask quietly, pulling back slightly to look at him. “What is it?”

“… Nothing. It is nothing.”

[st3f13ily]

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝗣ּ𝗟𝗔𝗬𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡D 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗚𝗘 𓏲ּ𝄢

You were just a child when you met a boy and played house and marriage with him, treating it like nothing more than an innocent game in the playground. It wasn't until years later that you realized that what you had taken so lightly was, in a strange and unexpected way, considered valid.

Pairings: Yandere!Prince!Gojo x Reader

Genre: Royalty AU (Still in modern era) (Though its not really focused on the royal part)

Warning: Psychological thriller themes / Kidnapping / abduction / Obsessive behavior / Stalking / paranoia / Manipulation and control / Memory loss / suppressed memories / Emotional distress and panic attacks / Possessive relationship dynamics / Mystery and suspense / Mentions of drugged unconsciousness (But for me or if you r use to this kind of stuff, this is just mild)

Word Count: 3k

When you were young, you met a boy who seemed only a year or two older than you. Even now, you can still remember how unreal he looked, as if he didn't belong in the ordinary world. His snow-white hair glimmered beneath the sunlight, and his vivid blue eyes mirrored the endless sky, bright, clear, and almost impossible to look away from. Though he was still young, there was something untouchable about him, a quiet arrogance woven with natural authority, as if the world simply bent itself around him without question.

The next day, you waited for him at the playground just like you promised. Your small hands gripped the chains of the swing as you swayed back and forth, your shoes brushing lightly against the ground beneath you.

The afternoon breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass while your white dress fluttered softly around your knees.

The same dress he insisted you wear.

"It has to be white." he had said so confidently the day before, as if it were an obvious rule everyone in the world should already know.

You didn't really understand why.

All you knew was that the two of you had planned to play house together. You had happily suggested being husband and wife with children, thinking it was nothing more than another childish game. But he had looked at you with those striking blue eyes and calmly explained that husbands and wives had to get married first.

Apparently, married people signed contracts.

So you simply agreed.

Because when he spoke, it always sounded like he was right.

Now, sitting alone on the swing set, you kicked your feet impatiently while waiting for him to appear, wondering if he would really bring the 'contract' he talked about so seriously.

When he finally arrived, he was dressed far too formally for a child his age. A crisp white button-up sat neatly beneath a dark coat, making him look less like a kid coming to the playground and more like someone important attending a ceremony. In one hand, he carried a stack of papers folded carefully against his chest.

The moment he stood in front of you, he held them out with the same calm confidence he always had.

You took the papers from him, your eyes scanning the countless fancy words scattered across the page. The letters blended together into things you couldn't understand, long and complicated enough to make your head hurt after only a few seconds.

So you ignored them.

Instead, your attention drifted to the elegant signature written neatly at the very bottom. It curved beautifully across the page like something printed from a storybook.

You looked up at him curiously.

"What's that?" you asked, pointing at it.

"It's a signature," he explained simply. "When important people sign things, they don't just write their names normally."

You stared at it for another moment before looking down at the blank line beside his signature.

You didn't have anything pretty like that.

So, after thinking hard for a few seconds, you carefully grabbed the pencil with both hands and slowly wrote your full name exactly the way your parents taught you. Messy little letters filled the line unevenly, each stroke made with the concentration only a child could have.

When you finished, you proudly lifted the paper toward him, your childish handwriting sitting awkwardly beside his elegant signature.

You tugged lightly at his sleeve, your impatience finally spilling out into a small whine.

"Can we play house now?"

For a moment, he didn't answer.

Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on the paper in his hands, the corners of his lips slowly curling upward into a satisfied grin, the kind that looked oddly triumphant for a child, as though he had just completed something incredibly important.

Carefully, he folded the paper and tucked it away like it was something precious before finally turning his full attention back to you.

Then he nodded once.

The moment he did, your face lit up with excitement.

Without wasting another second, you dropped onto the grass and quickly pulled out your favorite doll from the small bag you carried around everywhere. You cradled it carefully in your arms before proudly holding it up toward him.

"This is our kid." you announced happily, already completely absorbed in the game.

Meanwhile, he simply stood there watching you with an unreadable expression, the afternoon sunlight catching against his pale hair and impossibly blue eyes while you babbled on about names, bedtime, and what your 'family' was supposed to do next.

────*୨ৎ*────

Days passed, then weeks, and eventually, months. But he never came back.

At first, you waited for him every afternoon at the playground, sitting on the same swing with your doll tucked against your chest, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair in the distance. You kept expecting him to appear with that calm, confident look and those strange papers he treated so seriously.

But the playground stayed empty.

No goodbye. No explanation.

As the years went on, his face slowly blurred within your memories. The vivid blue of his eyes became harder to recall, and the sound of his voice faded into something distant and unclear. Eventually, you couldn't even remember his name.

The only thing left was the strange feeling that, once upon a time, someone important had existed in your childhood.

And then life moved on.

Now, years later, you were a college student pursuing the dream you had worked tirelessly for. Your mornings were filled with rushed schedules, unfinished assignments, and half-drunk cups of coffee balanced beside stacks of notes. The childish memories of playground games and imaginary families had long since been buried beneath adulthood.

At least, that was what you thought.

You had just grabbed your bag and slipped your shoes on, preparing to leave for another ordinary day, when the sound of a car pulling up outside caught your attention.

Moments later, there was a knock at your door.

Standing on the other side was a woman dressed in immaculate formal attire. Her posture was straight, composed, and professional enough to make her seem completely out of place in front of your home.

The moment your eyes met, she gave a polite bow.

"Good morning," she said smoothly. "I apologize for appearing so suddenly."

Then, after a brief pause, she held out a familiar-looking document toward you.

"We are here regarding your marriage contract with the crown prince."

You ignored the woman in front of you, assuming she was just another scammer or someone trying to sell you something you didn't need.

"Look, I don't really have time for this," you said sharply. "Try someone else or whatever."

The words came out harsher than you intended.

You were just… tired.

Lately, everything had been piling up at once—studies you couldn't afford to fall behind on, student loans hanging over your head like a constant weight, and the growing pressure of finding a side job just to keep yourself afloat. Rent, electricity, water, food… every basic necessity felt like another problem you were slowly losing control of.

And the worst part was knowing you weren't the only one trying. Every posting you checked had dozens of other students competing for the same few openings.

The woman didn't respond right away, but you were already halfway ready to walk away, convinced this was just another dead end in an already exhausting day.

Finally, you arrived at your university and settled into your seat, carefully laying out your notebooks and pens, making sure you had everything ready for the lecture ahead.

You began writing your notes when, for a brief moment, you caught sight of silver-white hair somewhere in your peripheral vision.

Your hand paused slightly.

You almost turned your head to look, a strange sense of familiarity tugging at your thoughts, but before you could, the professor entered the room, and the lecture officially began.

Still, something lingered.

Every now and then, your eyes would drift unconsciously, noticing that same snow-like hair again, even if only for a second. It wasn't just recognition. It felt deeper than that, like a memory you once had but couldn't quite reach anymore.

A quiet nostalgia settled in your chest, unexplainable and persistent, as if someone from a forgotten part of your past had brushed past your life once again… and left without a name.

"Hey, that new guy is cute, isn't he?" one of your classmates whispered beside you, nudging your arm lightly.

You only shrugged in response, your eyes still on your notes as if you weren't interested.

But deep down, your gaze had already drifted toward him.

Of course he was the new transferee.

The moment you saw that familiar silver-white hair, something in you quietly confirmed it before anyone even said a word. The rumors had already spread through campus like wildfire—some said he was royalty, others insisted he was just unbelievably wealthy. Either way, everyone agreed on one thing, that he didn't belong in an ordinary classroom.

He walked in like he owned the space without even trying. Calm, composed, and strangely distant from everything around him. Like the world was something he observed rather than participated in.

────*୨ৎ*────

You walked down the quiet street with exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders, already planning out the rest of your night in your head.

Eat whatever was left in your apartment. Review your notes until your eyes hurt. Then sleep for as long as your responsibilities allowed.

A simple routine.

At least, that was the plan.

Until you caught sight of snow-white hair again from across the sidewalk.

Your steps slowed instinctively.

The silver-haired guy stood a short distance away beneath the dim glow of the streetlights, hands tucked casually into his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But your first thought wasn't why is he here?

Instead.

Why is he wearing sunglasses when it's practically nighttime?

You stared for a moment longer than you probably should have. The dark lenses hid his eyes completely, making him look even more out of place somehow. Most people would've looked ridiculous dressed like that after sunset.

But on him, it strangely suited him.

As if the sunglasses weren't a fashion choice at all, but something he simply refused to take off.

Then, almost like he felt your stare, his head turned slightly in your direction.

You immediately looked away the moment he turned his head, pretending you hadn't been staring at him in the first place. Tightening your grip on your bag, you continued walking down the street, trying to brush off the strange feeling crawling beneath your skin.

It was nothing.

Probably.

You glanced around casually as you walked. People were still minding their own business, students laughing together near the convenience store, workers hurrying home, cars passing beneath the dim evening lights.

Normal. Fine. Calm down. Calm down. Everything looked completely normal.

And when you risked another quick glance toward where the snow-white-haired man had been standing earlier…

He was gone.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

You should've felt relieved, yet for some reason, the uneasy feeling in your chest only grew heavier. The back of your neck prickled uncomfortably, like invisible eyes were fixed on you from somewhere just out of sight.

You looked behind you again.

Nothing.

Still, Why did it feel like you were being followed?

────*୨ৎ*────

Ever since that night, it felt like snow-white hair followed you everywhere.

A glimpse near the train station. A figure across the street. Someone standing at the corner of your classroom building.

And every single time you looked properly he was gone.

At first, you convinced yourself it was just paranoia lingering from that strange encounter. Stress could do that to people, right? Between sleepless nights, financial problems, endless studying, and the constant pressure weighing on your shoulders, maybe your mind was simply playing tricks on you.

That explanation sounded reasonable enough.

Still, a small part of you started wondering if there was another reason.

Maybe you just kept noticing him because you found him attractive.

It wouldn't have been surprising. Half the university practically talked about the mysterious silver-haired transferee like he had walked straight out of a movie. Maybe your brain had simply latched onto his appearance so badly that you started imagining him everywhere you went.

But the more you thought about it, the less sense it made.

Because liking someone wasn't supposed to feel like this.

Every time you thought you saw him, your stomach tightened painfully. Your pulse quickened. Panic curled beneath your ribs so suddenly it made your breathing uneven. Instead of wanting him closer, every instinct inside you screamed to leave before he noticed you.

To escape.

No matter how many times you tried to rationalize it, one thing became painfully clear that this wasn't a crush.

And whatever this feeling was is terrifying.

But apparently, today had decided your suffering still wasn't enough.

The professor adjusted his glasses at the front of the classroom while announcing the next major requirement, a paired essay project worth nearly half your grade.

A collective groan immediately filled the room.

You barely paid attention at first, already mentally preparing yourself for another exhausting all-nighter, until the professor began reading out the assigned partners.

Then you heard your last name.

Followed by his last name.

Gojo

The entire classroom seemed to pause for a second before whispers instantly erupted around you.

"No way…"

"She got paired with the new guy?"

"Lucky…"

Lucky? You?

Your grip on your pen tightened. Then you slowly lifted your head and there he was.

The silver-haired transferee sat only a few rows away, sunglasses still resting lazily on his face despite being indoors. One arm was propped against the desk while he looked completely unbothered by the attention surrounding him.

Then, as if sensing your stare yet again, he turned toward you.

Your heart immediately dropped.

That same strange panic clawed up your chest so suddenly that you almost looked away on instinct.

Why? Why does he make you feel like this?

And he didn't even seem surprised about being paired with you. If anything, the faint grin pulling at the corner of his lips made it seem like he had expected it all along.

The moment class ended, the room exploded into noise.

Chairs scraped against the floor, conversations overlapped one another, and yet somehow, you could still feel him before you even looked up.

You stayed seated longer than necessary, pretending to organize your notes while secretly hoping he would leave first.

You had no such luck.

Soon a shadow fell across your desk. "Partner."

That voice. It was Smooth, calm, familiar in the worst possible way.

You lifted your head to look at him up close, he looked even more unreal. Snow-white hair framed his face carelessly, soft beneath the afternoon light pouring through the classroom windows. The dark sunglasses still hid his eyes completely, reflecting your own startled expression back at you.

You swallowed hard.

"We can just divide the work," you said quickly, avoiding his gaze or at least where his gaze should have been behind those glasses. "You do your part, I'll do mine, and we won't have to meet up that much."

For a brief second, silence settled between you.

"Won't have to?" he repeated softly, almost amused. "You talk like you're avoiding me."

Your chest tightened instantly.

"I'm not." you replied a little too quickly. The words left your mouth sharp and defensive, but even you could hear how unconvincing they sounded. A terrible lie. And judging by the faint curve tugging at the corner of his lips, he knew it too.

"You've been avoiding me since the first day."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist uneasily. Not the first day at university. Not the first day you met as strangers. Just… the first day.

Your fingers curled tightly around your pen as an unfamiliar sense of dread crept beneath your skin. "We literally just met." you said carefully, almost cautiously.

At that, he went quiet.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed softly.

The sound wasn't mocking or cruel. If anything, it carried a strange kind of fondness, quiet amusement wrapped around something deeper you couldn't quite understand.

"You really don't remember." he murmured, almost to himself.

The words sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine.

He simply looked at you in silence, those hidden blue eyes behind the dark lenses making it impossible to read what he was thinking. Yet somehow, it still felt like he was seeing far more than he should. Like he was looking at a version of you that existed somewhere beyond your own memories.

"We should work at my place." he said casually, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world.

Your response came immediately.

"No."

Not even a second of hesitation.

The corner of his lips lifted slightly, amused by how fast you rejected him. "You answered too fast."

"Because absolutely not." you shot back, clutching your notebook a little tighter against your chest.

A quiet laugh escaped him at your obvious distrust. "You think I'm suspicious."

You stared at him flatly. "Aren't you?"

Silence settled between the two of you before his smile widened. Not offended in the slightest, but entertained, like your suspicion was far more amusing to him than it should have been.

That finally earned a genuine laugh from him, low and warm enough to draw curious glances from the students around you. For the first time since you met him, he slowly reached up and removed his sunglasses.

Bright blue eyes met yours, clear, endless, and painfully familiar. Then it hit you all at once, a forgotten memory crashing into your mind, a child proudly holding out a paper contract saying, "Now we can play house properly."

Your breath caught. Across from you, the silver-haired man smiled like he had been waiting years for this exact moment.

"Found you." he said.

The moment those words left his mouth, you stood up so quickly your chair nearly scraped harshly against the floor.

You didn't even say anything.

You just turned around and walked away.

Calmly. Controlled. Its ok, its ok, don't be nervous, calm down.

At least, that was how you tried to appear. Your steps were stiff, forced into something normal despite the panic violently clawing inside your chest.

And the strangest part was that he didn't stop you. He didn’t call your name or chase after you like you expected him to. He simply stayed where he was, watching you leave with that same unreadable expression, as though he already knew you would run and was letting you.

The second you stepped outside the campus gates, whatever composure you had shattered completely.

You ran.

You ran past crowded sidewalks and dim streets blurred by the thoughts occupying your mind. Your lungs burned painfully with every breath, yet your legs refused to stop moving.

Run. Run faster. Get away from here.

But no matter how far you went, that voice still echoed in your head.

"Found you."

Your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears until eventually your legs gave out beneath you, forcing you to slow down. Gasping for air, you finally looked around properly for the first time since fleeing.

And froze at the sight.

A playground.

Empty swings creaked softly in the evening breeze while fading sunlight painted the rusted metal in gold. No children. No laughter. No people at all. Just silence.

Your breathing slowly faltered.

Why were you here?

"Out of every place I've could've run to… why did my feet bring me here?"

Something twisted painfully inside your chest as you stared at the playground, a strange familiarity settling over you like a forgotten dream.

You took a slow step back, unease crawling deeper beneath your skin. The empty playground suddenly felt far too quiet, the rusted swings creaking softly in the evening breeze like a warning you didn't understand.

Then theres suddenly a hand clamped over your mouth and nose from behind.

Your eyes widened in panic as a cloth pressed tightly against your face, the sharp unfamiliar scent instantly flooding your senses. Before you could properly struggle, strong arms pulled you backward and shoved you into a vehicle parked just beyond the playground.

The door slammed shut.

Your blurry vision darted around frantically until it landed on a familiar woman seated across from you, the same woman who had approached you before, rambling about marriage and things you thought were nonsense at the time.

Fear crashed through you violently.

You tried to move, tried to fight, but your body already felt unbearably heavy. The strange smell soaked into your lungs, dragging your consciousness downward no matter how desperately you tried to stay awake.

Your eyelids slowly began to fall shut.

And just before darkness completely swallowed you, you heard his voice.

"Tsk, seriously? I told you guys to be gentle with her." A soft chuckle followed, warm enough to send chills down your spine. "She's your future queen, you know. At least treat her a little more carefully."

The last thing you felt before slipping into unconsciousness was the faint brush of fingers against your forehead, almost affectionate.

"Theres a chance, dear butterflies, that I could write Satoru perspective when he was a child, bringing the documents to his parents and see the reactions."

—𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✧

[maybestrid33]

Earned Loyalty

Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion

A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k

The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.

You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.

This is familiar ground.

You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.

Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.

You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.

Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.

The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.

It snags on you by accident.

Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.

It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.

He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.

You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.

Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.

He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.

He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.

You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.

Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.

He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.

That night, you think you are alone.

The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.

You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.

Not a sound or movement.

Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.

He stands just inside the door.

Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.

You do not remember hearing it open.

For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.

You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.

“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.

His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.

“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.

The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.

“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”

He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.

“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”

Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.

He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.

“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.

You swallow. “I didn't.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”

His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.

The shape of how easily you might bend.

You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.

“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.

You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.

He notices that too.

“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”

Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.

He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.

“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.

Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.

“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”

"I meant no disrespect, my prince"

His hand lifts.

For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.

The touch is light, but the effect is not.

“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”

“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”

The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.

His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.

When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.

"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."

You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.

"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"

"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.

He's a Targaryen prince.

Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?

"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"

The honest answer catches in your throat.

Yes, I'm terrified.

But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.

"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.

His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.

"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."

"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."

He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.

"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?

"Yes, what?"

Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."

"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."

"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.

"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"

The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."

"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."

"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"

"My prince, please-"

"Answer the question."

Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."

"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."

Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"

"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.

You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"

"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"

"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"

"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."

The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.

"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."

His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."

"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.

"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."

His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.

"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.

"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"

"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."

The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.

"Look at me."

You don't want to, you do not know how.

"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.

"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."

The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.

You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.

"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."

He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.

"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"

"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.

"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.

He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.

"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."

Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.

When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.

"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"

You shake your head mutely, face burning.

"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."

When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.

"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."

You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.

When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.

"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."

So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.

"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."

His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.

"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."

Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.

One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."

"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."

His smile is cruel. "We'll see."

He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.

"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."

His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"That's it," he encourages darkly.

You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.

"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."

His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.

The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.

"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."

The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.

"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."

He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.

Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.

"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.

"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."

You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."

Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"

He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."

You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"

"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."

He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.

"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."

But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.

"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."

When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.

"Again."

"I'm yours, my prince."

"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."

His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.

It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.

"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."

"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.

"Yes," he counters.

One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.

"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."

Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.

"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."

His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.

He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.

After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.

"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."

You turn your face away, but he's insistent.

"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."

Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.

"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.

"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"

You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.

And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.

Wanted it.

Wants him still.

"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."

You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

It becomes a pattern.

Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.

Aerion comes to you at night.

Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.

You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.

Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.

The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.

He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.

The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.

You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.

Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.

“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”

It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.

“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”

You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.

Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.

And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.

There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.

In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.

“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”

You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”

It is humiliating, how true that is.

“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”

You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.

“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”

The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.

It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.

A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.

Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.

It does not work tonight.

You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.

Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.

His eyes find you immediately.

The look is not subtle.

Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.

When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.

The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.

“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”

The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.

Too intimate to be mistaken.

Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”

“Good,” Aerion says lightly.

He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.

The taboo hums in the air between you.

It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.

There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.

They can only watch.

Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.

“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”

You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”

He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”

The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.

You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.

You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.

Aerion does not care.

He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.

Let them see, the look says.

Let them understand what cannot be undone.

The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.

Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.

“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”

The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.

The court has already heard it.

idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3

[maybestrid33]

After the Vows

Aerion Targaryen x sister!wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: You have been promised to Aerion since you were a child, so it is no surprise the morning after your marriage you wake to the lingering evidence of the night before, and the unsettling truth that you are bound to a man whose devotion is as consuming as it is dangerous.

Warnings: SUGGESTIVE 16+ toxic dynamics, targcest, huge ass power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, obsession, morning after, physical discomfort, talk of heirs, fade to black smut at the end if you squint

A/N: short and sweet for once (except its rlly not very sweet at all), and probably doesn’t make sense because i wrote it in 30 mins at 2 am so don’t come for me lol

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 2.2k

The light comes in thin and pale, the kind that does not warm the stone so much as reveal it. It lies across the floor first, then the edge of the bed, a narrow blade of dawn cutting the dark in two.

You do not stir.

Your breathing is slow, heavy with the kind of sleep that pulls you under rather than letting you drift.

Aerion, on the other hand, does, and he wakes to stillness.

For a long moment, he does not move. He lies on his back, one arm crooked beneath his head, the other resting where your body had pressed into him hours before. The chamber is quiet; no footfalls in the corridors yet, no murmured orders, no clang of distant steel.

You are turned on your side, facing him. Your hair is loose across the pillow, flared against pale linen, your mouth parted slightly as you breathe. The sheet has slipped low on your body in the night. He takes in the shape of you with the same unhurried attention he gives to any possession newly acquired. Measuring, noting, fixing the image in his mind.

Your sleep is too deep.

It is not the gentle rise and fall of rest he notices first, but the weight of it, the way you do not stir when he shifts beside you, the way your lashes do not flutter even when the light reaches your face. You lie as though the night has taken something from you and not yet given it back.

Aerion exhales through his nose, slow.

He turns onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he can see you better. In the half-light, the marks stand out more clearly than they had in the dark, faint bruising that will darken before it fades. He studies them with the same attention he once gave to the sigils painted on shields in the training yard, a visible sign of something claimed.

He notes that you're spent past the point of usefulness. He had not meant to render you so utterly insensible. Not because he had meant to be gentle, but because excess is a waste of strength.

What is his should be preserved.

He reaches out, two fingers brushing your shoulder, light enough not to wake you. Your breath catches, a small, involuntary hitch, and then settles again. The sound is soft. It pleases him deeply that your body still answers him, even in sleep.

You had looked smaller than he remembered you at the altar.

The thought comes to him without warning, unbidden. The image overlays the one before him now, you in white and red, standing beneath banners heavy with dragonfire, your hands folded too neatly before you.

He remembers thinking, distantly, that you had been a child when your names were first spoken together in the great hall. He remembers you with sleeves too long for your arms, solemn in your courtesy, taught to resect him before you were taught to look him in the eye.

You had grown into this place beside him, as all promised things must. He has always believed that. Time does not change what is fated, it only carries it forward.

The night had closed behind you like a door finally shut. He remembers the sound of it, the soft finality of wood against stone, the way it had sealed the world outside. You had stood there for a heartbeat too long, as if waiting for instruction, for some sign that this threshold was not as heavy as it felt.

He had not offered one. He had waited long enough.

Now, in the grey hush of dawn, he watches the proof of that waiting lie spent beside him. There is a faint satisfaction in it; fulfilment has a shape, and this is one of them.

Your brow furrows slightly in sleep. You shift, a small, unconscious movement, and the sheet slips further. Aerion’s gaze follows the motion. He tells himself, distantly, that you will learn to bear this more easily. Bodies adjust, and yours will adjust to his, you are made of the same blood after all.

He will be more measured next time. Not for your sake, precisely, but for the sake of what is his. A dragon does not scorch his own hoard to ash.

The thought settles comfortably in him as the light creeps higher up the wall, and you remain asleep, caught in the aftermath of a night he has waited years to make real.

You wake slowly, as if surfacing through water.

At first there is only the weight of your own body, the strange heaviness in your limbs. Then the ache arrives, blooming in places you are not used to feeling such pain. You draw in a breath too quickly and regret it at once. The room tilts, unfamiliar in its quiet. The bed beneath you feels too large, too soft, as though it is not meant for sleep at all.

Your eyes open to pale light on stone. The marriage bed, in a chamber prepared for you both. Your chest tightens at the thought.

You do not move right away. Moving costs something you are not sure you have.

You turn your head instead.

He is there.

Aerion lies on his side, watching you with an attention that feels almost physical. He does not pretend he has just woken, and there is no gentleness in the way his gaze moves over you, taking in the confusion on your face, the careful way you hold yourself still.

Your mouth opens, then closes again. You are not sure what you mean to say. You try to draw the sheet higher, an instinct more than a decision.

His hand comes down on your wrist, stopping you.

“Good morning, sister,” he says.

Your breath stutters. The sound embarrasses you more than the fear does. You nod, because nodding feels safer than speaking. The movement sends another flare of soreness through you and you wince before you can stop yourself.

He notices.

A flicker of something crosses his face, not concern, precisely, but assessment. He shifts closer, the bed dipping with his weight. The proximity is overwhelming; the warmth of him presses into the cool air between you.

“It will pass,” he says, as if naming a certainty. “You were… unaccustomed. That will change.”

You swallow. Unaccustomed. As though this is a skill to be learned, a posture to be practised. You decide to look at him, you do not know where else to put your eyes.

“I didn’t think it would be like that, Aerion.”

His thumb traces a slow, idle line along the inside of your wrist, where your pulse jumps against his skin. “You’re safe,” he tells you, and the word does not mean what it should. “No one will touch you now but me.”

Safe because owned.

Protected because claimed.

The room seems to draw closer around the shape of his certainty.

You nod again, smaller this time. The ache in your body grounds you in the present, in the reality of where you are and who you belong to now. The future you were told about for years has arrived all at once, and it's far heavier than you imagined.

Aerion leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your temple.

“You’ve known this day was coming,” he says quietly. “You were raised for it.”

He releases your wrist at last, as though the matter is settled, and settles back against the pillows, watching you with the calm of someone who believes the world has fallen into its proper shape.

But he does not give you much time to collect yourself.

Aerion’s arm comes around your waist and draws you toward him in a single, decisive motion, until you are half over him, your weight awkward and uncertain against his chest. It places you where he can feel you, where you are close enough to be reminded of the size of him, the heat of him, the reality of this arrangement.

You stiffen at first, then slowly, cautiously, allow yourself to rest there. His hand settles at your back, fingers splayed. He adores the way you fit against him, smaller, still learning where to put your limbs.

“You’re trembling,” he notes, not unkindly. “There’s no need."

You do not quite know how to explain that need has very little to do with it. You are tired in a way that goes deeper than sleep. Your body still aches and your thoughts feel slow.

“I don’t know what I’m meant to… do,” you admit quietly. The words feel childish as soon as they leave you, but they are true. No one ever explained the shape of this role to you beyond the ceremony, the vows, the vague assurances that you would understand when the time came.

Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly. He tilts your chin up so you have to look at him. “Darling,” he says. “Don’t pretend this is a surprise. You have known this would happen since you could walk.”

You flush, heat creeping up your throat. You are aware of your own smallness against him, it feels as though he has been waiting for you to catch up to a life he has already begun living.

“Doesn’t mean anyone ever told me how to actually do it.”

“You will learn. What is imporant is that there will be heirs,” he continues, as if explaining a matter of logistics. “That is the point of this. Dragons do not wed for ceremony alone. You will give me sons and daughters. The rest will arrange itself around that fact."

You still struggle to comprehend it, the future, spoken of as something you are meant to produce, not yet fully understanding how. The idea feels distant and immediate all at once, like being told to step into water you cannot see the bottom of.

Your fingers curl into the pillow behind him. There is a strange comfort in the certainty of his tone. He speaks as though the world is simple, as though there are rules you only need to follow to be safe.

And safe, you realise with a quiet, unsettling clarity, you likely are.

There are few people in the Seven Kingdoms more protected than the Targaryen wife of a Targaryen prince. No one will harm you without answering for it in blood. The thought steadies you, even as it makes your stomach twist.

He shifts beneath you, the movement deliberate, and guides you with him until you are turned, half on your side, half beneath the weight of him.

It is not quite being pinned, but it is close enough that you are acutely aware of how easily he could choose that instead. One hand comes up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers tangling briefly in the strands as if testing their texture.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he says. “This is not meant to be complicated.”

You look at him, uncertain. “What is it you actually expect of me… now.”

His brow lifts, faintly amused. “You know what a marriage is for.”

You feel your face warm as the gap in your understanding becomes painfully obvious.

Aerion exhales, a soft sound that might almost be a laugh. “What we did last night,” he says, unhurried, “is not a singular event. It is the foundation. There will be heirs. That does not happen by accident.”

He studies your reaction with interest, then reaches out and draws his thumb along one of the darkened marks at your shoulder, not pressing, just tracing the edge of it. “These,” he says, almost thoughtfully, “will fade. I have no interest in breaking what I intend to use.”

You flinch at the phrasing before you can stop yourself. He notices and clicks his tongue softly in disapproval, though his touch remains careful as he brushes your hair back again, fingers skimming your temple.

“You’ll learn what I expect,” he adds. “Do not worry."

He watches the way your breath stutters, the way your eyes drop from his. The moment stretches, quiet and heavy with all the things neither of you has the language to soften.

“You think this is only roughness,” he murmurs, close to your mouth. “You mistake the shape of power for its limits.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is not gentle, but it is unhurried. Possessive in its own way. He takes his time with it, as though proving a point, as though demonstrating that even this softness belongs to him.

“See?” he says quietly against your lips. “It can be… easier than you imagine.”

The promise in his voice is not comfort so much as inevitability.

He guides you back against the pillows, the dawn light now bright enough to catch in the gold of his hair, in the shadows at the edges of the room. The world outside the chamber has begun to wake, distant and irrelevant.

And you let your eyes fall shut, because there is no other direction left to look.

this is dark but he's hot and i was bored

[maybestrid33]

Marked by Gold Ch. 2

Aerion Targaryen x courtesan!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Aerion keeps his word and moves you into the Red Keep, and now, whether he wants to or not, he's getting attached. There's something about you that offers him peace when no one else does.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ basically like 3k words of smut, p in v, prostitution but with feelings, unprotected sex, oral (m rec), somno if you squint (she wakes up and consents), nightmares, possessiveness, emotional vulnerability, he's so dom but def also a softie ik it.

A/N: [part one] I have never got so many requests for a sequel before in my life gang so here you go, had to prioritise (next im gonna write whatever fic won in the poll, so stay tuned).

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.3k

The Red Keep is different.

You understood this the moment the servants led you through the corridors, not the public halls where courtiers gather, but the private ways, the passages reserved for family. For those who belong.

They brought you to chambers that connect to his through a single door, rooms that are far too fine for what should be considered possible. There are silk hangings, a proper bed with four carved posts and windows that overlook the blackwater bay.

You’ve been here three hours, and you haven’t seen him yet.

The servants who unpacked your things won’t meet your eyes. They must know what you are. What you have to be, to be housed here, in these rooms, with a door between you and a prince of the seven kingdoms.

Since then you’ve bathed, changed into a dressing gown of deep crimson silk that was laid out for you, probably chosen by him. You’ve tried to eat the food they brought, but your stomach is too tight.

Everything feels precarious. Back at the pleasure house you knew all the rules, you were at the top of the food chain. Here, in the heart of Targaryen power, you are utterly exposed.

You drift through the room as though it might dissolve beneath your feet if you move too quickly. Your fingers brush the edge of an old oak table carved intricately with dragons, the scales cool beneath your touch.

Then you turn your attention back to the door separating your room and his.

It's solid, unadorned. You find yourself staring at it more than you mean to, as though it might open of its own accord if you watch it long enough.

The knowledge of his proximity to you presses against your ribs like an invisible weight. He is there, somewhere beyond that threshold, close enough to reach you in moments, distant enough that the silence stretches and stretches and stretches.

The Keep hums around you. You can hear distant footsteps and the murmur of voices you cannot quite make out. Somewhere far below, the people of the city live their small, unimportant lives. You are suspended between worlds, no longer where you were, but definitely not yet settled into whatever this is meant to be.

When the connecting door finally opens, you’re standing by the window, watching the last light fade over the horizon. The sky is a kind of bruised violet, the water below catching the last fragments of daylight.

You turn.

He stands in the doorway, still dressed from whatever duties occupied his day, leather and fine wool, the lines of his doublet sharp. A short sword hangs at his hip, an unnecessary thing in the safety of his own chambers, but he wears it anyway. Habit, maybe? Or a statement, like a reminder of what he is, even in here.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

He only looks at you, like really looks, as if committing the sight to memory, measuring the reality of you standing here against whatever expectation he carried with him through the corridors.

Something shifts across his face. Not softness, but something unsettled, as though he is taking in the consequence of a decision he has already made and cannot undo.

“You settled in.” It’s not a question.

“Yes, my prince.”

Your voice sounds small in the high-ceilinged room and the words echo far more than they should.

He steps inside and closes the door behind him. The sound is quiet, final. His gaze drifts over the chamber before coming back to you. You can see him arranging the image in his mind, of you, dressed in colours he chose, standing in rooms he claimed, placed at the heart of his home where he has such power.

Possession made architectural.

“Do you know what it means that you’re here?” he asks. He crosses the room with unhurried steps, “In these chambers?”

“I’m honoured by-”

“Don’t.”

His hand comes up, fingers catching your chin.

“Don’t give me the practised lines,” he says. “Not here. This isn’t the brothel.”

Your breath tightens in your chest. The truth of the place you came from sits between you like something fragile and sharp.

“No, my prince.”

“Here,” he continues, voice lowering, “you’re mine in a way that’s… official.” His thumb brushes the edge of your lower lip, a fleeting, proprietary touch. “My family will know. The court will know. Everyone will know that I’ve claimed you, that I keep you here, in the royal apartments.”

His eyes search yours, sharp, as though gauging how deeply the knowledge cuts. “Does that frighten you?”

“Yes.” The word leaves you before you can soften it.

“Good. It should.”

He's still touching you gently, and there is something unsettled in his expression, a flicker of something almost uncertain, as though he is not entirely sure why this was necessary.

“You’ll stay in these rooms,” he says. “You won’t wander the Keep without my permission. You’ll see no one unless I allow it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

He steps closer. The scent of smoke clings faintly to him, hinting at the long stretch of the day he’s had. The court, the councils, the endless performance of being what the world expects of him.

“I could have kept visiting you,” he says quietly. “It would have been simpler, much cleaner.” His hand slides from your face to your throat, resting there in that familiar, claiming way. “But I found I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to wonder what you were doing when I wasn’t there. Who else might be looking at you. Touching you.”

Your pulse beats hard against his palm.

This is as close to a confession as he will ever offer, that he knows this possessiveness has outgrown convenience, that the thought of you existing beyond his reach has become something he won't tolerate.

He has brought you here not only to keep you, but to quiet something in himself.

“I’m here now,” you say softly. “Only yours.”

Something sharp and hungry flashes in his eyes. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You are.”

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear, his voice dropping low enough to feel like a secret meant only for you. “And tonight, I’m going to fuck you in my bed, in my chambers, in the Red Keep itself, and I’m going to make you scream so loud that the guards outside hear it and know exactly what I’m doing to you.”

Heat floods through you, the anticipation tangling in your chest. He is different here, you realise. Far more certain, more possessive, as though the stone and steel of the Red Keep have settled into his very bones.

He doesn’t wait for a response.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that is more claiming than affection, his tongue pressing past your lips as if to remind you how easily you yield to him.

The contact steals the breath from your lungs, unbalances you, and you make a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes as he backs you against the door leading to his room.

Then, with a shift of his grip, the ground leaves you.

One moment your feet are finding the floor and the next, his hands are at your thighs, lifting you as if your weight no more than an inconvenience to him. You gasp against his mouth, startled by the ease of it, by the way he carries you as though you are something he has always known how to hold.

Your legs wrap around his hips without quite meaning to, clinging instinctively to the solid heat of him.

He walks you across the threshold, still kissing you, the room beyond opening up in fragments. You catch glimpses of dark wood, rich fabrics, the low glow of candlelight reflecting off polished stone. The massive bed dominates the far wall, all carved posts and shadowed drapery. It is more austere than you imagined, almost martial in its restraint, but softened by small, telling luxuries, like a decanter of fine wine left uncorked on a table or books scattered across a desk as though abandoned mid-thought.

He turns with you in his arms, carrying you deeper into the room, as though crossing some final, private boundary. The door shuts behind you with a dull, distant sound that seems to belong to another world entirely.

He lowers you only when he reaches the bed, setting you down with deliberate care.

He breaks the kiss long enough to strip off his sword belt, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Then his hands are on you, untying the dressing gown, pushing it off your shoulders. You're naked beneath it, clearly you'd guessed correctly that he'd want easy access, and the cool air makes your skin pebble.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his hands skimming over your body with proprietary satisfaction. "I chose well with that colour. You should only wear my colours now."

He's still fully dressed, the contrast makes you feel more exposed, but he seems to enjoy it, his eyes dark as they travel over every inch of you.

He towers over you, and you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His hand tangles in your hair, gripping firmly.

"I've thought about this all day," he says, his voice low. "Through every tedious council meeting, every insipid conversation with my brothers. I thought about coming back here and having you in my bed." He guides your head forward, toward the laces of his breeches. "Open them."

Your fingers work the laces with practised ease, and when you free him, he's already hard. He guides himself to your lips, and you open your mouth, taking him in. He groans, the sound rough and unguarded, and his grip in your hair tightens.

"That's it," he breathes. "Show me what that pretty mouth can do."

You work him with lips and tongue, taking him deeper, and he's not gentle. His hips rock forward, pushing deeper, testing your limits, but you've learned to take it, to breathe through it. Your eyes water, but you don't pull away.

"Fuck," he hisses. "You're so good at this. So perfect." His voice is strained, and you can tell he's close already, wound tight from thinking about this all day. But he pulls back abruptly, his cock slipping from your mouth.

"No. Not yet. I want to be inside you when I come."

He strips quickly, efficiently, and then he's pushing you back onto the bed, following you down. The mattress is softer than yours, the sheets finer, and you sink into them as his weight settles over you. He doesn't bother with preparation; he knows you're already wet, your body is trained at this point to respond to him, and he pushes inside in one long thrust that makes you gasp.

"Mine," he growls against your throat. "Here, in my bed. Mine."

He sets a punishing pace immediately, fucking you hard and deep, each thrust driving you up the bed. You wrap your legs around him, your hands clutching and tearing at his back, the sounds you make raw.

He's right, the guards will hear this. Everyone will know.

"Let them hear," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "Let everyone know who you belong to." His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Come for me. I want to feel it."

Your body obeys before your mind can catch up, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cry out, and he captures the sound with his mouth, kissing you through it. His rhythm falters, becomes erratic, and then he's groaning into your mouth as he finds his own release, spilling deep inside you.

He collapses onto you for a moment, breathing hard, his face buried in your neck. You feel the rapid beat of his heart, the faint tremor in his muscles. Then he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're tucked against his chest.

The silence stretches, but it's not the uncomfortable you remember from encounters with previous clients. His fingers trace idle patterns on your shoulder, and you let yourself relax into his warmth.

"I had them prepare your rooms myself," he says finally, his voice quieter than before. "Chose the fabrics, the furnishings. I wanted them to be... suitable, for you."

He'll never say it out loud, but he wanted you to be comfortable, and he thought about what you might like. You press a kiss to his chest, just over his heart.

"They're beautiful. Thank you."

His arm tightens around you. "You'll stay there when I'm occupied. But your nights are mine. Every single one of them."

"Yes."

"And if I want you during the day, you'll come when I send for you."

"Of course."

He's quiet for a moment, and then, "Do you hate this? Being here, being kept like this?"

The question surprises you. He's never asked before, never even seemed to care. You consider lying, giving him the answer he might want, but he already told you not to perform, not in here.

"I don't hate it," you mumble against his skin. "It's frightening, but I think I trust you. I know what it is you want from me, and that's more than I've ever had before."

He makes a sound that might be satisfaction or something else before sliding his hand down your body, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. You feel him stirring against your hip, already recovering.

"Again," he says, and it's not a question. "I want you again."

Your body is already tender, but you nod. He shifts, moving to sit with his back against the headboard, the carved dragon looming above him.

"Come here." He pats his thighs. "I want to watch you ride me."

You move to straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His hands come to your waist, steadying you, and you reach between your bodies to guide him inside. You're still slick with his seed from before; he slides in easily despite the stretch.

You both groan at the sensation. From this angle he's so much deeper; you've never felt so full before. His hands tighten on your waist, and he looks up at you with dark, hungry eyes.

"Move," he commands. "Show me how well you can please me."

You start to roll your hips, finding a rhythm. His hands guide you, controlling the pace even though you're on top. You brace your hands on his shoulders, using the leverage to lift and sink back down. Your thighs burn, but you don't stop, how could you?

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your bodies join, watching himself disappear inside you with each movement. "You look so good taking my cock. Like you were made for it."

You lean down, lips brushing his, "Maybe I was."

You increase the pace, and his head falls back against the headboard, his eyes closing. For a moment, he looks almost peaceful, lost in the sensation. It feels like a rare privilege to see him like this, so unguarded.

"Touch yourself," he says without opening his eyes. "I want to feel you come around me."

You slide one hand down your body, finding your clit. You're sensitive from before so it doesn't take much, just a few circles of your fingers and you're clenching around him, a smaller orgasm rippling through you.

His eyes snap open, and he watches your face as you fall apart. "Don't stop."

You keep moving, keep touching yourself, and the pleasure builds again, sharper this time, almost painful in its intensity. Your thighs are shaking with effort, and he must notice because his hands tighten on your waist, helping you move, taking some of the burden.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice rough. "Take what you need. Use me."

The permission, the command, pushes you over the edge. You come with a broken cry, your body clamping down on him. He groans, his hips bucking up to meet you, and then he's pulling you down hard, holding you in place as he pulses inside you.

You collapse against his chest, boneless and trembling. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you feel his lips press against your temple.

"Good," he murmurs. "So good for me."

You stay like that for a long moment, still joined, your breathing gradually slowing. When you finally gather the strength to lift your head, you find him watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"You're exhausted," he observes.

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

He lifts you carefully, and you both hiss as he slips free. He settles you beside him on the bed, and you expect him to dismiss you, to send you back to your own chambers now that he's satisfied.

But instead, he pulls the covers over both of you and draws you back against his chest.

The bed is warm, and the air is thick. You feel his arm come around your waist with a possessive familiarity, it feels different now that the room has gone so quiet. The prince who commanded, who took, recedes into something looser, something heavy with exhaustion.

You feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, the heat of him seeping into you until the chill you didn’t realise you were holding onto begins to fade.

“Stay,” he says quietly. “Sleep here tonight.”

It is not an order.

That, so much more than the words themselves, startles you.

You don’t argue because you’re too tired, and truthfully, you don’t want to leave. The thought of returning to your own rooms, of crossing that connecting door alone and lying awake in unfamiliar silk feels unbearable.

So you close your eyes.

For a while, you only listen to his breathing. It’s uneven at first, as though his thoughts refuse to quiet. You wonder what fills the silence of a prince’s mind when there is no one left to perform for.

No court or enemies. The weight of being watched every waking hour is lifted off his shoulders. You wonder, dimly, if this is why he brought you here, because you are not watching him the way the rest of the world does.

You are almost asleep when he speaks again.

“I haven't been sleeping well. It's got worse since I last saw you.”

His voice is low, rougher than before, the admission dragged from somewhere he doesn’t often look.

“Nightmares,” he continues after a moment. “I wake up angry, apparently. Sometimes violent. The servants know to stay away.”

The words sit heavy between you.

You understand what he’s telling you; that this closeness has edges, that there is a version of him in sleep that can not and will not recognise you.

It is not a confession. It is a warning.

“I’ll stay anyway,” you say.

His arm tightens around you, instinctive, as though the idea unsettles him more than he expected. “Why?"

The answer is too complicated to say aloud.

Because I am never truly safe.

Because at least with you, the danger is honest.

Because somehow, impossibly, you feel like the most solid thing in this shifting, gilded prison.

“Because you want me to,” you decide on eventually.

He is quiet for so long you think he might have decided to let the moment pass. Then, softly, almost grudgingly,

“Yes. I do.”

Sleep takes you in fragments.

You drift in and out of it, half-aware of the way the room breathes around you, of the distant hush of the Keep beyond the walls.

At some point in the dark, his body tenses beneath your back. His breathing changes; it's sharp and uneven.

Then a sound escapes him, low and ugly, nothing like the measured voice he wears during the day.

You stir, not fully awake.

His arm tightens, not around you this time but against the sheets, fingers curling as though grasping for something that isn’t there. His breath stutters. He says a name you don’t recognise, a curse in Valyrian that sounds old and bitter on his tongue.

There's a moment where his body jerks, as though he is fighting something unseen.

“Aerion,” you murmur, barely daring to move.

For a heartbeat, you think you’ve made a terrible mistake.

Then his eyes snap open.

You see the room comes rushing back to him in stages; the candlelight, the bed, the weight of you against him.

His gaze is wild for an instant, unfocused, still caught between whatever dream he has dragged with him into waking and the reality of the room around him.

His hand lifts as though to strike, to shove, to defend against a threat that no longer exists.

It stills inches from you.

The moment stretches, thin as a blade’s edge. You don’t dare move. Your breath lodges somewhere in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to be small, to be still, to not become whatever his dream has made you.

The recognition flickers in his eyes.

Then control follows, seemingly dragged back into place with visible effort. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping as he forces his hand to drop back to the mattress.

“Go back to sleep,” he says, too quickly, too harshly, as though the words might banish the remnants of the dream. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing, Aerion.”

It slips from you before you can soften it into something safer. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, fast and unsteady, the rhythm of someone who has woken already halfway into violence and had to claw himself back from it.

The bed is warm around you, but his body holds a cold, coiled tension, as if the dream has left him braced for another blow.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer.

You feel him draw a breath and hold it, and when he exhales, it sounds like he is forcing something down. The silence stretches, heavy with all the things he has not said to you and never will.

You turn slightly in his arms, just enough to see his face in the low light. He looks away from you at once, as though caught in something he did not intend to reveal. His expression is closed now, guarded, but the remnants of the nightmare still cling to him in the tightness of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders.

You hesitate, then lift your hand.

The movement is small, careful. Your fingers brush his forearm first, a tentative touch meant to test whether you will be pushed away. When he doesn’t stop you, you let your hand rest there, grounding yourself in the reality of him.

“It was just a dream,” you say quietly, unsure whether you are trying to convince him or yourself.

His lips curve faintly, humourless. “Dreams don’t come from nothing.”

The admission sits between you, heavy and unadorned.

You don’t press him for more. You know better than to ask a dragon to name the fire that lives in his chest. Instead, you let your hand trace a slow, steady line along his arm, not soothing him so much as reminding him where he is.

That he is here.

That you are here.

Then you feel him shift, the evidence of his arousal pressing against you.

A sound of frustration leaves his throat. “Let me," he mutters, more to himself than to you, and there is something raw in it. “Again. I need-”

He doesn't finish the sentence, but you understand. He needs this, needs you, needs the comfort of your body and the oblivion it provides. You arch back against him in answer, and his hand slides between your thighs, finding you still slick from before.

You're still too tired to fully answer, humming your approval instead.

He pushes inside from behind. You're sore now, truly sore, but the stretch is good in a way you can't explain. He moves slowly this time, almost gently, his arm wrapped around your waist to hold you close.

"I dreamed," he says against your shoulder, his voice rough with sleep and something else. "I dreamed you were gone. That you'd left, and I couldn't find you."

Your heart clenches. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me." His thrusts are slow, deliberate, almost tender. "Promise you'll stay."

"I promise."

He makes a sound that might be relief or pain, and his hand slides up to cup your breast, holding you like something precious. The intimacy is such a stark difference from before, less about dominance and more about need, about him seeking comfort in your body.

"You're the only one," he whispers, and you don't know if he means to say it aloud. "The only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster."

"I know you are a monster," you say softly, honestly. "But you're not a monster to me."

"I'm your monster?"

"Mhm, you're my monster."

He shudders against you, and his rhythm falters. "Say it again."

"You're mine."

"Again."

"Mine."

He comes with a groan, his face buried in your hair, his body shaking. You feel the warmth of him spilling inside you, and you reach back to touch his face, offering what comfort you can.

He stays inside you as he softens, unwilling to break the connection. His breathing gradually evens out, and you think he might fall asleep like this, still joined with you.

"I don't know what you've done to me," he murmurs finally. "I don't know why I need this. Need you."

"Does it matter why?"

"No. I suppose it doesn't." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake."

It's a promise and a threat and a comfort all at once. You close your eyes and let yourself sink into sleep, still held firmly in his arms, still filled with him.

It's more than you ever expected to have.

And somehow, it's enough.

i feel like this became cuter than i originally intended for it to be, but at least its a sweet ending <3

[maybestrid33]

Marked by Gold

Aerion Targaryen x courtesan!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Aerion Targaryen does not love. He claims. When his attention turns toward you, an exclusive coutesan favoured by lords and princes alike, survival begins to look like surrender, and the cage is gilded enough to almost feel like safety.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, obsession, exclusivity, canon-typical aerion, morally grey everything, unhealthy attachment, reader is basically a high-end prostitute

A/N: [part 2] this was a random concept that came to me, so like idk guys, anyways hope you enjoy.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.2k

The silk screens in your chambers do little to keep out the noise of King’s Landing. Even this high on the hill, the city breathes laughter, curses, the distant clang of armour, the low murmur of men who believe the night belongs to them.

It usually does.

You sit at your vanity with practised ease, letting another girl brush kohl along your lower lash line. She chatters to fill the quiet. You let her. Silence is heavier when it’s shared.

When she’s done, she curtsies too deeply and slips out, leaving you alone with the soft glow of candlelight and the familiar, hollow steadiness in your chest.

You tend to be careful with your face. Careful with your voice. Careful with the way you smile. You have learned how to be wanted without being known; it keeps you alive.

Your reputation does the rest. Discreet and expensive.

Worth the wait.

Men come to your door already convinced they deserve something from you. Some are gentle in the way men are gentle when they are afraid of being seen as cruel, which means they usually want to be. Some are careless. Some are much worse.

You have learned to read them in the first three breaths, the way their eyes linger, the way their hands hesitate, or don’t.

Tonight, you expect another lord of some high birth or relative significance.

Instead, there is a knock that does not wait for permission.

It is neither loud nor polite. It's the sound of someone who assumes the door will open because the door always opens for him.

Your handler stiffens beside the threshold. You see it in the way his shoulders draw tight, in the way his eyes flick toward you before he moves. He opens the door with the careful deference reserved for men who could easily have him killed for looking the wrong way.

Aerion Targaryen is younger than the stories make him and harder in the flesh. His hair is pale as a blade in candlelight, his mouth set in a line. He does not smile. He does not glance around your room with curiosity or hunger.

He looks at you as though you are already his.

“Leave,” he says to your handler, without turning his head.

The door closes. The sound is final in a way that makes your pulse tick louder in your ears.

You incline your head, because that is the shape respect takes in this room.

You do not curtsy.

“My prince,” you say, voice steady, warm.

He studies you in silence. You hold his gaze because flinching invites cruelty. You let your expression soften into something neutral, something that can be read as deference or invitation, depending on what he wants to see.

When he steps closer, it is unhurried. He stops an arm’s length away. Close enough that you can smell smoke and spice on him, close enough that the heat of his presence feels deliberate.

He studies you in silence. The quiet stretches. You hold his gaze because flinching invites cruelty.

You let your expression soften into something neutral, something that can be read as deference or invitation, depending on what he wants to see.

When he steps closer, it is unhurried.

"They say you're the best in the city." His voice is softer than you expected, almost conversational. "That lords pay fortunes just to sit across from you at dinner."

"You flatter me, my prince."

"I don't." He reaches out, and you hold still as his fingers trace the line of your jaw.

His touch is surprisingly gentle. It's the gentleness that frightens you most, because you know what men like him do with gentle things. "I'm told you're educated. That you can discuss philosophy and poetry. That you play the high harp like a lady born."

"I have been fortunate in my training."

"Fortunate." He tastes the word, and something flickers in his eyes, amusement or contempt, you can't tell. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, my prince."

"Then you know what I am."

You do.

Aerion Targaryen. The Bright Prince. The mad prince, although never that to his face. He's the one his own family watches with wary eyes. You've heard the stories: the servant girl he burned, the knight he crippled in a drunken rage, the casual cruelties that punctuate his days like commas in a sentence.

"I know you are a prince of House Targaryen," you say carefully.

He laughs, and the sound is sharp enough to cut. "Diplomatic. They trained you well." His hand slides from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your pulse.

"I'm going to fuck you tonight. You understand that, don't you? Not because I paid, though I did, an obscene amount, but because I want to. Because I saw you across that hall three nights ago and decided you were mine."

Your heart hammers against his palm. You wonder if he can feel it, if he's counting the beats like coins. "I am honoured by your attention, my prince."

"Are you?" He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Or are you terrified?"

Both, you think. Always both with men like him. But you've learned that honesty, in careful doses, can be its own kind of armour. "I would be a fool not to fear a dragon."

He pulls back to look at you, and for a moment something almost like approval crosses his face.

"At least you're not stupid." His hand tightens fractionally on your throat, not enough to restrict air, just enough to remind you it's there. "I hate stupid women. They bore me, and when I'm bored, I get... creative."

You think of the servant girl and the burns. You keep your breathing steady.

"Take off your dress."

Your fingers go to the clasps at your shoulder, muscle memory taking over. You've undressed for men a thousand times, made an art of it, slow and deliberate. But something in his eyes stops you from performing.

He doesn't want a show. He wants compliance.

You undress efficiently, letting the silk pool at your feet. The air is cool against your skin. You're bare beneath, you'd prepared for this, for him, though you hadn't known it would be tonight.

You stand before him without artifice, without the practised poses that usually shield you.

He circles you slowly, and you feel his gaze like a physical thing, cataloging every curve and hollow. When he completes the circuit, he's closer than before.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and it doesn't sound like a compliment. It sounds like an accusation. "Do you know how many beautiful things I've destroyed?"

"No, my prince."

"Neither do I. I've stopped counting." He reaches out and cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple with clinical precision. Your body responds despite your fear, or perhaps because of it, some animal instinct that can't distinguish between terror and arousal. "But you... I think I'll keep you intact. For now."

The statement hangs in the air like a blade.

He undresses himself without ceremony, and you watch because not watching would be noticed. His body is lean and strong, marked with the occasional scar, evidence that even princes bleed. When he's naked, he doesn't give you time to prepare. He backs you toward the bed with deliberate steps until your legs hit the edge and you sit abruptly.

He towers over you, and you tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. His hand tangles in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Controlling.

"Open your mouth."

You part your lips, and he slides his thumb inside, pressing down on your tongue. You taste salt and smoke. He watches your face with an intensity that makes you feel dissected, studied.

After a moment, he withdraws his thumb and replaces it with two fingers, pushing deeper, testing your limits. Your eyes water but you don't gag; you learned to control that reflex years ago.

"Good," he says softly, and the praise shouldn't warm you, but it does. Some desperate part of you that wants to please, to survive, to find solid ground in this encounter.

He withdraws his fingers and wipes them on your cheek, so casual it makes your stomach clench.

Then he's pushing you back onto the bed, following you down. His weight settles over you, and the heat of him is overwhelming. He doesn't kiss you, you're somewhat grateful for that, strangely.

Kissing would feel more intimate than what's about to happen, more like a lie.

His hand slides between your thighs, and you open for him automatically. He touches you with surprising patience, fingers exploring your folds, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it with maddening precision.

Your body responds despite everything, growing slick under his ministrations. You hate that he can do this, that your flesh betrays you so easily.

"You're wet," he observes, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Does fear make you wet? Or is it something else?"

You don't answer because there is no safe answer; thankfully, he doesn't seem to expect one. He pushes two fingers inside you, and your body accepts the intrusion, clenching around him. He works you methodically, his thumb finding your clit while his fingers curl and stroke. It's skilled and practised, he knows what he's doing, and that somehow makes it worse.

Pleasure builds despite your resistance, a slow tide that you can't hold back. Your breathing quickens, and you see him smile, sharp and triumphant. He's going to make you come, you realise.

He's going to make your body surrender before he even fucks you.

"That's it," he murmurs, increasing the pressure, the pace. "I want to feel you fall apart."

You try to hold back, but your body has its own logic. The orgasm crashes through you with humiliating intensity, and you arch beneath him, a broken sound escaping your throat. He watches every second of it, his eyes bright with something that might be pleasure or might be cruelty, with him they're probably the same thing.

Before you've fully recovered, he's positioning himself between your thighs.

You feel the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, and then he's pushing inside, one long slow thrust that fills you completely. You gasp at the intrusion, at the stretch and burn of it. He's not gentle, but he's not brutal either; he takes you with deliberate possession, claiming every inch.

When he's fully seated, he pauses, and you feel the tremor that runs through him. For a moment, he's almost vulnerable, lost in the sensation. Then his eyes focus on yours, and the vulnerability vanishes.

"You feel perfect," he says, and it sounds like a curse.

He starts to move, and you wrap your legs around his waist because it's expected, because it gives you some illusion of participation. His rhythm is steady at first, almost measured, but you can feel the violence coiled beneath his control. Each thrust pushes you deeper into the mattress, and you brace your hands against his shoulders, feeling the flex and shift of muscle beneath skin.

The sounds of your coupling fill the room, the slap of flesh against flesh, your ragged breathing, his low grunts of effort and pleasure.

You make the soft noises you've learned men like, but they feel hollow in your throat. He notices.

"Don't," he says sharply, his hand suddenly around your throat again. "Don't perform for me. I want to hear what you really sound like."

So you fall silent except for the involuntary gasps he drives from you with each thrust. It's more honest this way, more raw. He seems to be satisfied with that, his pace increasing, becoming less controlled. The hand on your throat tightens incrementally, and you feel your pulse pounding against his palm, feel the slight restriction of air that makes everything sharper, more intense.

He's rough now, fucking you with an abandon that borders on violence. The bed frame creaks beneath you, and you think distantly that everyone in the house will hear this, will know exactly what's happening.

But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the man above you, inside you, around you.

Your second orgasm builds without permission, sparked by the friction and the pressure and the terrible intimacy of his gaze locked on yours. You try to fight it, but he feels the flutter of your muscles around him and drives harder, chasing it.

"Come for me," he demands, and it's not a request. "Let me feel it."

You shatter, and this time it's worse because it's real, because your body has given up pretending.

You cry out, and the sound is broken and genuine, and he groans in response, his rhythm faltering. His hand tightens on your throat, too tight, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, and then releases as he buries himself deep and finds his own release.

You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth of his seed, and some primitive part of your brain catalogs it: evidence, claim, consequence.

He collapses onto you for a moment, his weight crushing, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath hot against your skin, feel the rapid beat of his heart against your breast. For these few seconds, he's just a man, sated and vulnerable.

Then he rolls off you, and the moment breaks.

You lie beside him, your body aching in a dozen places, your throat tender where his fingers pressed. You should get up, clean yourself, perform your usual rituals.

But you don't move. Neither does he.

The silence stretches, different from before.

"You'll be here tomorrow night," he says finally. It's not a question.

"Yes, my prince."

"And the night after that."

"Yes."

He turns his head to look at you, and his expression is unreadable. "Good," he says softly. "I think I'll keep you."

And the terrible thing, the thing you don't want to examine too closely, is the relief that floods through you at those words.

It's the closest you've come to safety in longer than you can remember.

He reaches out and pulls you against him, your back to his chest, his arm heavy across your waist. It's almost tender, this gesture, almost like affection. You know it's possession instead, but you let yourself pretend, just for a moment.

His breath evens out behind you, and you realise he's falling asleep. Just like that, as if he trusts you not to slit his throat while he's vulnerable.

As if he knows you won't, because where would you go? What would you do?

He's right, of course. He's trapped you more thoroughly than chains ever could.

You fall asleep in the arms of a monster and dream of dragons.

He comes back three nights later.

You know it before the knock because the air changes in the room. Your handler grows stiff again, all his easy lechery gone. By the time Aerion steps inside, you’ve already arranged your face into something calm and open.

This time, he does not hesitate at the threshold.

He moves through your chambers as if they are a space he has already claimed in his mind. He does not speak much. He expects you to know what he wants before he names it. You learn quickly that he dislikes being guided, dislikes questions, dislikes the suggestion that this is anything but his choosing.

When he leaves, there is no tenderness to soften the absence. Only the certainty that he will return.

He does.

Sometimes he arrives late, smelling of wine and smoke, his temper worn thin by the court. On those nights, you learn to keep your voice low and your eyes lowered. You learn that he does not want to be soothed, only obeyed. You learn which small gestures irritate him; the wrong word, the wrong pause, and which ones calm the restless edge beneath his skin.

There is a rhythm to his moods, if you are attentive enough to catch it.

Other nights, he is almost quiet. He sits at the edge of your bed and watches the candle flame gutter, as if measuring himself against it.

On those nights, he talks not to you, exactly, but near you.

About bloodlines. About what it means to be born to fire. You listen without challenging him. You nod when nodding is required. You let his words pass over you like heat, careful not to be scorched.

Your other patrons dwindle.

At first, it is subtle. Appointments are rescheduled, then declined, then quietly removed from your ledger altogether. Your handler stops pretending it’s a coincidence.

The guards at the door change.

The whispers in the hallways shift shape.

You hear your own name paired with his in half-muttered rumours. You become less a woman of the night and more a fixture of the dragon prince’s habits.

Then comes a night when the exhaustion finally sinks into your bones.

It is well past midnight. The candles have burned low. You lie draped over him, the warmth of his body pressed to yours, your limbs heavy with a tiredness that has nothing to do with sleep. The world has narrowed to the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You let your eyes close because you are too tired to hold them open any longer.

For a moment, you forget to be careful.

His hand shifts in your hair, possessive rather than gentle. You feel the way his fingers tighten, as if confirming that you are still there.

“You won’t be seeing anyone else,” he says into the quiet, voice low, certain. It's a statement of fact, delivered the way men speak about property they intend to keep.

Your breath catches. The words settle over you with the weight of a new rule being written into your life. You do not answer right away. Silence is safer than refusal.

When you finally murmur assent, the sound feels like something given up rather than offered.

He hums, satisfied, and the hand in your hair stills. You lie very still against him, aware of the steady strength of the body beneath yours, aware, too, of how easily that strength could become a cage.

After that night, the pattern hardens.

He grows more open in his possessiveness. A glance at a man who lingers too long in the hall. A word to a guard. Small, precise acts that ripple outward into consequence. You notice the change in how people look at you. It's no longer with desire, but with a wary calculation, as if you are now a dangerous thing to covet.

He comes later than usual.

You are already prepared for the familiar rhythm of it, the practised calm, the careful openness of your body and how your mind braces for whatever he is planning to give you, or take from you.

Tonight, when Aerion steps inside, he does not look at you the way he usually does.

His gaze passes over you as if you are already arranged to his liking, as if the question of your body has been settled before he’s bothered to consider it. He closes the door himself. The latch sounds louder than it should.

“Leave that on,” he says, nodding toward the thin robe clinging to your shoulders. The fabric is almost nothing, transparent, meant to be an invitation. His mouth tilts at the way you look, standing there for him.

“Come here.”

You do.

He sheds his outer layers without ceremony. His finery ends in a careless heap by the chair, leaving him bare-chested in the low candlelight, all sharp lines and pale skin, heat lingering where metal and silk had been. He sits back against the pillows and draws you in with a hand at your waist, not rough, but firm.

For a moment, you wait for the familiar progression. It does not come.

Instead, he exhales through his nose, a thin, irritated sound, and stares at the ceiling. “They prattle,” he says. “All of them. As if noise were the same thing as worth.”

You settle against him because that is what you do. Your cheek rests near his shoulder. The steady thud of his heartbeat surprises you, every time, with its ordinariness. You trace the line of muscle beneath your fingers, he doesn't stop you; if anything he leans into the touch.

“They look at me and think they see a prince,” he continues, voice low, edged with contempt. “They do not understand what I am owed.”

You hum softly, a sound that can be agreement if he wants it to be. Your fingers drift to his hair, pale strands warm from his skin. You comb through it in slow, careful motions, mindful of the fact that you are touching a Targaryen as though he were only a man. The fact that he permits it makes something unfamiliar twist in your chest.

He talks at you for a long while.

About slights that might be imagined. About blood, and birthright, and how the court watches him with eyes too small for the truth of him. You do not interrupt. You have learned that he does not want counsel, he wants witness. Someone to be there when the performance of certainty slips and he needs to hear his own voice fill the space.

It occurs to you, quietly, that he probably does not get this anywhere else.

The thought is too dangerous, so you keep your face composed, your touch light, your presence offered but never pressing. Still, the room feels different tonight.

At some point, his hand finds your thigh, not to claim, but to anchor. He does not look at you when he speaks, but you feel the weight of being included in the moment all the same.

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the dim chamber, “is quieter than the Red Keep.”

You shift closer, careful not to startle him, and rest your head against his shoulder. Your robe slips, revealing more than it hides.

He notices.

Of course he does.

The corner of his mouth lifts, smug and proprietary, even as he lets you remain there, tracing the lines of him as he unspools his grievances into the low light.

It is the closest he comes to letting go.

And as you lie there, half-draped over the prince who has claimed you from the world, you realise that whatever this is becoming, it is no longer only about your body. You are something else to him now. A place he returns to when the weight of himself grows too heavy to carry alone.

The next night he arrives with the same quiet authority he always does. You greet him with the familiar calm, let him draw you closer, let him undo the ties of your robe with practised hands. The fabric slips from your shoulders. Candlelight warms your skin.

But he does not touch you the way he normally does.

Instead, he steps back.

You feel his gaze on you, slow and lingering. There is something almost worshipful in the way he studies you now, as though you are not a woman standing in a borrowed room but an object he has decided to admire.

“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the bed.

You obey. The mattress dips beneath your weight.

“Close your eyes.”

You hesitate only long enough for him to notice. The corner of his mouth lifts, faintly amused, faintly possessive. You close them.

For a moment, there is only the quiet of the room and the soft sound of his movement behind you. You hear the faint clink of metal. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

Something cool brushes your collarbone. His fingers are careful in a way they are not often careful, fastening a clasp at the nape of your neck. The weight settles against your skin, unfamiliar and unmistakably precious.

“Open them,” he murmurs.

You turn toward the mirror without being told.

The gold gleams against your throat. A dragon wrought in fine detail curls just below your collarbone, its wings spread as if mid-flight, mouth set in a permanent snarl.

The craftsmanship is exquisite. The implication is not.

He stands behind you in the reflection, bare-chested, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. He looks pleased with himself, with the effect of the thing he has chosen. You look smaller in front of him in the glass, framed by him.

“It suits you,” he says. “I had it made.”

His grip tightens, just enough to remind you that this is not a gift freely given. He leans closer, his breath warm near your ear. In the mirror, your eyes meet his. You can see the satisfaction there. The quiet certainty of a man who believes he has named something into being.

“You'll be moving into the Red Keep tomorrow. People will see it, see you,” he continues, tone idle, as if discussing fashion rather than consequence. “They’ll understand.”

The dragon at your collarbone is cool against your skin, a brand that gleams instead of burns.

“You’re mine now,” he says softly.

genuinly i would let him own me atp its not ok

[maybestrid33]

Favoured Blood

Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Chosen for your name, your look, and your blood, you become Aerion's wife by design. When an heir does not come quickly, his fixation turns sharper and far more obesssive.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, targcest (cousins), reader has typical targaryen features, obsessive behaviour, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, breeding, crazy stamina

A/N: i warn already this is FILTHY, and he's maybe a lil ooc in this (dont kill me pls). many people are writing him as being mean and harsh with his wife but i don't think he would be if he chose her (hes not like overrly nice lol but he doesn't hurt her yk) i don't think he even considers the possibility he could have chosen wrong.

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.5k

The fire has burned low, reduced to a bed of embers that glow like a watchful eye. His chambers smell of heat and smoke and something sharper; wine, maybe, or the faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the Red Keep.

Night presses against the windows, black and endless, but inside the room it’s too warm.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the light. He hasn’t turned since you entered. He doesn’t need to. He knows where you are.

He always does.

“How long has it been?” he asks, casually. Almost idly. As though he’s commenting on the weather.

You don’t answer fast enough.

He tilts his head, just slightly. “Since your last bleeding,” he clarifies, voice smooth, patient in the way that makes your shoulders tense. “I keep asking and you keep hesitating. It’s an odd habit for a wife to develop.”

You swallow. “Two weeks.”

He hums, low in his throat, finally turning to face you.

His eyes flick over you with open ownership, your hair, your hands, the shape of you beneath the thin layers of silk. There is no shyness in it. There never has been. You were married before you had time to learn it.

“Months,” he says. “Married for months. Bedded properly. Regularly.” His mouth curves, faintly. “Faithfully.”

You feel the word settle on you like a hand at your throat.

“You were chosen carefully,” Aerion continues, stepping closer. Each measured stride eats the space between you. “Do you know that? I didn’t take just any cousin offered to me. I insisted.” His gaze lifts to your face, sharp and assessing. “Pure blood. The look of Old Valyria is written all over you. Silver-gold hair, violet eyes. No dilution.”

He reaches out, catches a loose strand of your hair between his fingers. Twirls it once.

“You were supposed to take quickly.”

Your breath stutters despite yourself.

Aerion notices, of course. “Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t look frightened. This is not an accusation.” A beat. “Yet.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, tilting your face up whether you want it or not. His touch is warm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse.

“I’ve done my part,” he says quietly. “Night after night. I have not spared you effort. I have not spared myself.” His eyes darken, intent sharpening into something hungrier. “So we must ask why nothing has come of it.”

You stiffen. “These things can take time.”

He laughs. Soft and disbelieving.

“Time,” he repeats. “That is what men say when they fear the truth. That is what septons say when they have no answers.” His grip tightens just enough to remind you who he is.

“Dragons do not wait.”

He releases you abruptly and turns away again, pacing now. You track him without meaning to, the restless energy rolling off him like heat.

“My father sired heirs without difficulty,” he says. “So did his father before him. It is not in our blood to struggle.” He stops, glancing back over his shoulder. “Unless something is wrong.”

The word hangs there. You feel it settle in your chest, cold and heavy.

Aerion studies your reaction with unnerving focus. As if he’s already learned something just by saying it.

“Have you done anything,” he asks, voice low, “to interfere?”

Your heart jumps. “No.”

“No teas?” he presses. “No foolish advice from handmaids who think they know better than centuries of Valyrian truth?”

“No,” you repeat, firmer now.

Good, his expression seems to say. Because there would be consequences.

He returns to you, close again, crowding your space. His hand slides to your waist, possessive, grounding.

“You understand what you are meant to give me,” he says. “An heir. A living, breathing proof that the blood remains strong.” His gaze drops, lingering. “I did not marry you for only companionship.”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned that silence is safer than the wrong words.

Aerion leans in, his mouth near your ear, his voice dropping into something quieter and far more dangerous.

“Every night I lie beside you and think about it,” he admits. “About what should already be growing inside you. About how it will bear my name. My fire.” His breath ghosts your skin. “I won’t be denied that. Not by fate. Not by gods. And certainly not by a body that forgets its purpose.”

His hand flexes at your waist, fingers digging in just enough to bruise tomorrow.

For a moment, that is all there is.

Then his grip loosens.

Aerion exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as if reining himself back from the edge of something sharp. His forehead comes to rest briefly against your temple.

“You were always my favourite,” he says quietly, like it’s a fact he’s just remembered. “Did you know that?”

You still. He hasn’t said anything like that before.

“When you were three and ten, and I came home from battle,” he continues, voice lower now, less performative. “You listened. You didn’t fawn, didn’t flinch. You looked at me like you understood what I was meant to be.” His fingers trace the seam of your sleeve, grounding himself as much as you. “That is why I chose you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at your face. His eyes search it, not for fear this time, but for alignment.

“I want this to work,” Aerion says. The words sound strange on him, unfamiliar, but no less intense. “With you.” A pause. “Not because I doubt myself. Never that.” His mouth tightens. “But because I will not have the realm whisper that I chose wrongly.”

His thumb brushes your jaw, almost reverent now, as though convincing himself of something.

“We are of the same fire,” he murmurs. “It will take. It must.”

Then the moment closes. The mask settles back into place, seamless.

“We will try again tonight,” he says, not as a question but as a decree. “And tomorrow. And the night after that, if we must.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright with conviction. “Until the realm has its proof.”

He straightens, already done with the conversation, already certain of the outcome.

“Go,” Aerion orders softly.

The summons comes at midnight, delivered by a servant who won't meet your eyes. "Prince Aerion requests your presence in his chambers, Princess."

You dismiss your handmaid with a wave, rising from your seat by the window where you've been pretending to read.

Your stomach tightens with the familiar mixture of anticipation and resignation that's become your constant companion these past months.

The walk to his chambers feels longer than usual. Your hair, unbound as he prefers it, cascades down your back. You're wearing a simple silk robe; there's no point in anything more elaborate.

He'll have it off you within moments anyway.

His door is already open when you get there. You step inside to find him standing by the window, backlit by the dying sun. He's removed his doublet already, dressed only in his shirtsleeves and breeches, and when he turns to face you, his eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"Close the door."

You obey, and the soft click of the latch feels final, sealing you in with him and his purpose.

"Come here."

You cross the room, your bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. When you're close enough, he reaches out and catches your chin, tilting your face up to his. His thumb traces your cheekbone, then your lower lip, pressing against it until your mouth parts slightly.

You hold still under his examination.

You've learned that he likes to look at you like this, cataloguing your features as if reassuring himself of your worthiness. He releases your chin and begins unlacing your robe with deft, impatient fingers.

"Tonight we do this properly."

The silk slides from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him. His eyes rake over you with undisguised hunger, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your belly. Despite everything, heat blooms low in your belly.

"On the bed. On your back."

You move to obey, climbing onto the massive four-poster bed that dominates his chamber. The sheets are cool against your skin as you settle against the pillows, and you watch as Aerion strips off his remaining clothes with efficient movements. His body is lean and strong, all taut muscle and pale skin, and when he's naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed.

He joins you on the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing you completely to his gaze. You feel yourself flush under the scrutiny, but you don't look away.

His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers reach your centre they stroke through your folds without preamble. This is preparation, nothing more, making sure you're ready to take him. But your body responds anyway, growing slick under his touch.

He pushes one finger inside you, then two, stretching you open with methodical efficiency. His fingers curl and thrust, finding that spot inside you that makes your breath hitch. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction, and a soft sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.

Aerion's eyes snap to your face, a slight smirk gracing his features.

He withdraws his fingers, and you watch as he brings them to his mouth, tasting your arousal on them. His eyes never leave yours as his tongue slides along his fingers, and the sight makes something clench deep in your belly.

Then he's positioning himself over you, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance. He hooks his hands under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The position leaves you completely open, vulnerable, unable to do anything but take what he gives you.

"Dragons breed dragons," he says, his voice rough. "Our children will be worthy of our blood."

And then he's pushing inside you in one long, brutal thrust that fills you completely. The angle is so deep it borders on painful, and you can't stop the sharp cry that tears from your throat.

Your hands clutch at the sheets as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to go as deep as possible, and you can feel him everywhere; the thick length of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock hitting something deep inside that makes sparks shoot up your spine.

His fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he holds you in place, using you. The wet sounds of him fucking into you fill the room, obscene and unmistakable. You can feel yourself growing wetter, your body opening for him despite the intensity, despite the way he's taking you like you're nothing more than a vessel for his seed.

"You'll take it," he grits out, his hips snapping against yours. "All of it. You'll give me an heir worthy of our name."

The words wash over you as he continues to drive into you, relentless.

Your body responds despite yourself, or maybe because of yourself, because some part of you has learned to find pleasure in this, in being wanted so intensely, even if it's only for what you can give him.

The pressure builds low in your belly, coiling tighter with each thrust. You bite your lip to keep from making more noise, but small whimpers escape anyway as he fucks into you harder, faster.

One of his hands releases your thigh, sliding between your bodies to find your most sensitive spot. He circles it with his thumb, rough and insistent, and the added stimulation makes your back arch off the bed.

"Come," he commands. "Now."

It's not a request, and your body obeys.

The pressure explodes and you shatter around him, clenching rhythmically around his cock. Your mouth opens in a silent cry as waves of pleasure crash over you.

Aerion hisses, and his thrusts become harder, more erratic. He buries himself as deep as he can go and stills, and you feel the hot pulse of his release flooding you. His cock jerks inside you as he empties himself, filling you with himself. His head drops forward and for a moment the only sound is both of you breathing hard.

But he doesn't pull out. Instead, he carefully lowers your legs, then shifts his weight, rolling you both so that you're on your side, still joined. His hand slides to your hip, holding you against him, keeping everything inside you.

"Don't move. Don't let any spill."

You obey, feeling the warm fullness of him inside you, his seed deep in your womb. His hand splays possessively over your lower belly, and you can feel his cock still twitching occasionally inside you, still half-hard.

His hand moves from your belly to your face, turning you so he can look at you. His violet eyes search yours, and for a moment, you see something beyond the obsession, something almost like satisfaction.

"We'll keep trying. As many times as it takes."

You feel him beginning to harden again inside you, his cock swelling and lengthening. Your eyes widen slightly, and he sees your reaction.

A small, satisfied smile curves his lips.

"Did you really think once would be enough?"

He begins to move again, slow shallow thrusts that make you gasp. You're oversensitive from your first release, and every movement sends sparks of almost-painful pleasure through you. But he doesn't care, doesn't stop. He pulls out only to push you onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and hauling them up.

"This way. Deeper."

He enters you from behind in one smooth thrust, and the angle is entirely different. You cry out into the pillows as he fills you again, his cock hitting new places that make your toes curl. His hands grip your hips bruisingly tight as he begins to move, fucking into you with renewed purpose.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, along with your muffled whimpers and his harsh breathing. One of his hands slides up your spine, then tangles in your silver hair, gripping it tight and pulling your head back.

"You'll swell with my child," he pants, his hips snapping against yours. "Everyone will see. Everyone will know you carry the dragon's heir."

His words are filthy, possessive, and yet they make you clench around him, make fresh wetness gather between your thighs.

"Touch yourself."

You slide one hand beneath your body, finding your sensitive clit. You're so swollen, so oversensitized, that even your own touch makes you whimper. But you obey, circling the bundle of nerves in time with his brutal thrusts.

His grip on your hair tightens, and he uses it to pull you back onto his cock with each thrust. The pleasure builds again, impossibly, and you can feel yourself climbing toward another release.

"That's it," he growls. "Come on my cock again. Your body knows what it needs."

Your second release crashes over you without warning, somehow even more intense than the first. You muffle your cries in the pillow as your body convulses around him, your inner walls clamping down on his length. You feel him swell inside you, his rhythm faltering, and then he's coming again with a guttural groan, flooding you with more of his seed.

This time when he pulls out, you feel the warm trickle of his spend beginning to leak from you. But before more than a drop can escape, his fingers are there, pushing it back inside roughly.

"Can't waste it. Every drop stays inside you."

He manoeuvres you onto your back again, then reaches for one of the pillows. "Lift your hips."

You obey, and he slides the pillow underneath, elevating your lower body. Then he presses his palm against your entrance, as if he can physically keep his seed inside you. You can feel it—the warm, wet fullness of his release deep inside you, more than you've ever felt before.

"Stay like this. Don't move."

You nod, your body limp and trembling, and watch as he rises from the bed. He pours wine from a carafe on the side table, drinking deeply. His cock is still semi-hard, glistening with your combined pleasure, and you can't help but stare at it, at the evidence of what he's done to you.

He brings a cup to you, helping you drink without letting you lower your hips. The wine is cool and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heat still coursing through your body.

He sets the cup aside and returns to the bed, stretching out beside you. His hand returns to your belly, splaying possessively over the flat plane.

"Not much longer now, I can feel it," he says quietly.

There's something almost desperate in his voice now, beneath the command. As if his entire sense of self, his entire purpose, rests on seeing you pregnant with his child.

"Sons," he says. "Strong sons with the blood of the dragon in their veins." His hand moves up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, making it harden. "Though daughters would be acceptable. If they have the proper features. If they look like you."

He's hardening again against your thigh; you can feel it.

The man's stamina is almost inhuman, driven by his obsession. His hand trails back down your body, fingers dipping between your legs to feel where you're swollen and wet with his seed.

"Still so much inside you. Good."

He strokes gently, almost idly, his fingers sliding through the mess he's made of you. Not trying to bring you pleasure, just touching.

Reminding you both of what you are to him.

The hour passes slowly. He doesn't let you move, keeping you positioned with your hips elevated, his seed deep inside you. Sometimes he talks about the children you'll have, about their dragon blood, about the legacy you'll build together. Other times, he's silent, simply watching you with those intense violet eyes, his hand possessive on your belly.

When he finally deems enough time has passed, he removes the pillow and immediately moves over you again.

"Once more."

You're sore now, tired and oversensitive, but your body still responds to him. Still opens for him as he pushes inside, filling you once again with his thick length. You can feel how swollen you are, how tender, but he doesn't care.

He needs this.

This time he's slower, more controlled. He fucks you with deep, measured strokes that seem designed to reach as far into you as possible. His eyes never leave your face, watching every expression, every reaction.

"Pure and perfect. You were made for this. Made to carry my children," he murmurs, voice low and hypnotic.

His words should horrify you, should make you feel like nothing more than a broodmare. But you're too far gone, too lost in the sensation of him moving inside you. Your hands come up to grip his shoulders, and despite your soreness, despite everything, you find yourself meeting his thrusts.

His hand slides between your bodies again, and you whimper at the touch, but he's insistent, circling with his fingers.

"One more time. Come for me one more time."

You're not sure you can; you're wrung out, exhausted, overwhelmed. But his fingers are relentless, and his cock is hitting that perfect spot inside you, and somehow, impossibly, you feel the pressure building again.

You arch beneath him when you peak again, a broken cry tearing from your throat, and you feel him follow you over the edge, his seed pulsing into you once more. There's so much of it now, so much that you can feel it leaking out around his cock even as he's still buried inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, his breath hot against your neck. His cock is still inside you, still twitching occasionally, and you can feel the warm wetness of his seed pooling beneath you.

"It will take this time," he murmurs against your skin. "It must."

He rolls off you but immediately pulls you against his side, arranging you so that you're still on your back, still keeping his seed inside you. His hand returns to your belly, possessive and protective.

"Sleep. But don't move. Stay just like this."

You're too exhausted to do anything but obey. Your eyes drift closed, your body heavy and sated despite the soreness, despite the ache between your thighs. His hand remains on your belly, and the last thing you're aware of before sleep claims you is his voice, quiet and determined:

"You're mine. You'll give me heirs worthy of our blood. Worthy of dragons."

And in the darkness behind your eyelids, you can almost see them; the silver-haired children you'll bear him, the legacy you'll create together.

Morning comes slowly, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome.

You surface to awareness in fragments, heat first, then weight, then the dull, echoing ache threaded through your hips and thighs. The bed smells like smoke and skin, and your body feels heavy, overused, tender in places you don’t want to think too closely about yet.

You try to move and hiss quietly instead.

Aerion stirs beside you.

You’re naked. So is he, stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly above his head. The sheet is tangled around your legs, useless. There are marks on you. You can feel them without looking.

Dark bruises blooming along your inner thighs, your waist, the soft underside of your arm where his hand lingered too long.

His eyes open.

They’re already focused.

“Don’t,” he says immediately, voice rough with sleep. Not angry. Not gentle. Just certain. His hand comes down, firm on your hip, holding you still. “You’ll make it worse.”

You freeze, breath caught.

He looks you over openly, assessing. There’s no embarrassment in his gaze, no softness, but there is satisfaction.

“You pushed yourself,” Aerion murmurs, almost to himself. “I told you not to tense like that.”

You swallow. “You didn’t stop.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“No, you are right, cousin,” he agrees. “I didn’t.”

He shifts then, carefully, rising onto one elbow. The movement makes you more aware of your own body, how sore you are, how every small motion pulls.

Aerion notices your wince immediately.

“Hmh.” His thumb presses into your hip, not unkindly, testing. “You’re not injured.”

It isn’t reassurance. It’s a verdict.

Still, he reaches for the bell without asking, gives it a single sharp ring. When the servants come later, he dismisses them just as quickly, taking the basin himself. You watch from the bed, dazed, as he wets the cloth and returns.

“If I ruin you, you’ll be no use to me.”

The cloth is warm. He cleans you with deliberate care, efficient, thorough, avoiding nothing.

His touch lingers where it doesn’t need to, thumb brushing bruised skin as if cataloguing it. You feel him pause once, just long enough for his breath to change.

“Good,” he murmurs. “They suit you.”

Your stomach flips.

When he’s finished, he sets the cloth aside and smooths the sheet back over you, palm resting briefly on your abdomen. Possessive. Thoughtful. As though imagining something beneath his hand that isn’t there yet.

“You’ll rest today,” Aerion says. “No walking the galleries. No visits to court. You stay here.” He looks at you, eyes bright with quiet certainty.

He lies back beside you, close enough that you can feel his heat again, his arm settling around you like it belongs there.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just Aerion Targaryen, ensuring that what is his remains intact and ready.

By the time you realise it, Aerion already has.

It’s in the way his questions change, less accusatory, more precise. The way he watches you when you think he isn’t. The way his hand lingers at your wrist when you grow light-headed, his thumb pressing there as if counting something only he can feel.

“How many days?” he asks one evening, voice deceptively calm.

You hesitate. He looks up from where he’s seated, expression sharpening instantly.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Aerion says. “You know what I’m asking.”

“…Nearly three weeks,” you admit.

The room goes very still.

Aerion leans back slowly, eyes flicking to the fire, then back to you, already doing the math. You can see it happen behind his eyes, neat and ruthless. When he stands, he closes the distance between you in three strides.

“You’ve been nauseous,” he says. Not a question. “In the mornings. You haven’t touched wine. And you’ve been tired.” His fingers tilt your chin up, possessive but controlled.

“You should have told me.”

“I wasn’t sure,” you say quietly.

His grip tightens.

"I am"

The maester is summoned the next morning. You sit on the edge of the bed while Aerion paces like a caged animal, every movement coiled with tension.

The old man finally clears his throat, "It is without doubt, my Prince. The Princess is with child."

For a heartbeat, you think he hasn’t heard.

Then he laughs.

It’s low and incredulous, like something has finally aligned in the world. He turns to you, eyes bright.

“You see?” he says, almost triumphant. He crosses the room and takes your face in both hands, thumbs warm against your cheeks. “I told them. I told them all.”

The maester is dismissed with a wave and the door shuts. Silence falls, thick and charged.

Aerion doesn’t let go of you.

“My heir,” he murmurs, then corrects himself, “Our child.”

He studies you like he’s seeing you properly for the first time, pride written openly across his face. His hand slides to your abdomen, reverent now, protective in a way that feels startling on him.

“You did well,” he says. Praise, bare and unguarded.

You look up at him. “Was it ever in doubt?”

Something flickers in his expression, something almost like fondness.

His forehead rests briefly against yours. When he kisses you, it’s not hungry. Not demanding. It’s slow, claiming, deliberate, like a seal pressed into hot wax.

When he pulls back, his hand never leaves you.

“No one touches you now,” he says softly. “No one questions you. You are carrying fire.”

And for the first time since you became his wife, Aerion Targaryen looks at you not just as a means, but as something precious he intends to guard.

he so 🥵

[maybestrid33]

After the Lists

Aerion Targaryen x Wife!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: In front of the masses Aerion Targaryen is untouchable. In private, he bleeds, even though he pretends he doesn't.

Warnings: 16+ toxic but hot dynamics, possessive behaviour, post-tourney aftermath, hurt/comfort vibes, canon-typical violence, blood/gore, power imbalance, sexual tension, the usual Targaryen arrogance, crude/suggestive comments

A/N: again, im very aware he's evil but i don't think i care tbh

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 2.3k

The lists are still roaring when Aerion reins in his horse.

Splintered lances litter the dirt like broken bones. The last of his opponent’s armour is being dragged from the field, dented and humiliated, and the crowd’s thunder has not yet decided whether it is cheering for the violence or the victor.

He gives them both. He lifts his visor with a lazy, satisfied motion, silver hair darkened with sweat, mouth curved in a smile that is all teeth and triumph.

He turns his horse toward the high seats before the noise can crest and spill into something uncontrolled.

He knows where you are.

Then again, he's known since the first pass of the joust, since the moment he felt the familiar heat of eyes on him. His gaze finds you easily, seated among silks and banners, a pale, perfect figure against the crush of colour and nobility.

You are beautiful, Westeros agrees on this much. The court has decided it, the singers have made a hobby of it, and Aerion, vain, terrible Aerion, knows exactly what it does to the spectacle of him.

He raises his lance in your direction, the motion theatrical, deliberate. Not a salute to the crowd. To you.

A ripple of murmurs moves through the stands. A perfect match, they will whisper. The dragon prince and his beautiful wife, all fire and silk and inevitability.

The sort of pairing people like to believe in, as if power arranges itself neatly into handsome shapes.

Aerion’s smile sharpens when he sees the way the eyes turn, frist toward you, then flicking back to him. He wants them to look. He wants them to see what is his. The blood on his armour, the victory in his grip, the woman who waits for him in the high seats like a promise made of bone and beauty.

He does not flinch when the ache in his shoulder blooms with the movement. He does not let the stiffness in his ribs show when he straightens in the saddle.

Pain is a private thing. Pain is for behind closed doors. Out here, he is unbreakable.

Out here, he is Aerion Brightflame, the Targaryen prince.

His horse prances beneath him, sensing the restless energy of the crowd. Aerion leans forward in the saddle, eyes never leaving you, and inclines his head just enough to be insolent.

As if he's asking, did you see that?

His armour creaks as he swings down from the saddle in a fluid, practised motion, boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. Grooms rush forward with outstretched hands; knights move to flank him, already speaking of injuries and formalities and the order of presentation.

Aerion ignores them all.

He walks straight toward the high seats.

The crowd parts for him instinctively, a path opening through silk and steel and staring eyes. You feel the shift before you see him, the subtle ripple of attention, the way conversation falters and then surges again, louder for having been interrupted.

By the time he reaches the steps, the murmurs are already alive with speculation.

He takes them two at a time.

There is blood on his gauntlet. Dried along the knuckles. You see it as his hand comes up to your chair, as he leans in close enough that the heat of him presses into your space, close enough that the court seems to collectively forget how to breathe.

For a heartbeat, he only looks at you.

There is something feral in his eyes, something bright and reckless and utterly victorious. The dragon still coiled hot beneath his skin. You know this look, it's the look he gets when the world has bent to him, when the noise of it all has gone to his head and made him careless.

Then he kisses you.

It is not gentle or fit for court. It is a claim made in full view of banners and nobles and the stunned silence of a thousand watching eyes. His mouth is warm from exertion, his breath still unsteady from the joust, and the press of him is all heat and steel and triumph. The court gasps as one, a soft, scandalised sound, and Aerion does not care at all.

If anything, he seems to enjoy it.

When he finally draws back, it is only far enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours, close enough that only you can hear him.

“Did you see,” he murmurs, voice low and pleased, “how easily he fell?”

There is a faint tremor in the hand that still braces against your chair. You feel it, but you know he would rather burn the world than let anyone else see it.

Around you, the court finds its breath again. Whispers spark and spread like fire through dry grass.

The dragon and his guarded treasure.

Aerion turns, already half-facing the noise of them, the smug smile back in place. All arrogance and victory.

To you, close enough to feel the heat still bleeding from him, he is a man who has not yet come down from the fight.

The chamber is dim when you return to it, the noise of the tourney muted by thick stone and heavy doors.

The air smells faintly of smoke and oil, the lingering trace of torches and the faint, clean sharpness of the linens changed that morning. You move on instinct now, water poured into a basin, clean cloths laid out, the small tin of salve set within reach. You’ve done this enough times to know the rhythm of it.

And he's late.

You know it's nothing. Knights linger. Princes are delayed by ceremony and tradition. By praise and the hollow rituals of victory.

Still, you find your eyes drifting to the door each time the corridor outside echoes with footsteps.

When it finally opens, it is not Aerion alone.

The maester follows a step behind him, speaking softly, urgently, already in the cadence of someone accustomed to being ignored by princes. Aerion is the picture of indifference, his helmet gone, hair still damp, the remnants of the arena still clinging like heat. His armour is spattered with dirt and darker stains you do not want to look at too closely yet.

“I told you,” Aerion says, voice edged with impatience, “it is nothing.”

The maester sighs. “With respect, Your Grace, it is very clearly not nothing.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks to you, sharp and immediate. Something in his expression tightens, not the courtly mask, but the private one, the one he wears only with you. He does not like being seen like this.

He likes it even less when you are the one who sees.

“Leave us,” he says.

The maester hesitates. You catch the man’s eye and give a small, reassuring nod. He bows stiffly and withdraws, the door closing behind him with a heavy, final sound.

Silence settles.

Aerion stands where he is, armour still on, posture rigid with the effort of holding himself together. The bravado from the lists has not yet bled away; it sits in his shoulders, in the tilt of his chin, in the way he refuses to acknowledge the way his breath is just a fraction too careful.

“You shouldn’t have let him follow me in,” he says lightly, as if the words cost him nothing.

You step closer, slow and unhurried. “You shouldn’t have tried to walk away from him bleeding.”

His mouth curves, sharp and familiar. “I am not bleeding. I'm-”

“Hurt,” you finish for him, gently. You reach for the straps at his shoulder, fingers brushing against the warm metal. “Sit.”

He does not move.

For a moment, the old tension sparks between you; his pride, your quiet refusal to bend to it. Then, with visible reluctance, he exhales and allows himself to lower onto the edge of the bed.

The motion pulls a hiss from between his teeth before he can stop it.

You pretend not to hear it.

The armour comes away piece by piece, the careful unfastening of steel and leather. With each layer removed, you see the marks left by the day, like the bruises blooming dark beneath his skin, a shallow cut along his ribs where a splintered lance found purchase, the angry red of a shoulder that took a blow too hard.

He watches your face as you take it in, waiting for pity, but you give him none.

You press a clean cloth into the basin and wring it out, your hands steady. “You fought well,” you say instead. “You don’t need to pretend you didn’t pay for it.”

His eyes linger on you, searching for something, judgment, perhaps. Finding only the familiar, infuriating calm, he looks away.

“Do not mistake this,” he murmurs, low and sharp. “I am not-”

“Weak?” you offer quietly, dabbing at the dried blood along his side. “I know.”

You work in silence for a while, the room filled with the soft sounds of water and breath.

You press him back against the pillows when he shifts. The bed creaks beneath his weight as he yields, more out of curiosity than obedience, silver hair stark against dark linen.

“Stay,” you murmur, dipping the cloth back into the basin.

His eyes track you as you move. There is a lazy, dangerous glint to them now. “And here I thought I married a gentle woman,” he says lightly. “You grow bold when you have me laid out beneath you.”

You climb onto the bed to reach him properly, one knee on either side of his hips so you can lean over him without straining your arm. The position is practical. You tell yourself that. The warmth of him bleeds up through the thin layers between you, heat meeting heat, and for a moment the air feels too thick to breathe.

Aerion’s gaze darkens.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low, amused in that cutting way of his, “this would give the court something to whisper about if they were here to witness, wouldn't it? Their perfect match, and here you are, straddling me like you want me to remind you who you belong to.”

You swipe the cloth gently along his cheek, careful of the split skin near his mouth. “I belong to no one,” you say. “And you’re bleeding.”

A corner of his mouth lifts, sharp. “Careful,” he warns softly. “Say that too loudly and I might have to prove you wrong.”

His hand comes up, not quite touching you, hovering at your waist. The possessiveness in him curls close to the surface, instinctive and territorial, a man given to too much power and too many expectations.

“I took that man from his horse for you,” he says, quietly now. “For all of them to see. Do you know what it means for a prince to look back at one woman when the whole realm is watching?”

You lean closer, just enough that he can feel your breath against his skin. “It means you wanted them to look at me,” you say. “Not that you own me.”

For a heartbeat, the teasing falters. Something old and dangerous flickers in his eyes, pride and hunger. Then the familiar smile returns, cruel-edged and beautiful.

“You are my wife,” he says softly. “If I tell the realm to look at you, they will look at you.”

You clean the last of the blood from his face, unhurried. “And in here,” you reply, meeting his gaze, “you will let me tend to you without turning it into a performance.”

His breath hitches, just once, betraying him.

After a while you finish binding the cut along his side with careful, practised hands, fingers smoothing the linen flat against his skin. The work is precise, quiet. When you lean back, the room feels suddenly larger.

Aerion watches you for a moment too long, then the softness goes.

He's never cruel to you, not really, but the prince rises back into him like a tide returning to shore. He sits up, rolling his shoulder once as if testing the limits of the bandage, mouth curving into that familiar, sharp-edged smile. The dragon back in place behind his eyes.

“There,” he says lightly. “You’ve done your duty. The realm can have me again.”

You arch a brow.

He stands, gathering the edge of his robe and pulling it around himself with deliberate care, as though the simple act of dressing is a declaration of command.

When he looks down at you now, it is with that smug, effortless certainty that everyone knows so well.

“Come,” he says, already turning toward the bed. “I will not have you hovering like a nervous septa. If I am to be wounded, I will at least be comfortable.”

The command is lazy, but it is still a command. You follow him anyway.

He draws you into the space beside him. The sheets rustle, candles gutter low. He settles back, arranging you where he wants you, a king placing his favourite piece upon the board.

Outside these walls, he will be Aerion Targaryen, smiling and terrible, completely untouchable. He will let the court see only the polished edge of him, the triumph and the fire.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, smug even in the dark, breath warm against your hair. “You'll need your strength in the morning.”

maybe he's acc a baby for his wife, who knows

[maybestrid33]

What is Owed

Aerion Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Married to Prince Aerion Targaryen and left untouched for a month, you learn that anticipation can be more terrifying than pain. When he finally returns, he proves that cruelty is not the same as care, and that submission does not always look like surrender.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ arranged marriage, canon-typical violence, power imbalance, possessive behaviour, dark romance, dubiously consensual themes, p in v, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, alcohol, manipulation, toxic dynamics

A/N: i get this guy is evil and cruel but if i'm meant to hate him they cant cast someone hot to play him. He might be a lil ooc, but like its ok dw just focus on the facecard <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.9k

You say the words quickly.

You kneel because you are meant to kneel. You answer when prompted because you have practised this since you were old enough to stand straight without swaying. Your voice does not shake.

You learned early that composure is a kind of armour.

Still, the words land strangely.

Husband. Wife.

They echo, hollow and final, like a door closing somewhere behind you.

You do not look at him when they bind your hands together. You can feel the heat of him without needing to see; too close, too solid, it's like standing near a forge. When you finally do lift your gaze, it is because you are expected to, because this part has been explained to you too.

Prince Aerion Targaryen stands beside you in red and black, hair pale as bone in torchlight, mouth set in something that is not quite a smile. His eyes flick down to where your hands are joined, then back to your face, sharp and assessing.

Not hungry. Not yet. He looks curious.

That unsettles you more than hunger would have.

The ceremony ends without flourish. No songs linger in the air. No laughter swells to carry you forward into whatever comes next. There is no bedding, no drunken crowd to shove you toward a marriage bed while women shout advice and men cheer.

Instead, someone says his name.

Quiet, urgent. Aerion turns at once, hearing what the man has to say.

“I ride within the hour,” he says, already stepping away from you. The words are not meant for you, but you hear them all the same. “Tell my father the banners will hold.”

You blink.

Within the hour?

This was not part of what you were told. You were prepared for pain, for humiliation, for the sharp loss of self that comes with becoming someone’s wife in truth rather than in name. You were prepared for blood on sheets and the heavy, suffocating closeness of a stranger who would own you by dawn.

You were not prepared for this, or the way he pauses, just barely, as if remembering you exist.

Aerion looks back at you then. Really looks. His gaze skims your face, the line of your throat, the dark fabric of your house colours swallowed beneath Targaryen red.

Something unreadable passes through his expression, irritation, perhaps? Or calculation.

“We will speak when I return,” he says.

Not I will come to you. Not I will send for you.

Then he is gone, swallowed by motion and command, cloak snapping behind him like a banner.

You are left standing where he put you, hands empty now, heart beating far too loud for a room that has gone very still.

That night, you are escorted to chambers that are unmistakably his.

Everything smells like him, smoke and oil and something sharper beneath, metallic and clean. His things are everywhere, armour set carefully on its stand, sword laid out as if he might reach for it at any moment, books half-open and abandoned. Then there is the bed, vast and untouched, its linens smooth and cold beneath your fingertips once you dare brush them.

You sit on the edge, because you do not know what else to do, and tell yourself this is a mercy.

A delay. A gift of time to steady yourself, to remember how to breathe when fear coils too tightly in your chest. You have endured storms that rattled the walls of Storm’s End and laughed through thunder that sent other children running; you can endure this.

But the nights stretch.

One becomes three. Three becomes seven. A week becomes a month, and the bed remains empty beside you.

You learn the rhythms of his absence.

Each evening you prepare as if he might come. You keep your hair brushed, hands clean, spine straight. Each night you lie awake listening for boots that never sound. You do not ask questions.

You do not seek reassurance. You have not been raised to beg for comfort, and besides, comfort is not what waits for you when he returns.

What waits is consummation.

The word sits heavy in your mind, formal and ominous. It is not desire you fear, not truly. It is the uncertainty. You know his reputation, as everyone does. He's supposed to be cruel and volatile, too enamoured with his own blood and birthright. You have heard how he laughs when others flinch, how his temper burns fast and bright.

You imagine his hands, impatient and unyielding. You imagine pain as a thing to be endured quietly, teeth clenched, but pride intact.

You tell yourself this will be a duty.

Still, sometimes in the dark, your fingers curl into the sheets and do not loosen for a long while.

When the summons finally comes, it is unceremonious.

“He has returned,” a servant says, eyes fixed carefully on the floor. “The prince requests your presence at supper.”

Requests.

You almost laugh at that.

You dress slowly, deliberately. Your hands do not shake, but your stomach tightens all the same. When you leave the chambers, you do not look back at the bed. You have learned better than to tempt fate.

The hall where he waits is smaller than you expect. Intimate. The table is set for two.

Aerion stands when you enter.

He looks intact. Unharmed.

Sharper, if anything, as if battle has honed him rather than dulled his edges. His eyes catch on you immediately, tracking your approach with unnerving focus.

“So,” he says, once you are close enough to hear the quiet amusement in his voice. “My wife.”

The word feels different when he says it.

He gestures for you to sit.

Up close you can see the faint marks battle has left behind. The scratches along his knuckles, a small healing cut at his jaw. He notices your gaze and smiles thinly, as if daring you to ask.

You do not.

“Did you sleep well in my absence?” he asks lightly, as servants begin to pour wine.

You hesitate just long enough to be honest without being foolish. “I slept,” you say.

His smile deepens, just a fraction. “Good. You will need your strength.”

Your breath catches despite yourself. Aerion watches this reaction with open interest, fingers tapping once against the table.

“Hmm,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself. “You will.”

The implications of his word send a shiver down your spine, and slowly, the servants start to withdraw from the room.

One moment there is the soft scrape of plates, the low murmur of movement, and the next, the door closes and the silence is absolute.

The candles burn steadily, the light catching on dark wine in your cup.

Aerion does not reach for his food right away.

He watches you instead.

It is not the obvious kind of staring, not the leering, impatient sort you were taught to expect. His gaze drifts, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to use every moment of it.

“You are tense,” he says mildly.

You swallow. “Not particularly, my prince.”

He lifts a brow. “It was not a question.”

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your cup. You force them to loosen, one by one. You are not a girl anymore. You are a married woman, seated across from a Targaryen prince with a reputation sharpened to a blade.

“I am not accustomed to being summoned so suddenly,” you say, choosing your words with care.

Aerion hums, amused. “Liar.”

The word lands harshly.

He finally reaches for his wine, swirling it once before taking a measured sip. His eyes never leave your face.

“You have been expecting this since the moment I left,” he continues. “Since the words were said and the door closed behind me. Every night. Every hour.”

Your throat tightens. You do not deny it. There is no point.

“I imagine you have built quite the story in your head,” he says. “Was I cruel?”

You hesitate. That, too, amuses him.

“Go on,” he urges. “I will not punish you for honesty, I asked, didn't I?”

“I… imagined you would not be gentle,” you say at last.

Aerion laughs.

It is a soft sound, almost pleasant, and it made your blood run cold.

“Gentleness,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you value?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But-”

“But you hoped for it anyway,” he finishes. “How very human of you.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you as though you are something newly discovered, something he has not yet decided whether to break apart or keep intact.

“You fear pain,” he says. “That is expected. What surprises me is that you fear humiliation more.”

Your breath stutters. You had not realised how transparent you were.

“I would not shame you,” Aerion says, almost absently. “Not in private.”

That should comfort you.

It doesn’t.

He reaches for his knife then, slicing into the meat on his plate with precise, unhurried movements. The sound is quiet but intimate, the scrape of blade against porcelain loud in the silence between you.

“Eat,” he says. “You've barely touched your food.”

You obey, though you can barely taste it. Each bite feels deliberate, watched. You are acutely aware of your mouth, of the way your lips close around the fork, of how you swallow.

The awareness is maddening.

“You were raised at Storm’s End,” Aerion says after a moment. “Tell me, did the storms frighten you?”

“No,” you answer. This, at least, is easy. “They were constant. You do not fear what you grow up with.”

“Mm.” His gaze sharpens. “And me?”

The question is posed lightly, conversationally, but it is a trap all the same.

You meet his eyes. They are pale, almost bright in the candlelight, and entirely unreadable.

“I am learning,” you say carefully, “what it means to be your wife.”

Aerion’s smile is slow. Dangerous.

“You learn quickly.”

He rises from his seat without warning.

You stiffen at once, every nerve lighting up as he comes around the table. You do not turn to track him; you do not dare. His presence shifts the air behind you, close enough now that you can feel warmth at your back.

He stops just there. Not touching. Not yet.

“You sit as if you expect a blow,” he observes. “Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.”

You hate that he knows.

“Look at me,” he says.

It is not loud. It does not need to be.

You turn.

Up close he is overwhelming, taller than you remembered, broader, his pale hair catching the light like fire turned cold. His expression is thoughtful now, not mocking, not cruel.

“If I wished to frighten you,” Aerion says quietly, “I would have done so already.”

His hand lifts, slow, and his fingers hover near your jaw, not quite touching, as if gauging how much space you need to breathe.

“I am not interested in breaking what is mine,” he continues. “That would be wasteful.”

There it is, that possession you were warned of, stated plainly and without apology.

Your heart hammers. “And if I disappoint you?”

His thumb brushes your chin, just barely, tilting your face up. The touch is controlled, almost careful, and somehow that makes it worse.

“Then I will teach you,” he says. “Disappointment is a correctable flaw.”

He withdraws his hand as suddenly as he offered it, stepping back as though nothing intimate has just passed between you.

“Come,” Aerion says, turning toward the door. “Supper is finished.”

Your pulse roars in your ears as you rise. Your legs feel unsteady, but you force them to move, following him from the room and down the quiet corridor beyond.

Each step feels like a countdown.

When he stops before the doors to his chambers, he turns to face you once more. His gaze flicks over you, your face, your hands, the tension still coiled too tightly in your frame.

Then he pushes the doors open.

The chambers are dim, lit only by the low glow of the hearth and a handful of candles set too far apart to fully chase the shadows from the corners. The bed dominates the room; wide, imposing, draped in pale fabric that looks untouched despite the weeks you’ve spent sleeping alone in it.

Aerion closes the door.

The sound of the latch clicking echoes through the room.

You stand where you are, hands folded too neatly before you, heart thudding hard enough you’re certain he must hear it. He doesn’t rush you. Of course he doesn’t. He takes his time removing his gloves, setting them aside with deliberate care.

“Come here,” he says.

Not unkindly. Not gently either. Simply stated, like a truth.

You cross the room on unsteady legs. He watches the whole way, eyes sharp and intent, tracking every hesitation. When you stop in front of him, close enough now to feel his warmth, he tilts his head slightly.

“You look as though you expect me to tear at you,” he observes. “Does that disappoint you?”

Your breath stutters. “No, my prince.”

A smile flickers across his mouth. “Good. Because I do not rush what is owed to me.”

He cups your face, thumbs pressing lightly beneath your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. There is no heat in his expression, no hunger, no embarrassment, no urgency.

Just possession.

“This is duty,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. “For both of us."

He guides you back toward the bed, one steady step at a time, until the backs of your knees meet the mattress. Only then does he release you.

“Sit.”

You do.

The bed dips beneath your weight. The sheets whisper softly as you brace your hands at your sides, spine straight, chin lifted.

You refuse to cower.

Aerion seems pleased by that.

He steps closer again, standing between your knees, and reaches for the clasp at your collar. His fingers are steady as he undoes it, then the next, and the next after that. He takes his time, watching your face rather than his hands, noting every sharp inhale you fail to hide.

“You have never been with a man,” he says suddenly.

It is not phrased as a question.

“No,” you answer, heat rising to your cheeks despite yourself. “I have not.”

“Of course not,” he murmurs. There is something almost amused in his tone now. “Baratheons guard their daughters well.”

He slides the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away slowly. There is no shame in his gaze as he looks at you. You are simply there, and he is looking, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You tremble,” he notes. “But you do not pull away.”

“I was taught not to,” you say quietly.

That earns you a sharp look. “Unlearn that,” he replies. “I will know if you are afraid. I will know if you lie.”

He presses you back onto the bed then, not roughly, but decisively, guiding you down until the pillows cradle your head and the mattress supports your spine. You stare up at him, pulse racing, as he straightens and begins to undress himself with the same unhurried precision.

There is no modesty in him. He does not look away, does not rush, does not pretend this is anything other than what it is meant to be.

When he leans over you again, bracing one arm beside your head, his presence is overwhelming, close and inescapable.

His free hand smooths over your hair.

When he positions himself between your legs, his hands roam your body, tracing the curves of your hips and waist.

His fingers delve lower, parting your folds to circle your entrance with a tantalising pressure. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of heat and wetness building you cannot control, and then he brushes against your most sensitive spot. A whimper escapes before you can stop it.

In that moment beneath him, the weight of his gaze, you feel the last of your resistance crumbling.

A dark thrill courses through you, corrupted by the whispers of the court that have haunted your every waking moment, the tales of Aerion's cruelty, his unyielding temper, how he crushes anyone he even slightly dislikes without mercy.

His fingers, still circling you, suddenly press harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his power, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs,

"You'll learn to crave this, wife, just as the dragons crave the sky."

The words slice through you, stirring the ever-existing nervousness that makes your body tense beneath him. You feel his cock nudge your entrance, slick with your own uncontrollable wetness.

You hear the low, predatory growl in his throat, feel the scars on his chest press against your breasts like brands of ownership. He is finally making you his, body and soul, with a possessiveness that borders on ruthlessness, his violet eyes now gleaming with hunger for the first time.

He shifts his weight, muscular thighs pinning yours apart; you will almost certainly bruise.

It's as if he's trying to quell any last flicker of resistance, and you gasp at the raw intrusion as he pushes forward, his hard cock breaching you with a slow, relentless thrust that stretches you to your limits.

The pain is immediate, your walls gripping him desperately, every inch of him filling you until you're certain you can't take any more. But still, he doesn't stop, driving deeper into you in a way that's both careful and harsh, his hands clamping down on your hips to hold you in place.

Your mind races with the rumours of his past conquests, how he's broken others with this same intensity. Tears prick at your eyes, born of fear and the sensation of being utterly claimed. But beneath it all there's a heat building, your body betrays you and arches to meet his movements, your moans escaping unbidden as his cock hits a sensitive spot deep inside.

In the dim torchlight, his face hovers above yours, a mask of arrogant triumph laced with something primal, his silver hair catching the torchlight.

"Mine at last."

He rolls his hips with calculated force, each thrust claiming not just your body, but pushes you towards surrender.

You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, torn between the dread of his cruelty and the fire he's awakening in you.

His hips drive forward with a relentless rhythm, each thrust sending shockwaves through your core, your pussy clenching tightly around him as if trying to hold him captive.

You arch beneath him again, nails biting deeper into the scarred flesh of his shoulders, a mix of pain and pleasure blurring the lines of your resistance.

Aerion's breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your neck, his silver hair brushing your skin like silken whips. You can feel the sweat-slicked slide of his body over yours, the hard planes of his muscles flexing with every powerful stroke.

"That's it, little wife," he growls, his voice rough, "give in to me. Feel how perfectly you take me."

His words ignite a fresh wave of heat, your body betraying you once more as your hips rise to meet his, the friction against your clit sending sparks of ecstasy that make your toes curl and your moans spill unchecked into the dim chamber.

He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts to find that sensitive spot deep inside you. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples with a possessive squeeze, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

"You're mine now, in every way," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that strips away your defences, his cock plunging deeper as if to seal the claim.

Before you can think it through, your hands slide to his face, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw.

“I thought it would hurt. I didn’t think I’d feel anything good at all.” The words slip out before you can regret them, drawing a wicked smile from his lips.

Aerion's pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the stone walls, mingling with your gasps and the distant roar of the sea outside.

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading with the same dominance as his body.

You can taste the salt of your own tears.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper, the pressure building in your core until it threatens to shatter you, your pussy throbbing with an ache that demands release.

Aerion's rhythm grows more primal, his thrusts deepening as if he seeks to etch himself into the very core of your being. With a sudden, commanding growl, he pulls back just enough to grasp your hips, his strong fingers digging into your flesh. In one fluid motion, he flips you onto your stomach, the cool silk sheets pressing against your heated skin as he manoeuvres you onto all fours. Your knees sink into the mattress as your back arches instinctively under his hands.

The new position exposes you fully to him, you clench around the emptiness he'd left, slick and aching, while his thick cock nudges against your entrance again, the head teasing your folds with a deliberate grind that makes your breath catch.

Behind you now, Aerion's hands roam your curves, one sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his intense violet gaze over your shoulder.

"That's it, my love," he murmurs, tone mocking, "I'm going to fill you so completely, plant my seed deep inside you until you're swollen with my child." He groans, and when he speaks again his voice is a husky whisper.

"Imagine it, your belly rounded with a Targaryen heir, your body marked as mine forever."

You can't deny the way his promise ignites something within you, like a forbidden kind of thrill. His cock plunges back into your depths with a forceful thrust that stretches you anew, each stroke hitting newer, deeper angles that send jolts through your limbs.

The air grows thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. You feel the weight of his body covering yours, his chest pressing into your back as his hands grip your waist to hold you steady.

Aerion's hand slips lower, his fingers delving between your slick folds with expert precision. He circles your swollen clit with an unrelenting pressure as he whispers, "Let go for me, hmm? Your first true surrender, a gift only for your husband."

The words wrap around you, fueling the storm building inside, and you feel the tension coil tighter in your core. The friction of his movements ignite sparks that race through your veins, your moans growing frantic and unrestrained, until finally, the barrier is shattered.

Your body convulses around him, a rush of warmth flooding through you as your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, the whole thing overwhelming in its novelty.

Confusion swirls in your mind, this unfamiliar bliss and disorientation taking over your body. You've never known such a feeling. A raw, shattering peak that left you gasping and pliant beneath him, every nerve alight with a pleasure that bordered on pain.

Aerion slows his thrusts, his eyes gleaming with hunger as he eases himself out just enough to flip you onto your back once more, your legs falling open, boneless under him.

He positions himself above you, his frame blocking out the torchlight, thick cock sliding back into your overstimulated pussy with a single, deep thrust that makes you cry out.

The sensitivity heightens every sensation.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rumble, as he begins to move again, his hips driving forward with controlled force. Each stroke is deliberate and deep, allowing him to watch the play of emotions across your face; your wide eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips.

Your body responds despite the overload, hips bucking to meet his, the slick heat of your arousal once again easing his path.

The overstimulation leaves you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from the perfect torment. As his pace quickens his breaths turn to ragged growls.

Suddenly, you feel him swell inside you, his cock pulsing with impending release, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

"Take all of me," he whispers against your hair, hands framing your face with surprising tenderness amid the intensity. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hot seed spilling deep into you.

The sensation pushes you towards another edge as you clench around him in aftershocks, leaving you utterly spent and adrift in the haze.

He stays there, sprawled over you for a minute before rolling away from you slowly.

Not far, but enough space to breathe again, even though your lungs feel too small for the air they’re meant to hold. The bed shifts beneath his weight, the sheets warm and tangled.

For a moment, you stare at the ceiling.

Your body feels strange; heavy and pliant, aware of itself in a way it never has been before. There is a dull ache, not sharp enough to frighten you, but present enough to remind you of what has been done. What has been completed.

You do not cry.

That, you think, would disappoint him.

Aerion props himself on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression you cannot name. There is no regret there. No softness born of guilt. But neither is there cruelty. His gaze is steady and satisfied, as if he has crossed something off a list and found the result pleasing.

“Breathe,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re holding your breath.”

You obey before you realise you are doing so. Good, he thinks. You can almost feel the approval settle over you like a weight.

He reaches for a cloth from the table beside the bed, movements unhurried, precise. When he touches you again, it is deliberate, careful in a way that feels almost intimate now that the act itself is over.

Not tender, he'd never be tender. But attentive, maybe?

You flinch once despite yourself.

Aerion pauses immediately. His eyes flick to your face, sharp. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

You hesitate, “A little.”

“Hm.” The corner of his mouth flicks upwards. “Of course it does. It should fade, though. Eventually.”

He finishes what he’s doing, then sets the cloth aside. His hand lingers on your thigh, just resting there.

“You did well,” he says.

Not brave. Not obedient. Well, like this was a task you were meant to complete, and you have done it to standard.

Your chest tightens.

“You were afraid,” Aerion continues, voice low. “And you did not fight me. You did not beg. You did not close yourself off.” His thumb presses once, firm, against your skin.

“That is submission,” he says. “Not weakness.”

He shifts again, settling closer, a constant heat at your side. You are acutely aware of how easily you could curl into him now if you allowed yourself to. How natural it would feel.

He notices that too.

A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. “Careful,” he mutters. “If you start clinging already, I’ll think you enjoyed it.”

Heat floods your face. You turn your head slightly, mortified, and it earns you a quiet laugh. There it is, the teasing.

“You are my wife now,” Aerion says, sobering just as quickly. “In truth, not just in name.”

His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face back toward him until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “No one else will touch you,” he continues. “No one else will claim you."

"What you give,” his gaze drops briefly, then returns, “you give to me.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And what do I receive?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He studies you for a long moment.

“Protection,” Aerion says at last. “Position. My name.”

He releases you and leans back, stretching out beside you like a dragon settling atop its hoard. One arm drapes across your middle, heavy and unmistakably possessive, pinning you in place without effort.

You realise that he has positioned you deliberately; turned slightly toward him, caught beneath his arm, your back pressed to his chest.

It is where you belong now.

“Sleep,” he says.

You hesitate. “My prince-”

“Aerion,” he corrects. “In this room.”

You close your eyes.

Your body relaxes before your mind does, surrendering to the warmth, the weight, the certainty of his presence behind you. Whatever you were before this night you feel slipping away, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous.

You are Aerion Targaryen's wife.

His chin dips to your hair, breath steady. “Good,” he murmurs, feeling you settle. “You learn quickly.”

And for the first time since the words were spoken a month ago, you understand what it means to belong to a dragon and survive it.

bro ik he's evil but holy shit he's hot too

[osarina]

LAMENT, CASSANDRA

FEATURING: daeron targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: … for you cannot change the future, only suffer knowing it before it comes. OR, Daeron dreams of your death, and he knows in his heart that there is nothing he can do to stop it, but how is he not supposed to try?

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader is from Braavos. Daeron-typical alcoholism. reader & Daeron have children who are mentioned in passing. hurt/comfort. angsty I suppose but it's tame for me LOL. no character death but it's implied that it may happen in the future bc of Daeron's dreams but who knows, it might not play out the way he thinks (; LOL. I think that's all I didn't really re-read to check.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have been so disgustingly Daeron-pilled lately, he is just so lonely and lovely, I love men who are miserable. This will def not be the last fic for him, and I think I def want to explore more of this reader because I have a whole background/story for her that I think you guys would like. Very different from Volantene!reader, if any of you are following my Aerion series, and I get to delve into Braavos which is genuinely my favorite of the Free Cities, despite my recent fixation on Volantis LOL. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Ignore any errors because I didn't edit. Comments and reblogs v appreciated!!

Daeron does not know you’re awake yet.

In truth, you woke up the moment the door to your chambers creaked open. You aren't sure what time it is, or where your husband has been, but you're only relieved that he returned. He woke up this morning a frantic mess—startled you awake at the crack of dawn when he scrambled out of bed, pulling the sheets right off of you with spluttering, half-comprehensible apologies, ignoring your confused calls of his name.

It’s not as though you’re not used to Daeron’s… more peculiar behaviors. You’ve been married to him for three years now—you have three children with him—so you’re very accustomed to being woken up at odd hours to him spiraling over whatever had haunted him through the night. 

But this morning was—it was different.

The fear in his eyes when he looked back at you before he fled the room has left you inordinately anxious all day. You spent the whole day looking for him with an unsettling feeling creeping through you the longer you couldn’t find him.

You roped the young ones into looking for you, easily swayed with the promise of extra desserts once Maekar retreated to his study after dinner, and you even got Aerion involved with the search after an hour of bargaining with him over old Valyrian texts that are supposedly held by the Reyaan family. It will be a pain negotiating with them for the texts when you go back home to Braavos at the end of the moon, but you needed all hands on deck searching for Daeron, because something was terribly wrong, and the longer you went without knowing what, the more unsettled you became. 

But no matter how hard you looked and how many people you had looking with you, Daeron had vanished. You hadn't been sure if he was going to come home at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappeared for days on end—in the early days of your marriage, he did not wish to trouble you with all of this. He would prefer you think him a drunk and whore than for you to know the truth of what plagued him.

It took months of you whittling down his walls for him to finally confide in you, and you could tell he was waiting for you to laugh at him or scoff at him or whatever he is typically met with when he tells people about his dreams.

And if you're being honest, you're not sure how much you believe it, but it doesn't matter, because you know how it affects him. Whether his dreams are true prophecy or just a cruel, overworked imagination, they are still driving him half-mad, and that is enough for you to believe him, if not them. 

So, over the last two years, he has become more fond of burying himself in your arms than fleeing to run down pubs and sleeping in ditches after particularly rough nights.

It became easier for him over time, with someone to rely on, someone who believed him instead of brushing him off as drunk or mad or both. He never stopped drinking because alcohol was the only thing that could keep the dreams at bay, even if they did return tenfold when he sobered, but he drinks less than he once did. He comes back to bed more often, and he lets you hold him through the worst of it instead of disappearing into the streets until he forgets his own name.

There are nights now when he sleeps with his face buried against your throat and does not wake once screaming. Nights where he laughs too loud at dinner and steals food from your plate and kisses your knuckles absentmindedly while rambling through some half-drunken thought. Nights where he looks at you like he can finally breathe.

That is why today has terrified you.

You expected him to come to bed when you heard the door creaking open, already planning your approach to get him to tell you what he dreamed of, and why it scared him so much. But Daeron doesn't come to bed; he shuffles across the floor to sit on the chair near the fireplace, pouring himself another glass of wine, on top of the countless he has likely had since he vanished this morning.

He does not say anything for a long while, and you cannot see his face from where you’re curled in bed, only the back of his shoulders. 

They shake quietly, tremors subtle enough that you can almost convince yourself that you’re imagining it. When you realize that you’re not, you think he is cold at first, and that’s why he’s sitting in front of the fire—it is a chilly night, after all, and he likely only just got in from wherever he had hidden out for the day.

Then, you hear the choked inhale, and the way he must press his hand against his mouth to muffle a sob, and your throat goes tight.

You push yourself upright slowly, blankets pooling around your waist, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the fire. Daeron is hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, one hand curled tight around his goblet while the other presses against his mouth hard enough that you can see the tension in his arm from across the room. His shoulders shake harder now, desperately trying not to make a sound.

Your chest aches so terribly that it steals your breath for a moment.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and step out quietly, the stone floor cool against your bare feet. You’re careful not to make much noise as you make your way over to him, a lump in your throat when you see how hard he’s trying not to wake you up, shoulders shaking violently, tears spilling over his cheeks, breath ragged around the fist he’s shoved into his mouth.

He flinches hard when he feels your hand slide against his shoulders, violet eyes wide as his gaze cuts up to where you’re standing behind the chair. He blinks twice, as though processing that you’re standing there next to him—you can smell the alcohol on him already.

“I—” he starts to say, voice half-slurred, breaking over the word. “I apologize. I did not mean to wake you.”

Stupid man, you think to yourself, desperately and fondly and furiously. You shift so that you can stand in front of where he’s sitting, and then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him, resting your forearms on his thighs, and propping your chin up on them to look up at him.

Daeron looks entirely devastated as he looks down at you, throat bobbing, jaw tightening as he fights another ragged sob. He lifts one trembling hand to brush his knuckle beneath your eye, as though he’s scared to even touch you.

“You are a fool, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, one hand sneaking up to grab his wrist, unfurling his fist so that you can press his palm against your cheek. You lean your face into the familiar warmth of his hand, letting out a soft sigh as his breath hitches, and his thumb instinctively moves to stroke your skin. “You should have woken me up right away.”

A wet, broken laugh escapes him at that, cracking halfway through. 

“It is easy to say now,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You might not have been so amenable if I actually had.”

His thumb keeps moving against your cheek in slow, absent strokes, like he cannot stop himself now that you’re here in front of him. His other hand, still shaking, puts the goblet down on the table next to him so he can cradle your face between both hands. His eyes are bloodshot—heavy-lidded, tired and terrified all at once.

“Do you truly think so poorly of me?” you counter instead with a frown, letting him outline the shape of your lips. “Have I ever spurned you, or made you feel guilty for waking me up when you needed me?”

“No,” he admits quietly, voice little over a breath, “but it does not mean I do not feel that way anyway.”

You exhale softly through your nose, rising to your feet just enough so that you can slip onto his lap instead. Daeron’s arms immediately encircle your waist, pulling your body flush to his, face dropping into the crook of your neck. You lift your hand to stroke his soft, sandy hair, nails raking gently against his scalp.

“There,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple. “That’s much better, isn’t it? Much more preferable to crying alone.” 

Daeron makes a noise high in his throat, an agreement, but says nothing more. 

You can feel the way he’s holding himself together by threads alone. He presses closer after a moment, one hand flattening against the small of your back while the other curls into the fabric of your nightclothes near your hip, clutching like he’s afraid someone might tear you away from him if he loosens his grip even slightly.

His breathing is still uneven against your throat, and your neck is wet with his tears. You rake your fingers gently through his hair again, untangling soft strands from where he’s likely dragged his hands through it all evening. 

“How much did you drink?” you ask quietly after a few moments.

Daeron huffs a faint laugh against your throat, humorless and exhausted. “Enough that I thought it might shut my mind up for a few hours.”

“And did it?”

“No.”

His nose brushes absently against your skin as he shifts closer still, if such a thing is even possible now. You can feel the damp warmth of tears soaking slowly through the collar of your sleep clothes. He kisses you once—the crook of your neck—a second time at your pulse, and then he rests his forehead back against your shoulder.

“You vanished all day,” you murmur after a long silence. “I was worried.”

“I know.” His voice cracks instantly around the words. “I am sorry.”

“You frightened me.”

Another tremor wracks through him.

“I know,” he repeats, sounding miserable.

You tilt your head slightly, pressing another kiss into his hairline, exhaling lightly as you finally ask the dreaded question. “Tell me what happened.”

Daeron tenses instantly, nails pressing crescents into your skin through your thin night gown. 

You feel the exact moment he considers lying to you—not maliciously, but you know your husband well enough to recognize that instinctive desire to flee. The way he curls inward around his pain like a wounded animal, convinced that if he can just push it down deep enough, no one will have to suffer alongside him. 

You slide your hand to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the warm skin there. You say quietly, “Please.”

“I do not—” he starts to say, swallowing hard. “I do not know how to say it.”

“Try anyway,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his temple once before pulling back to look him in the eye.

They are glassy and red-rimmed as they focus on you—devastated in a way he so rarely looks when he has you to lean on. You slide your hands to cradle his cheeks, tucking his hair behind his ear. He tilts his face into your touch to kiss both of your palms, lashes fluttering as he takes in one ragged breath to prepare himself for whatever it is he’s about to say.

“You cannot go home at the end of the moon,” he finally says. You raise your eyebrows slightly. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at you, jaw tight as though bracing himself for your reaction. “You cannot. I know you have been planning it for months, but—”

“Daeron—”

“And I know you are excited to see your brothers and your nephew again, but you cannot go,” he interrupts, rushing out the words before you can shut him down. “I—you must promise me that you will not go.”

“I cannot—” you start to say, eyes sliding shut as you shake your head, only barely processing what he’s saying.

You are not just going to see your family—you’re going because his father and grandfather asked you to go, because the Blackfyres are gaining support in the Free Cities, and they need to ensure they have the Iron Bank’s backing should the other cities declare for them. You are the bridge between the Targaryens and the keyholders. It is not up to you, Daeron knows this, so why—

“You must!” Daeron interrupts, voice rising suddenly until he sees the way you draw back. An apology flickers across his face as he shrinks backward, shoulders hunching to make himself smaller, lashes fluttering. Quieter, voice breaking, “You must promise me. Please. I cannot bear to lose you—I will not survive it.”

You exhale through your nose as you realize exactly what Daeron is implying, lifting one hand to tilt his face up so that his eyes meet yours. You wipe away a tear that rolls over his cheek.

“Tell me what you dreamed, Daeron,” you say quietly. “Perhaps it is not what you think.”

Daeron scoffs bitterly, trying to look away, but you do not let him, holding his chin firmly.

“Tell me.”

His throat bobs as his gaze lowers, the fight draining from him rapidly. 

“A black dragon shadowed Braavos,” he says so quietly that even in his lap, you have to shift closer to make out the words. “Your family’s palace—it was burning, and you—” His voice breaks, eyes glassy again as they meet yours. He shakes his head as though he cannot even bear to speak the words out loud, and your stomach drops. He repeats, “I cannot lose you.”

You smooth your thumb beneath his eye again, catching another tear before it can fall. He lets out a ragged, trembling breath, seeking out your touch, so you hold the side of his face, letting him press his nose and mouth into your palm.

“You do not know if this wasn’t just a dream,” you tell him quietly after a moment. His gaze snaps up toward you, suddenly alight with a fire that makes you tense. You misspoke—you realize it right away. You press on before he can snap. “Daeron, all I mean to say is that you have been anxious about me leaving for Braavos alone since your father and grandfather decided I would months ago. Your mind has never been kind to you; it could only just be fear—”

Daeron recoils as though you’ve struck him, away from your touch, shrinking back into the chair. Something awful—pained and twisted, betrayed, and it makes your heart break—crosses his face.

“You think I cannot tell the difference,” he says quietly. 

Regret begins to weigh in your stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. “That is not what I meant.”

“It is.” He laughs—it is brittle and exhausted, but not surprised. You think you hate that most: that your doubt was always expected, no matter how much you assured him that you believed him. “Everyone always says it eventually.”

“Daeron, please—”

“It is always just wine, or grief, or fear, or madness.” His voice roughens around the last word. “Always some simpler explanation.”

He finally pulls his face away from your palm, and you hate how empty the loss of contact feels instantly.

“You believed me before.”

“I do believe you,” you insist, trying to get him to look at you again, but he will not. “Daeron—”

“No.” He shakes his head once. “You believe that I believe it.”

The devastation in his voice hurts worse than if he had shouted. You open your mouth to protest, but he keeps speaking before you can.

“I know what ordinary dreams feel like.” His fingers tighten painfully against your waist. “I know what fear feels like. This was not fear.”

“I believe you, Daeron,” you tell him, because you do. You believe him—it doesn’t matter what you think of the dreams themselves. His grip loosens, eyes searching yours as he tries to figure out if you’re lying or not. You lift your hands to his face to cradle his cheeks, and you repeat, “I believe you.”

“Then promise me,” he says, ragged with desperation, pleading as he holds you closer. “Promise me that you will not go. You will stay with me here. Promise me.”

“It is not up to me, Daeron,” you say, voice thin. “It is your father and your grandfather—I cannot refuse them without explanation. If I suddenly refuse to board a ship because my husband dreamt of a dragon, they will think—”

“They already think that I am mad,” Daeron cuts in bitterly. “I do not care what they say. I—”

“Daeron,” you interrupt, resigned, fingers absently stroking his face. “I cannot refuse your father and grandfather without an explanation.”

“Then I will give them one.”

The words come out immediately—sharp enough that you blink. Daeron is already pulling away from you enough to sit upright properly, frantic energy beginning to creep beneath his skin again now that he has something to cling to besides helpless grief. He almost moves you off of him to rise to his feet, but your hands tighten at his shoulders, signaling for him to say seated. His hands shake where they hold your waist, eyes glassy and bloodshot and terribly awake despite all the wine he has consumed.

“I will speak to them,” he says quickly, like he is piecing together the thought as he says it aloud. “Tomorrow. No—now. I can wake my father now.”

“Daeron—”

“I will tell him what I saw.”

You reach for him instinctively, palms sliding against his cheeks again. “Love, slow down.”

But Daeron is spiraling now in a different direction entirely—panic and grief set aside for a type of frantic determination that unsettles you more than the other two did. 

“He will listen if I make him listen,” he insists, though even he sounds unconvinced by his own words. “And if he does not, then my grandfather will. Or—” His breath catches. “Or I will go with you.”

Your brows knit together. “What?”

“I will not let you sail to Braavos alone after this.” His grip tightens again. “If they insist you must go, then I am going too.”

“You know your father will never allow that.”

At that, pain flickers across Daeron’s face—because he does know.

Prince Maekar loves him—you know he does, somewhere beneath all the frustration and grief and disappointment—but Daeron’s dreams have always been a point of misery between them. Too many years of drunken warnings. Too many prophecies no one wanted to hear. Too many occasions where Daeron was right, but not enough for anyone to truly trust him with it.

“He thinks I am sick,” Daeron says quietly, confirming your thoughts. “They all do.” He laughs weakly then, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, maybe I am.”

“Do not say that.”

“But I saw you die.” His voice breaks again immediately. “How am I supposed to sit here and say nothing after that?”

You cannot answer that because you do not know how to.

Daeron presses suddenly into your touch again, all the frantic resolve collapsing back into fear as quickly as it came. He buries his face against your shoulder once more, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“I will beg them if I must,” he whispers hoarsely, breath hot and shaky against your skin. “I do not care anymore. I will kneel to my father. To my grandfather, too. I do not care if the court laughs at me afterward. I do not care if my father locks me in my rooms again like he did when I was younger.” His arms tighten convulsively around you. “I cannot let you go there if there is even a chance this is real.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“Daeron…”

His breathing shudders.

“He will not believe me,” he admits at last, voice small and devastated all over again. “He never believes me until it is too late.”

You close your eyes briefly and pull him closer, cradling the back of his head against you as he trembles in your arms.

For a moment, neither of you speaks; your breath shudders as you press your face into the top of his head, eyes sliding shut as you drown in the familiar scent of him. His arms are trembling around you, fingers pressing hard into your sides, as though he’s scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little. He presses his face into your chest and inhales shakily, and the two of you stay like that for a long while, basking in the familiar warmth of each other’s arms. 

You do not know how long you sit there with him.

Long enough that the fire burns lower in the hearth. Long enough that the worst of his shaking subsides into smaller tremors. Long enough that Daeron’s breathing begins to even out against you, though not enough for you to think he is calm, only exhausted by the intensity of his own fear.

You keep one hand buried in his hair and the other curved around the back of his neck, thumb stroking absently over the knob of his spine. He has always gone so terribly soft beneath your hands, even at his worst. As though touch is the only language he can believe without suspicion.

“We will speak to your father in the morning,” you say quietly at last, pulling his face back slightly so that you can press your lips to his forehead. You lean back again so you can meet his eyes. “Okay?”

He stares at you for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes as his gaze searches yours. His voice is small as he asks, “We?”

Your lips curve up into a small smile. “That is what I said, didn’t I?” 

Daeron is not so amused, throat bobbing unsurely. “You would—you would stand beside me?”

Your smile fades. The question hurts more than it ought to—it’s not an accusation, and it’s not meant to be cruel, but it’s the disbelief, the wavering hope that drives home the pain. You hate that he has learned not to expect anyone to stand beside him once he starts speaking of dreams and death and doom. You hate that even after three years of marriage, you have not been able to convince him that you’ll always stand by his side.

“You are a fool, husband,” you tell him, smiling lightly. “Of course, I will stand beside you.”

“I am the luckiest fool in all of the kingdoms, then,” Daeron breathes, eyes shining again as he looks up at you, violets pretty and broken and glassy in a way that makes your heart ache. “Gods, I love you.”

“And I, you,” you say quietly, leaning in to brush your lips against his. He tastes of wine and salt, and his breath wavers as he moves his lips against yours, kissing you chastely. You part your lips and rest your forehead against his after a moment. “I would love you significantly more if you would bring me back to bed.”

Daeron laughs at that—a pretty, boyish thing that has your lips curling up into a soft smile. He leans in to steal a second kiss, then a third and a fourth, before his hands slide down to your thighs to hold you as he pushes himself to his feet. 

You yelp, arms circling his shoulders tighter, legs wrapping around his waist. He buries his face into your neck, kissing up the skin there obnoxiously as he carries you over to the bed, and you find yourself laughing with him, breathless as he drops the two of you down on the plush mattress, hovering above you with breathless smile. 

He leans in again to kiss you, longer this time, deeper. You sigh into his mouth as one hand cradles the side of your face, tongue easing open your lips so that he can trace the inside of your mouth. 

There is desperation in it still, seeping through the softness—something aching and terrified beneath the slow drag of his mouth against yours. His hand cups your jaw carefully, thumb brushing along your cheek as though reassuring himself you are still here beneath him, still warm and breathing and real, that you are not on the cusp of death as his dreams taunt.

You melt beneath him with a quiet sigh, fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair. He shudders when you tug gently, mouth parting against yours as he deepens the kiss instinctively, slow and languid now instead of frantic.

Daeron makes another low sound into your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair, the noise half swallowed by the kiss, and your breath hitches as his hand slides down your jaw to your throat.

He pauses when his thumb accidentally brushes over your pulse point, as though the erratic thrumming of it beneath his touch has reminded him of what has been haunting him all day. You feel the warmth and levity drain from him immediately; his shoulders tense, and his lips falter against yours. 

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, sharing the same sliver of air. His breath catches, and his eyes stay shut, long lashes trembling faintly against his cheeks.

You card your fingers through his hair absently, waiting.

“I am afraid to sleep,” he admits finally, voice small.

You say simply, “Then we will not sleep yet.”

“You need rest.”

“So do you.”

“I will only dream again.”

“Then we will stay awake until the sun comes up, if we must.”

He pulls back enough to look at you, brows drawn together. “You would do that?”

You arch a brow at him. “I have spent three years married to you, Daeron. This would not be the first night of sleep you have stolen from me.”

A faint laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is small and ruined and wet, but it is a laugh, nonetheless, so you take it as a victory.

“I hate it,” he whispers after a few moments, nosing into your cheek. Your eyes slide shut as he kisses you there, too, lips lingering.

Your voice softens. “I know, love.”

“I hate seeing things. I hate knowing just enough to be terrified and never enough to change anything.” He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I hate that when I am wrong, I am mad, and when I am right, I am still mad, only too late.”

Your throat tightens again. “Daeron.”

“No,” he says, almost pleading now. “Tell me how I am supposed to make him believe me. Tell me what words I am meant to use. I will say anything. I will stand straight and sober and calm. I will not shout or weep. I will not sound like—like this. I will tell him exactly what I saw, and he will still look at me with that face—”

He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. Your eyes slide shut as you fight a sigh. You know the face he means.

You have seen it often enough. Maekar’s stern mouth, the deep crease between his brows, the disappointment that settles over him whenever Daeron stumbles too loudly or laughs too bitterly or speaks of things no one wants to hear. Not cruelty in the traditional way—something more complicated and worse for it. Love mixed with frustration until it begins to feel like contempt.

Daeron’s voice thins. “He will think I am trying to keep you here because I am afraid to be without you.”

You do not answer quickly enough. His eyes flick to yours.

“And maybe I am,” he admits, shame twisting his expression. “Maybe that is part of it. I am afraid every time you leave a room for too long. I am afraid every time I wake, and you are not there. I am afraid one day you’re going to realize what everyone else already knows about me. I have loved very few things in my life that did not get taken from me, and I do not know how to act reasonably about you.”

Your breath catches.

“But that does not make the dream false,” he says fiercely, as though begging you to understand the distinction. “It does not. I know the difference between wanting you near me and seeing you die. I know if you go there, you will not return to me. I know it.”

The silence stretches heavily between the two of you. Daeron is worked up again, staring at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way beneath him. His breath is uneven, shoulders taut beneath your hands, violet eyes shining with fear. You cradle his face again, pulling it down slightly so you can press your lips to his forehead, and then you pull him down, letting him bury his face into your chest.

“We will figure it out, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, hands smoothing over his tense shoulders, rubbing them gently until the tension slowly eases from them and his body melts into yours. “I promise.”

“What if we cannot?” he asks, voice small. “My father never listens to me. I cannot bear to lose you. And what of little Vaegon and Vaemon? They are still young—what am I supposed to say when they ask where you've gone? They'll never understand. And Dyanna, she is still only an infant. I am a shit father—I am not cut out for it, not without you. I—”

“Gods, Daeron,” you interrupt with a humorless laugh. “You speak as though I’m already gone.”

“I’m sorry,” he says into your skin, words breaking over a ragged breath. You can feel wetness against your chest—he’s crying again. “I am sorry. I am. I do not mean to—”

“I know,” you tell him quietly, stroking his hair again as he settles against you, “but Daeron, listen to me.” He makes a noise as though to say he is. “No, I mean it. Listen to me.”

He lifts his head up just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy with a type of sorrow you thought you’d become used to seeing in him, but it hits you harder than it ever has right now. You caress the side of his face, watching as he leans the weight of his head into your palm.

“I will come back to you,” you say, and when he starts to shake his head, you squeeze his cheeks hard to stop him. “I will. If your father does not listen, and in the worst-case scenario, I have to go. I will return to you.”

Because you will have to go. You know it. He knows it. There is no world where you do not sail to Braavos at the end of the moon, because the Blackfyres refuse to remain a distant threat across the Narrow Sea. Coin is worth more than swords in this war, and the Iron Bank matters more than any army. Your family name opens doors in Braavos that no raven or envoy, no silver-haired prince or three-headed dragon could ever open as easily. It can only be you.

Duty is a chain. You both know that better than most.

His jaw tightens, spasming as he fights more tears, eyes terribly glossy. “You cannot promise that.”

“I can,” you insist. “I can, and I will. Rest assured, there is nothing in this world that can stop me from coming home to you and our children.”

Daeron lets out a watery laugh. “You should not be the one saying things like that,” he whispers hoarsely. “Gods, I am so—”

“Hm?”

“It should be me. You are promising to come back to me. You are reassuring me. It should be the other way around,” he says, frustrated, eyes red-rimmed and expression twisted into something helpless and guilty all at once. “You are meant to be able to rely on me. You are meant to hear your husband tell you everything will be alright, that he will protect you, that he will come home to you no matter what. Instead, I am lying in your arms crying, and you are the one reassuring me.”

“Daeron,” you start to say.

“You deserve better than this. I am trying so hard not to be the sort of man who ruins everything he touches anymore, but I just—I cannot seem to help myself,” he says miserably. “I am sorry that you were saddled with me, and not one of my cousins. Valarr or Matarys, they would have—”

“Enough,” you tell him before he can finish the sentence. “You know I do not like to hear you speak about yourself that way.”

“But—”

You slide your hands into his hair, holding him there between your palms. “There is no but, Daeron. I adore you. I love you. There is no one I would rather be with.”

“That seems like terribly poor judgment on your part,” he says with a laugh that breaks halfway through, but he has settled down, resting his head back down on your chest. You brush your fingers through his hair absently. He tells you quietly, “I love you. You and the children are the only things that have ever made me want to survive my own mind.”

You exhale softly through your nose, leaning down to kiss the top of his head again. He lets out a long, shaky sigh.

“Gods,” he whispers, pressing his face into your skin so that his voice is muffled. “It is infuriating how difficult you make it to remain miserable.”

“That is because you are not meant to remain miserable, dear husband.”

“Says who? I think the gods have been quite persistent in ensuring it.”

“Says me.”

Daeron laughs at that, smiling into your skin. “Well, who cares what the gods have to think when my wife says otherwise.”

“As all good men ought believe,” you agree solemnly, earning another laugh from him, this one softer and more genuine.

The silence is not quite so tense now. Daeron remains sprawled half atop you, listening to your heartbeat as though reassuring himself it is still there every few moments. Eventually, his breathing begins to slow enough that you think he may finally be drifting toward sleep despite his earlier fear of it.

Then, he says softly, “I am still afraid.”

Your hand stills briefly in his hair before resuming its slow strokes. “I know.”

“I do not want to close my eyes and see it again.”

You glance down at him. Daeron keeps his face tucked against you, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice now beneath the lingering fear. He sounds wrung out completely, and you do not know what to say that will comfort him, so you resign to holding him. 

Then, very softly, “Will you wake me if I start to dream?”

Your expression softens immediately. “Of course.”

“I love you,” he says again, kissing your collarbone. “I do not know what I would do without you.”

“You will never have to know,” you assure him quietly. “I promise.”

“… I hope that you are right.”

[kendymaycry]

the three things i can always expect every day: a sunrise, a sunset, and leon kennedy in some state of undress on my dashboard