summary: Valarr gets a migraine and nothing but Aerion’s weed can help him deal with the pain. Trouble is, Valarr is no good at getting high and the only thing that can help him deal with that, is you.
tags: fluff, Camp Counselor!Valarr, smoking, Aerion being a terrible trip sitter, really no plot at all poor boy literally just greens out and needs a hug
wc: 1.2k
A/N: Yo...this was meant to be a drabble but then i checked the word count and. well. Welcome to the first official Summer/Slasher AU fic! sweetiepie summer romcom Valarr i love u forever...don't tell him but i like his freaky slasher counterpart better though
also a rare bit of pure fluff! that's that pure Valarr/Oscar Morgan boyfriendism. sick and, quite frankly, twisted. what is he doing to me. freak shit will be back on soon. | Summer Camp AU masterlist
Sometimes–and only on those extremely rare occasions–it’s an incredible bit of luck that Aerion is such a shithead. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have–yet again–flounced the obvious, necessary camp rules against substances.
Valarr did try to stave off the headache before it got to this point. He’s been popping painkillers all day, moving slow through every activity. Most of the day, he’s been hunkered down inside, chugging lukewarm water from plastic bottles and helping Mrs Fossoway in the nurse’s office, instead of going on a hike with Tanselle and the kids. Eventually, he couldn’t even hack that, so now he’s splayed in bed, scowling at the ceiling and waiting for Aerion to bring him some weed.
He doesn’t knock, just bursts through the door, mid-sentence as if Valarr could hear him from outside.
“I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is, just because he’s twelve feet fucking tall–Oh, are you asleep?”
Slowly, Valarr sits up. He lets out an exhausted sigh and shuts his eyes when his back hits the headboard. “Is this the catch?”
“You what?”
“Listening to you rant about poor Dunk in exchange for a joint.”
Aerion scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Half a joint.”
Valarr purses his lips. Honestly, from Aerion, he should’ve expected less.
By the time his migraine has subsided, he’s definitely smoked more than a half, and Aerion is being suspiciously friendly. Everything is a little suspicious, actually.
“What the fuck was that?” He nearly jumps out of his skin when something dark and swift darts past the window. Aerion blinks at him slowly.
“A leaf.”
He nods to himself, desperately trying to calm down. Head leaned back against the headboard and blinking manually, it absolutely isn’t working. “Is it always this fucking hot?”
Aerion is still smoking, and it swirls thick and translucent over his face. “You’re the quasi-American, you tell me.”
Valarr ignores him to stumble for the window, trying with a baffling degree of difficulty to pry it open. Aerion watches. At first absently, then with a disbelieving grin stretching across his face. He breaks into dopey, stuttering laughter.
“You are so high.”
“Am I?” Valarr feels his pulse start to race. “Shit. We’re gonna be in so much trouble.”
“Yeah,” Aerion drawls, “so much trouble.” He waits, the prick, until Valarr is staring at him, wide-eyed with panic. “Might even get fired. Might never be allowed to come back. Hey, are you hungry?”
“No, no, no, no,” Valarr mumbles. He’s shaking his head, patting his body down like he can reach inside and pull the THC out. Aerion just throws his head back and cackles.
“It’s not funny. I think–” He gasps, steadying himself against the windowsill. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re not dying, my God.”
Valarr’s eyes snap up. “I could die?”
“Jesus Christ,” Aerion mumbles. “Is this what we’re doing now? Are you gonna be like this all afternoon?”
“No.” Valarr pats himself down again, satisfied when everything is still intact, still where it’s meant to be. “No, I’m fine.”
He sits on the edge of his bed and stares into the space ahead of him.
“What about her?” Aerion asks, clearly disinterested.
“Hm?”
Aerion narrows his eyes and repeats your name. Apparently, Valarr said it first, though he doesn’t remember that and he doesn’t trust a word out of his cousin’s mouth.
“Why would I lie about that?” Aerion shakes his head then pauses. “You know what?”
With that, he’s up and gone. For about a minute, Valarr is spooked by the sudden change. He knows it’s a minute, because he counts every second of it to avoid having another panic attack. He curls himself sideways on the bed, clutching a pillow to his body and focusing on his breathing. It’s the kind of thing he would’ve learned from a therapist if he’d ever had one, but this little nervous-system-regulation trick came direct from a vague Google search. Years, or months, or weeks ago. Valarr panics quite a lot.
He’s just about calmed down when you walk into the room and just your mere presence has him swing all the way back to goofy-high. Pushing the pillow aside, he says your name with a lopsided grin.
“Hi there,” you greet. His grin levels out but he’s too blissed-out to speak. God, you’re so pretty.
“Valarr, you’re staring.”
“Yes,” he says, bursting into laughter as if he didn’t expect you to notice but is thrilled you have. Doubled over with wheezing laughter, it takes him a moment to realise you’ve shuffled closer. As soon as he does, he stops laughing.
“Are you good?”
His mouth dries up but he tries nodding, certain that you need him to be, that if he isn’t something horrible is bound to happen. “I’m okay. Is that okay?”
Your face breaks out into amusement. Trying not to laugh, you lean against him and turn your face away. When you turn back around, you’re biting your lip. Valarr’s brow dips in distress and a rush of breath slips past his lips. God, you’re so pretty.
“Hey, do me a favour? How about you lie down for me.”
He feels like he’s hearing the words from underwater. “Okay.”
You slip off your shoes and sit cross-legged on the bed, leaning back against the wall. Dim, mid-afternoon light shifts as a breeze blows, and everything but the bed is tinted by shadows. Cool, white light on your skin, adding a gentle shine as your hands rest on your knees. You tilt your head at him, and Valarr is reminded of all the times he’s passed by wandering cats slinking around in the street, the quiet stand off where he stares, in part too awed to move, to blink, to breathe. The other part of him wants to reach out and beckon it forth, cradle it in his arms, take the creature home and spend the rest of his life taking care of it. Jesus Christ, have you always been this pretty?
You sit there blinking at him, biting your lip again and trying not to laugh. “Are you gonna do it?”
“Huh?”
“You don’t have to.”
“Have to what?”
You’re laughing for real now, shoulders shaking as you reach an arm out. “C’mere.”
With your hand as a visual cue, he can stay switched on enough to fall into your lap, lips stretching into a dazed smile.
“I thought I was gonna die earlier.” You giggle, so he keeps going. “My heart was–”
He contracts and pulses his fist to mimic a heartbeat, eyes widening as he remembers the racing and the sensation of falling, the unshakeable knowing that he was doomed.
“I’ve always thought I would die young.”
“Oh, hey,” your hand snakes into his hair and you shake your head down at him. His body melts against yours and he shifts his head, nudging your hand deeper in his choppy chestnut locks. “We don’t have to talk about that. Not right now.”
“Yeah,” he replies, voice distant. “I smoked way too much.”
This, too, makes you laugh. Satisfied, he lets his eyes fall closed and turns his face into your palm. Your hand in his hair should lull him to sleep but like a stubborn kid, he turns onto his back to look up at you, despite his yawning.
“You’re not tired?”
He nods, keeps looking. His tongue is too heavy in his mouth to say anything, but the way your clothes are falling on your body, and the soft light haloed around your head. God. What use would sleep be to him right now? He might as well already be dreaming.
“Pretty,” he mutters, breathy and slightly slurred as he drifts off. Your fingers keep combing through his hair as he says it again and again. He falls asleep slightly pouting, lips still poised to utter that mindless prayer. He won’t actually remember but as his brain finally shuts off, he’s certain that he will in fact, dream of you.
Summary: As Tommy finally learns what it means to be your husband. To make a promise to a fallen soldier as he prepares for your uncle's final farewell. He'll learn at the sight of an empty bed, and a note left behind, what it means to have everything worth protecting, taken away from him.
Warnings: Language, angst, arranged marriage.
Word Count: 3K
[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]
How do you tell someone that the man who was meant to teach you right from wrong did something so irrevocably, so unforgivably wicked?
That the one who was supposed to cherish and love you until his dying breath, stole that of another?
How on god's fucking green earth does that conversation go?
Oh darling, I'm so sorry, your father killed your dear uncle. But I'm here now.
Is that up to scratch?
No?
Perhaps…
Sweetheart, your uncle Richie was found dead this morning. We believe your father is responsible. We're doing all we can.
Still not enough?
Let me rephrase it then. Let me give you the harrowing, unfiltered reality…
Your diabolical father had murdered your uncle in cold blood yesterday. Shot him in the chest at point-blank range, then left him to bleed out alone in the dirt. The rotten, soulless bastard has vanished. Slipped away. Gone missing.
Missing.
That's right. Your father had either charmed his way out of Birmingham or made a deal with the devil himself at some deserted crossroads between counties.
Awful Arney was gone. Like dust in the wind. Like a wave breaking over the perfect pipe dream before dragging it back to the sea.
And there was not a single, goddamn, bloody thing Tommy could say nor do to stop your heart from racing itself raw within your chest.
You were not just sat in that bay window again, tears tracking down your flushed cheeks as you waited for one of your husband's men to return with news that would relieve your heart. You had outright, outrun, and outmanuvered every single one of Tommy's attempts to comfort you. When frankly, darling, you needed more than even he knew how to give right now.
“ How's she holding up?” Arthur murmured quietly beside Tommy, as they stood behind the threshold of your resolve, threading thinner with each passing minute.
“ She's not” Tommy answered carefully, quietly, not to spook you from the solitude you had sought. The distance you'd put between you and everyone else as disbelief had you asking how your own father could do something so fundamentally, unforgivablly fucked up.
“ She's drowning, Arthur. Gone somewhere In that head of hers i can't reach” Tommy watched as you sat perfectly poised, just like uncle Richie had taught you. Just like you had been raised to conduct yourself.
It was beautiful. Believable. It was a desperate lie, unmasking itself bit by bit as your fingers fought each other under the guise of stillness. Pulling and twisting. Searching for something to hold onto, to anchor your aching heart that had gone adrift.
“ Arthur” Tommy turned, voice dropping low, stripped clean of the calm he'd worn for your sake. “ Find him. Find the bastard and bring him to me”
“ Tom, we've got men looking as far as Huddersfield” Arthur kept his words just as hushed, as your solemn figure sat looking out at the winding roads of Warwickshire. “Ain't a single fucking trace of him anywhere, brother”
“ Then go north” Tommy's order came clipped, every pretense of control leaving him as anger coiled up his spine. “ Burn down every county line from here to Glasgow if you have to”
“ He's been talking. Making connections” he leaned in with a low whisper, keeping how truly depraved your father was, safely from your knowledge.
“ Scotsmen from the Smethwick brewery. Glaswegian groups that answer to no one but their own. Billy Boys, Arthur. He's been talking with the Billy Boys”
“ Christ” Arthur exhaled a raspy breath deep from within his lungs, as he dragged a hand over his hardening face.
“ Go. Before he sells his own daughter out. Before he trades my wife for another pretty penny” the words came with complete and utter disgust, leaving a bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat.
“ Right. Leaving” Arthur murmured, turning on the heel of his boot, fingers snapping at the Peaky soldiers stood waiting on their orders as Tommy turned his attention back to you, pained with questions that demanded he be patient.
What would he have to do for you to trust him after he'd given you every reason not to?
To let him close the distance when for a month he'd put miles between you?
To let him hold you. To let him shoulder even a fraction of your heartache?
To let him be your husband?
I could shout. I could curse Cupid sat high in heartbreak heaven for not intervening. For not granting you one moment of relief away from mourning.
Believe me, faithful reader, I'd wish for nothing more.
But even I can't force your feet to move in front of you. For you to seek the only man left in your life and let him take the weight off your heavy heart.
For as you sat separated by nothing but the terms of your arrangement in adjacent rooms, while night drew in once more, blanketing the bereaved. Arrow House mourned another man.
The lilies under her alcoves remained.
Heavy cloth draped over every reflection remained.
But sitting still, alone and aching in grief, was a heavy toll for anyone to pay. Even for you, whose stubborn resolve had finally drawn its last desperate breath.
With one quiet foot after the other, you crossed the room to the wooden door that had remained a line drawn since the day of your wedding, as you tentatively pushed it open into darkness.
And there he was. Sat on the edge of the bed. Jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, elbows to his knees, head bowed heavy under the weight of another impossible day, as a cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.
Your husband. Your Tommy.
Head lifting slowly between slumped shoulders, he turned.
And there you were.
Stood by the door, hand to the handle, every inch of you looking as uncertain as you did the day you said ‘I do’.
His wife. His girl.
“ Come here, darling” his voice was a soft sanctuary as he held his hand out for you to take, to trust him and let him be what he'd tried to be in his own broken way.
Your husband.
Feet crossing before you had time to think, Tommy met you halfway, fingers curling gently around yours, steadying you before drawing you down onto the bed and into his chest as the dam broke and the tears for an uncle lost, finally freed themselves in the safety of your husband's arms.
“ Tommy…” you wept, his name breaking apart on your lips as grief finally gave way and you pressed your face into his shirt.
“ It's alright” he murmured softly, anchoring you further into him with a gentle hand to the back of your head. “ You're alright”
“ You stay here, eh? You stay right here with me, sweetheart" He hummed quietly into your hair, lips pressing a fierce kiss of tenderness to the crown of your head.
And so you did.
You stayed. He stayed. You let your husband hold you, let him take the weight off your shoulders and give you both a moment where your marriage finally felt like it meant something more than a merger on a contract made a month ago.
And as the night sky slipped into a quiet twilight of twinkling stars over Arrow House, Tommy threaded his fingers through your hair, stroking softly until you settled fully beside him on your marital bed.
“ I’m sorry” the words caught in his chest, raspy, gravelled, a month in the making, and finally coming to surface.
“ I've made a lot of mistakes” he continued quietly, allowed now in the comfort of dark, in his own bed, beside his wife, to be something other than what the world demanded of him.
“ A lot of wrongs I'm trying to make right…” His fingers gently curled a lock of your hair, as the slow pitter-patter of your heart steadied something in him he didn't know was still running rabid.
“ If you let me” he murmured, head tilting down to yours resting in the crook of his neck. “ Will you let me? Darling?”
But no response came. No hitch in your breath at the confession you'd once convinced yourself you'd never hear.
Because you. Yes, bloody you. Were out for count weren't you?
Your husband had done such an expert job at relaxing you, calming the chaos within, that you'd completely missed the monumental moment where Thomas Michael Shelby, notorious hard man, had said ‘sorry’.
Goodness gracious, girl. Of all the times you should be sleeping, now is not one of them.
“ Of course…” a rasp of disbelief, of quiet amusement rattled in his chest as he shifted enough to see you, eyes shut, deep in sleep.
Christ.
“ I bleed my bloody heart out…” he murmured, a fondness curling at the corner of his lips as he drew you closer. “ and you've gone and dozed off”
“ You sleep then” he drawled, settling deeper into the duvet, as the weight of the world eased, just for a moment, so he could finally hold his wife.
“ Sleep, sweetheart”
Richie had been a good man. An honest man. A father figure to a woman whose lot in life handed her a deadbeat dad.
A business man. A just man. An Uncle that had spent a lifetime keeping you safe, until the day he placed your hand in your husband's.
And Tommy, for all his flaws and fractured morals, intended to give him the send-off he deserved.
The most honourable of farewells. One final salute before the drums beat slowly. Before they played the fife lowly. Before they sounded the Last Post and lowered him down.
A soldiers burial.
“ The watch is over now, Rich” Tommy murmured beside your uncle's body laid out upon the cold mortuary slab, hat in hand, head bowed.
“ I'll take the next watch” he promised, pledged not to the dead, but the living Richie had left behind. To you.
“ Stand down, soldier” his hand settled firmly on your uncle's shoulder, before he straightened, eyes drifting to the window, west to Warwickshire and the woman that waited there. The woman who had made him a husband.
“ I've got her now”
Hat fixed low, Tommy turned on his heel to the undertaker stood respectfully waiting for each mark your husband would make to your uncle's funeral.
“ That man…” Tommy murmured, slipping on his leather gloves, as the stitching creased under the stretch of his hands. “Is a soldier of the Great War. And will be honoured as one”
“ Church service. Buried beside his brothers in arms. Key Hill Cemetery”
“ Horse-drawn hearse, sir?” The funeral directors pencil poised over paper, each request to be recorded with meticulous care.
“ Horse drawn hearse. Oak coffin. Draped in the Union Jack. Dressed in his uniform. Full military honours” Tommy reached into his coat for his cigarettes, his own medals long gone to the cut and every curse he'd given them.
“ Very good sir” the undertaker listed each request, as Tommy watched word for word, making sure without an ounce of uncertainty that nothing had been overlooked.
“ Find me the best bugler in the West Midlands” he nodded to the notes, cigarette smoothing over his lips before it slipped into the corner of his mouth. “ I want the Last Post played properly”
“ You have my word, sir” the funeral director closed his book, a heavy silence settling over them with the weight of what had been decided.
Satisfied every honour had been accounted for Tommy turned to leave, only to come to a slow stop, hand heavy on the handle of the door.
“ Flowers” the word came quieter, as his eyes drifted past the undertaker to the still form behind him. “ My wife requested flowers”
The only request you had made that morning before he left for Bradley & Sons.
The only flowers a man would ever receive in his lifetime. Set to be laid in front of his grave.
“ Roses. After her mother”
Rose.
Now, I may have previously stated that as much as I would've liked to, I couldn't physically force your feet to move when we all watched, hearts breaking as you chose solitude before finally letting your husband hold you.
Well, I've changed my mind.
And even if I did sprinkle a little hop into your step, gave your toes the gentlest of tugs to get you going, I hereby revoke, as of this very moment, your walking privileges.
Because leaving you alone in Arrow House, with nothing but your own thoughts for company and a husband nowhere in sight to anchor them, has you wandering these halls like a woman personally intent on tempting fate with every step she takes.
So, for the love of God, sit down, girl. Before you give this woman in the prime of her life, pebbles in her bloody gallbladder.
But no matter how fast I pen these furious words, you still refused to listen.
You continued your little conquest into the labyrinth of Arrow House, with every member of staff indisposed, leaving no one to witness the lady of the house who, as I write this, had decided a solitary stroll across the lawn was the remedy to her woes.
Dressed in nothing but a silk gown and slip to shield you from the crisp air, you welcomed the winter breeze if only to cool your cheeks from the heat of a hundred unshed tears burning your face.
But as your bare feet grounded themselves in the earth, feeling a brief moment of steadiness, the sound of tires rumbling along mud and stone cut through the calm.
“ No. You need to go around the front” you muttered, marching across the lawn towards the delivery truck, as three men, burly and broad stepped out.
“ Deliveries are to the front door” you repeated your husband's order, one out of the many rules he'd inundated you with mere hours after your wedding a month ago.
“ Ye’er sure about that, lass? We've orders to pull around the back” the biggest stepped forward, accent thick enough to catch the edge of every sentence.
“ Yes, I'm fucking sure” your response came clipped, irritated that you'd even been questioned.
“ Would ye listen to the lip on this wee one, McConnel” the stockiest smirked, eyes flicking to his friend as he stepped forward, boots sinking into the grass.
“Yer husband ken you talk to strangers like that, lass?” The third man moved closer, crossing the unspoken line of politeness.
“ Aye. Blasphemy’ a sin. And Mr McCavern sees to sins…poppet”
Poppet.
A pet name. A sweet, honeyed British term given to daughters by their mothers…their fathers.
Your father.
Eyes widening, heart picking up faster than your feet could carry you, the realisation that your father had sold you out to the Scots for another penny, left you too slow to flee from the heavy frame that seized you from behind.
“ Get off me, you bastard!” You screamed as you were lifted from the ground, silk gown slipping off your shoulders in the struggle.
“ Dinnae fret, lass. Ye’ll not be harmed” the biggest fought to keep you under control as you kicked, twisted and turned.
Thrown into the back of the truck, your screams for help were quickly silenced by a reeking rag clamped over your mouth until you went limp at the limbs, and the world turned.
Fingers sweeping down to collect your muddied silk from the ground, McConnell thrusted the garment into the chest of the stocky fellow Scotsman, along with a carefully written note and a single worded order.
“ Quick”
Barely an hour had passed, when the sound of Tommy's Bentley pulled up in front of Arrow House. The swing of the front door announced his arrival before he'd even stepped in, and the house answered as it always had.
“ Mr Shelby” Frances appeared, dutiful as ever, greeting him as she gathered his affairs into her arms.
“ My wife?” he immediately asked, eyes scanning the foyer, as they took note of anything that looked even a fraction out of place.
“ Resting, sir” your loyal housekeeper replied without question, without hesitation knowing no difference.
“ Deliveries?” Tommy asked, demanding a rundown of the day already, as a draft drifted through the halls into the foyer.
“ Out back, sir”
“ Out back? Since when?” Tommy's head snapped towards hers, the colour draining from her face, leaving her a ghostly white as the realisation hit her.
Arney. Since Arney had changed Tommy fucking Shelby's orders is when.
He didn't wait for further explanation. Didn't ask. Didn't interrogate. He took two steps at a time to the master bedroom as his chest heaved violently, boots thundered heavily until he reached the wooden door left ajar.
Heart hanging on a thread with a sickening feeling of dread, of a threat he hadn't yet accounted for, Tommy pushed the bedroom door open and found…
Nothing. Nothing but your muddy dressing gown and a note neatly pinned to it.
Fingers closing around the edge of the paper, his eyes flew across each word, trying to make sense of it, when his chest suddenly folded in on itself so violently it stole the very air from his lungs, until there was only one sound left in him.
“My wife…” his voice broke, note slipping from his fingers as he began to turn, began to move into motion.
“They’ve taken my fucking wife!” he roared, tearing out the room with a ragged breath, as the paper settled steadily behind him on the floorboards with no urgency at all but the echo of a nursery rhyme.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean. My Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part (final)] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
Doggy style in a headlock while dami kisses all up on our neck and back hand me a cig
- - - I don't smoke so have this instead <3 It's technically prone not doggy oops.
You couldn't even hear his little "tt", too busy trying to muffle your moans in your pillow as he pressed a hand down on your lower back, pushing your stomach against the mattress and making you feel just how deep his cock could reach.
You let out another muffled whine, fingers digging into the sheets. The unfamiliar angle creating new sensations, reaching depths that had you soaking the sheets beneath you, sucking his cock in and out with lewd, slick sounds.
He curls his fingers between yours with his free hand, wrenching the sheets from your grip. His voice is haggard yet firm,
"Ya Rouhi, stop hiding from me."
You replied with a muffled groan and a shake of your head.
He brings his hand to your jaw, turning your head to easily slip his tongue past your lips. You're unable to hide a deep moan when he sucks your tongue like how your pussy sucks down on his cock.
It's too much. You're too loud and it feels too good and your moans sound ridiculous and he must think the spit running down your chin is gross and your neighbours can probably hear and you're so close again and it's too much.
You pull away and stuff your head right back into your pillow. Face hot and eyes wet, the cool sheets act as a refuge if only for a moment before becoming suffocating. You squeeze around him, arching your back, hoping he'll just let it go and let you cum in the stuffy comfort of your hiding place.
Instead he sighs, head nuzzling against yours before he readjusts himself, parting your ass cheeks slightly to bury himself as deep as possible in your soaked pussy, keeping his chest close to your back, sweaty skin sticking together.
He kisses up the back of your neck and then slinks his thick arm around your throat just under your jaw, bringing your face up and sliding your precious pillow down to settle under your hips creating a perfect little arch in your back. The other hand brushes some hair from your face and some tears from your cheeks before digging into the mattress for more leverage. He gives your cheek a sweet kiss before bullying his cock into you with new enthusiasm.
Your nails dig into his bicep and forearm as you struggle to keep down the choked, "Ah ah ah!" from your throat, perfectly in time with the wet slaps of his hips slamming down on your ass and the squeaking of the bedframe.
His arm is wet with your spit already so when a stupid, embarrassing squeal is forced from your dry throat, you immediately bite down on the bronzed skin with a force hard enough to muffle anymore ugly noises from crawling out of you.
He groans loudly, both from frustration and the pleasurable pain of your teeth sinking into his flesh. Hip hips only stutter for a moment.
His free hand cards through your sweaty hair and tugs on the roots at the base of your skull. When you don't release his arm, he bites down on your shoulder, forcing your jaw to loosen in a surprised yelp. He uses that moment to slink his other arm around your throat, securing you in a firm headlock.
You're completely surrounded by him now with nowhere to hide. You can feel every muscle in his arms flex to keep you right where you are, the heat radiating from his skin like a warm, thick blanket. His own groans get louder as his pace increases, his sounds urge your teeth to let go of your lower lip, letting free eager moans as your body and mind become lost in the way he fucks you.
He's forcing you to lay bare everything you are for him like you both know you want to. The pillow under your hips forces you to feel every single inch of him inside you as more and more sounds are forced out into the hot air and your mind is forced to care less and less as your high approaches.
Hot, wet kisses trail up your jaw, as your moans turn into full on cries and screams of pleasure-- Sounds you'd probably scoff and roll your eyes at had you heard them in a porno but your inhibitions have been almost complety fucked out of you at this point.
The louder you are, the harder he fucks you, trapped in a cycle of desperate pleasure that just keeps climbing higher.
Your bare clit rubs against the pillow with each thrust, your toes curl and legs kick against the bed as the intensity builds. Your nails dig dark crescents into his arms and his hold around you tightens when you writhe under him just as his hips start to stutter against the raw skin of your ass.
You both cum together, voices melding in a beautiful, lewd symphony, ebbing out into shared, laboured breaths as you slowly come down.
He shuffles so that you're both laying on your side and nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, your hot breaths mixing in the now quiet room. You kiss the bruising bite mark on his arm as he rubs a thumb on your lower back, somehow knowing exactly where to press to have you let out a croaked hum.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
You freeze up at the angry knocking from the other side of the wall your bed is currently up against and you curl into yourself, mortified whine muffled by your hands hiding your hot face.
His hushed laugh from behind you does nothing to soothe your embarrassment.
- - - Congrats anon, you successfully distracted me from working on literally any wips until I could finish this shit.
until we're rotten; a AKOTSK AU (Ghost x Johnny X F!Reader)
AN: your honor, they're all toxic and we love them for it.
Summary and complete CW (contains smut, violence, sex work and mentions of abortion)
Ghost had buried his sire beneath a tree in a field in a land that had no proper name. The hedge knight had stayed by the man's side until he drew his last breath, and even after that he had stayed, wondering what words he was supposed to say over the man who had been the closest thing to a father to him. His sire had not been a kind man, had never shown him anything akin to love, but he was honorable in the ways that mattered to Ghost.
Ghost had promised that dying man he would find the closest tourney, that he would fight the way Ghost had always fought with a brutality that most could not and that win or lose at the end of the tourney he would find himself a new master to follow. Ghost had never wanted to enter a tourney, he saw no point to play fighting when there were actual battles to prepare for. The only things he had to prove were on the battlefield. But the dying wishes of an old man were hard to say no to, even harder when that man bled out from a wound meant for him.
The tourney grounds are already lively when he arrives. The division between the common folk and the knights and the nobles is clear as he makes his way between tents and bodies. The common folk are densely packed together near the edges of the grounds, their tents shabby compared to the ornate fabrics that decorate the tents of the lords and noble knights that come from houses with prestigious names.
Ghost causes a stir. How could he not with his size, his mask and his mysterious origins. Each theory is more wild than the next. He’s the bastard of a lord come to seize his rightful place, he’s the crowned prince in disguise, he’s one of the old gods made man here to test his followers.
He hears the whispers and pays them no mind, he has always been a spectacle even before he joined his sire. He had been a large child and an even larger teen. Though, he hadn't always been so violent. Much like the sharpest blades, Ghost had been forged in the flames, his will and his desires beaten and ground and hardened until he was a weapon for others.
When it comes time to add his name to the roll, the master of the games is hesitant to add a man without a title wearing battle beaten armor who know one seems to know? There are noble knights fighting here, they shouldn’t have their reputations sullied by some common hedge knight with no master and no name. He tells Ghost to come back with someone who will vouch for him.
Ghost is smart enough to know that he is no proper knight, there were no fancy words shared between him and his sire, no oath, only his loyalty and his accomplishments in battle. He has fought alongside many of the men, he recognizes their banners and names, but it was always his sire who took the lead, who broke bread with the lords and their families, who had jokes for the men, soft words for the women. His sire was the one they should know and yet they all feigned ignorance.
Only one man claims to know of Ghost, even more shockingly that man is willing to vouch for him.
Ser MacTavish is a known scoundrel and rake. The other knights and lords know to keep their women away from the unruly and boisterous northerner, despite the fact that he had traveled to the tourney with his own pets. It was said that he could never be truly satisfied.
MacTavish stands out among the others knights of noble birth, today his hair shorn short on the sides, the rest plaited down his back and adorned with flowers. In place of pants or a tunic he wears a tartan kilt, often forgoing a shirt. As he follows along with Ghost to visit the master of games he complains about the southern heat while winking at him.
He reminds Ghost of the old gods he saw stitched into a tapestry in a sacked keep. There was a man surrounded by other ethereal beings dancing among the weirwoods, but the one with the flowers in his hair had caught Ghost's attention the most. He had only ever seen men adorned in metal, leather and blood. He had never seen a man look so soft, so pretty.
Ghost observes him, curious and apprehensive of his sole supporter. The man is more than a pretty face, his chest covered in thick hair and battle scars, each more ragged and raw than the last. Ghost studies each, a mace, a broadsword, the glancing blow of an arrow. His own body is much the same only he would never put it on display in such a garish way.
MacTavish drags Ghost to join him in his tent for a pre-tourney banquet, the northerner telling Ghost it's the only way to repay his kindness. The cups overflow with wine, the plates with meat, and pretty men and maidens dance around the crowd moving in ways Ghost has never seen before.
It’s at this banquet that he sees you for the first time. He sits next to MacTavish, a seat of honor according to his host who has one arm slung over the back of Ghost’s chair, the pressure heavy and hot, while the other swings around a chalice of wine that seems always on the verge of spilling over despite the way that MacTavish drinks heavily from it.
You are not alone. Your arrival, and the arrival of the other dancers is announced with cries from around the room. Each dancer moving with a gracefulness that Ghost could only dream of achieving. The moves seem both planned and spontaneous, bodies twisting around each other and undulating, pulsing as they fill the empty spaces between tables, between seats, between the throngs of people who feast on MacTavish's generosity.
Each dancer is more pretty than the last.
But you are the one that Ghost cannot look away from.
You move like gravity is only a suggestion, something to keep others tied to the world while you move about untethered and free of its weight. The dress you wear is made of a fabric that looks like smoke, it moves as fluidly as you do and covers nothing. Every inch of your skin is on display as your body twists languidly to the music. Ghost can't look away as you pass through the crowd, each time you appear he sees another part of you, another glimpse of the woman who is surely not of this world.
You are a whore.
Even now as you dance around the tent giving the guests a taste and a tease of what you can offer there is only one man who will enjoy the soft caress of your fingers, the plush press of your thighs and that is because he pays with the prettiest piles of gold coin.
You’ve played this game before with him. Pretend to be the entertainment, pretend you aren’t one of his pretty pretty pets that he drags from tourney to tourney, to battlefield to feast. You don’t look his way, you don’t break the illusion that you are some random woman he has never met before. It’s the same every time. He pretends not to see you, while you pretend to ignore his advances.
Johnny likes the chase. Likes to think he’s worked for your pussy. And you would be lying to say you didn’t enjoy it, Johnny might have a voracious appetite but he leaves none of his lovers wanting.
Tonight though you can't help but peer up at the head table, it's as if something pulls you there, calls to you. Through the throng of bodies you see him. Not Johnny, although you see him as well, a woman on one knee, his beefy hand kneading at her thigh as he speaks to the man next to him.
Can you call him a man? The top half of his face is covered with what looks like a mask made of bone, only his eyes visible from two black pits. The lower half is covered by a cloth that he pulls down to eat bites of dripping pieces of meat or swigs of his wine. Each time you hope to see more of his face before he pulls the cloth back up.
He is the biggest man you have ever seen and you wonder if he is big everywhere, for certainly it would be a waste if that was not the case.
This is the man the others have been whispering about, the secret prince or the beast sent to slay them all. A hedge knight that comes from nowhere yet claims to have been everywhere. You've also heard he is honorable, he's curried the favor of the lowborn attendants in some unspoken way. You have not cared to listen to them because you are not honorable. You are a whore from a disgraced house who sold your body to the highest bidder until you got lucky. 'ave tae call me Johnny if yer goan tae suck mah cock like ye like it he had whispered to you the first night you met after dragging you out to the stables when you should have been entertaining the man who had already paid for your services.
You are also smart, you know it's only a matter of time before Johnny loses interest in you.
Perhaps he is already losing interest in you. He stares up at the mystery knight enraptured by him, the same as everyone else. You know what it feels like to have those blue eyes peer into your soul, you know what it feels like to have the heavy hold of his arm grounding you, you know what it is like to have that man whisper to you switching between the common tongue and the language of his ancestors.
It is more intoxicating than even the finest wine. And when you dine with Johnny, Ser MacTavish, you only drink the best.
You are certain he will lose interest in you soon because you have a secret, easy enough to deal with if you found yourself a maester. But every morning as you wake up feeling more and more sluggish, the fatigue creeping up your spine as you perform your duties, dance this same dance from place to place, you start to think that maybe you don't want to get rid of it. If you had someone honorable, someone strong who could protect you and the babe maybe you wouldn't have to sell yourself anymore. Maybe you could sell yourself one final time, give one man the rest of you.
Maybe it could be enough.
When Johnny catches your eye you are shocked that he bids you forward, a wolfish smile across his face as he whispers to his companion. The other man watches you too, his eyes just as hungry.
This is not the game you are used to, but you allow yourself to be swept up in Johnny's hold, arms sticky with sweat as he pulls you against him, jostling you until your barely covered pussy is flush to his cock that strains against his kilt. The tartan rough through the silk of your dress.
He leans his chin on your shoulder, pressing his face to yours as he looks at the knight by his side.
Nae a bastard in the realm luckier than me. tae 'ave such bonnie company, ah must be favored by the old gods
You've thought the same of him, because how could he be so careless and so carefree, not once in his employment had you ever seen him training and yet not once had he been unseated in a joust, or bested at hand-to-hand. After battles and skirmishes he always returns alive, bloodied, bruised and later scarred, but never anything that doesn't add to his allure.
You don't know about the old gods, but perhaps he is blessed by The Warrior so that no true harm will come to him in battle, or by The Crone so that he has the foresight to keep himself safe.
Or, perhaps he is blessed by The Stranger. It feels the most right as you meet the eyes of the hedge knight, his mask hiding his face, the mystery that surrounds him almost suffocating this close up. With Johnny pressed to your back, his thick forearm around your waist and the hedge knight sat in front of you, his eyes heavy where they trail over every place that you touch Johnny.
It's hard not to imagine being pressed between the two of them in a much more private location. Spread out over the furs in Johnny's tent, the air thick with heat and the smell of sex. It wouldn't have been the first time you had shared a night with the northerner and a second partner, but never had it been with someone so large, so arresting.
is it the gods or your lord father's coin that buys your luck
You aren't surprised that the masked man's voice is deep, it matches the aura that surrounds him. His accent isn't one you recognize and you have been dragged across the realm and have met all kinds of folk. It bothers you that you cannot place this man, that you cannot see his face properly, that the tease of his lips when he pulls down the cloth to drink only drives your curiosity. And that when he speaks to Johnny, it is with a strange mix of the deference demanded by his high born name and a familiarity that speaks to years of camaraderie that the two men do not share.
The night melts in on itself in the way it does when the wine flows and no one seems quite ready to call it. Many of these men are meant to fight in the morn and yet the revelry continues until the light in the lanterns burns low and only flagons of wine remain on the tables. At some point Johnny left you to take a piss and when he stumbled back in it was with a woman on either arm, the three of them finding their way to the makeshift dance floor.
Johnny's raucous laughter could be heard over the instruments and the hum of voices.
Perhaps tonight he is the one playing hard to get.
The hedge knight is a mostly quiet companion, sipping his wine and watching the comings and goings of people around you. You didn't mind it for the most part, the rumors of the other folk could paint him some kind of saint and it would likely be far from the truth. The longer you had sat with him and Johnny the more you thought that to be the case.
He found humor in death and destruction. He is crass just like the other knights that you have met. You consider the possibility that he is honorable and that you could bed him and claim that the babe is his. Even if he is not honorable, he is strong and could protect you.
y'know 'im well
You wish he had asked you anything else. You don't want to talk about Johnny, don't want to see the way those other women paw at him, the way their fingers creep beneath the waistband of the damned kilt, the way their lips touch his skin.
It's not jealousy, but it burns all the same.
Don't know that anyone can truly know Ser MacTavish
Ghost is not known for his tact, he knows this and despite many attempts by his sire to teach him to talk proper, it had never really stuck. He just doesn't see the point in it, why should he bend the knee and talk all prettily to some pockmarked, backwards lordling who doesn't know how to hold a sword or his cock just because his father is lord of some shithole corner of the realm. And yet, he can sense it enough that you don't want to talk about the man currently spinning across the floor with two ditzy maidens.
He can try to talk prettier for you but he doesn't know how to spin fun little tales like Ser MacTavish, Johnny as you called him as he held you in his arms. Ghost doesn't know how to ask someone about their family, where they were raised, how they are liking the view. He can't very well tell you how he looks forward to bashing in the head of the man at the back of the tent, the one with the red hair and missing finger for no other reason than he was fuck ugly and once pissed himself in battle.
Do you have a tent, Ser Ghost
When you are the one to break the silence next he feels deficient in some way. He should be the one entertaining you after the way you entertained the crowds. He should live up to his knightly name somehow. He's even tried to keep his gaze away from your body, it's too easy for his hungry eyes to feast on the slopes of your shoulders, the line of your throat, the peak of your nipples through the dress you wear. He got more than enough of you when you were perched on Johnny's lap looking so pretty.
Aye
He answers while not meeting your eyes, looking back over the dwindling crowd. He knows that he should bid his host good morrow as well, even though he knows sleep will not come easy to him. But it will come better to him if he were in his own tent and not here, sat on this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by strangers and avoiding the first woman to have caught his eye in ages.
It's when you laugh that he finally drags his attention back to you. Back to the way your lips twist into a smile, the way the fire light casts shadows across your skin, the way you reach a gentle hand out and place it on his knee, fingers tightening as you lean closer.
Too close.
Would you like company
He can't help the way he looks to MacTavish before he answers, the man no longer dancing but now arm wrestling with some knight's squire, the baby faced boy looks no older than Ghost was when his sire found him.
Your hand leaves his knee, only to reach up and guide his face back to you. He wonders if you will shy away from his scars if you have no issues with MacTavish's. Ghost's are more, he's not a bonnie lad like the other knight, but perhaps he could be as eager of a lover? MacTavish strikes him as someone who wants to please.
Is it wise to steal you away from his more than gracious host, from the man who vouched for him even though they had never before crossed paths? A man who seems to crave violence and bloodshed with the same fervor as Ghost but with a touch more desire for debauchery and indulgence than Ghost has.
Yet, you are not married to the other knight and if you offer yourself up to Ghost who is he to pass up on the very generous hospitality of his host.
He stands, the movement shaky and abrupt after hours in that chair drinking wine and listening to Mactavish's stories. You stand as well, as if having decided for him that you will be joining him. Or maybe that is wishful thinking, maybe you only intend to retire for the night.
You follow him out the back of the tent into the dark night.
The tourney grounds are not quite quiet, not the way Ghost has grown accustomed to after years living off the land. Besides battles and skirmishes, he's spent most of his nights beneath the stars but MacTavish had insisted on him taking a tent for himself, calling it an investment in Ghost's performance at the tourney. Ghost had never needed it before, but, as he had quickly learned, MacTavish always got his way.
Ghost worries that you are used to finer things than a romp in a tent on a bedroll that is scarcely large enough for himself, however, you do not seem dissuaded by his accommodations because as soon as you are both plunged into the complete darkness of the tent your are plucking at the ties on his shirt.
He bats your hands away, capturing them both in one of his own and holding them between your bodies.
i am not some pretty little lord like MacTavish
don't need you to be pretty
i don't have any fancy words for you
don't need fancy words
what do y'need
i need you to fuck me like the whore i am
He doesn't need more direction than that. Ghost drops your hands, before tearing away the top of your dress, freeing the tits he had been coveting all night. You gasp as he takes each in a hand, pawing at them with calloused fingers. He wants his mouth on you and knows in the dark of the tent you won't be able to see his face, but you wouldn't be able to ignore the feel of his scars once his lips are on you.
You do not have the same qualms. Your own hands pull blindly at the mask, yanking it harshly until you have freed it from his head and toss it into a dark corner of the tent. You drag your nails over his scalp and through his roughly cut hair, uneven tufts that he hasn't properly seen for ages. It sends tingles down his spine, a sensation that is unfamiliar to him and yet leaves him craving more when your hand slips behind his neck in order to pull his mouth to your own.
You don't shy away from his rough kiss, from the cleft in his lip that leaves him face in a permanent scowl, or from the gnarled burn that took one of his ears and mars most of the left side of his face.
Folk believe the masked hedge knight named Ghost to be a monster but the skull mask is a kindness. Even the magnanimous Ser MacTavish would be tempted to turn him away if he were to see Ghost fully. Even his sire hadn't been able to stand the sight of him after a point, it was the old man that had given Ghost the mask, the skull of some unlucky bastard long bleached by the sun on the beaches of Dorne.
You pant into his mouth as his hands venture lower, tearing more and more of your dress until you stand before him bare. He might not be able to see you, but his hands paint a pretty picture as they explore each valley and peak of your body. The heft of your tits, the firm press of your peaked nipples, the soft skin of your stomach, pliant and warm, before his fingers dive between your legs, your wetness caught in the downy hair that covers your mound.
He wants to taste you, but you want to taste him more.
You drop to your knees hard, the ground unforgiving but you are determined to find out if he truly is big everywhere. You do not wait for his assistance, if he can ruin your dress you can rip open his trousers before you suck his cock.
You wish you could see it properly, because the moment you are yanking his pants down his cock springs free, thick and curved as your fingers dance over the only part of this man that is soft. The air is thick with his musk and you lean forward, trailing your tongue down the length of him until you find the tip, a pearl of pre-come waiting as your prize. His hands are quick to find the back of your head when you swallow down the head of his cock. You might be skilled but even you know your limits and taking him fully would only hurt you.
With time though…with time you could take more of him. For now you settle for sucking on what length you can take while you cup his balls in your free hand.
Above you Ghost grunts, his hands tightening where they hold you. You want to hear him come undone, truly undone. Would the giant of a hedge knight cry pretty tears as you bring him to climax over and over? Would he shout as he came? Or curse your name? Or maybe he is silent except for the prettiest little whimpers?
Maybe he would have no patience for your games and simply bring you to heel?
You could be happy with either, but if tonight is the only night you have to convince him to be with you, then you will need to focus.
Ghost pulls you away just when you are sure he is about to come. You whine, annoyed that he stopped you when you had been about to pull away anyway but then he's kicking off his boots, ripping off his tunic and pulling you down to the bedroll.
It's certainly not the most comfortable place you have taken a man, but then it's not the worst, and you are only there for a moment before his is moving your body as if you weigh nothing so that he is upon the ground and your legs are straining to straddle his waist, his cock pressed between your bodies.
You lean down and take is mouth again, enjoying the way he fights for dominance from beneath you. His cock is hot and hard as you grind down on it, it drags against your clit with each move, the tingle of pleasure more than you expected from a partner who isn't Johnny.
does Johnny fuck y'proper till ya come
You snort into his mouth at the outrageous question. Leave it to a man to have your pussy on his cock worrying about how another man fucks you. Would it bother him more to know your Johnny's whore? That you had fucked countless men before the northerner?
You bare down on his cock this time, his head notching just right, his hands flexing where they hold your hips as you press down further. He rolls his own hips up, pushing down with his hands. He is far from fully seated but already you feel the sweat dripping down your back. You take a deep breath, your hands pushing against his chest so that you can sit back, taking more and more on him until he is fully sheathed, his fingers so tight on your hips you are sure you will be bruised.
You certainly won't be able to walk right with the way his cock presses into your womb.
will you fuck me proper till i come
Ghost needs no further encouragement. He doesn't let you set the pace, he lifts your hips with ease before pulling you back down on his cock. Your nails dig into his chest as he pounds into you from below. You don't know that you have ever felt so full, so desired, so wanted.
You collapse forward on his chest as his hands continue to guide your movements. You pray to The Seven that he is not yet close, not at all ready for this night to be over and unsure if he will please you as promised, but perhaps at this pace you could come before he has had his fill of you.
When Ghost’s hips falter and you are certain he is ready to come you almost cry out in desperation, it’s too soon. Only the hedge knight slips a hand between your bodies, pinching your nipple hard before the wide expanse of his palm comes to rest on your throat, his fingers holding loosely as he pushes you up to ride him properly.
You roll your hips, relishing in the feel of him, the change in angle glorious, his own breathing is labor, his fingers twitching around your throat. His other hand drifts, kneading at your thigh first before shifting so that his thumb can press firmly against your clit, even just the pressure is enough to send a zing of pleasure up your spine, the heat growing beneath your skin until you can't help but clench around him, your own movements becoming unpracticed.
Come on my cock this time and next time I can ‘ave ya comin’ on my tongue.
You don't know if it is the promise of a next time or the press of his thumb, but you can't hold back your cry as you tumble over the edge. You slump forward into his hold, the hand against your throat holding you in place as he fucks up into you, finding his own release only moments after. The warmth of him spreads through you, and leaks out around his still hard cock.
Can he truly go again?
Perhaps you will find out.
Dawn comes slowly across the tourney grounds. Already squires, and servants and the hosts own staff bustle from here to there. You are already gone when Ghost wakes. It is the first time since he was a young child that he had shared a bed with another and he finds that he strongly wants to do it again. Maybe it was fucking you that had tired him out or it was the comfort of your face pressed to his chest, your warm breath against his skin, your hand clutching on to his wrist as you slept.
Ghost doesn’t expect to see you again, certainly not as he stands in the shit and the mud that leads into the makeshift fighting pit. He's there among the other fighters, most scarred and while not as frightening a visage as Ghost just as lethal. Sprinkled through the group are squires, baby faced and eager to please. Ghost has never had much use for a squire, but as he watches the boy nearest him fetch the knight he is with a wineskin he thinks it wouldn’t hurt.
It’s as he muses the benefits of a squire that he spots you.
You walk alone through the throngs of men, your face impassive as if unbothered by the sights and sounds and smells that surround you. When you spot him you smile and though you cannot see it he smiles back.
He doesn’t miss the way the other men watch you, some of the squires openly staring as you walk by.
You make your way to him with dainty steps, carefully avoiding the worst of the muck and the grime, but not all of it. The hem of your dress is quickly dirtied. This one more modest and far more fine, yet still not capable of hiding the curves on your hips, the thickness of your thighs, or the plushness of your tits. Is there a way Ghost could steal you away now? Or rip the eyes out of every one of these green little boys who don’t deserve the sight of you?
Ghost had come to the tourney in search of a master, but maybe what he was in search of all along was a wife? He could fuck you again tonight and pray to The Mother for her blessing, certainly you wouldn't leave him if it was his child that took root in your womb.
He shifts his stance, cock hard and uncomfortable in his armor but he can't stop his fantasies of filling you with his seed even as you come to a stop at his side. Still radiant, still smiling only for him.
Would you accept my favor, Ser Ghost
A lady’s favor?
He had seen other knights and noblemen receive favors from their women before battle. Tokens of luck and well tidings. A thing that he had never once received himself. He never made an effort to speak to the men around him, he was most certainly not talking to the women.
Ghost simply nods, not finding the right words to accept such a blessing. Your eyes shine with an admiration he does not deserve as you pull from your pocket a wispy piece of fabric, delicate and fragile, a piece of the dress he had savagely ripped apart because he had not been able to handle even that insignificant of a barrier between your skin and his touch.
You grab his wrist and pull it towards you. He cannot feel your touch through the gauntlet he wears, but he can remember the feel of your fingers, warm and persistent the night before. With ease you undo the gauntlet, handing it to him before wrapping the delicate strip of fabric around his wrist. You don't wrap it tightly, but you take care to ensure it is secure before replacing the gauntlet. You don't let go.
I'll pray to The Warrior for your safe return
You lift his hand up and place a single kiss to the cool metal of the gauntlet before pulling away. He watches you leave until he can no longer see you in the crowd of tourney goers. He is happy you left, for had you stayed by his side for any longer he was not sure he could have remained a gentleman.
Ghost eyes his competition again, this time with a far more discerning eye, each man here was an obstacle between him and you. He could not accept your favor and not win for you. Once he is victorious he will be deserving of you.
And if he must spend the whole night fucking a baby into you in order to convince you to stay with him, then he will do just that.
The tourney starts the same as all tourneys start. Johnny has grown bored of the airs that the nobles around him put on at these things. It's just folly for old men who were past their prime and green wee lads who had yet to see true war.
Johnny has done his part since coming of age to defend his own ancestral lands as well as fight the king's wars. The excitement of battle, the glory of victory, the parades of admirers had all grown old to him. Even the lavish banquets and perfectly decorated tents left him feeling unsatisfied.
The first thing to have caught his eye in a very long time had been you. Devious, discerning and oh so damaged. It hadn't taken much for him to convince you to follow him after he found you in that rundown, backwaters tavern. A few piles of gold coins and you were his.
Of course, you weren't his sole source of entertainment then, but it hadn't taken long for you to become his favorite. Yet, you vexed him so as you sat next to him in the viewing stands, using his position as a lord's son to get a prime spot to watch the fights. Never before had you been so engaged in the men fighting in the tourney, your attention had always been on him.
That is what he pays you to do, but he had come to hope that maybe a bit of it was a mutual fondness.
Although, he can't blame you when it is Ser Ghost who is taking the field. Johnny has seen many kinds of men in battle from all across Westeros. Never has a man drawn him in the way Ser Ghost has. He had heard talk of a hedge knight's companion who was inhumane on the field, a monster that haunted his enemies' dreams, the kind of warrior that played the villain and never the hero.
Johnny had been curious about him long before they had met.
Even Johnny can't help but lean forward as Ghost approaches his opponent. In full armor Ghost is stunning, with Johnny's help and coin he could be a sight to see, polished steel with gold trim would not do for a man with such a dark aura yet Johnny can't help but imagine him so before imagining the other knight covered in blood as Johnny removes each piece of armor before revealing the man behind the mask.
Have you seen his face?
It had been hard to ignore the fact that you had abandoned him at his own feast. That his guest of honor had absconded with his favorite pet had hurt, but to think that you had had the honor of seeing Ghost's face first? Johnny felt a stab of jealousy that he was not quite used to.
You gasp at the first hit, hand finding his and gripping it tightly. You wore the dress Johnny had brought for you, the kind of thing that wouldn't stand out among the other noblewomen who sat around you. You did not often talk of your past, but you wore this type of garment with ease, too much ease for someone who had been born to a lowborn family. Over time Johnny has dressed you more and more like the type of lady he was expected to be seen with, so slowly, and so carefully that he is certain you haven't realized what he is doing.
You also had yet to realize that he no longer took pleasure in his other companions, all of them knew not to tell you. It surprised him as it was your wit that endeared you to him after your beauty had lured him in. You were oh so clever until it came to this one thing. And had you noticed, you would have realized that by leaving him last night you had sentenced him to servicing himself.
Johnny had come twice to the image of you sucking his cock while Ghost fucked your pretty pretty pussy.
Does it hurt through the armor
Ghost doesn't even flinch when the other man's long sword hits him in the chest. A well calculated blow that allows Ghost to disarm the man as he attempts to pull back the sword that is far too heavy for him. If it hurts, Ghost makes no move to indicate it as a man runs onto the field to claim him the victor of this match. Two more opponents and Ghost win the prize for hand-to-hand. A handsome sum of money awaits the victor, but not nearly what Johnny could offer him.
Will ye kiss it better if it does
You drop his hand in shock, turning away from him and pretending to look very interested in the next pair of fighters.
Could it be that you like Ghost more than him?
You choke down a squeal as he pulls you into his lap, the boning in your dress sticking into his chest as he holds you tight, resting his chin on your shoulder the same way he had done the night before so that he can still see the fight. It does not seem this one is nearly as interesting to you as Ghost's.
Johnny wishes he hadn't given you such a well-structured dress for today, the stiff bodice is tragically separating him from feeling your plush stomach, it comforts him to feel just how alive you are. He settles for one hand holding you in place while the other grasps your thigh through layers of thick fabric. He hopes you will let him fuck you in the dress before dinner, then it will be his come dripping down your legs while you sit between him and his guest of honor.
It does not surprise him when the last match of the day is between Ghost and a knight from Storm’s End who looks like he has been mauled by a bear and put back together. Johnny has met this man, more than once, and luckily only ever as allies. While not quite as tall as Ghost, he is broad and barrel chested, and Johnny once saw him rip a man'ss jaw off with his bare hands. Ser Ulric the Jawbreaker.
Johnny would be terribly disappointed to see Ghost meet a similar fate today.
Seriously maiming or killing your opponent wasn't the goal of these tourneys, the lords and king would not approve of all of their best knights dying for the spectacle of it. Yet, on a day like today where the crowds pressed in close, the sun bared down on the folk gathered and the wine skins had been drained thoroughly it wasn't a surprise to hear calls from the crowd demanding blood.
You stiffen in Johnny's hold when the match starts, your nails digging into his skin where you grasp his wrist. He doesn't mind it, he is the one who has gotten the pleasure of keeping you in his lap all day, feeding you fruit from a bowl and sips of wine from a chalice.
Your hold on him tightens each time Ghost takes a hit from Ulric. From the viewing platform most are on the edge of their seats, many have coin bet on this match. Ulric is the favored fighter, despite the rumors around the tourney grounds that Ghost is some unworldly being, Ulric is known to the nobles. The gathered lords and ladies have seen him at tourneys before, the other knights have fought along side him. He is more than just speculation and whispered rumors.
Even you have seen The Jawbreaker take down countless opponents.
It's why you are crying out when you see Ulric land a blow on the back of Ghost's leg, the place unprotected by armor, the move of a swordsman who knows how to take down an opponent one-on-one. You squirm in Johnny's hold until you can hide your face in his neck, a completely undignified move that gets you curious stares from a few of the ladies that sit nearby. Johnny does not care, let those other ladies sit stiffly next to their husbands, stuffy old fucks who probably couldn't even get it up.
Johnny holds the back of your head gently, keeping your face turned away from the fight but not able to look away himself. He whispers to you in words he knows you do not understand but have always found comfort in, even now you melt into his hold, flinching each time the crash of swords on metal echoes through the field.
Ghost is limping now, blood dripping down his leg and pooling on the crushed grass as he studies his opponent. Both men are breathing heavily, this has been by far the longest match and they won't stop it until the winner is clear and by the cacophonous shouts from the crowd it will only end when one of the two has died.
For the briefest moment Ghost's gaze flicks up to the crowd, to the stands where Johnny sits with you. Its' a subtle movement, something that Johnny only notices because he hasn't once looked away from Ghost. He can't make out the other man's eyes from here, shaded by the helm he wears, but Johnny can feel that gaze, heavy and dark.
Is the other man jealous? Does he covet you, the woman Johnny holds so carefully in his arms? Does Ghost think there is a future with you that does not include him? Does Ghost think there is a future where he is not at Johnny's side?
Johnny grins, because he knows Ghost can see his face, can see the way you are tucked in close. He leans in and kisses the side of your head, smoothing his hand down your back in a move that to anyone else looks like he is comforting you, but its more than that. Ghost needs to understand that you are his, that it doesn't matter that you fucked the masked man, the knight with the skull helm, the mysterious hedge knight who might be a god that walks among them.
None of that matters because at the end of the night it was Johnny's tent you came back to smelling of sex with another man's come dried on your skin. It was Johnny who held you now in the stands with the other fancily dressed folk that even as a proper knight Ghost wouldn't be able to join.
Ghost knows this, knows that Johnny could never beat him in the field but has him beat in so many other ways. Maybe it is jealousy, or rage, or simply Ghost's nature, but the man merely tilts his head in acknowledgement before his gaze turns back on the other knight.
They circle each other, each step leaving behind a print in the mud, the trodden grass a map of their fight, each divet and scrap tracking their path. They come together again, swords clashing, one man grunting as the other swears, the two scrambling for control, for dominance. Even Johnny freezes as they fall to the ground, no longer a fight between two knights, they are simply animals who know that the only way to live is for the other to die.
The crowd has reached a fever pitch, there's no way you can hear Johnny's voice as he tries to assure you its almost over. Ulric has Ghost on his back, a heavy knee bearing down on Ghost's chest. In the fray Ulric has lost his helm, but Ghost has lost his sword. Ulric spits in Ghost's face, bloody globs drip down his helm as the other knight grins, his mouth full of bloody teeth. Its the look of someone who knows that they have won.
Johnny doesn't often pray to the old gods, it has been ages since he stepped foot in the godswood of his youth. There may be no heartrees in this southern land and no gods to hear his prayer, but he asks it of them anyway. It has only been a day but he does not want this knight to die. How utterly disappointing it will be to win you merely because Ghost has died at the hands of another man?
He will never know if it was the will of the gods, or simply the determination and strength of the man who has captured his attention, but Ghost raises hand, Ulric's discarded helm clasped in his fingers and smashes the other man in the side of the head. It is enough for him to lose focus, allowing Ghost to flip the two of them. Ulric is still armed, his sword now pressed beneath the fauld and grazing Ghost's stomach.
Ghost doesn't give the other man a chance to gut him. With the might of a knight not fully man, Ghost bring down the helm again, Ulric crying out first in surprise and then in pain as his face is hit over and over, the ornate edge of the helm breaking through his nose, then his eye socket and then the soft grey matter of his brain.
Ghost doesn't stop until there is nothing left but viscera. When he stands, the other knight's sword falls to the ground with a clatter, covered in blood. A man runs to the field, grasping Ghost's hand and raising it to the crowd as he proclaims him the victor.
When Johnny tells you it's over, you pull away from him, face tear stained and eyes wide. It doesn't seem you believe him until you see Ghost for yourself.
I want to go to him
Of course you do, not even a day since you met this man and you are pulling away from Johnny for him.
he's injured, he needs help
The tourney has a maester that will tend to him, Johnny had spoken to him when you had snuck away to give the knight your favor. Johnny knew what you were doing, saw the little strand of dress wrapped around your fingers as your nervously searched the grounds for the man you had only left hours before.
Johnny lets you go.
If he is in a foul mood that night no one mentions it to him. No one approaches him to dance, no one dares to take the seat next to him, no one dares to ask about you or Ghost. But he hears them whispering about Ghost regardless, late in the night when he typically would have sought you out, when the lights shimmer and the world spins, that's when he hears them.
'e's a monster, a'right
aye, 'eard 'e snatches up men's wives in the night
well i 'eard 'e eats the 'earts of the men 'e kills
ah 'eard 'e steals bairn tae bathe in they're blood
You do not return to his tent in the morning. He dresses for the joust, attendants scurrying around him as they attach his armor. You've never missed sending him off, never not given him a kiss to his helm before he mounts his horse. It reminds him of the days before he found you, different women in his bed each night, none lasting more than a few, very few willing to follow him into battle.
Johnny learns how Ghost felt the day before. The other knight is in the crowd of common folk, his height making him easy to spot. You are with him, huddled in between his arms, peering over the barrier to watch the knights who joust before him. When he is announced you smile and cheer for him just as you always did, but this time you are not alone.
The joust ends with little fanfare, Johnny lets himself be unhorsed early in the day. It would have been more dangerous to continue on distracted as he was. He doesn't see you after the joust, nor at his tent that night. It isn't until the next morning that you reappear in his orbit, your shadow not far behind.
There is a defiant challenge written across your face as you approach, some decision having been made between when he saw you last and this moment. Ghost is unreadable behind his mask, but he drapes a possessive arm over your shoulder.
Cannae believe ye stole mah pet
Ghost's hold tightens and Johnny doesn't miss the way you lean into the other man's touch.
I'm pregnant and it's Ser Ghost's and we are leaving together.
Pregnant? Your hand comes to rest on your stomach, the move drawing both men's attention down. You look no different, tired maybe but you spent the last three nights with a man that strikes Johnny as a thorough lover. And you shouldn't look different, its far too early for you to be showing, too early for you to even know. How could you know unless...
Johnny smiles. It's too early for you to know that you are pregnant by Ghost, the man could have spent all night fucking his come into you and it would still be too early to know, but it wouldn't be too early for you to know if it was someone else's.
Johnny congratulates you, praises The Mother for your good fortune. Ghost nods, but says nothing. Johnny lets them leave thinking they will part ways, start their new life with Ghost's winnings, but Johnny has other plans.
Even if that child were to be Ghost's it wouldn't matter. Johnny has grown tired of tourneys, and fighting, and sleeping in tents and pissing in the woods. His father has grown old, maybe he will suffer a fall, catch a cold from which he cannot recover or pass peacefully in his sleep and it will be time for Johnny to take his place as the lord of their lands.
And a lord needs a lady, and an heir, and a knight dedicated to his service. Lucky for Johnny, he knows where to get all three.
Damian had faced down hitmen, alien warlords, and Gotham’s worst rogues without flinching. But standing in the hallway outside your room, dressed in black sweatpants and an Arkham Academy T-shirt (ironically), holding a single, dog-eared romance novel like it was a live grenade?
That was another thing entirely. He knocked once. Twice. Then opened the door without waiting. “Beloved.”
You were curled up on your bed, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, reading something with earbuds in. You looked up with a warm smile.
“Hey, Dami.”
He closed the door behind him and stood perfectly still for a moment. Calculating. Weighing angles. This wasn’t just about sex. This was about trust, consent, timing.
“I wish to engage in coitus.”
You blinked.
“In what now?”
“Sex,” he clarified, clearing his throat and gripping the book tighter. “With you. Soon. Possibly now.”
There was a pause. You tilted your head, unsure if you heard him right or if he was reading off a Batcomputer prompt.
“Did you Google that?”
“I cross-referenced approximately seventeen sources,” he said seriously. “Some of them were fanfiction. It was distressing.”
You snorted. “Distressing how?”
“Apparently I am frequently paired with Jonathan Kent. And Nightwing.”
You tried not to laugh, failing miserably.
He stepped closer, his face somehow both deeply serious and red at the tips of his ears. “I am not trying to pressure you. I simply believe our bond has deepened significantly and, statistically, most couples—”
You cut him off by gently setting the book down and sitting up. “Damian.”
He looked at you, sharp jaw tense.
“I want to,” you said quietly. “You don’t need a PowerPoint or Google Docs presentation. Just… be honest. With me.”
He swallowed, tension melting just slightly.
“Then honestly…” he murmured, stepping in front of you, reaching down to brush a hand along your jaw, “I have thought about it. A lot. And if you’re willing, I would like to touch you. Love you.”
You reached up and tugged him down by the hoodie string. “Then stop talking and kiss me.”
His lips curled into a grin.
“Tactically speaking, I think that can be arranged.”
Dick: “He asked?! That’s adorable. I just tripped into it by accident in college.”
Tim: spits coffee “Damian’s having sex?!”
Jason: “He did it before me? Are you kidding?”
Bruce: “…I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me. Ever.”
The nightclub pulsed like a living thing, bass pounding through the floors, lights slicing the dark, the air thick with perfume, sweat, and sin.
Friday nights in Velaris were always chaos. Mortals laughed too loud, moved too close, their hearts drumming like a thousand tiny hammers. Every beat called to me, sharp, steady, constant, a reminder of what I was and what I'd lost.
But I wasn't here for the music or the blood.
I was here for him. Azriel.
I told myself it was just to see how he was doing, to make sure he was steady, that he was coping. That the guilt hadn't swallowed him whole. That was all.
At least, that's what I wanted to believe.
But the man who stepped into my path didn't have hazel eyes. He had violet ones. Rhysand.
For a second, the noise around us faded. The flashing lights, the murmured conversations, the music, it all dimmed to a low, distant hum.
"It's nice seeing you here," he murmured, voice velvet and venom all at once.
His hand brushed mine before I could stop him, and in that same smooth motion, he was leading me away from the crowd through the back hall, past the velvet ropes, and into his office.
The door clicked shut behind us, sealing the chaos out. The sudden quiet made my pulse too loud in my ears.
"What do you want, Rhys?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
I ignored the way his gaze drifted over me, the lacy black dress, the blood-red lips. I could almost feel his stare against my skin, the same way I had centuries ago.
"So you can kiss me like the world's ending," he said, jaw tight, "and then act as though it meant nothing? You think I'm just going to pretend that never happened?"
I laughed bitter and hollow. "I kissed you in a moment of weakness," I snapped. "I thought you were dead. I mourned you. For years. And then suddenly, there you were—standing in front of me like a ghost I couldn't banish."
His expression flickered, that old mask of control slipping for just a heartbeat. "I didn't mean—"
"Oh, don't you dare," I cut him off, stepping closer until the space between us crackled like a storm. "If we're playing this game, let's stop pretending. Why did you do it?"
He went very still. The kind of stillness only immortals knew, ancient, dangerous, unreadable.
"You know what I mean," I said, voice rising, trembling with centuries of restrained fury. "Why did you turn me?"
Silence stretched like a blade between us. Then, quietly, "Because I wanted someone powerful to share eternity with."
The words hung heavy, thick with regret. But he wasn't finished.
His eyes darkened, the mask cracking just enough for the truth to pour out, raw and jagged. "And when you turned out just like me—dark and distant, untouchable—I couldn't bear it. You were my reflection, and I couldn't stand to look at what I'd made."
The confession hit like a strike to the chest. I recoiled, breath catching, every old wound reopening at once.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The music from the club below throbbed faintly through the floor, each beat echoing the fury in my veins.
"You made me," I whispered. "And then you ran. You left me to drown in it—no guidance, no warning, just this... this hunger and loneliness you cursed me with."
He flinched, just barely.
"I was young," he said finally, voice low, desperate. "I thought turning you would save me. That if I didn't have to face forever alone, maybe it wouldn't feel like a sentence."
My laugh was sharp and cold. "So you decided to damn me with you?"
He met my gaze, unflinching now, violet eyes bright in the dim light. "I loved you," he said simply. "And I didn't know how to love without destroying."
That stopped me cold.
The admission was both a knife and a plea. His voice cracked on the last word, barely audible beneath the steady hum of the world outside.
For a moment, I hated him for it, for still being able to make me feel. For looking at me like I was something more than the monster he'd created.
I turned away, pacing, nails digging into my palms. "You think love excuses it? You think centuries later, that word still holds any power over me?"
He stepped closer, slow and careful, like I might bolt—or bite. "No," he said softly. "But it's the only truth I have left."
I felt him behind me then, close enough that the air shifted, close enough that the bond between us stirred like a sleeping thing.
I wanted to hate him. I wanted to rip the words from his mouth and bury them where they could never touch me again.
But instead, I stood there, shaking, staring at the faint reflection of us in the glass wall, his tall frame behind mine, shadows entwined.
"You had no right," I said finally, voice breaking. "You stole my choice."
His breath brushed my ear. "I know."
Something in me cracked at the simplicity of it, two words that carried centuries of ruin.
I turned to face him, and the distance between us vanished. He stood close enough that I could feel the pull of that old, cursed bond humming between us, faint but undeniable.
The bond he'd forced into existence the night he damned me.
His eyes, those impossible, violet eyes searched mine, and for a fleeting, terrible second, I saw what he saw, the memory of what we were.
Rhysand lifted a hand, slow, deliberate, reaching for my face as though touching me could rewrite the past.
"You'll always belong to me," he said softly, and it wasn't a threat. It was a confession. A claim.
I froze. The words were a shackle. A familiar one. "Don't," I whispered. "Don't you dare."
He didn't listen. His fingers brushed my jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of my mouth like he was trying to remember the shape of it. That old electricity flared, dark, dangerous, wrong and before I could decide if I wanted to step back or sink into it, the door burst open.
"Get your hands off her."
The voice was low, rough, trembling with fury.
Azriel. He stood in the doorway, eyes burning gold in the dim light, his expression caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak.
The sight of him, bloodline of a newborn vampire, power crackling under his skin made the air in the room shift, heavy and electric.
"Azriel," I breathed, taking a step toward him. But it was too late.
Rhysand turned, his own eyes flashing, that old arrogance slipping back into place like armour. "Careful," he drawled. "You have no idea who you're speaking to."
Azriel's jaw clenched. "I know exactly who you are." His voice broke on the next words. "The one who did this to her."
Before I could speak, before I could stop him, Azriel moved.
He was a blur of motion, fangs bared, rage and instinct twisting into something primal. Rhys met him head-on, centuries of power surging through the room like a shockwave.
The first hit cracked against the desk, splintering wood. The next sent both of them crashing into the wall, shattering the framed glass behind Rhys's head.
I stumbled back, the scent of blood hitting the air, sharp and hot.
The sound of it, the growls, the snarl of breath between clenched teeth was unbearable. They moved too fast to track, a blur of black and shadow, ancient power meeting newborn fury.
"Stop!" I shouted, my voice drowned beneath the chaos.
But neither of them heard.
Rhys struck hard, brutal, his movements precise, centuries of strength channelled into every blow.
Azriel fought like a storm, wild, desperate, a creature still learning the limits of his new nature. He caught Rhys across the jaw, fangs flashing in the dim light, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might actually win.
Then Rhys slammed him into the ground, hard enough to shake the floor.
Azriel snarled, blood dripping from his mouth, eyes glowing like molten amber. "You don't get to claim her," he spat. "Not anymore."
Rhys's voice was a hiss. "She is mine."
That broke something in me.
"Enough!" I screamed, stepping between them just as Azriel lunged again. My hand hit his chest, and I felt his heart, cold, too still, thrumming with fury beneath my palm.
For a moment, all three of us froze, caught in that terrible balance—past, present, predator, protector.
"Stop this," I whispered. "Before you destroy what's left of me."
Azriel's chest heaved. He was trembling, torn between instinct and restraint. His eyes, those beautiful, tormented eyes flicked to mine, searching for permission, for reason.
Rhys stood behind me, breathing hard, blood smeared at the corner of his mouth, but his expression had softened not with guilt, but with something worse. Resignation.
"I told you," he said quietly, eyes locked on mine. "You'll always belong to me. Even if he thinks otherwise."
The sound Azriel made then wasn't human.
I barely had time to turn before he was on Rhys again, slamming him into the wall so hard the plaster cracked.
Fangs glinted, blood fell, and the two of them crashed through the office door and out into the corridor, the fight spilling into the dark like thunder.
I chased after them, the scent of blood and fury thick in the air, praying—begging, that one of them would stop before the other didn't get up again.
"Enough!" I cried again, stepping forward. I didn't think. I just moved.
My hand hit Azriel's chest, but Rhys was already turning fangs bared, eyes glowing that impossible shade of violet that only appeared when the hunger took hold.
His power wasn't light or magic, it was ancient, feral instinct. The kind that lived in blood and bone.
The strike meant for Azriel came faster than sight, he lashed out, a blur of strength and fury, his arm slicing through the air with enough force to shatter concrete.
It connected with me instead.
The impact sent me flying. My ribs cracked under the blow, a flash of white-hot agony tearing through my side. I crashed through the edge of a glass table, shards biting into my skin as I hit the floor hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then... chaos.
Azriel's roar tore through the corridor, a sound that wasn't human. It shook the air, raw and full of something deeper than anger. Terror. He dropped to his knees beside me, hands hovering but afraid to touch, his face pale with horror.
"Stay still," I gasped, tasting blood on my tongue. My own. "Don't—"
He didn't listen. His hands found my face, trembling. "I'm so sorry," he kept saying, the words breaking apart. "I should've—I didn't mean—"
But I wasn't looking at him. My gaze lifted past his shoulder to Rhys.
He'd gone utterly still. The fury that had driven him moments ago was gone, replaced by something far more fragile. Regret.
His violet eyes locked on the crimson bloom spreading across my side, and for the first time in a century, I saw his composure crack. His hands fell to his sides, fingers curling like he didn't trust himself to move.
"Rhys," I breathed, voice shaking.
He stepped closer, slow and haunted. "You shouldn't have stepped between us."
"She was protecting you," Azriel snarled, baring his fangs. "If you touch her again—"
Rhys looked at him then, really looked and something ancient and tired flickered in his expression.
"You think you're saving her?" His voice was quiet now, but it cut deeper than any blade. "You think loving her will end differently for you than it did for me?"
Azriel said nothing, only drew me closer, his thumb brushing the blood from my lips. The look in his eyes was pure defiance.
Rhys's jaw tightened. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said finally, his gaze returning to me. "That was never the plan."
"Plans," I whispered, coughing. "You never had a plan. You only had control."
Something hollow twisted through his face. "Maybe," he admitted. "But you were the only thing I ever lost that mattered."
The silence that followed was unbearable. The nightclub's thudding bass was just a ghost through the shattered glass, the scent of blood heavy in the air.
Rhys looked at Azriel once more, at the way he held me, at the devotion in his every movement and I knew what he saw.
What he hated. What he envied.
He stepped back, expression shuttered, shoulders straightening as that old, unbreakable composure fell back into place.
"Take care of her, then," he said quietly. "But know this—"
He paused, violet eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
"Immortality with her isn't a gift." His voice dropped to a whisper, colder than death. "It's a curse."
Azriel's POV -
The moment Rhysand vanished into the crowd, the world went quiet. Too quiet.
Only her breath broke the silence, shallow, ragged, every inhale edged with pain. The smell of her blood filled the air, sharp and sweet, cutting through the haze of adrenaline.
I'd smelled blood before. I'd caused it. But this, hers was different. It hollowed me out.
I caught her before she could slump completely, my arms wrapping around her waist, holding her against me.
She was shaking. The wound along her ribs pulsed with sluggish, dark blood. It wasn't mortal-deep, but it was deep enough.
"Hey," I said softly, trying to steady my voice. "Stay with me."
Her eyes fluttered open. They were unfocused at first, glassy, her pupils blown wide from pain or hunger. "You shouldn't... look at me like that," she whispered.
"Like what?"
"Like you care."
My throat tightened. "I do." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
I shifted, lowering us both. Glass crunched beneath my boots, glittering like frost in the dim light.
The scent of her blood was maddening, it called to every part of me that wasn't human anymore. The hunger whispered, taste her. But I pushed it down hard, jaw clenched until my teeth ached.
She tried to sit up. I pressed a hand to her shoulder. "Don't move."
"You shouldn't be here," she murmured, voice thin. "He'll come back."
"Let him," I said. "He's done enough."
The cut along her ribs was already starting to close, slowly, painfully. But vampire healing wasn't automatic, it needed fuel.
I tore a strip of my shirt and pressed it against her side, ignoring how the fabric soaked crimson almost instantly.
"Azriel..." Her hand came up weakly, gripping my wrist. "It's fine."
"It's not fine," I snapped. Louder than I meant to. Her flinch gutted me. I drew in a breath, forcing the anger down. "I'm sorry. Just—please, don't talk."
Her lashes fluttered, and she managed a faint, knowing smile. "You sound like me."
I brushed the hair from her face, careful of the shards scattered around us. Her skin was cold, paler than usual, her lips tinged with blue.
For the first time since turning, I realised what true fear felt like, not for myself, but for her.
"Why did you do that?" I asked quietly. "Step between us."
She laughed, a brittle, broken sound. "You think I could watch the two of you tear each other apart?"
"He could've killed you."
She winced as she turned her head to look at me. "He almost did." Then, softer, "He always said immortality was a curse. Maybe this is what he meant."
Her blood was still seeping through my fingers. I could feel the thrum of it, the warmth fading. I didn't think, I just acted. I brought my wrist to my mouth and bit down hard, the skin splitting beneath my fangs.
Her eyes widened. "Azriel—"
"Don't fight me on this."
When I pressed my wrist to her lips, she hesitated only for a second before instinct took over. Her fangs grazed my skin, and she drank. Slow at first, then deeper, stronger.
The sensation was unlike anything else.
My head spun, my pulse roared in my ears. The bond between us, the one that had been flickering ever since that first night, blazed to life.
I felt her pain, her relief, her hunger and beneath it all, something darker, something I couldn't name.
She stopped before I had to tell her to. Her eyes were brighter now, her colour returning, the wound sealing in slow, perfect lines.
"Better?" I asked, voice rough.
She nodded, but didn't move away. Her forehead rested against my chest, her breath steadying. "You shouldn't have done that," she whispered.
"Now we're even."
"Azriel—"
"No," I said, my hand finding the back of her neck, my thumb brushing her skin. "I don't care what he says. About curses, about what we are. I don't care."
Her breath hitched. "You should."
"Maybe." I tilted her chin up so she had to look at me. Her eyes were like stormlight, beautiful, unrelenting. "But I don't."
For a moment, we just stayed like that, breath to breath, blood to blood, the world outside forgotten.
Then she looked away, her voice barely a whisper. "He was right, you know."
"About what?"
"Immortality with me isn't a gift."
I exhaled, a humourless sound that might've been a laugh. "Then it's one I'll suffer gladly."
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue but she didn't.
The club lights outside pulsed faintly through the broken doorway, painting us both in crimson. I held her a little tighter, the scent of blood and regret clinging to the air, and for the first time since I'd turned, I stopped fighting what I was.
Because maybe he was right. Maybe this was a curse.
But if it was then she was the only part of it that ever felt like salvation.
A/n - The big confrontation finally happened, and wow... chaos much?
She and Rhysand absolutely needed that centuries-overdue argument (therapy is expensive, yelling is free), but of course Azriel was not about to just stand there and let things stay civil. He said "violence is the answer" and sprinted x
Things got... messy. She gets injured, Rhys says some very hurtful things, Azriel swoops in to patch her up and everybody walks away emotionally damaged but in a narratively satisfying way :)
-> story was inspired by this post // pairing: rebellion!maekar x you
content warning: themes of violence, sexual assault, intimidation and harsh language
-> please be sure to prioritize your mental health when choosing something to read
summary: during the rebellion and while you travel, soldiers are conducting checks at the borders of the city. Wanting to avoid being singled out, you join another family and they agree to help you only if it doesn't put them at risk. Halfway through the checkpoint is when a random soldier asks where you all are headed. Because of the sudden fear of being detained, you slip up and your answer doesn't align with your companions. The guards call for their general and arriving on horseback in the rain is Maekar Targaryen.
(part one) (part two) (part three) (part four)
please note this post will be updated with each upload!
synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like flies—leaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 16,067
chapter 1 ⋆ chapter 2 ⋆
COMMENT IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!
authors note. im sorry this took so long to write pls dont hate me 💔 just a little note: i specifically wrote this fic to not follow the canon timeline/events, so yes, it is wildly unrealistic that i managed to cram half the targaryen family dying and a blackfyre rebellion into roughly a year. however, i wanted king aerion, therefore the timeline had to suffer. also wrote my first ever smut for this chapter. please be kind to me. i did not proofread a single word of it bc im shy. if there are mistakes, no there aren’t. i can’t see them. i have chosen peace :P likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. MDNI (18+) !!! violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
Exile, you discovered, was a surprisingly festive occasion.
The harbor bustled from sunrise. Sailors shouted over one another, ropes creaked against wooden masts, and gulls circled overhead with all the dignity of drunken courtiers. The smell of salt, fish, tar, and seaweed clung stubbornly to the air, settling over the docks like a damp blanket. Ships rocked lazily against their moorings while merchants complained, sailors cursed, and somewhere nearby a man was loudly losing an argument with a crate.
A crowd had gathered along the waterfront.
Not because exile was particularly rare.
But because Aerion Targaryen being exiled was apparently an entertainment.
Prince Maekar stood at the front of the gathering, grim and immovable as a carved monument. He looked exactly like a man who had spent the last several weeks regretting every decision that had led to this moment. Servants darted through the crowd carrying trunks and supplies while several ladies pretended not to stare.
They all stared anyway.
You stood among them, naturally, because as Aerion's wife, failing to attend his departure would have raised questions. Questions were dangerous. Questions led to conversations. Conversations led to explanations. And explaining why your husband's exile felt suspiciously similar to receiving a gift from the gods seemed unwise.
So you attended. You stood dutifully among the gathered nobles and courtiers and tried very hard to look devastated. You even practiced beforehand— the result was a strange expression that made you look either mildly constipated or recently widowed.
And unfortunately for you, your lips kept attempting to smile.
Across the dock, Aerion was arguing with three different people simultaneously while sailors loaded his belongings onto the waiting vessel. It was genuinely impressive, to say the least.
One sailor was attempting to explain that no, his hunting hounds could not occupy the captain's quarters. Another was trying to convince him that six barrels of wine counted as excessive provisions for a journey that would last less than two weeks.
A third appeared to be defending himself against accusations that he had somehow personally arranged the weather.
All three were losing.
"You are transporting a prince," Aerion informed them loudly. "Hhave some ambition."
"The cabin physically cannot fit twelve dogs, my prince."
"They are sensitive animals."
"They bite people."
"They are discerning."
The sailor looked ready to throw himself into the sea.
Nearby, one of Aerion's men was attempting to load a trunk large enough to conceal a horse.
You narrowed your eyes.
A trunk.
The sight of it immediately filled you with unpleasant memories. You decided you hated trunks.
Aerion continued talking— or complaining.
At this point the distinction hardly mattered.
His silver hair caught the morning light as he paced the dock, gesturing dramatically enough that several sailors had begun avoiding eye contact altogether.
The exile had been announced days ago and the kingdom had known peace ever since.
Aerion, however, had spent those same days informing anyone willing, or unwilling, to listen that the punishment was unjust, outrageous, politically foolish, personally insulting, and possibly treasonous.
The fact that he had threatened multiple people before being exiled seemed, in his opinion, entirely irrelevant. According to Aerion, the punishment was excessive, unfair, politically foolish, and a personal attack orchestrated by people who lacked both imagination and gratitude. Most disagreed. People said he deserved it—some quietly, others not so quietly.
His recklessness, his temper, and his endless appetite for trouble had finally caught up with him. More importantly, his actions had contributed to the death of Prince Baelor, and that was not something even a prince could simply laugh away. The court had spent weeks whispering about it in corridors and behind closed doors, and for once those whispers had reached the king. Exile, many thought, was a mercy. Aerion, naturally, disagreed.
Your gaze drifted toward the ship.
Lys.
Of all places, they had chosen Lys.
You felt a flicker of disappointment.
Exile was supposed to be miserable. Remote. Unpleasant. The sort of place people were sent to suffer and reflect upon their mistakes.
Lys was none of those things.
Lys was warm. Beautiful. Rich. Full of gardens, fountains, music, and enough pleasure houses to keep Aerion occupied until the end of time. Frankly, it felt less like a punishment and more like a reward.
You had spent half your childhood trying to convince your family to leave Lys and travel somewhere exciting. Aerion had indirectly killed a prince—no, the prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne, and somehow been granted a seaside holiday.
It was deeply irritating.
Still, at least he would be several hundred leagues away.
There was comfort in distance.
Not enough comfort, perhaps, but enough that you found yourself hoping the ship sailed very, very slowly.
And as Aerion boarded the ship, you could only hope he never returned.
Not in the dramatic sense. You did not wish for storms. Storms were unpredictable and had a habit of affecting innocent people. Nor did you wish for pirates. Pirates tended to be enthusiastic about everyone else’s problems. Shipwrecks seemed messy. Assassinations seemed excessive.
No.
You simply hoped he stayed there.
Forever.
Lys was lovely. Lys was warm. Lys was beautiful. Lys was full of vineyards, musicians, fountains, silk, and enough distractions to occupy Aerion until the end of time. Surely, somewhere within that city, there existed a problem dramatic enough to capture his attention permanently.
Perhaps he would fall hopelessly in love with a Lysene courtesan. No— you scoffed, Aerion out of all people wasn’t capable of love.
Perhaps he would offend the wrong magister and spend years arguing his way out of prison.
Perhaps he would become obsessed with some absurd Essosi hobby and refuse to leave.
Perhaps he would simply forget Westeros existed.
You were not particularly concerned with the details.
The important thing was that he remained several hundred leagues away from you.
The ship slowly drifted from the harbor. You watched it pull farther and farther from shore, the sails swelling in the sea breeze as sailors moved across the deck like tiny figures against the morning sky.
Aerion stood near the stern as the ship drifted farther from the harbor, one hand braced against the railing while he argued with someone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby.
Even from this distance, it was obvious.
The other man looked increasingly exhausted.
Aerion pointed toward something in the distance. The sailor pointed elsewhere. Aerion threw both hands into the air in outrage.
Remarkable.
The man could start a dispute in an empty room and somehow emerge convinced he was the victim.
A laugh almost escaped you.
Instead, you lifted a hand to your face. Not to wave. Merely to shield your eyes from the sun. At least that was what you told yourself.
The ship continued onward.
The sounds of the harbor slowly swallowed the last traces of it. The shouting sailors became indistinct. The creaking wood disappeared beneath the cries of gulls overhead. The red-and-black Targaryen banners that had snapped proudly in the wind began shrinking into little more than splashes of color against the sea.
You watched longer than you intended.
Perhaps to ensure it was truly leaving.
Perhaps because after everything, it felt strange seeing him go.
For all his faults—and there were enough to fill several books, Aerion had occupied every corner of your life since your arrival in Westeros. He had been an irritation, a humiliation, a disappointment, and occasionally a genuine threat to your continued existence.
And now he was becoming smaller by the second. The ship diminished into a dark shape upon the water.
Then a speck.
Then little more than a pale shadow against the horizon. You kept staring even after it was nearly impossible to distinguish from the sea itself.
Finally, being a kind, generous, and forgiving woman, you offered a few final wishes for your husband.
May his wine always be slightly sour.
May his boots leak whenever it rains.
May every chair he sits upon wobble just enough to be irritating but never enough to be fixed.
May every meal arrive cold.
May every horse dislike him on sight.
May every woman find him exhausting.
May every pillow be warm on both sides.
May every bath be slightly too hot or slightly too cold.
May his sleeves catch on door handles.
May he forever lose one glove and never the matching one.
May-
Well.
The sentiment was there.
You lowered your hand. The ship vanished completely. Nothing remained but the sea.
For a moment, you simply stood there, letting the wind pull at your sleeves. The harbor bustled around you. People resumed their conversations. Sailors returned to work. The world continued as though nothing remarkable had happened.
Perhaps nothing had.
Yet the absence settled over you immediately. Not grief. Certainly not grief. But something that felt suspiciously close to relief.
By the time the ship vanished entirely from sight, you felt lighter than you had in months.
Perhaps years.
The following weeks passed pleasantly.
Then months.
The palace settled into a quieter rhythm without him. His absence left behind an unexpected peace, like a storm finally moving beyond the horizon. Meals became calmer. Servants no longer looked constantly terrified. Nobody threw goblets at walls.
You spent your mornings in the library. Your afternoons overseeing your school. Your evenings reading beside candlelight without wondering whether Aerion was currently setting something, or someone on fire.
Life, for the first time since your arrival in Westeros, felt manageable.
Letters arrived occasionally from Lys. At first, you could not understand why. The very existence of them seemed absurd.
Aerion did not like you. You did not like Aerion.
This was a fact both of you had established repeatedly and with remarkable consistency.
And yet the letters came.
Every few weeks a servant would appear carrying another sealed parchment bearing Aerion’s name. Sometimes the seal was broken. Sometimes wine stained the corner. Once there appeared to be scorch marks.
You read the first few, mostly out of curiosity. The first was three pages dedicated entirely to an argument he had started with a ship captain. Aerion maintained the man had insulted him.
The second letter involved a Lysene magistrate. The third somehow involved the same magistrate, a horse, and a public fountain.
You never learned exactly how because the writing tended to wander. Aerion would begin discussing one subject before veering abruptly into another. Half his letters were complaints. The other half were descriptions of people who had apparently disappointed him.
The city disappointed him.
The food disappointed him.
The magistrates disappointed him.
The weather disappointed him.
One memorable letter was devoted entirely to explaining why a particular tavern owner deserved imprisonment for serving wine that Aerion described as “an insult to grapes.”
Not once did he ask how you were.
Not once did he mention missing home.
Not once did he mention missing you.
You found this reassuring.
After several months you stopped reading them altogether.
There hardly seemed a point.
Instead, the letters accumulated unopened upon a table in your chambers until eventually even that became tiresome. You instructed a servant to place them elsewhere. You never asked where.
Curiously, the letters continued arriving for some time after that. As though Aerion had convinced himself you were reading them.
Or perhaps he simply enjoyed complaining and required an audience, even an unwilling one.
Then, one day, they stopped. No letter arrived that week. Nor the week after. A month passed. Then another.
You found yourself noticing the absence immediately.
Not because you missed them. Gods, no. Quite the opposite, actually. The silence felt like relief. A deep, unexpected relief.
Perhaps he had finally forgotten about this place. Perhaps he had become distracted by Lys. That seemed likely.
Lys excelled at distracting men.
Perhaps he had discovered some new amusement. Some new scandal. Some new woman patient enough to tolerate him. Perhaps, at long last, he had decided to remain there permanently.
The possibility settled warmly in your chest.
And as the months continued to pass without a single letter from across the Narrow Sea, you allowed yourself to hope. Just a little.
Perhaps Lys had finally decided to keep him.
The months continued to pass.
Seasons changed.
Your school grew.
The memory of your husband slowly became less of a daily irritation and more of a distant nuisance, like an old scar that only hurt when touched.
And so, almost peacefully, an entire year slipped by.
Unfortunately, Aerion Targaryen did not.
One year later, standing upon that very same harbor beneath a pale morning sky, you found yourself staring across the sea at a familiar vessel cutting through the water.
For a moment, you merely watched it. Then your stomach sank.
The ship drew closer.
Closer. And closer.
Until the black-and-red banners became visible against the wind.
Around you, servants began moving with excitement. Someone announced the prince’s return. A knight laughed (one of Aerion’s so-called friends perhaps). Another called for preparations.
You simply stood there in silence.
The gods, it seemed, had received every one of your prayers.
And ignored them completely.
ONE YEAR AGO
You settled quickly into life without Aerion. Perhaps too quickly.
The moment the ship carrying your husband into his well-deserved exile vanished beneath the horizon of Blackwater Bay, a suffocating weight had lifted from your chest. In his absence, you carved out a quiet, deliberate existence. The charity school you championed became your sanctuary, occupying the vast majority of your attention. You spent your mornings matching names to eager young faces, listening to the scratched scratching of quills on cheap slate, and finding a profound, grounding purpose in the simple act of teaching.
And the library occupied whatever remained of your waking hours. There, hidden away in a sunlit corner where dust motes danced in the quiet air, you lost yourself in histories of the First Men, treatises on old medicine, and maps of lands you would likely never see. The days bled into weeks, and the weeks into peaceful, seamless months.
It was a serene, predictable routine, so beautifully unhurried that you occasionally forgot you were technically married to a monster exiled across the sea. You were a wife in name only, and you thanked the Seven for that mercy every single night.
Then King Daeron ruined everything.
Well– not intentionally.
Probably.
The King, after all, was known for his gentle disposition, but a monarch’s kindness could be just as disruptive as a tyrant’s whim. A royal summons arrived one crisp autumn morning, delivered by a solemn page and bearing the heavy, intimidating weight of the King’s personal crimson wax seal. The parchment unfurled to reveal elegant, sloping script informing you that His Grace believed it would be highly beneficial if you took up residence at the Red Keep for the foreseeable future.
The reasoning laid out by the crown, apparently, was loneliness. King Daeron, in his infinite, misplaced paternal worry, believed that a young woman left to her own devices in a quiet estate must be rotting away from isolation.
You stared at the letter, the ink blurring slightly before your incredulous eyes.
Then you looked up at Meriel, who was sorting through a basket of fresh linens.
Then you looked back down at the letter.
“I am not lonely,” you stated flatly, as if stating it to the empty air would somehow manifest the truth across the small palace and to the Red Keep.
Meriel stopped her folding and glanced at the overwhelming piles of leather-bound books, loose scrolls, and heavily annotated ledgers completely surrounding your chair. Her expression remained utterly deadpan.
“You spend most of your days speaking to parchment,” she observed dryly.
“I enjoy parchment,” you shot back, defensively tapping the edge of a heavy historical tome.
“Be that as it may, His Grace believes female companionship would be beneficial for you,” Meriel countered, a faint, teasing smirk threatening to break her composure. “He thinks you need the laughter of noble ladies, not the scent of old glue and dusty books.”
You looked utterly horrified, the very concept of being dragged into the gossiping web of the courtly maidens sending a cold shiver down your spine.
Unfortunately, kings were remarkably difficult people to argue with.
Especially when they were correct about being king.
And so, several grueling weeks later, you found your peaceful isolation shattered. You found yourself riding through the massive bronze gates of the Red Keep, returning to the very sprawling, blood-stone castle where your disastrous marriage had begun.
The familiar, looming towers rose aggressively above the churning waves of Blackwater Bay, looking exactly as you remembered them.
Unfortunately.
The jagged silhouette of the Red Keep cut into the sky like an open wound. You had hoped never to see some of these corridors again, specifically the ones leading to Aerion’s old quarters, which still seemed to hold the faint, ghostly echo of his cruel, manic laughter.
The court, meanwhile, welcomed you enthusiastically.
Far too enthusiastically.
In a palace where the highborn starved for any scrap of novelty, a prince’s absent, abandoned wife qualified as premium entertainment. You were like a living curiosity: the girl who had survived the cruel prince and had now been summoned back by the King’s own hand.
The ladies of the court descended upon you almost immediately, like a flock of colorful, preening birds of prey trapped in a cage of silk and velvet. They cornered you in the gardens, crowded around your table at morning break-fast, and shadowed your steps through the lower galleries.
They discussed gowns down to the exact placement of expensive laces. They argued over jewels, measuring the worth of a house by the clarity of a diamond.
They debated marriage as if it were a game of cyvasse, plotting which second sons could be bartered off. They tore down other ladies with sharp, syrupy smiles.
They whispered endlessly about who was sleeping with whom.
They speculated wildly on who wished to sleep with whom.
And, most exhausting of all, they giggled over who claimed not to be sleeping with whom, despite very obviously sleeping with whom.
You hated every single, agonizing moment of it. Your face grew stiff from forcing polite, empty smiles. You missed the smell of your books. You missed the earnest, chaotic energy of your school. You missed the absolute, unblemished luxury of silence. Most of all, you missed the simple dignity of being left entirely alone.
Fortunately, the gods occasionally offered small compensations for human suffering.
In this case, your salvation came in the form of Princess Daena.
The youngest child and only daughter of King Daeron. Daena was a whirlwind of a girl.
She was only a few years older than you, though one would never know it from the way she carried herself. Where most women at court acquired a degree of restraint with age, Daena seemed to have actively rejected the concept. She possessed an astonishing, almost magnificent combination of supreme confidence and complete, unadulterated foolishness.
It was the sort of foolishness that could only flourish in someone who had spent her entire life being adored.
Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of the king’s children, born long after her brothers. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter in a family full of princes. Or perhaps everyone around her had simply surrendered years ago and decided it was easier to indulge her than correct her.
She had been married once. A lord from a respectable house, if your memory served correctly. You never quite remembered which one because Daena never spoke of him with much enthusiasm.
The marriage had not lasted long though.
Her husband died during the Blackfyre Rebellion, leaving her widowed while still very young. Most women would have been expected to remain with their husband’s family or remarry eventually.
Daena simply returned to the Red Keep. And never left. No one seemed particularly inclined to force the issue. Not when she was the king’s only daughter. And not when she appeared perfectly content exactly where she was.
Years later, she still occupied her apartments in the castle as though she had merely stepped out for a brief visit and forgotten to go back.
She spoke constantly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush that often seemed to outrun her thoughts. Conversations with her rarely followed a sensible path. One moment she would be sharing some scandal she had overheard at court, the next she would interrupt herself to wonder aloud whether horses had favorite colors. By the end of the conversation, neither of you could remember how it had started.
She approached every mundane aspect of life with the fiery determination of a seasoned warrior, combined with the fragile intelligence of a deeply distracted goose.
Within three days of your arrival, despite her complete lack of sense, she had become your favorite person at court. Not because she was particularly clever.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
But she was thoroughly, wonderfully entertaining. She was a breath of fresh air in a room full of perfumed suffocations. And unlike most of the venomous ladies at court, Daena possessed absolutely no talent whatsoever for subtle cruelty. She didn't know how to whisper a compliment that doubled as an insult; if she disliked something, she simply stated it with the bluntness of a warhammer.
“You read too much,” she informed you one bright afternoon, peering over the top of your thick tome while swinging her legs off the stone bench in the godswood.
“You read too little,” you replied without looking up, turning a crisp page.
“Books make me sleepy,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “All those tiny black letters look like ants crawling across the paper. It gives me a headache.”
“Books give you knowledge, Daena. For instance, they might teach you what animals eat. You once attempted to feed a lemon tart to a royal peacock.”
Daena sniffed defensively, tilting her chin up. “It looked hungry.”
“It tried to bite your fingers off.”
“Yes. A thoroughly rude animal,” she grumbled, entirely unrepentant. “No manners at all. Next time, I shall bring a stick instead of a pastry.”
The months passed pleasantly enough after that, the sharp edges of the Red Keep softened by Daena’s chaotic companionship.
Until the sickness arrived.
At first, it was little more than a collection of distant whispers. A sudden, shivering fever in the rotting alleys of Flea Bottom. A hacking, wet cough among the kitchen servants.
A handful of isolated deaths among the smallfolk that nobody in the upper keeps considered particularly alarming. People died in the slums every day, it was the tax of poverty.
Then, the whispers grew into a deafening roar.
The fevers spread like wildfire through dry brush, leaping over the city walls and defying the heavy oak doors of the wealthy. Entire noble households fell ill within a span of days, masters and servants dying in the same sheets.
The city began to change, stripping away its vibrant, chaotic skin. Doors remained barred and locked from the inside. The bustling markets emptied, leaving rotting produce and abandoned carts in the squares.
The ominous, rhythmic tolling of funeral bells rang far more frequently than the bells of the church septs.
People stopped gathering in crowds, looking at their own neighbors with raw suspicion. Fear settled over King’s Landing like a suffocating, physical shadow, choking the life out of the capital.
The Great Spring Sickness.
Even the name sounded deceptively gentle, evoking images of blooming flowers and morning dew. But there was nothing gentle about it.
It was a horrific, bloody scourge that turned a man’s blood to water and his lungs to ash within two days of the first chill. Every single day brought a fresh wave of reports to the castle. More deaths. More uncontrollable fevers. More black drapes of mourning hanging from balconies.
The Red Keep attempted to continue as normal, putting on a brave, stubborn face to prevent total panic in the streets.
For a time.
Then, the ultimate terror struck, even the royal family, with all their ancient valyrian blood and isolated privileges, began to fall ill.
Prince Matarys, young and full of promise, went first.
Then Prince Valarr followed his brother into the dark.
One right after another.
There was a crushing silence that followed. The sheer disbelief that washed over the courtiers.. The raw, jagged grief of a family being systematically hollowed out. It was a terrifying realization for the entire realm: that dragons could die just as easily, just as pitifully, as any beggar in the gutter.
The court changed overnight, its glittering facade completely shattering. Laughter disappeared entirely from the halls. Conversations became quieter, reduced to paranoid whispers in darkened alcoves. People began watching one another with a terrifying, hawkish intensity, staring at a neighbor's throat or forehead as though the sickness might be visible if one looked hard enough, terrified of a single cough or a sudden bead of sweat.
Then came the worst, most devastating blow of all.
King Daeron.
The kind, weary king who had summoned you to court because he genuinely worried you might be lonely in your quiet life. The Great Spring Sickness claimed him before the year was out, leaving his bedchamber cold and his throne empty.
The Great Sept of Baelor smelled of death. It was not the crisp, clean scent of the high-burning pyres, but the heavy, suffocating odor of hundreds of beeswax candles, stale incense, and the lingering, invisible phantom of the Great Spring Sickness.
The funeral of King Daeron II, and his two bright, promising grandsons, Valarr and Matarys, had ended hours ago. The highborn mourners had dispersed like smoke, leaving the massive stone structure hollowed out and freezing.
You remained behind.
You had not known the princes well. They were distant figures of duty and grace, but they had been good men. Kind men. In a dynasty so frequently plagued by madness and cruelty, they had been a promise of a gentle spring. Now, they were ashes, and the crown had slid heavily onto the head of Daeron’s second son, Aerys, a man who preferred dusty scrolls to the living world.
You knelt before the altar of the Mother, your hands clasped tightly against the rough wool of your mourning gown. You wanted to pray. You needed to pray, if only to find some semblance of order in a world that had tilted entirely off its axis in a matter of weeks.
"A crown," a voice rasped through the gloom. "A crown of gold, heavy with the weight of dozens... dozens of ghosts." You flinched, your hands dropping as you turned sharply.
Emerging from the shadow of one of the massive marble pillars was Maester Gladys.
Your breath caught in your throat. This was the man. The architect of your misery. It was Maester Gladys who, years ago, had whispered into the ears of your family and the Citadel, orchestrating the match that bound you to the nightmare that was Prince Aerion. You had hated him in silence since then.
But looking at him now, hatred gave way to a cold, prickling dread.
The maester’s robes were disheveled, the links of his chain clinking together erratically as he trembled. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and glassy as he stared completely past you, trapped in the throes of a waking delirium. The sickness had not taken his body, but it seemed to have shattered his mind. He was hallucinating, his hands clawing at the empty air as if tearing away a veil.
"They fall," Gladys whispered, his voice rising in an eerie, melodic cadence. He stepped closer, entirely unaware of who you were, seeing only a shape in the dim sept. "The dragons fall like autumn leaves. First the brave, then the beautiful, then the old king. The spring takes them. But the spring is just the wind that clears the field."
"Maester Gladys," you said, your voice trembling as you backed away from the altar. "You are unwell. Let me call someone to help y—"
"No!" He lunged forward with terrifying, sudden speed, his bony fingers gripping your wrists. His grip was like ice. His wild eyes locked onto yours, and for a fraction of a second, a horrific spark of clarity pierced his madness. "I saw it. Years ago, before I sent the letters. Before I bound you to the dragon's blood. I had a dream."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Let me go."
"A dream of a throne of swords," Gladys hissed, his breath smelling of sour wine and poppy juice. "I saw the royals... their descendants... dozens of them, blood on their doublets, ash in their hair. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. Not Aerion. Not Aerys. You, sitting upon the Iron Throne, the realm quiet at your feet. That is why you had to be here! The gods demanded you be planted in the garden before the fire began!"
Horror, cold and absolute, flooded your veins. You yanked your hands from his grasp with a desperate surge of strength.
He stumbled backward, laughing a breathless, broken laugh, still muttering about a throne made of bones and a queen crowned in shadows.
You didn't look back. You turned and ran.
You ran through the towering doors of the Sept, down the endless marble steps of Visenya’s Hill, the wind whipping your mourning veil against your face. Your lungs burned. The maester’s words chased you like a curse. It was madness. It was the fever talking. It had to be.
But as the days bled into weeks, the horror only deepened, because the world began to mimic the madman's dream with terrifying precision.
King Aerys I was crowned in a somber, muted ceremony. He took the throne, ignored his wife, ignored his realm, and buried his face in books of prophecy.
The crown sat precariously on a head that refused to look at the living, while the heavy hand of Bloodraven governed from the shadows. The Red Keep became a tomb of whispers and dust, but the true horror was not the silence of the new King, but it was the terrifying rhythm with which the Stranger kept reclaiming the dragon’s blood.
The madman— or should you say, Maester Gladys’s prophecy did not unfold in a single, sudden ruination. But instead, it eroded the Targaryen dynasty piece by piece, striking down the royals in ways so sudden and bizarre they defied all reason.
The first of these strange, chilling extractions happened right before your eyes, turning a rare evening of courtly pretense into a waking nightmare.
It was during a feast, a forced, hollow celebration meant to project a semblance of stability.
The air in the Great Hall was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spilled wine, and heavy perfumes meant to mask the lingering dread of the city. You sat at the high table, wedged into a space that felt less like an honor and more like a surveillance post. To your left sat Princess Daena, fidgeting with her silver fork. To your right sat Prince Rhaegal.
Rhaegal was a gentle, broken creature, a man whose mind had long since dissolved into a soft, harmless madness. That evening, he was in one of his distant, melancholic moods, his violet eyes glassy as he stared at his plate, occasionally humming a melody only he could hear.
“Try the lamprey pie,” Daena murmured to you, gesturing toward a massive, golden-crusted dish that had just been carved. “The cook swore he used the finest spices from Dorne, though I suspect he just spilled pepper into the broth.”
Before you could reply, Rhaegal reached out. With a sudden, childlike enthusiasm that often characterized his shifting moods, he took a massive, heavy portion of the pie, driving his fork into the rich, dark meat. He ate quickly, untethered from the rigid decorum expected of a prince of the blood, his mind clearly miles away from the Great Hall.
You turned back to Daena, smiling faintly at her chatter, when a sharp, wet gasp cut through the ambient noise of the feast.
You turned sharply. Rhaegal’s fork had clattered against his pewter plate. His hands flew to his throat, his face rapidly turning a terrifying, mottled shade of purple. The gentle prince was struggling for air, his lungs completely blocked by a thick piece of the heavy pastry.
“Uncle?” Daena asked, her voice dropping its playful edge, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic. “Uncle Rhaegal?”
Rhaegal didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest heaved violently, a horrific, choking sound tearing from his throat as he stumbled backward out of his high-backed chair. The heavy oak crashed against the stone floor, a sound that instantly silenced the immediate radius of the high table. Courtiers froze, wine cups suspended in mid-air.
You lunged forward, your fingers catching the sleeve of his velvet doublet as he began to sink to his knees. “Maester!” you shouted, your voice echoing off the high stone rafters. “Help him! He’s choking!”
But the response was too slow. In a court paralyzed by the fear of sudden death, everyone simply stared. Rhaegal clawed at his own neck, his glassy eyes rolling back into his head, fixed on the high, vaulted ceiling as if he could see the invisible threads pulling him down. He thrashed once, twice, a pitiful, desperate struggle for a single gasp of air, and then his body went entirely limp in your grasp.
By the time the Grand Maester finally scrambled up the steps of the elevated dais, robes billowing and chains clinking in a useless panic, the Prince of Dragonstone was already gone. The direct heir to the Iron Throne lay still on the cold stone. Rhaegal had lived through the horrors of the Great Spring Sickness, surviving a plague that had wiped out thousands, only to have his breath stolen by a greasy piece of crust.
A heavy, suffocating panic descended on the hall. Daena let out a small, terrified sob, clutching at your arm, but you could only stare down at Rhaegal’s still, purple face. Dozens of deaths, Gladys’s voice echoed in the caverns of your mind. A line completely severed.
And then, as if the Stranger were executing a meticulously planned script, the dominoes continued to fall with horrific precision. Rhaegal’s son Aelor was named heir, only to be killed in a freak, tragic mishap by his own twin sister, who soon followed him into the grave.
The line was being systematically hollowed out, leaving nothing but ashes and empty chairs. Finally, Aerys too passed into the histories. He left behind a fractured, bleeding court, a vacant throne, and a path that led straight back to the one man you dreaded most.
His name was mentioned over and over again. You heard they had a meeting; a grim, quiet gathering of the small council, tucked away in the council chambers while the King's body was still being prepared for the silent sisters.
The question of who would succeed Aerys was simple on the surface, yet entirely terrifying beneath it. Naturally, the crown belonged to Maekar. He was the last surviving brother, a veteran commander of the Blackfyre Rebellions, and a man made of iron and duty. But after so many sudden, bizarre tragedies, after watching a whole generation of royals vanish into the dirt in a matter of months—the council was terrified of what would happen if Maekar fell next. They couldn't just crown a king, they had to secure a line. They needed to lock down exactly who was standing in line after Maekar.
And that was where the room had completely fractured.
By all laws of Westeros, the succession should have flowed down to Maekar’s eldest son, Prince Daeron. But the lords of the small council flatly refused to accept him. The excuse whispered through the castle corridors was that Daeron was utterly unfit to rule—a notorious drunkard, soft-willed, and so terrified of his own shadow that he had once fled a tourney rather than face a real knight. The lords wanted a strong, formidable heir to guarantee stability after years of plague and chaos, not a prince who spent his days in wine sinks trying to drown his own cowardice.
With Daeron effectively cast aside by the council, the debate turned to the next brother in line.
His name, Aerion, was mentioned countless times.
You heard the arguments from your position near the doorway, your skin turning entirely to ice. The lords spoke of his fierce Valyrian blood. They spoke of his martial skill, his undeniable presence, and the fact that, despite his exile in Lys, he was a prince who would never be accused of weakness or cowardice. You scoffed at that.
They argued that a fractured, bleeding realm needed a dragon with claws, completely blind to the monstrous cruelty that lurked beneath Aerion's beautiful facade.
Every time his name echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber, Maester Gladys's mad prophecy hammered behind your eyes. A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you.
They were preparing to bring him back.
They were clearing the path for the monster you had barely escaped, dragging him closer to the throne, and closer to you, than anyone had ever intended.
And so here you were, at the harbor.
The sea stretched endlessly before you, a vast, oppressive sheet of cold gray beneath a morning sky that offered no comfort. The salt air was heavy, thick with the sharp tang of low tide and the smoky breath of the harbor’s watchtowers. Waves slapped lazily, relentlessly against the massive stone docks, entirely unaware— or perhaps entirely uncaring, that they were delivering catastrophe directly to your doorstep.
Each dull splash felt like a countdown, a steady rhythmic ticking toward the end of the quiet life you had fought so hard to build.
Around you, the chaotic gears of royal preparation were already turning with frenetic energy.
Servants hurried back and forth in frantic pairs, carrying heavy iron-bound trunks, stumbling over coil ropes, and hauling velvet-draped litters. Knights in polished armor gathered near the edge of the piers, their greaves clinking as they shifted their weight, checking and rechecking the alignment of the gangplanks. Courtiers lingered in tight, whispering clusters like crows on a fence, speaking in lowered voices that were not nearly as discreet as they believed. You could catch fragments of their murmurs drifting over the sound of the wind—words like succession, blood of the dragon, Lys, and the King’s heir.
You stood perfectly still amongst them, a solitary figure draped in mourning black, frozen like a statue carved from grief and dread.
Watching. Waiting. Dreading.
With every passing minute, the ship grew larger on the horizon. A year ago, you had stood on this very harbor, watching the sails of his vessel shrink into nothingness, praying with every fiber of your being that the sea would swallow him whole and that he would never return.
The gods, apparently, possessed a vicious, twisted sense of humor. They had not only kept him alive; they had cleared a path through his entire family just to bring him back.
Beside you, Princess Daena squinted out toward the gray water, shading her eyes with a delicate, ringed hand. She was completely oblivious to the cold sweat prickling at your spine.
"Which one is he again?" she asked casually, tilting her head.
You stared at her, your voice flat, drained of all warmth. "My husband."
"Oh." Daena blinked, her brow furrowing in a brief moment of mental calculation. A pause stretched between you, filled only by the screaming of gulls overhead. "The terrifying one?"
"Yes."
"The handsome, terrifying one?"
You closed your eyes, the memory of his cruel, beautiful face flashing behind your eyelids like a brand. "Yes."
"Hm."
You heard absolutely no concern in her voice. When you opened your eyes again, Daena was still staring toward the approaching vessel with open, childlike curiosity, as if she were waiting for a traveling circus to pull into port rather than a monster.
"I always thought he was exaggerated," she murmured, tapping her chin. "The stories the old ladies tell in the solar. They make him sound like a demon out of a fairy tale."
"He isn't exaggerated."
"Really?"
Your jaw tightened. The memories of his unpredictable, erratic whims swarmed your mind. "He once suggested I join him and another woman in bed as though he was offering me cake. No shame. No affection. Just a casual invitation over breakfast."
Daena blinked, her shielded eyes widening slightly as she processed the image. "Oh." Another pause settled over the stone pier. Then, she let out a small, bewildered breath. "That is rather strange."
Rather strange. You briefly, intensely considered pushing her into the sea just to give yourself something else to look at.
The ship was close enough now that individual figures could be clearly seen moving across the polished wooden deck. The distinctive three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snapped aggressively against the gray sky on a field of black silk.
The crowd stirred, a collective, nervous energy rippling through the smallfolk and lords alike. Someone called out a sharp command for the heavy timber gangplanks to be readied.
Further ahead of the crowd, standing at the very edge of the pier, Prince Maekar stood as rigid as stone. His massive frame was clad in deep crimson and charcoal, his hands resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. If he felt any emotion regarding his second son's return, if his heart ached for the monster he had fathered, he concealed it behind a mask of pure iron.
You doubted he was pleased. Maekar was many things—stern, unyielding, and bitter—but even he wasn't blind. The small council might have been locked away in their chambers discussing the technicalities of succession, and the high lords might have been speaking grandly of strength, Valyrian blood, and the necessity of dragons, but Maekar knew his son.
Perhaps better than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, Maekar knew exactly what Aerion was capable of when left to his own devices. And that knowledge alone made this entire situation infinitely worse. The father did not trust the son, yet the realm was forcing them together.
The ship finally eased into the stone slip of the harbor with a massive, slow momentum.
Thick hemp ropes were thrown through the air, caught by straining dockworkers. Sailors shouted orders over the roar of the wind, their voices hoarse and salt-worn. The heavy timber of the hull groaned in protest against the wooden pilings, a scraping, agonizing sound that vibrated right through the soles of your shoes. The vessel settled, its great oars drawing back like a predator folding its wings.
For a terrifying, suspended moment, nobody moved. The entire harbor seemed to hold its collective breath.
Then, the heavy wooden gangplank was lowered, hitting the stone dock with a loud, echoing thud.
A profound, heavy hush seemed to ripple through the gathered crowd. Your stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. You hated that it did. You hated that after a year of absolute freedom, after all the peace and purpose you had carefully carved out for yourself among your books and your school, the mere possibility of seeing him again could still completely unsettle you. It made you feel weak. It made you feel like the frightened girl he had married, not the woman who had survived him.
The first men began descending the ramp. Guards in practical leather armor, Lysene servants carrying gilded birdcages, merchants in strange, bright eastern robes, faces you did not recognize, a blur of foreign wealth and colonial luxury.
Then– there he was.
Aerion Targaryen descended the gangplank as though he had personally conquered Lys and was returning to King's Landing to collect his rightful reward, rather than an exile being dragged home by a depleted family tree.
The bastard looked infuriatingly healthy.
If anything, his time across the Narrow Sea had only improved him. His silver hair had grown longer, catching the pale morning light, and the hot Lysene sun had darkened his pale skin to a warm, sun-kissed bronze. He wore expensive Essosi silks—a deep, shimmering violet doublet that perfectly matched his eyes—beneath a heavy travel cloak trimmed with fur that probably cost more than some small keeps in the crownlands. He looked rested. He looked powerful.
Which felt deeply, profoundly unfair.
You had spent an entire year secretly hoping for at least one visible hardship to have found him in the East. A limp from a tavern brawl. A jagged scar across his arrogant face. A missing tooth. Something, anything, to prove that the universe possessed a shred of justice. Instead, he appeared to have spent his entire exile drinking fine arbor gold, lounging in pleasure houses, and making everyone else's life thoroughly miserable while you dreaded his shadow.
He paused at the base of the gangplank, and his violet eyes, bright, sharp, and terrifyingly lucid, swept across the gathered crowd. They passed over the armored knights without interest. They slid over the bowing servants. They dismissed the murmuring lords.
Then, they landed on you.
And stopped.
For one terrible, agonizing moment, neither of you moved. The entire harbor seemed to instantly disappear around you. The shouting of the sailors, the groaning wood, the crashing sea, the crowded pier, all of it was gone, reduced to white noise. There was nothing left in the world except those familiar, deadly eyes staring across the narrow distance between you.
Then, Aerion's mouth slowly, deliberately curved. It was not a smile of affection, nor was it a greeting. It was the sharp, curling smirk of absolute recognition. It was the look of a boy who had just found his favorite toy waiting for him exactly where he had left it.
You stared into his eyes, the madman Gladys's prophecy screaming in your ears, and you immediately regretted being alive.
There were many moments where you regretted being alive, but this was, without a doubt, the absolute worst of it.
It was supposed to be a simple family dinner. Simple, and yet every breath you took felt like swallowing glass. You spent the entire evening faking your smiles until your cheeks ached, holding your heavy silver utensils so tightly that the ornate patterns bit deep, permanent ridges into your palms. You didn't dare look up. You knew exactly what was waiting for you across the linen tablecloth if you did.
One after another, Aerion spoke of his time in Lys. He painted a picture of a paradise, his voice smooth and dripping with that familiar, theatrical charm that made the high lords lean in with rapt attention. He spoke of the towering pleasure houses of the Perfumed Garden, the sweet, spiced wines that never let a man go thirsty, and the effortless luxury of the Free Cities. He spun tales of naval skirmishes and foreign diplomacy as if he hadn't been kicked out of his own country for being a degenerate, but had instead gone on a grand, triumphant tour. To hear him tell it, his exile wasn't a punishment at all, it was more like a holiday.
“The Lysene know how to craft beauty,” Aerion said, his eyes sweeping across the table before settling on you. There was something in his tone that made your skin crawl. “Though there are some things even the wealthiest magisters cannot recreate.”
A knot tightened in your stomach. You lowered your gaze and forced yourself to take another bite of the roasted capon. The meat was tender, perfectly seasoned, and tasted like nothing at all. Ash filled your mouth instead.
To your left sat young Egg. The boy was a stark contrast to the rest of his family, sunburned from his hidden travels, his head recently shaved to hide his Targaryen features, and possessing a stubborn, grounded sense of reality that the rest of the court sorely lacked. He sat right beside you, kicking his legs slightly beneath the heavy oak table, his small fingers violently stabbing a piece of potato.
"He's a prick," Egg muttered under his breath, his voice so quiet it was nearly buried by the clinking of wine goblets. He leaned slightly toward you, his brow furrowed in a fierce, protective scowl. "A pompous, preening prick. He hasn't changed a bit."
A genuine, albeit fleeting, smile finally broke through your rigid mask. You didn't dare say a word out loud, but you let your fingers gently brush against Egg's sleeve in a silent, grateful acknowledgment.
Suddenly, the clinking of silverware died down.
"And what of your duties here, Aerion?" Maekar's voice boomed from the head of the table, heavy and demanding. The King-to-be hadn't touched his wine all evening. His dark eyes bored into his second son. "The council did not recall you from Lys to lounge in the capital like a perfumed magister."
Aerion set his chalice down with an agonizingly slow, deliberate grace. The silver rings on his finger clicked sharply against the gold rim.
"The realm needs a reminder of what a dragon looks like, Father," Aerion replied, his voice smooth, yet underlaid with a dangerous, purring edge. He didn't look at Maekar. Instead, his violet eyes slid deliberately back to you, locking onto your face with a predatory stillness that made the breath catch in your throat.
"And I intend to start my duties exactly where I left them. Beginning at home."
The oppressive, tense heat of that dinner faded, bleeding into the grand, echoey chill of the Great Hall days later.
The air inside the throne room was thick with the scent of burning tallow, heavy incense, and the collective sweat of hundreds of tightly packed nobles. Trumpets blared, their brassy notes reverberating off the high stone pillars, cutting through the low, reverent murmur of the crowd.
It was the day of the coronation.
Before the twisted, towering mass of the Iron Throne stood Maekar. He looked every bit the warrior king, his shoulders broad beneath heavy velvet, his face carved of unyielding granite as the High Septon raised the crown above his head. The crown itself was a heavy, formidable thing, a band of black iron set with square-cut rubies that caught the torchlight that almost looked like fresh, uncoagulated blood.
Your eyes locked onto the crown, tracking its slow descent toward Maekar's brow.
As the gold and iron caught the light, the grand hall seemed to bleed away. The blare of the trumpets distorted, turning into a low, rushing wind, and suddenly you were back in that dim, dust-choked chamber. You could smell the bitter herbs and the rotting parchment. You could see Maester Gladys's trembling, withered hands clutching at your robes, his milky, blind eyes staring right through your soul as his raspy voice tore from his throat.
A line completely severed. And through the smoke, I saw you. I saw you sitting on the Iron Throne.
The memory shattered as the High Septon finally placed the heavy crown onto Maekar’s head, declaring him the first of his name. A deafening roar went up from the crowd “Long live King Maekar!” –and the nobles burst into thunderous applause.
Standing in the front ranks beside the rest of the royal family, you kept your hands folded politely in front of your dress, your gaze never wavering from the rubies glittering on the new King's brow.
And for the first time, you didn't push the madman’s prophecy away. You didn't shudder in fear or wish to run. Instead, you eyed that heavy band of iron and rubies with a quiet, burning intensity, wondering with a sudden, sharp clarity if it really was all true.
If the line was meant to sever, then why shouldn't it end with you?
You looked at Maekar, and then your eyes slid slightly to the side, where Aerion stood basking in the reflected glory of his father's new titles. He looked proud, arrogant, and entirely secure in his place as the council’s chosen future.
But you knew the truth. You were better than Aerion. He was a creature of petty malice and fragile ego, a boy who thought cruelty made him a dragon. You were incomparable to him. Where he brought chaos and terror, you possessed a mind that could actually construct order. You understood the delicate, bleeding pulse of the realm. You knew its history, its flaws, and the desperate, quiet needs of the people living under its shadow.
If the gods or the prophecies meant to hand you the reins of Westeros, you wouldn't just sit on the throne to collect taxes and demand bows. You would change lives. You would rewrite the rules of the court, steady the crumbling foundations of the realm, and build something lasting– something better than whatever broken, arrogant Targaryen kings had come before you.
The crowd continued to cheer, their voices echoing off the high stone ceiling like rumbling thunder, a deafening wave of noise that seemed to vibrate right through the floorboards.
As the hours bled on, the somber atmosphere of the coronation melted away, and the Great Hall was transformed into an ornate ball and a dining room at the same time. Tapestries of Targaryen history were illuminated by the harsh, flickering glare of a thousand fresh beeswax candles. Servants moved in a frantic dance of their own, rushing between tables to replace heavy platters of roasted meats and pour endless rivers of sweet Arbor gold. Music from the gallery above swelled; pipes, harps, and drums weaving a lively, almost aggressive rhythm that filled the cavernous room.
And unfortunately for you– you were seated directly beside Aerion.
Ever since his heavy leather boots had landed on Westerosi soil at the port, he had not once properly acknowledged your existence. He sat beside you like a beautiful, dangerous statue, his attention seemingly entirely occupied by the lords who leaned across the table to curry favor with the new King's son.
It was better, you supposed. In fact, it was much better than the alternative. You would gladly take his cold shoulder over having to deal with whatever sharp, twisted insults normally landed from his vile mouth. You kept your gaze fixed ahead, watching the colorful blur of spinning courtiers on the dance floor, hoping that if you sat quietly enough, you might simply blend into the heavy velvet drapery.
But Aerion Targaryen was never a man to let you find peace.
Somehow, he managed to ignore and acknowledge your presence at the exact same time. He did not look at you, nor did he address you by name, but he spent the evening launching snide, venomous remarks that were lowkey, yet undeniably, about you.
"The women of Lys know how to dress for a feast," Aerion remarked to a minor lord sitting across the cloth, his voice cutting clearly through the ambient music. He lifted his golden chalice, swirling the dark wine within. The man nodded uncertainly, unsure on what to respond. “They arrive determined to improve the evening.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward your black mourning gown. "Not everyone shares that same ambition." A few men laughed. You tightened your grip on your silver fork, your jaw locking into a rigid line.
There were two reasons you still wore black.
The first was respectable enough. King Daeron was gone, as were Aerys and the young princes. Not even a year had passed since death had swept through the royal family with such ruthless speed. Mourning remained appropriate.
The second reason was less suitable for polite conversation.
You were mourning your own life.Or rather, the life you had before Aerion Targaryen returned and proceeded to trample through it like a dragon through a vegetable garden. It had been quiet then. Peaceful. Predictable. You had your books, your routines, your freedom from his relentless presence.
And now he was back, ruining all of it with remarkable efficiency.
Aerion set his chalice down with a deliberate, echoing thud, the gold gleaming under the candlelight as he swiveled his attention slightly back to his sycophants. “That’s another thing I miss about Lys.”
The lord across from him leaned forward eagerly, practically tripping over himself to absorb whatever royal favor or scandalous gossip the prince was about to dispense.
The lord blinked. "My prince?"
A cruel, fond smirk tugged at the corner of Aerion’s mouth as he murmured, “The Lysene women are excellent company.”
“Then perhaps you should have stayed.”
The words escaped before you could stop them. Oops. Awkward.
A mistake.
The moment they left your mouth, you felt it— the sudden shift in the air around the table. The conversation nearby faltered. A few lords looked down into their cups with remarkable interest. Somewhere behind you, you could practically feel Meriel having a silent heart attack.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the high table.
At the far end, Daena brightened immediately. The traitor.
For the first time in days, you had voluntarily spoken to Aerion, and she looked as delighted as if she’d just witnessed a long-awaited reconciliation rather than what was very clearly the beginning of another argument.
But slowly and deliberately, Aerion looked at you for the first time all evening.
The movement of his neck was smooth, fluid, and utterly devoid of warmth. Predatory lilac eyes locked onto yours, wide with a terrifying kind of amusement.
“There she is,” he purred, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hairs on your arms stand up.
Aerion leaned in closer, the scent of wine and ash washing over you as his smirk widened into something truly venomous. “What a touching reunion.”
He tilted his head, his eyes tracking the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to maintain your composure. “I was beginning to worry you’d forgotten how.”
Suddenly, the music shifted, slowing into a heavy, rhythmic cadence. One of the courtiers stepped forward, announcing that the high table was expected to lead the next dance.
Aerion set his chalice down with a sharp clink. That lazy smirk on his lips sharpened into something altogether dangerous. He extended a hand toward you, his fingers long and elegant, yet caked with the invisible memory of violence.
You looked at it—at the calluses earned from relentless training, at the heavy signet ring catching the torchlight. Then you looked up at him, meeting a gaze that was far too calm.
“No.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, his dark brows lifting a fraction of an inch before his features smoothed back into that familiar, infuriating composure.
“That wasn’t a difficult instruction,” he murmured, his voice smooth and entirely devoid of apology.
“You’ve ignored me all evening.”
“Yes.”
“And now you wish to dance.”
“Also yes.”
His hand remained suspended between you, an unyielding invitation. Around the high table, the low hum of courtly chatter had died down. Lords and ladies had begun watching, nudging one another, their eyes glittering with the hunger for a domestic scandal.
You decided that you hated every single one of them.
Knowing a public refusal would feed the vultures for weeks, you swallowed your pride. Slowly, deliberately, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and possessive.
Aerion’s mouth twitched, a shadow of a smirk playing on his lips. “There she is.”
“I hope you fall down a staircase,” you shot back, keeping your voice low enough for only him to hear.
“See? We hardly spoke for a year and you’ve already missed me.”
The dance was a nightmare.
The court cleared a path as he led you to the center of the floor. Aerion guided you through the intricate, sweeping steps with infuriating ease, his hand firm against your back, effortlessly dictating the pace before you could try to lead.
“You’ve become even more miserable,” he noted, his eyes scanning your face as the music swelled around you.
You refused to look at him, choosing instead to stare somewhere over his shoulder at a dusty tapestry on the far wall. “Welcome home.”
“I left for a year and this is the reception I receive.”
“You’ll survive.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, a genuine glint of amusement in his eyes. “There she is.”
“What does that mean?” you snapped, briefly breaking your vow of silence to glare at him.
“You’ve spent the entire evening pretending I don’t exist.”
“I was hoping you’d do the same.”
He laughed softly, the vibration traveling through his hand on your waist. The sound irritated you more than it should have, warming your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the heat of the hall.
“You’ve been hiding,” he said, executing a seamless turn that forced you closer to his chest.
“I’ve been reading.”
“Same thing.”
You considered stomping on his heavy leather boot with the heel of your slipper. It would be so easy. A slight misstep, a quiet crunch of his toes. Unfortunately, half the realm was watching, their eyes tracking your every movement.
Aerion seemed to notice the calculation in your eyes, his grip tightening just enough to anchor you. “Go on.”
“What?”
“I know that look.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You want to kick me.”
Your silence answered for you, your jaw tightening as you offered him a sweetly venomous smile for the benefit of the crowd.
“Very healthy marriage,” he said, drawing you just a fraction closer as the music began to fade.
—
When the dance finally ended, you didn't give him the chance to escort you back. You practically fled the Great Hall, lifting your heavy skirts and hurrying through the labyrinthine, torch-lit stone corridors of the Red Keep until you finally reached the safety of your own quarters.
You pushed open the bedchamber door.
Relief flooded through you. Finally. Silence. No music. No courtiers. And most importantly, no Aerion–
You stopped.
Aerion was sitting on the edge of your bed. A silver goblet rested loosely in one hand, the dark red wine sloshing slightly against the rim. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth fire playing across his sharp valyrian features.
Then:
“You took the scenic route.”
You shut your eyes. Slowly and carefully. As though patience alone might make him disappear. When you opened them again, he was still there, stretched across the edge of your bed with all the comfort of a man in his own chambers.
“Get out.”
Aerion lifted his goblet and took an unhurried sip. “No,” the answer came so quickly it was almost insulting.
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
You dropped your head into your hands, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache had begun somewhere around the third insult at dinner and had only worsened with every passing hour.
“Why are you here?”
Aerion opened his mouth. You immediately held up a hand.
“Actually, wait.” You pointed a warning finger at him. “I already dislike this answer.” And to your irritation, he looked pleased.
“You fled.”
“Yes.”
“And I followed you.”
“That explains nothing.”
Aerion frowned slightly, as if you were being deliberately difficult.
“It explains the entire sequence of events.”
“No, it explains how you got here. It does not explain why you're here.”
You stared at him, your gaze filled with unadulterated venom. Aerion stared back, entirely unbothered, his posture relaxed against your silk sheets. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.
Then he smirked. “Did you genuinely think you could lose me?”
“Hope is free.”
“Not for much longer, when I become king.”
“If.”
Aerion rolled his eyes, annoyance already flooding to the both of you, shattering the last remnants of any polite pretense. He set his goblet down on the nightstand with a definitive thud and stood up, bridging the distance between you.
"We need an heir," he said, his voice dropping into something heavy and entirely stripped of its playful malice. "My father and the small council spent the better part of the morning discussing it. To ensure the Targaryen line lives on. It is a matter of state."
Sensing exactly where this was going, your stomach churned with defense.
"I am your husband—" Aerion started, his tone commanding.
"Estranged," you cut him off sharply.
Now you knew. You knew exactly why he was standing in your room, why he had bothered to seek you out at all. He didn't care about you. He was doing this because without an heir before King Maekar dies, he won't be crowned king. The small council would waver.
You raised your chin, trying to sound entirely unimpressed. "Your father is strong, Aerion. It is clear he will live a long life. There is no need for urgency."
But as you stared at him, the weight of the looming situation forced your mind to spin backward, retreating into the memory of a conversation from only a few weeks ago…
—
The sunlight in your solar had been suffocatingly bright that afternoon. You had been pacing the floor, the heavy fabric of your skirts whipping around your ankles as you raged to Meriel.
"He is returning from Lys," you had spat, the words tasting like ash. "And they are naming him Prince of Dragonstone. It is absurd! An heir will be entirely impossible between Aerion and me. We cannot stand to be in the same room, let alone share a bed."
Meriel had remained perfectly calm, sitting gracefully by the window, her embroidery resting in her lap. She had looked up, a sharp, knowing glint in her eyes. "It doesn’t have to be a long-term arrangement. You will be queen. And when Aerion..." She had paused, trailing off with a delicate shrug that heavily hinted at an early, violent demise for your husband. "Well, if he dies early, you will be regent. If you are with child."
You had scoffed loudly, throwing your hands up. "Regent? There are other male heirs! The crown wouldn't fall to a child of his if there are others to take it."
"The small council prefers Aerion," Meriel had countered smoothly. "Because of his personality. Oh, they are terrified of him, make no mistake. But they know he would make a fine king because of his violence. He is utterly ruthless to those who oppose his family. Think of my own family for an example of what happens to those who cross the crown."
She had leaned forward, ticking the other options off on her fingers. "Look at the alternatives. Daeron is far too busy drinking himself into a stupor to ever hold a scepter. Aemon doesn't want to be king, nor does he want to be anywhere near the Iron Throne. He reminds people too much of King Aerys– he prefers his dusty books over governing his people, over the living world entirely. And Aegon?" Meriel had let out a soft, amused laugh. "Aegon is frequently nowhere to be found most days, off on his grand adventures with that remarkably tall knight."
You had scoffed again, though the weight of her words sank in.
"There is a Blackfyre rebellion looming again," Meriel had reminded you, her voice dropping to a serious, hushed whisper. "Obviously, it breathes life because of the rumors of the Targaryen heirs dying one by one like flies. Who knows... you might get lucky if Aerion magically wounds up and dies on a battlefield somewhere. But until then?" She had fixed you with a hard, unyielding stare. "You need an heir."
—
The memory faded, snapping you right back into the dim hearth-light of your bedchamber.
Aerion was still standing there, watching you closely, his sharp lilac eyes tracking the subtle shift in your expression as you processed the trap the small council and history had laid out for you.
The silence between you stretched, heavy and thick with the reality of Meriel’s words.
You breathed out slowly, the tension never leaving your shoulders. You looked past him, staring at the rumpled silk sheets of the bed he just sat upon. If this was a battle for survival, then you would treat it like one.
The irritation that had flared during the dance, the nervous flutter in your throat when you found him waiting in the dark—it all suddenly crystallized into a cold and hard ambition. You had spent months dreading his return, hating his arrogance, but you weren't a martyr, and you weren't a victim either. You wanted that crown. You wanted the power that came with it, the absolute security of the Iron Throne, and the ability to look down on the very courtiers who sneered at you now. If Aerion was the key to unlocking that future, then you would simply have to turn the key.
Slowly, deliberately, you walked past him. The heavy fabric of your skirts brushed against his boots as you closed the distance to the bed, reclaiming your space.
When you looked up at him, all the venom was gone from your eyes. The shift between you could be felt so obviously. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a sudden finality.
You didn't say a word. Instead, your fingers went to the lacings of your gown.
One by one, the heavy silver pins and rings of your jewelry slipped from your skin, hitting the floor with a series of dull, metallic thuds. Then, with practiced, unhurried movements, you unfastened the heavy velvet bodice, letting the heavy gown pool at your feet like a shed skin.
You were left in nothing but your undergarments, a shift of fine, ivory silk so thin it was practically a second skin. In the warm glow of the hearth, your silhouette was starkly revealed– the soft swell and curve of your breasts, the dark peak of your nipples pressing against the fabric, and the smooth, sloping line of your hips.
For all his worldly experience, the sight took Aerion completely by surprise. His breath hitched audibly, his lilac eyes darkening as they tracked the sudden exposure of your body.
You had no experience in a marriage bed; you were a maiden, untouched and untried, but it didn't mean you were a fool. The books you had spent the months reading hadn't just been histories and statecraft; they had been accounts of the flesh, of the power women wielded in the dark when they knew exactly what they were trading.
You leaned back slightly on the mattress, propping yourself up on one hand, meeting his stunned gaze with a look of detachment.
“Well– I certainly did not expect you to give in so suddenly” Aerion said. He blinked, the initial shock quickly giving way to a broad, unbothered grin. He chuckled, shucking off his heavy doublet and tossing it onto the floor without looking. “Look at you. Fascinating. I thought I’d have to deal with hours of sighing, but you’ve gone straight to the point. I respect the efficiency.”
You glared. “Oh don’t mistake my patient for tolerance” You made sure to keep your voice level. You wouldn’t want him to know your heart is hammering in your chest right now. You then scoffed– “I am doing it entirely on my own terms.“
Aerion paused, unbuttoning his shirt with casual and unhurried movements. “You think a thin piece of silk gives you leverage?”
“Yes, I do,” you countered smoothly, holding his gaze. “But you still want what's underneath it.”
He let out a sharp, amused breath, stepping closer to the bed. “True. You have an exceptional body, I'll give you that. I was actually a bit worried you’d be shaped like a turnip under all that velvet. Not quite as lush as the women in Lys, of course– they have a certain, how do you say, vibrancy to their curves– but still, much better than I anticipated.”
Ouch. The casual insult stung, a blunt reminder of his complete lack of tact, but you refused to let him see it find its mark. You kept your face perfectly impassive.
“I was hoping your exile would have helped you improve,” you remarked dryly.
His hand moved to your neck. The blunt warmth of his palm was a stark contrast to the heavy, cold metal of the countless rings on his fingers. You leaned back further against the mattress as he tilted his head, his lips hovering just beside the lobe of your ear.
"You talk too much," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "Let's see if you can do anything else."
His hand trailed down your throat, his fingers splaying across your chest. You watched him through your lashes, refusing to look away as his palms slid lower, mapping the contours of your body. He took the weight of your breasts in his hands– groping and molding them through the thin ivory silk, his thumbs dragging roughly over the peaks. And before you could even catch your breath, his hands moved back to your shoulders, applying just enough sudden pressure to push you flat against the bed, his heavy frame following you down until he was hovering directly over you.
No more words were spoken. The chill of the room seemed to evaporate instantly, replaced by the sheer, radiating heat of his body pressed against yours. Aerion shifted, driving his knee upward until it settled firmly between your thighs, pressing right against your center.
The sudden, blunt pressure caught the air in your throat. He dipped lower, his hands sliding down to forcefully part your legs, but even as you were pinned beneath him, you kept your gaze locked onto his with an unmistakable look of hatred.
Now flat on the mattress, the rest of the castle felt entirely distant. The faint, muffled roar of the courtiers feasting below was a hundred rooms away– completely irrelevant. And all that existed was the infuriatingly rich scent of his musk and the way his breathing grew shallower, more ragged, with every passing second.
His fingers dipped down, finding the slick heat between your thighs,pulling aside the thin silk of your shift. . You closed your eyes instantly. You didn't want to look at his smug face, trying to convince yourself that the sudden shudder through your spine was just a natural physical reaction to the stimulation.
You focused entirely on steadying your breath– trying to keep your chest from heaving.
“Already?” he purred, noticing the sudden wetness.
“Shut up,” you gritted out through your teeth, snapping your eyes open to glare up at him.
“Wait until you get a taste of a cock, dear wife,” he sneered mockingly.
But for all his arrogance, he wasn't in a hurry. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips dragging against your skin as he left a trail of bruising, purple marks down to the bridge of your chest. He still hadn't stripped the silk shift from your body– instead, he opened his mouth over the thin fabric of your breast, sucking the peak into his mouth through the wet silk.
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. the intensity of it was overwhelming, a chaotic rush of sensory stimulation that made your mind spin. You needed an anchor, something to hold onto before you thrashed apart under the weight of it.
Fuck it, you thought.
You stopped fighting the reaction. Your fingers flew up, locking forcefully into Aerion’s hair, pulling tight enough to anchor him to you as you deliberately tilted your pelvis up, grinding your heat firmly against his knee.
Aerion let out a low, surprised grunt at the sudden fistful of hair, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. A flash of pure, wicked delight split his features as he felt you grind against him. He didn’t need any more invitation.
Shucking his breeches down with a rough, impatient jerk of his hips, he freed himself. He didn't completely strip your ivory shift; instead, his hands grabbed the hem, bunching the fine silk up to your waist until your hips were entirely bare against the sheets. He settled heavily between your parted thighs, the slick, thick heat of his length pressing directly against your entrance.
He didn't ease in with those gentle words or soft promises. He loomed over you, his chest flush against yours, and with a single, unhurried push, he drove his hips forward.
The blunt thickness of him tore through the maidenhood you had guarded for years. Your breath hitched sharply, a ragged gasp catching in the back of your throat as your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. The initial sting was hot and sharp, a tight stretching sensation that filled you completely. Aerion paused for a fraction of a second, his jaw clenching as he looked down at your face, watching the way your eyes flared with pain.
You hissed through your teeth, the pain already beginning to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache that pulsed right where your bodies met.
Aerion let out a sharp laugh, and then he began to move. He pulled back nearly all the way, letting the cool air of the room hit your slick skin for a fraction of a second before plunging deep inside you again. The heavy sound of his hips striking yours echoed in the quiet room.
He settled into a rhythm that was maddeningly and infuriatingly steady. His hands remained firm at your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you whenever you shifted beneath him. There was no teasing in it, no attempt at any gentleness– but only the same stubborn determination he seemed to bring to every argument, every fight, every impossible thing he set his mind to.
The friction was intense. The initial ache dissolved entirely, replaced by a blossoming heat that began to coil tightly in your lower stomach. Every time he drove inside you, his length rubbed against the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves at your entrance, sending sharp jolts of electricity up your spine. You hated him– you hated the smug twist of his lips, the arrogant tilt of his head– but your body was entirely traitorous– stretching to accommodate his thick length and relentless rhythm.
Aerion’s breathing turned into ragged, heavy pants, his forehead slick with sweat as he stared down at you, watching your breasts bounce with every thrust. He was enjoying the total control of the position, looking entirely pleased with himself.
And you– you weren't going to let him have it.
As he pulled back slightly to deliver another heavy thrust, you dug your heels into the mattress. You slammed your palms against his sticky chest and twisted your hips. Taken completely by surprise by the sudden resistance, Aerion lost his footing on the silk sheets. With a breathless yell, he tumbled onto his back.
Before he could even process the shift, you scrambled up, straddling his waist and pinning his thighs down with your knees. Your ivory shift hung loosely around your shoulders, your bare hips now perfectly aligned over his rigid length.
Aerion lay flat on his back, and for the second time that night, he looked completely stunned, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he looked up at you from below. Then, that familiar, chaotic grin slowly spread across his face. “Well. Look who wants to play king.”
“Shut up,” you breathed, your face flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
You didn't give him a chance to retort. Holding his gaze with that same look of unmistakable defiance, you lifted your hips and slowly, deliberately, lowered yourself back down onto him.
The sensation of taking him in from this angle was completely different. He went incredibly deep, filling you entirely until you felt the blunt cap of his length bottoming out against the very core of you. You let out a breathless, trembling gasp, your fingers digging into the muscles of his chest for balance as you threw your head back.
You began to ride him. You lifted your hips up until he almost slipped out, before slamming back down against his pelvis with a wet heavy slap. The control was entirely yours now. You determined the depth, the speed, and the angle. You leaned forward, pressing your hands flat against his chest, your small waist rolling in a tight, agonizingly slow circle that made Aerion’s eyes roll back into his head.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands flying up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. He tried to push upward to force his own rhythm, but you leaned your weight into him, keeping him pinned down.
“No,” you panting against his lips, leaning down until your sweat-dampened hair brushed his cheeks. “You stay still.”
You accelerated the pace, your hips rising and falling in a frantic, rolling rhythm. The wet sounds of your bodies joining together filled the space between you, drowning out the distant, irrelevant world below. The coil in your stomach pulled tighter and tighter with every downward strike, the overwhelming stimulation pushing you closer to the edge. You ground your cunt firmly against his pelvic bone with every drop, demanding everything he had, while still glaring down at him with beautiful, triumphant malice.
It grew unbearable– like a tight rush of heat that shattered the last of your restraint. You slammed down against him one last time, your inner muscles convulsing around him in a tight spasm as a quiet gasp broke from your throat. The sudden and intense grip of your climax triggered him instantly. Aerion’s jaw locked, his head tossing back against the pillow as a low, guttural roar tore from his chest. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, jerking your pelvis down hard against his as he rolled into you, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.
For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the harsh and ragged rasp of his breathing. The arrogance was entirely gone from his face now, replaced by a flushed, dazed exhaustion.
You didn't waste a single moment. As soon as his grip loosened, you shifted your weight and climbed off him, sliding to the far edge of the mattress. Your skin was slick with sweat and your chest still heaving.
"Leave," you said, your voice cold– and entirely devoid of emotion.
He blinked, his dazed expression instantly souring. He sat up, looking at you with a mixture of disbelief and sharp offense, his massive ego clearly taking a direct hit. "Leave? I just gave you a spectacular evening, and you're tossing me out like an unwelcome stray? I am the prince."
"Yes well– the transaction is complete," you replied, keeping your back to him. "Get out."
He let out an irritated hiss through his nose, muttering under his breath about your complete lack of gratitude. He grabbed his discarded clothes from the floor, shucking them on with aggressive, jerky movements before slamming the heavy oak door behind him.
Only when the lock clicked shut did the silence of the room truly settle in.
That was when you felt it– the thick, hot ache between your thighs, and the slow, heavy trickle of his seed spilling out onto your skin. The cold reality of what had just happened settled over you like a physical weight.
It was done.
There was no going back. You slowly rolled onto your back, staring up at the dark canopy of the bed, the phantom weight of his body still pressing into your mattress. You closed your eyes, swallowed the lump in your throat, and hoped for the best.
Aerion came and went– literally and figuratively.
The fierce, charged encounter you had shared weeks before was a rare exception, a fleeting moment of intensity you had only allowed because it served a practical purpose. The council was already breathing down your necks, and it was simply safer to perform the act so they wouldn't throw you both out for failing to produce an heir or shirking your marital duties.
This time, however, there was absolutely no fire, and you were bored out of your mind.
You lay at the very edge of the bed, your legs spread lazily as Aerion hovered over you, mechanically thrusting his hips forward. He wasn't even looking at you. His eyes were entirely distracted, darting upward to track a fat fuzzy bumblebee that had somehow wandered into the bedchamber and was currently hovering perilously close to his head.
"The winter stores are going to be a disaster if the northern grain shipments don't arrive by the fortnight," you remarked, your voice entirely conversational, echoing in the quiet room over the wet sounds of his thrusts. "And the tax assessments for the eastern districts are completely bloated. We need to revise the charts."
Aerion’s rhythm faltered, his brow furrowing in sheer exasperation as he narrowly ducked away from the bee. "Will you shut up? Just– for one second, shut your mouth. I cannot focus with you lecturing me about agriculture right now."
You didn't flinch. You merely tilted your head back against the pillow, looking him dead in the eye with a look of detachment.
You deliberately fell completely silent, letting your arms drop to the sheets as you waited for him to finish.
Aerion let out a relieved sigh, his fingers tightening on one side of your hip to anchor himself.
"Thank you. God, I am profoundly grateful for that," he muttered, completely shameless as his free hand suddenly flew up into the air, aggressively swatting at the air to drive the bee away while his lower half kept driving into you with mindless and distracted efficiency.
He let out one final, frustrated swat at the air, his hips delivering a final perfunctory shove before he rolled off you, completely unbothered by the sheer absurdity of the encounter.
And he definitely didn't linger. Within minutes, he had pulled his breeches back on, and vanished through the door without a glance.
A few quiet moments passed before the side door creaked open. Meriel slipped into the bedchamber, her eyes scanning your disheveled state, the twisted sheets, and the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.
"Good job," Meriel commented, folding her arms with a dry, knowing smirk.
You stared at her devoid of any emotion. "Thank you. I pride myself on my ability to discuss agricultural tax reform while being mindlessly rutted. It is a rare gift."
"Well, the council will be pleased," Meriel shrugged, walking over to pour you a cup of water. "They were beginning to think you two would rather poison each other's wine than actually secure the succession."
Before you could reply, the heavy main doors swung open. Daena strode into the room, her expression a mix of amusement. She didn't even knock.
"You can skip the modesty," Daena interrupted, looking between the two of you. "Almost the whole keep knows you've been fucking your husband."
You froze, the cup halfway to your lips. A spike of genuine concern hit your chest. "What? How could they possibly know that? The walls aren't that thin."
"Please," Daena scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Aerion left the door unlatched on his way out, shouting at a servant about a bee. And you aren't exactly quiet when you're ordering him around in here. The guards have a betting pool going."
You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Fabulous. Truly magnificent."
"Stay right there in your bedchamber," Daena ordered, pointing a finger at you as she began to back toward the door. "Don't move. I'm going to go get something."
Meriel let out a long, heavy sigh the exact moment Daena turned her back on the room, her shoulders slumping in anticipation of whatever chaos Daena was about to fetch.
A few minutes later, Daena returned, holding a small pot containing a single, sprouted stalk of green wheat. She marched over and set it firmly on the nightstand beside your bed.
"A wedding gift," Daena announced proudly. "It detects pregnancy. You urinate on the soil. If the wheat grows rapidly over the next few days, you're with child. If it withers, you aren't."
You stared at the tiny plant, your eyebrows pulling together in deep skepticism. "Daena, it has been mere weeks. It is far too early to tell anything. And besides, why would I trust a stalk of grain when I can simply base it on my moon cycle?"
"Because the moon cycle takes a month, and this is much faster," Daena countered, entirely convinced of her own logic. "The women in the lower keep swear by it. Just try it."
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth banter about the absurdities of hedge-witch medicine, Daena finally grew bored and excused herself, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered it.
The moment the door shut behind, the room fell quiet.
Meriel’s amusement disappeared almost instantly. The smile slipped from her face as she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There may be another Blackfyre rebellion.”
You stared at her. “Another what?”
“A rebellion.”
You frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”
It sounded ridiculous. There had been no whispers in court. No rumors drifting through the corridors. No nervous lords gathering in corners. Nothing.
“There hasn’t been a word about it,” you said. “Not from the court, not from the city. Nothing.”
“Because the king ordered not to talk about it.” Meriel folded her hands before her. “The small council knows. A handful of the great lords know. The rest are being kept in the dark.”
Your stomach tightened slightly. “And why would Maekar do that?”
“To prevent panic.” A brief silence settled between you. Meriel held your gaze. Something in her tone made you sit a little straighter. “How serious is it?”
“Serious enough that men have begun speaking of armies again.”
You looked away, your thoughts immediately turning to the king, the council, and the princes. And, unfortunately, to your husband.
Meriel leaned back against the heavy mahogany wardrobe, folding her arms across her chest as she watched you. Her eyes tracked the tense line of your shoulders.
“Yes,” she said dryly, letting out a soft sigh that rustled the quiet of the room. “Him too.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, the skin there hot and tight, before sliding your hands down to smooth over the rumpled linen of your sheets.
“Wonderful.”
Months bled by in a tense, suffocating blur of war preparations, blacksmiths hammering through the night, and a sudden, sharp distance between you and the prince.
When the day of departure finally arrived, the atmosphere beneath the shadow of the Red Keep gates was thick with dust, the smell of leather, and the heavy trampling of warhorses.
You stood before Aerion in front of the massive iron-studded gates, surrounded by hundreds of armored men. Protocol demanded a farewell. You didn't want to give it. You didn't want to look at him, let alone offer any sweet, empty words of a worried wife, but the eyes of the court were heavy upon your back.
"Return safely, husband," you said, forcing a perfectly poised, diplomatic coolness into your voice although your eyes remained hard as flint.
Aerion, fully armored, his silver hair tucked loosely beneath a helmet, looked down at you from his mount. He didn't offer a grand declaration of war, nor did he display a single ounce of royal solemnity. Instead, that familiar smirk split his lips. He leaned down slightly from his saddle, ensuring his voice carried just enough for you–and only you– to hear.
"Don't look so miserable, my love," he murmured with an infuriating wink. "You'll miss me. After all, you’re the greatest fuck I’ve ever had."
Before you could even process the crude, breathtaking arrogance of his words, he snapped his reins, turning his horse away with a loud, barking laugh. Your blood boiled instantly, a hot wave of pure, unadulterated fury washing over you as you watched his armored back retreat into the marching columns.
As the dust began to settle, one of the older council members stepped up beside you, his eyes fixed on the departing army. He didn't look at you when he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, clinical murmur. "Princess. Before the prince departed... is there any possibility that you are currently with child?"
You stood entirely rigid, keeping your jaw tight. You stayed quiet, refusing to give him a single word, staring straight ahead until the lord gave a stiff, disappointed bow and melted back into the crowd.
A few more months dragged on, the keep gripped by an agonizing silence as everyone awaited news from the front lines.
Then, the horns blew.
A blood-spattered, breathless messenger burst into the Great Hall, his boots clicking frantically against the stone floors. Lords and ladies scrambled to their feet as the man dropped to his knees before the vacant iron throne.
"Word from Starpike!" the messenger panted, his voice echoing off the high rafters. "The Targaryen forces have smashed the rebel lines! The Blackfyres are routed, their leaders dead! The war is won!"
A collective sigh of relief rippled through the hall, a few lords cheering–but the messenger didn't stand. He stopped– swallowing hard, his face turning entirely pale as he looked up at the gathered nobility.
"But... King Maekar is dead," he whispered, the words dropping like lead. "During the siege of Starpike. A direct hit from a stone thrown from the battlements. It crushed his helmet. The king perished instantly."
Your heart skipped a beat. An inner, cold dialogue raced through your mind. Dead? So soon? King Maekar– brought down by a stray piece of masonry. The kingdom was suddenly leaderless, thrown into a terrifyingly sudden transition of power.
"The vanguard," the messenger added breathlessly, "the company of Prince Aerion... they will be home in a few hours."
When the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung open later that night, Aerion strode inside. He was covered in dried mud and the faint, copper smell of old blood, his armor clanking loudly with every step. He walked with the broad, chest-puffed swagger of a conqueror– expecting cheers, wine, and a celebratory riot.
Instead, he was met with a wall of absolute, suffocating silence.
Aerion slowed his pace, his brow furrowing in deep, genuine confusion. He didn't say a word, but the question was written all over his face: why does everyone look so utterly sullen when we just won a war? He looked around the room, his eyes darting from lord to lord, waiting for the applause that wasn't coming.
Then, the High Septon stepped forward. He didn't offer a congratulatory smile. Instead, he dropped heavily to both knees, pressing his palms flat against the stone floor.
"The King is dead," the old man announced, his voice booming through the quiet hall. "Long live the King."
As if a string had been pulled, the entire room followed suit. One by one, the knights, the lords, and the ladies of the court dropped to their knees in a massive, sweeping wave of silk and steel. A low, thunderous chant rose from the floor, echoing off the cold stone walls: "Long live the King. Long live King Aerion!"
Aerion stood entirely frozen in the center of the hall, surrounded by a sea of bowing heads. For the first time in his life, the smugness completely vanished from his face, replaced by a rare, stunned gravity as the sudden weight of the crown loomed over him.
You stood a few meters directly in front of him, remaining perfectly upright, the only person in the entire room who refused to bow. Your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of stone.
Behind you, you felt a slight shift in the air. Meriel stepped up right behind your shoulder, her gaze fixed entirely on your back as she looked between you and the newly proclaimed king.
Leaning in close, her voice a sharp, barely audible sliver of ice against your ear, she whispered,
☆ ──꒰summary꒱ ❞ Daeron, drunk and pathetic, seeks…. oral comforts in the (rather uninterested) courtesan he’s been spoiling rotten for the past few months.
contains! submissive Daeron, oral (f receiving), Daeron being incredibly pathetic requested material
೯⠀⁺ ⠀ 𖥻 𝗢 ⠀ᰋ Daeron stumbled through the heavy mahogany doors of the bedchamber. he tripped over a nonexistent fold in the carpet, falling into the ground with a thud and wincing at the pain that shot through his wrists as they clumsily caught his fall.
you didn’t move from your lounge, you just watched through half-lidded eyes, fingers tracing the edge of a necklace he had bought for you only three days prior— a piece of jewelry that would no doubt fund a family of four peasants for a good year. he always knew how to spoil you. “you’re quite…” you looked for the word to describe the pathetic state he was, eyes stuck on him while he scrambled for his footing. you settled on “late.”
Daeron groaned, giving up on standing to instead roll onto his stomach, crawling towards you. he looked up, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with a desperate hunger.
“my sweet… shimmering lady…” he slurred, his voice cracking. “i couldn’t…. i simply couldn’t bear another hour without you. the world is too loud and too cold… and i am a wretched and lonely thing.”
“you are very drunk, Daeron.”
“i am drunk on you!” he said, reaching your feet and collapsing against your ankles. you rolled your eyes at him. you had heard that line a thousand times over. he gripped your calves with shaking hands, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “now let me have a taste of your sweet cunt… i’ll give you anything. more pearls. more furs. a castle! just let me serve you.”
you sighed and leaned back, allowing him access. you found his desperation amusing, a pathetic display of longing that made him easy to manage, and even easier to milk expensive favours out of.
he started to kiss your feet, his lips wet and hot and incredibly clumsy. he worked his way up your calves, leaving a sloppy trail of wine-flavoured kisses. he whimpered against your skin and reached for the fine silk of your underwear, the final barrier between him and utter bliss. he paused, trembling, his forehead resting against your thigh.
“may i?” he asked. Daeron was still polite, even twelve drinks in.
you gave a curt not of confirmation, and Daeron pulled the fabric down, quick as lightning, revealing your glistening folds to the cool evening air. he let out a sharp, needy moan at the sight and buried his face in you.
his tongue lashed out, wide and desperate, sweeping across your clit with an overzealous hunger, his nose pressing deep into your cunt, nudging at your clit while he sucked at you.
the sound of his heavy breathing filled the room as he gorged himself on the juices of your cunt— to him it was akin to the nectar of the gods, it was life-giving, it was everything. “you taste like heaven…” he moaned, his voice muffled by your pussy.
he clung to your hips, his nails scratching your skin as he pushed his face harder against you, as if desperate to merge with you. he was messy and frantic, his spit mixing with your slick, the slight salt of you on his tongue.
you looked at the ceiling, then back down again, expression neutral even as your breath hitched as product of his ministrations, watching the prince of the blood reduced to a pathetic, whimpering mess between your legs.
Chapter Three
Summary: You don't understand what his deal is. Valarr Targaryen should be around his rich, country-club going friends but instead, he seemed determined to force himself around you. You did not want him to force himself to become your friend out of guilt for what happened at his family's charity event but he assures you he is not doing this for that reason. But you struggle to find another reason why he seems so hellbent on spending every waking moment with you.
wc: 6.2k
Content/Warnings: Class differences, subtle/slight possessive behaviour.
Modern au! Valarr Targaryen x reader
Masterlist
It was Monday. You wish you could say it was bright and early but only one of those two things were true. It was early but it certainly wasn't bright. The sky was a murky grey, rainfall discouraging you from leaving your uni flat. Was a lecture really worth it? It was recorded after all. But so was attendance and unfortunately for you, that did impact your final grade. Only 10% but sometimes 10% can make all the difference. So you dragged yourself out of bed and into the shower, it was 8am in the morning, and your lecture started at 9am. It didn't leave you much time but you never put too much effort into your appearance for morning lectures. Nobody really did, you had seen people turn up in their pyjamas.
You threw on the first thing you saw and left, your Chromebook was almost dead too. You'd charge it later, hopefully the charger was in your bag but you honestly didn't know. You didn't have any time to check but if it died mid-lecture, you would just have to switch to pen and paper. The fountain pen which Valarr had given you was still in your bag, you hadn't taken it out since you had dropped it in their last week.
You sat down in the same area as you did last time and resisted the urge to rest your head against the wooden desk. If you did, you'd fall asleep and wouldn't wake up until the class was over. You had come all this way, you were not going to sleep through the lecture. Even if that meant forcing your head up and prying your eyes open with the will that your body did not possess at 9 in the morning.
You could hear someone shuffling along the seating row so you turned your head. Lo and behold, Valarr Targaryen has appeared. It annoyed you how perfect he looked so early in the morning. No dark under-eye-bags, no messy hair, no lazy outfit. He looked prim and proper, hair styled and outfit chosen sensibly for the day. But his hair was styled more loosely, creating a softer appearance. Wearing a dark green threadbare jumper with a white T-shirt underneath, it wasn't anything too flashy but it was warm enough for the autumn temperature without it making him sweat. In one of his hands, he held a cardboard coffee holder which contained two to-go coffee cups, one had a white lid and the other was black. Maybe he was tired because who brings two coffees to class? Did he really need two in order to survive the early morning?
"Good morning" He greeted, a smile blooming across his face. You know he may have felt some guilt for what happened on Friday night but he did not need to force himself to be friends with you because of it. You weren't a charity case.
You nodded at him timidly, the movement coming off as stiff. "Morning" You replied, you would not class today as a good morning. The sky was grey and the rain clouds were only getting darker with each passing moment, the rain would get harder and more violent, you could feel it.
He sat down in the seat one away from you like that last time. It created a comfortable space, he was close but not too close. Enough to talk before a lecture but not close enough to whisper jokes and small comments while the professor was talking.
You stared at the coffee cups for a moment, thinking for a moment before saying anything. "What kind of all-nighter did you pull to need two cups of coffee at 9am?" You asked.
He smiled at you, picking the cup with the white plastic lid and pushing it over to you, "I got it for you actually. I played it safe and got a latte" He shrugged, his hand leaving the cup and instead reaching for the one with the black lid, his coffee, lifting it up to his lips and taking a sip of the hot liquid.
You stared at him and then down at the latte. The latte that shouldn't be there because he should not have bought an extra coffee for you. He was under no obligation to buy you things, "If this is your way of apologising, you don't have to" You didn't want to accept pity coffee.
He left out a soft sigh, as if he was expecting this reaction. "This isn't me apologising for what happened, this is me buying you a coffee on a bleak day as liquid encouragement" He assured you, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. He looked at you with those mismatched eyes, his eyes practically trying to urge you into taking the coffee.
You looked at him suspiciously, as if your eyes could detect lies. He did not seem as if he was being deceitful but you felt weird accepting something from him. You knew he was rich but that made it all the worse, it made you feel like he was donating to charity, like you were his 'good deed' for the day. "What if I didn't show up?" You asked, you were close to not showing up, to staying in your bed where it was warm, a safe and cozy haven which protected you from the harsh environment of the outside world.
"Then I'd drink both and probably regret doing so" He shrugged. You watched as he turned his head forward, opening the lid of his House Targaryen laptop, being a walking endorsement for his family's company. Just making sure that the company is still on top by the time he inherits it, can't be the heir to a company and not use their products.
That's when you relented, you'd accept the drink because he had convinced you that it wasn't an apology for something he had nothing to do with. Plus, it was easier to accept when he wasn't looking at you, the pressure was lessened by a certain degree. "Well… thank you, but you didn't need to" You allowed a small smile to appear on your face as you lifted the to-go cup. It was sweet of him, but you did not know what this meant. If it was not an apology then what was it? You don't just buy a random girl in your class coffee after speaking two times. Or maybe he was just genuinely that nice, perhaps you had misjudged him.
Soon the lecture started, there was no obligation to speak with him anymore which made you feel less guilty about not starting a proper conversation. You should try to be friendlier towards him, he hadn't truly done anything to you. It was somewhat wrong of you to judge him based on his family, based on the way his cousins and elders comport themselves. He had no control over that.
You couldn't help but look over at him several times throughout the lecture, he was one of those people who were just mesmerising to look at. He looked good in more simple clothing but you'd never forget how handsome he looked at the gala, in a designer suit which was tailored perfectly to his body. In another universe, you are sure he's a prince. But today he had a different energy about him, usually he felt untouchable even with his warm smile and good-natured approach. But today, he felt softer, warmer than usual. It wasn't that he was less perfect than usual or less curated. You couldn't tell what was different but something had changed, whether he had allowed it to change or not. You liked it though, he looked and felt more like a person and less like an extension of his family's influence.
When the lecture concluded, you stretched your arms like always, your body feeling stiff after sitting still for an entire hour. The only moments of movement being your fingers moving across a keyboard or when you reached for your latte for a quick sip before going back to note-taking. You were now extremely grateful for the coffee he had bought you, you don't know if you would have survived the excruciatingly boring lecture without it. He had helped you once again and you couldn't ignore that fact as much as you wished you could.
"You have 'Introduction to Comparative Law' in two hours, right?" You asked him, this was going to be your attempt to be more friendly towards him. Just something easy, no pressure and simple.
He nodded, "It is compulsory so yes" his voice was little despite his words being slightly condescending. You don't believe he meant it in a patronising way therefore you'd let it slide. You think he was just attempting to be funny, it landed badly but that happens to everyone sometimes.
"I was going to go to the library and study… you can come with me if you want?" It was meant to be a statement, an open invitation but with your unsure voice, it became more of a question. You wanted to curse yourself, hating the fact that your voice came off so awkward and unnatural. Studying with another person is completely normal, you study with Dunk all the time. You don't study with Lyonel though since he spends most of his time in the Post-Graduate suits since they have better supplies and your ID card won't let you in. Besides, he rarely studies.
You watched as his eyes widened slightly, looking at you like you had grown three heads before quickly gaining composure. "I'd be glad to. It beats spending the next two hours alone" He smiled, sliding his laptop into his designer bag before slinging it over his shoulder. You packed your stuff up quickly, not bothering to turn your Chromebook off as you would be using it again in five minutes once you find a free seat in the library.
You walked alongside him to the library, you were glad to see that the rain had stopped for the time being, perhaps you were wrong in your previous judgement about it. You reached into your bag to grab your ID card, moving your hand around the bag to find the smooth material of the lanyard your ID was connected to. Valarr clearly thought ahead, you could see the black lanyard sticking out of his trouser pocket. He must have slipped it in there while you were still packing your uni supplies away.
"So why did you choose law? Why not business or politics?" You asked him, finally finding your lanyard in your bag. You really need to get bag dividers or something, everything is just kind of thrown in there, a disordered mixture of objects which were important enough to be tossed into the bag. But not important enough to be remembered apparently, you honestly can't recall what things are in your bag, you just have to hope and pray you have everything you need for the day.
You both walked into the library lobby area, the scanners coming into view. Four of them lined up in a row, mapped out designated areas for students to scan their ID cards for access to private library materials. "I want to be a lawyer but I know what is expected of me so… I'm going to be a lawyer until my father retires which won't be for many years" He replied, you nodded at his words. "What about you?"
You were surprised he enquired about your future plans, although that usually was the way polite conversation went. One asked a questioned, the other answered and then mirrored the question back to the first person. You really shouldn't be surprised, this is the same man who bought you coffee unprompted, he was just nice. Nice was weird."I just want to help people. it sounds stupid and corny but that's why I study law" You answered.
He shook his head at your words, pressing his ID card down onto the scanner, patiently waiting for the small security doors to open and give access to the new space. "It's not stupid, it's noble and I'm sure you will do a fantastic job" He assured you, smiling softly in your direction, "So I'm guessing public defender?" He was correct in his guess, you expected to see a glance of condescension, a snooty look which would reveal his true nature and opinions that he refused to voice. But you didn't, you saw admiration. Like he genuinely respected your reasoning behind your career choice.
"Yeah, not very glamorous but I'll be able to do the most good there" You replied. You didn't care for wealth, or at least not in the same sense you did when you were younger. You wanted to be comfortable, to be able to afford a house and certain luxuries that you weren't given access to when you were a child. That would be enough for you, you did not need to live in a mansion, enshrouded by designer brands and priceless objects that had no use other than to elevate your status to other insanely wealthy creatures.
He didn't wait a second before responding, "I'm sure you'll do great" He affirmed, you appreciated his words, his encouragement which he did not need to give but gave away.
"Do you want to grab something from the cafe or just straight to studying?" You weren't planning on grabbing any food but you wanted to ask him in case he was hungry or needed a drink. It was polite to ask instead of just marching on ahead.
"I've already had breakfast" He dismissed, waving his hand slightly.
You nodded, "You don't live on campus, right? You must have to get up really early" You continued the conversation as you walked up the stairs, you already knew the social area would be busy on the first floor even at 10am. The trick was to go to the second floor, it was always less busy due to the fact people didn't want to walk up four flights of stairs to get there, especially not at 10am. You, however, liked it up there.
Valarr seemingly had no complaints, he followed you without whines or protest. He just kept answering your questions, seemingly pleased that you wanted to get to know him. You don't understand why he looked so happy about it. "I live at home, commuting isn't too hard if you have a car" The concept of being able to afford a car while being a uni student was beyond you, but he didn't have a flat or student accommodation to pay for. He didn't even need to take out a loan to pay for university tuition, lucky bastard.
Home. The home he talks about is basically a castle. You had never seen it before working at the gala that was hosted there, but now you can say it was magnificent. You only had access to 5 rooms when you were working the gala, the rest had been cut off from the staff and guests, yet those four rooms felt as big as a regular house on their own. Of course, you did enter a 6th room but you can't really be sure if a storage room counts, other than the fact it was almost the size of your bedroom.
The outside alone resembled a castle, with large towers topped with circular pointed roofs on either side of the entrance. The inside was more modern but yet had this distinctively older feeling to it, not the decor but just the atmosphere. It was heavier, firmer, you couldn't truly describe it. But the biggest feeling you got from walking the halls and reception area was a sense of alienation, you knew you didn't belong there. The classy decor, the grand staircase that split into two which led up to the first floor, things like that which were just simply existing was enough to remind you of the distance between your world and Valarr's which co-existed.
"We both know it takes like 5 minutes in a car to even get out of the front gates" The land they owned was vast. Before you could even enter their lovely home, you had to gain access through the large metal gate, painted black with sharp pointed tips at the top in case someone tried to climb it. You wouldn't be surprised if the tips were poisoned, it seemed like something Targaryens would do, some medieval shit. Once you have given access through the front gates which opened like a gateway to hell, you had to drive down a road which led to the manor .
The corners of his lips twitched upwards, you could see them out of the corner of your eye. He was amused by your words, you were beginning to think he was easily amused. He seemed to smile at everything you said and did, either you were a descendant of a court jester or he was far too easily entertained. "That is somewhat true but I like to be up early anyway, I like a morning ride" He told you, his steps moving slightly faster for a moment before reaching for the door, opening it for you like a true gentleman.
You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his antics, it was slightly silly but cute regardless. He seemed ever so determined to prove his kindness to you, to prove that he was different from the way his family was perceived. Maybe he had heard you speak ill of his cousin, Aerion. You bowed your head at him slightly in thanks while you moved through the door to the social area. "A morning ride?" You asked. You didn't exactly know what he meant and honestly, it made you feel a little stupid. Does he mean he likes driving early in the morning? That was possible but it didn't feel like that was what he meant.
He looked at you with a questioning gaze before clearly realising something. "I like horse riding in the morning" He explained a little further for your low-class self but he still kept this casual tone, like he was telling you he had a pet dog and not a horse.
"You have a horse?" You looked up at him with a face full of confusion. Who the actual fuck just casually owns a horse? He spoke of it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if everyone has one. Perhaps in his world, they do. His younger brother probably had one, his cousins too.
You watched as the corners of his eyes crinkled up as he laughed at you, at your silly and bewildered face. You should not have been surprised, of course a rich boy has a horse, it's not totally uncommon but it just felt bizarre. You did not appreciate being laughed at for an obvious class difference between the two of you, but you couldn't help but think about how adorable his laugh was. It was light, almost like a cloud in the sense of his voice being fluffy, not to mention it was a soothing sound.
You shook your head, taking a seat at the table closest to the window. You often find yourself gravitating towards this area whenever it's empty. It wasn't good for your studying though, you would end up just staring out the window sometimes. "I hate rich people, oh I like a morning ride on my horse, which I have at the stables. Yeah, the stables that are actually in my garden because I live in a manor. Oh yeah, did I mention I have a pool too and a hot tub? And I actually have a dragon as a pet, yeah the mythical creature" You mocked him slightly, not in an entirely rude way. Just slightly copying his posh accent but notching it up ever so slight to be annoying. Valarr's voice wasn't annoying enough to copy perfectly, it was too soft, too smooth, scratched your brain in a way that was pleasant and not nails on a chalkboard like Tybolt Lannister.
He sat down on the seat across from you, placing his bag on the table as he looked down for a moment to gain his composure. His lips were pressed together in a smile, as if he was deciding whether or not to speak or trying to suppress another laugh. "If it makes you feel better, I can't ride a bike" He stated, his voice was light and joking-like but you could tell he was serious. He was joking with you, playing along.
You couldn't help but rub your face with your hands, "No, Valarr, that doesn't make me feel better. Actually it makes me feel worse" You replied. It made you feel worse because you knew it wasn't a balancing issue, he just never had a reason to learn. Why learn how to ride a bike when you can learn horse riding instead? Why ride a bike when you can have people drive you around? He probably had a chauffeur.
"I actually do have a pool."
"Stop talking."
"My brother does have a bearded dragon as a pet, not as mythical as you'd like but close enough, right?"
"Read your textbook, write your notes."
You could see that smile on his face, different than the usual one, this one was cheeky. Not an expression you had seen on him before, he always looked so elegant whenever you gazed over to him but here, he looked slightly devious. Not in a bad way, in a cute kind of way. Like he was enjoying using his status to annoy you, he had discovered a way to get the reactions he wanted from you. Why did he want these reactions? Only he could say, perhaps because nobody else would tell Valarr Targaryen to shut up in a more polite sense.
It was strange, to look across from you and see Valarr Targaryen. It felt almost surreal, how had you ended up willingly spending with him. It felt stalker-ish to say you were watching him but it was hard not to, he was tucked into a law textbook, his laptop screen open beside him. He had copied your study set up, mirrored it to perfection. You tried your best to focus on your notes, on the PowerPoint slides which were visible on your Chromebook screen, on the textbook which was to your side, on your notebook which was in front of you. But your brain saw Valarr as more interesting than those notes, your gaze always trailing back to his form, it annoyed you to no end. How easily distracted you were by his presence, you shook your head in order to clear your mind, to shake away the curiosity which Valarr incited within you.
Curiosity, not interest. The distinction was clear in your mind. It was curiosity because your brain was not used to seeing him, not used to his presence, once you become more used to his company, this would stop. Your eyes would stop seeking him out every few moments. But that's only if you kept spending time with him, perhaps an incentive to become friends with him other than his seemingly kind disposition.
"So, what's your horse's name then?"
He seemed to perk up at the question, his eyes meeting yours almost as soon as you had begun speaking. "Her name is Meleys" He replied, a gentle smile tugging at his lips at the thought of his horse.
You nodded at his answer, "Meleys? That's a pretty name" You hummed, it sounded elegant and graceful. You always wanted a horse when you were younger, most children did, it was still strange for you to be speaking to someone who actually had one.
"Thank you" His voice was sincere. You couldn't see his face as he was looking downwards to where his notes were, tapping the end of his pen on the pages of his leather-bound notebook. You assumed he was deep in thought so you went back to studying. But as soon as you began to start reading, you could feel eyes on you, just for a moment before the feeling went away.
That's how the gap in your uni timetable was spent, small conversations here and there with a major focus on studying. It was nice, even if you did sometimes seek him out with your eyes before snapping back into reality. His company was pleasant, nice in a way that you couldn't describe. You wouldn't mind spending more time with him in the future, maybe you'd suggest lunch next time if the timing was appropriate.
Before you knew it, the time had passed quickly. It was almost a shame that the calming place that had been created in this library had to end. You enjoyed your time with him, you had learnt that his brother's bearded dragon was called Arrax and his horse was called Vermax. You had found out that his father, Baelor Targaryen was in the army at one point and gained the nickname 'Breakspear', you weren't sure how he gained the name. He was very willing to share facts about his family, you could tell he did have pride when it came to them. What you once considered to be superiority due to coming from a powerful family was now accompanied by something else. Love. He had a love for his family that you hadn't ever seen before, it was another likeable quality that you must have chosen to ignore before now.
You looked over at him, seeing if he was ready to leave the library with you. He had already packed all his stuff, the textbook was still sat on the desk in front of him. "Do you need to sign the book out or?" You asked, you had to check your library book out quickly anyway but you had to do it on one of the self-service machines downstairs. There probably was one up here but you didn't know where it was nor could you be bothered to look for it.
He shook his head, his soft brown hair bouncing slightly with the motion. "No, I have a copy at home" He responded, looking at his phone with mild interest for a brief moment before sliding it back into his pocket.
"Of course you do" You rolled your eyes, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Of course he would have expensive textbooks at his disposal, he probably didn't even have to buy them second-hand like everyone else did. Another benefit to being wealthy, all the textbooks you had were second-hand or borrowed from the library. You weren't spending £150 on a textbook that you needed for a singular module.
"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" He asked, crossing his arms across his chest with an entertained expression evident on his face.
"You know what, rich boy" You replied playfully, cocking your head to the side, making eye contact with him for a moment before walking past him. He quickly picked the book up and followed you. While you signed out your book, he had to go find the exact shelf he took it from and put it back. You hoped it wouldn't take him too long, you hated being late to lectures. It always felt so awkward walking in late, even just five minutes late felt embarrassing.
Luckily, he was swift in his return. You both made your way back to the law building, you feel it's important to note that he opened another door for you. This time however, you finally said something in return for his action, "Thank you, I suppose chivalry isn't dead after all."
He huffed a laugh, the sound light and airy, "I do try."
You walked up the lecture theatre stairs to the seats further away, randomly choosing a row and shuffling to a seat near the end of the row. Valarr kept that one seat between the two of you again, you are sure he was doing it for your comfort now. It was appreciated, it was sweet of him to think about that. You honestly wouldn't mind if he sat right next to you but that one seat just felt safe. Close but not too close.
The lecture was well and truly boring but that goes without saying, this module was usually the most boring. You dreaded when you saw it come up on your timetable every week, it never changed, it was the same every week. And yet, every week you would groan with the same frustration as the week before. Valarr clearly found the lecture boring too, he had been taking notes at the beginning but about halfway through he switched to texting someone on his phone. You didn't know who nor did you ask. But by the look on his face, it wasn't a fun and relaxing conversation. His jaw was tight and his eyes were narrowed looking down at the phone as if it had personally offended him.
But by the time the lecture had ended, his face was back to normal. Well, can it really be classed as normal if you had only really seen him 3 times? Surely it could since you have technically spent four hours with him today. Four hours? It was scary to think you had actually spent between the hours of 9am and 1pm with him. It didn't even feel that long to you.
Valarr let out a low sigh of tiredness and slight undertone of frustration, "I'd offer to get you lunch but I have to go home" He offered no further details than that. You didn't feel the need to push him for any more so you just nodded, that was probably what the rapid texting was about. You could tell he wasn't pleased with whatever he had been told over the phone, you didn't want to add to that by pressing him.
"It's fine" You smiled, hoping to make him feel a little better. You assumed that it worked, his expression quickly changing to match yours.
You left the lecture theatre with Valarr close behind you, it was your last lecture for the day but that didn't mean you could go home and sleep. No, unfortunately, you had a shift at the cafe. But that was the last thing on your mind when you spotted someone familiar in the distance, and by distance, you meant across the road. He was easy to spot, he was a giant after all. Wearing a dark blue tracksuit, the jacket slightly unzipped to reveal the white vest which was underneath. His sandy blonde hair caught the sun which had only begun to shine through the clouds, making it look lighter than it was usually.
"DUNK!" You yelled, it was louder than you meant to but with the stories about Duncan's caregiver, Arlan, clouting him in the ear several times when he was a child, perhaps it was necessary to be that loud. You saw him look around confused for a second before spotting you, his straight face morphing into a dopey expression.
He rushed over quickly, his gym bag slightly hitting against his side rhythmically due to the large strides his legs were taking to get over to where you and Valarr stood. You know it might be slightly weird for Dunk to see you hanging out with the man who barely even a week ago you said was 'too perfect'. You still stood by that statement though, he was too perfect, too handsome, too polite. It was annoying but you could look past that, he has a good heart. At least you hope he does.
You could feel a shift in the atmosphere, it had become uneasy and thick, so thick that you could choke on it. You didn't know what had changed or who it was coming from, it had changed so abruptly. It couldn't have been Dunk, his large smile and gentle giant spirit was not capable of this. If it were him, the uneasy would be from anxiety but this wasn't anxious.
You decided to ignore it, perhaps it would just go away. It couldn't be Dunk, it wasn't you and Valarr's energy had been warm all day, only changing to a more playful energy when you were joking around. "Dunk, this is Valarr. Valarr, this is Duncan. He's my friend" You explained. If Valarr was going to be your friend and not just a guy who studied law alongside you, he would have to be able to tolerate your friends. You somewhat worried about that so it's best you start with Dunk. Perhaps Lyonel should be last, you know they were the most similar in status but personality wise, they could not be further from each other.
"I know him."
The reply was sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. You looked towards Dunk with a confused expression just to see the same on his face, your expression mirrored back at you. You had wondered for a moment if they had met but Dunk's face was clearly showing they hadn't.
Valarr seemingly realised his tone of voice was off, clearing his throat and placing his hand there like he was as confused as the both of you, "What I mean is I've seen him around. Like the pub, last Tuesday, around midnight. Sorry, that was a major tone delivery issue. I've never had that before, quite bizarre" He remarked, his hand rubbing the base of his throat like something had been caught there and he was trying to dislodge it.
Dunk seemed to move on quickly, not at all phased by the jagged voice which was icier than a winter's day in The North. You however, were still somewhat stuck on it. "You were there?" Valarr nodded at Dunk's words, the action being stiff as if it were unnatural and involuntary. "Feel free to say hi next time, any friend of hers is a friend of mine" Dunk's smile was bright and true like his personality. There wasn't a single evil or dishonourable bone in this boy's body. But you turned to Valarr and saw a smile. A smile which did not meet his eyes, a smile which was faker than plastic.
There was something weird going on. The soft and warm aura which Valarr had been carrying all day and just died all at once. It had been replaced with a chilling air which could nip at your fingertips like frostbite, the air around him felt glacial. "Are you okay?" You asked, genuine concern flooding your voice and eyes as you spoke to him. You reached out your hand and gently touched Valarr's arm, you didn't grab it or anything, just briefly touched his green jumper with your fingertips but that's all you had to do for his eyes to flicker down to you.
He looked at your fingers which gently brushed against his arm and then back up at your face like he was cataloguing something, like he was committing your touch to memory which was even ridiculous to think. But it was the only way you could think to describe the way he looked at you for a split second before his eyes softened, going back to the way they normally do. "…Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just, just tired. It's been a long day, coffee can only keep us energised for so long" He excused, running his hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. His hand dragged down to cover his face, as if he was trying to wake himself up. Once the hand was removed, a relaxed smile was on his face. "Next time I see you out, I'll come over and get you a drink" He replied to Dunk's earlier comment, clicking his fingers playfully.
He followed up his words with goodbyes, saying he needed to go home and rest. You nodded along with his words, he did say he was tired. You had no reason not to trust his words, you wanted to believe him because you had finally seen something good today, you had seen a friendship with him. A friendship with a Targaryen had seemed absurd last week but now seemed totally realistic and in reach.
You were both silent for a moment, just watching the rich boy depart from the area. "He seems like a nice guy" Dunk smiled. Perhaps you had read too much into it, Dunk seemed undeterred, like nothing had just happened. Like Valarr's voice hadn't been jagged, like the air hadn't turned bitingly cold. Maybe it was you that was the problem.
"…Yeah, I hope so" You commented, watching as Valarr's figure disappeared further into the distance. You hoped that was just due to tiredness, that his energy had just crashed all of a sudden. Because the other option was one you did not want to acknowledge because it means you would have been right from the start and for once, you didn't want to be right. But perhaps you had just seen what happens when the curated personality slips.
Chapter One
Summary: Valarr Targaryen, a perfect and flawless man, from a family of the highest nobility. He was the prime example of what a man of his status should be, polished and civil. He was by definition perfect, that was fact. Then there was you, a law student who struggled her way from the bottom in hopes to make it to the top, intelligent in every way other than feeling. These were two lives that should have never crossed, should have never become entangled and yet, they did. A boy and a girl, one intent on feeling and the other devout to the safety of fact.
wc: 3.6k
Content/Warning: No warnings for this chapter. Slight talk of poverty/class differences. Feelings of envy.
Modern au! Valarr Targaryen x reader
Masterlist
Self-indulgent university romance fic because I was not given that uni romance I was promised by every form of media.
The library cafe was bustling, students moving in and out quickly, buying their lunch or getting a coffee. You were sat at a table of four, placed next to the window wall where you could watch students walking across campus like zombies in an apocalypse, soulless and dead inside. Already, the hype for the new semester has died down, only two weeks in and everyone is already fed up.
"The gig is good, all you have to do is walk around, holding a tray in a massive hall filled with rich people. Barely any social interaction is necessary. You'll pour wine or champagne into a few rich folks cups but…" Raymun tried to sound somewhat convincing but it was for naught. You had already made up your mind, you were not working that gala. No matter how much he or anyone else tried to convince you that it was a good opportunity for you, regardless of who it was for.
"No social interaction is necessary, unless they wish to scorn you in front of their friends… which probability is high there so be that as it may" Lyonel interjected, he would know wealthy people far more than you and Dunk, who had not yet placed his thoughts into the mix, Lyonel was one of them. You really don't understand why he flocked over to Dunk on the first day of the semester a year ago but you had all been stuck with him since. Stuck with his absurd attitude and obnoxiously loud laugh which was too infectious, almost like a disease.
Dunk thought for a moment, you were hoping he would be on your side. He was the most familiar with your situation after all, both being from the bottom. But alas, you were disappointed. "I think you should do it, working at that cafe can only pay so much and you can barely afford the sandwich you are eating…" His voice was stiff as he shared his opinion on the matter, clearly not wanting to weigh in on your decision but still offered his advice as you had made the mistake of asking for it.
You groaned loudly, sinking into the flat cushioned chairs which were a staple in the library cafe. "Do none of you understand, it's a gala hosted by the Targaryens. The Targaryens people!" You exclaimed with frustration, the way you said the very name 'Targaryen' was filled with contempt, spitting it out as if it were an insult. You had not realised it was for them when you had applied, they had outsourced another company to find them servers for their gala and you just happened to stumble across it.
You heard one of them laugh like your predicament was funny to him, you already knew who it was well before they spoke. "We are aware, I'll be there so make sure you have a drink waiting for me, server girl" Lyonel teased, a large smirk spreading across his face, his eyes lighting up with mischief. You did not even want to know what he was thinking, what he could possibly be planning. For it did not matter, you were not doing it. You may just have to choose between meals and rent, how delightful.
"Of course you'll be there, Baratheon" You grumbled, "Don't you have another exam to fail or something?" There was no true ire within your words but he had slightly annoyed you.
"Ouch, that hurt" He feigned pain, holding a hand over his heart as if you had shot an arrow into it. Before he stuck his tongue out at you, dropping the hand from his chest and instead reaching into his brown leather bag, pulling out a sleek gold flask and twisting the top off with a flick of the wrist.
Dunk's thick, blonde eyebrows furrowed slightly with confusion at the discussion at hand, "Targaryens cannot truly be that bad. I coach one of them, the young bald one." You forget that Dunk does not pay attention enough to understand who the Targaryens are, oh how you wished you could be as blissfully ignorant as your dear friend. You do not look down on him for it but sometimes you wonder if playing rugby had knocked half of his brain cells out his head.
"Yes, I'm sure the 10 year old is a delight. The madness has not gotten to him yet. Maybe it strikes them at puberty or something" You smirked, finding yourself funny. It was a genuine thought though, when does madness take them? Are they born with it or is it conditioning? You would never discover the answers unfortunately.
Lyonel snickered, throwing his head back like you had said the funniest thing he had ever heard. Either that or the vodka not-so-discreetly hidden within his golden flask had finally gotten to him, "You have yet to meet Aerion, Dunk, he is a little monster" Lyonel confirmed, having met with him personally a fair few times, none of those times being pleasant.
"Surely he can't be that bad" Dunk replied, his voice so sure in defence of strangers that he has never met. Strangers who would not defend him even if begged to. You did admire Dunk's view on the world, believing people to be better than they are, to see the good in people. It was an admirable trait which he possessed. You, however, lacked such a trait.
"Yes, that is true. He is worse than bad. The little figure skater is a complete terror" You confirmed, you had only heard stories. The second you saw that choppy, pale silver hair appear, you ran like your life depended on it. You would say something to offend him, you just know it, he is offended by the air blowing a little too hard in his direction. Insulting a Targaryen was like committing social suicide, you'd be excluded instantly if you said something around the wrong people. Luckily, you knew the right people to be friends with. Although, you weren't sure about Lyonel at first, being cautious to say anything around him for the first few months of knowing him. Dunk and Raymun were a different case. They were just normal, no big family name, no old money.
"My cousin tried to gain his favour once, but it did not end well for him" Raymun shuddered at the memory, "Served him right though, I liked Aerion in that moment." You bet he did, you had the misfortune of meeting Steffon Fossoway. Not a pleasant person to be around, full of himself. Bought you a drink during freshers and immediately assumed that meant you'd go back to his flat with him, he was sorely mistaken. The next morning, you found out he went around calling you a prude and that you 'led him on'. He was a social climber although you don't believe it has proved fruitful as of yet, he knew all the names of those worthy people, yet you are sure that they know him not.
You heard Lyonel's fingers drumming against the polished wooden armrest, "Don't you have class with one of them?" He asked you, looking at you with eyes full of curiosity. He was right, you studied the same degree as one of those significant beings.
You sighed at the thought of him, "I do, Valarr Targaryen. God, he's so perfect that it genuinely irks me. It's like he's- he's not even human! Like everyone has an off day at least one, except him. It makes no sense, plus he's like a complete nepo baby." If you were a better person, you'd probably feel bad or at least a little rotten for speaking ill of someone you do not know. But seeing him walking into class every morning, looking as perfect as the day before, as if he had not seen a bad day, as if the world was especially made for him. It basically was if you thought about it, every door was open for him, money was no issue. You could not help but feel at least somewhat sour when you thought of him.
"Nepo babies make it far in this world" Lyonel stated, he had never spoken such true words before.
"You'd know, wouldn't you?" You huffed a laugh into your coffee cup. You watched as Lyonel's head cocked to the side, giving you a sharp smile which you rolled your eyes at.
"What does the Targaryen company even do?"
You all just turn to Dunk and blink at him, all three of you completely dumbfounded by a single sentence to come out of his mouth. "Are you being serious?" Raymun asked, looking over at you and then Lyonel before looking back at Dunk's clueless expression.
He nodded so earnestly it actually made you feel terrible. He wasn't the brightest but you all loved him for it. His mind confused you quite a lot, he was incredibly wise sometimes and then other times he wouldn't know a foot from a hand.
Lyonel threw his hands up in amusement, "They basically own everything, what they don't do is more of the question" Lyonel explained, "Food and technology are their main thing but if they can do it and make a profit, they will. Aegon, the founder of the company, was a vicious man according to the history books."
"I heard Maegor was worse" You contend for the sake of it, knowing you were right. "The point is, they are all mad in some way. Every single one of them. Some just hide it better than others" You said plainly, as if there was no room for argument. You were certain of this, it was clear-cut. Sure, some had done good deeds but few compared to the majority of cruel and unethical men who commanded the world like Kings.
You heard Lyonel's maddening little chuckle, "Oh so that's why you dislike poor Valarr? I can say, he is actually a rather polite boy" Lyonel came to his defence. He knew Valarr personally, you always forget that he does actually socialise with the upper-class and doesn't just spend all his time down below with the lesser. Even acknowledging the fact he goes to the galas and parades around in designer clothing, the finest of fabrics and drinking the finest wines the world has seen, you actually struggle to comprehend him speaking with the Targaryens, or anyone of a higher status.
You scoffed, "Oh I have no doubt. But that is precisely my point, he just hides it better. Too perfect, nobody is that perfect unless they are hiding something, compensating for something." There had to be something, something just felt off about him. He was curated. You could see it, not necessarily a bad thing but paired with his family name…
"Lack of silver-gold hair I suppose?"
You shrugged, "Who knows. Anyway, I've got to run" You announced. You began packing your Chromebook and notebook back into your simple tote bag. You lived near the campus so you didn't have to worry about having a proper backpack like the commuters who travelled an hour to sit in a lecture which could have been an email. You slung the bag under your shoulder, feeling the weight of it pull a little bit.
"Go on then, little lawyer. I'll need you on retainer for my company one day so get to studying."
"I'd rather cut off my own foot than work for you, Laughing Storm" You remarked, giving him a sickeningly sweet smile which was quickly mirrored on his face, sending it right back to you.
You left the library and began the walk to the law building which was less than a two minute walk from here. It was a tall large building with a white domed roof, it still felt surreal when you looked at it. The fact that you made it here, you had been told it was unlikely that you'd be accepted by this university and yet here you are. You cannot lie and say it makes up for the struggle of surviving here but it did make it more bearable.
You sat down in a row further in the back, you disliked being too close to the front and the middle attracted too many people. You just wanted to get through this lecture while your mind was currently occupied by thoughts about if you could even afford to have dinner tonight. Someone had sat down next to you, you could feel their presence beside you, making the air shift. You didn't bother to cast a gaze at them, instead you began to take your Chromebook and notebook out. You plunged your hand into your bag, searching for the stray pen you knew you had in there, you had used it at the library so unless you forgot it… Goddammit.
You mentally smacked yourself for being so neglectful but then again, it was just a simple ballpoint pen. The world was not going to end, you had another one sitting on your desk at your flat. The worst part was having to ask someone if they had a spare, it always felt so awkward, especially when they did not. "Hey, I hate to ask" You began, already sounding exasperated, "Do you have a spare pen or-" You turned your head and abruptly stopped. Sat next to you was the man you had spoke of earlier. Valarr Targaryen. Sat there like the perfect prince he was, you knew you were not mistaken as that silver-gold streak of hair was facing in your direction, so clear against the rest of his perfectly styled dark, chocolate brown hair.
He looked back at you with a small soft smile on his immaculate face, "or pencil? I have a spare pen" He replied, leaning down and picking up his black leather messenger bag, opening the flap of it to reach in and find you what you had asked for. You sat staring at the bag, the weaved material pattern could have been mistaken for dragon scales at a glance, perhaps that is why he chose it. Targaryen were blood of the dragon, whatever that even means. Just another reason for them to have a sense of superiority over everyone else, to walk around like Gods amongst men.
You didn't recognise the brand of the bag he used, it had to be designer, you knew that much. Probably some rich-rich brand that someone of your class wouldn't even be able to recognise. You wanted to roll your eyes but you thought better of it, envy was an ugly emotion, you knew that but gods, it was hard not to be when these people existed. He would never know the fear of not knowing when your next meal was.
The pen he had handed to you was nothing short of pretentious. You were grateful, obviously, he had given it to you out of kindness, he did not need to. But who carries fountain pens around casually? That was pompous. It felt smooth in your hand, the main colour of its body being a glossy black but instead of having a silver or gold point, the point was a blood red colour.
You looked at the pen for a moment, just admiring it and trying to forget the status which clung to it in your brain, just trying to see it for what it was. A pen. "Thank you" You said demurely, uncomfortable taking something so expensive. You could practically feel the weight of it in your hand, this pen probably cost what you made in an entire day working at the small cafe in a bookshop.
He nodded lightly, "It's no problem, I'm happy to help" He replied, giving the most ideal answer one could possibly give. You nodded and turned back to looking straight ahead, hoping that the professor would appear quickly. You couldn't help but feel the sharp pin-prick of guilt and shame, you had spoken ill of his man not even ten minutes ago and now you have asked him for a favour.
You subconsciously turned your head towards him, gazing at him while he took his laptop out of his designer bag. It was a matte black with a red three-headed dragon in the centre, the emblem of the Targaryens. The model was slightly bigger than yours but smaller than a proper laptop, made to be portable and lightweight, ideal for university students or those who travelled for work. You watched as his fingers traced along the edges before gently lifting the lid to reveal the screen. It was only when you looked up that you made eye contact with him, he was looking at you. He was looking at you looking at him.
"Sorry, just spacing out" You lied, waving him off and pretending that you weren't studying him like he was a god come to life. Some may say they are Gods. With their striking silver-gold hair and brilliant purple eyes. But it was in that moment you realised another feature that made Valarr different, appearance wise anyway. One of his eyes were brown, a deep, soft brown which gave him a warmer appearance compared to his pale violet eye. He had heterochromia. "You have nice eyes" You said without thinking before looking away, opening your notebook which you had placed at the side of your Chromebook.
You heard him mumble a thank you and you would have thought nothing of it if you didn't realise this was a Targaryen. Targaryens don't mumble when complimented and they certainly don't sit there stunned at a simple word of praise. He was a handsome man, flattery is surely nothing new to him. You decided to let it go, he most likely just wasn't expecting a compliment.
The professor walked in, looking lethargic as usual. You understand that property laws in Westeroes is not the most engaging subject but it was necessary to learn. His face wrinkled and a frown fixed to his face like he could not make a different expression. Wearing his walnut brown suit like a uniform, white undershirt ironed and smooth with discipline. He was a seemingly mirthless man, a harsh marker and merciless critic when it came to feedback. But he was an effective educator, if you were not exceptional then you were nothing.
Valarr did not engage in any whispered chatter and neither did you. You both sat in complete silence, soaking in the information which was being provided. You could hear his pen scratching against the highest quality of paper money could afford, that tingly scraping sound which was pleasant to listen to. You are sure Valarr is paying attention, understanding property laws are essential for businesses.
Once the lecture was over, you closed your Chromebook with a sigh, stretching your arms up and rolling your shoulders, feeling the stiffness of them. You picked up the pen which was resting against your notebook, you held it out to Valarr who was packing away his things. You watched as his eyes flit up to yours and then down at the pen, "Keep it, I have plenty of them" He told you, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. He did not wait for a response, not that you had one to give. He gave you a short side-smile before turning his body and sauntering away casually, leaving you there, still holding the pen out.
You looked at the pen again and shrugged, placing it into your bag. It felt weird, keeping something that belonged to Valarr Targaryen, even if it was something as simple as a pen. Maybe he didn't want it back after your low-class hands touched it? You rolled your eyes at your ridiculous thought, no, he wasn't Aerion.
The walk back to your uni accommodation was nice, the sun was shining down on the surface, it wasn't too hot. No, it was the beginning of autumn, the days were beginning to get shorter and the nights longer, the air had chilled too, giving you a taste of what it will be like when winter comes. It was 4pm already, the sun would not be up for much longer, just a few hours left of sunlight. Some may have wanted to make use of that sunlight, to spend time in the daylight.
Not you, no, you went back to your accommodation, placed yourself down on the squeaky, cheap desk chair and pondered. You stared holes into the screen of your Chromebook which had the job offer staring back at you. You had applied, you had got accepted. It was good pay, really good, crazy good even. But for the Targaryens. Working at a charity gala hosted by House Targaryen.
What if Valarr recognised you? That would be humiliating, his classmate working for his family as a server at their gala. You would never be able to look at him again. Working for his family, technically for him since he was expected to be there, that would confirm your place and his. You as the lesser, you did not struggle to get good grades and make it to this university to be lesser than a nepo baby.
But it's not like you truly had a choice. You couldn't get any more hours at the cafe and you only made minimum wage there, you could barely cover your rent and basic necessities. You sighed, running your hands through your hair as you took a breath. What are the chances that he would actually recognise you? He had seen you once. A singular time, for an hour in a lecture where he gave you a pen. That is the briefest of interactions, he didn't even know your name.
Truly, what are the chances that he'd recognise you from one conversation?
Apparently, very high.
If anyone wants to be added to the future taglist, feel free to ask in the comment section :)
.✦ ݁˖ SYNOPSIS: A short journey to the Riverlands sees your utterly in love and devoted husband, gentle beyond measure and blessed with the kindest of hearts, Valarr, traveling alongside his cousin, Daeron.
An unexpected conversation along the road leaves him returning home with a quiet, newfound curiosity that he is too bashful to voice boldy.
.✦ ݁˖ PAIRING: Valarr Targaryen x wife/Reader
.✦ ݁˖ CONTENT: 18+ insinuating sexual acts, no description of reader, no mention of reader's lineage, no use of y/n.
꒦꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦꒷
The afternoon had settled over the Red Keep with a gentleness seldom afforded to King's Landing, the summer heat yielding at last to a cool breeze that wandered through the open casement windows, stirring the pale curtains and carrying with it the distant cries of gulls circling Blackwater Bay.
Sunlight splayed lazily across the polished floor and upon the length of the elegant settee upon which you reclined, its graceful frame fashioned by the most celebrated craftsmen in the capital at your husband's insistence.
Every inch of it spoke of princely extravagance, from the smooth dark timber painstakingly carved with winding vines and dragons to the sumptuous cushions upholstered in crimson velvets from Qohor and lace so exquisitely woven in Myr that they flaunted their vivid hues whenever the light caressed them.
It had been but four moons since your marriage, and though your union had begun, as so many noble matches did, beneath the careful guidance of politics and family expectation, companionship had blossomed between you with astonishing ease. There had been none of the uncomfortable distance whispered about in courtly gossip, nor the tedious obligation that burdened so many newly wedded couples. Instead, you had found in Prince Valarr someone whose quiet temperament mirrored your own, whose fondness for histories, poetry, and philosophical discourse often kept the two of you awake in dark hours of the night.
He possessed a thoughtful, gentle and kind soul hidden beneath the dignity expected of a prince, and you had come to cherish the peculiar earnestness with which he approached even the smallest matters.
At Prince Baelor's urging, Valarr had ridden for the Riverlands accompanied by his cousin, Prince Daeron, to strengthen ties with several houses whose loyalties were ever worth tending. They had returned only yestermorning, weary from the long roads yet successful enough that the Hand himself had appeared quietly pleased.
Now, scarcely a day after his return, peace had once more settled over your shared chambers. Everything returning into its mundane course.
Curled comfortably upon the luxurious settee, one slipper discarded upon the carpet beneath you, you had become hopelessly engrossed in a particularly fascinating volume detailing the rise of Nymeria's ten thousand ships.
Until a peculiar sound began.
A soft thump. Then followed by another. Wood meeting leather against the floor in a steady rhythm.
You frowned faintly without lifting your gaze, convincing yourself the distraction would soon cease. To your chagrin it had not, and you found yourself reading the same line a second time. When the fifth thump came, you released the softest sigh imaginable and lowered your book.
Ordinarily, Valarr's return from his afternoon drills followed an almost sacred routine, one so familiar you could have recited every motion without looking. He would enter dressed in fresh clothing after washing away the dust and sweat of the training yard, quietly remove his boots by the door lest they dirty the carpets, cross the room with careful footsteps, and press a chaste kiss against your temple before uttering so much as a greeting. Knowing well how easily books carried you into another world, he never sought to interrupt unless necessity demanded it, and he often confessed he found your complete immersion endlessly endearing. Only afterward would he loosen his rather large leather escarcelle (bag), drape it neatly across the carved bedpost, stretch out upon the immaculate bed, and indulge in a brief nap before servants arrived to summon the two of you for supper.
Today, however, the ritual had been forgotten, much like the Old Gods of Valyria.
Rather than resting upon the bed, Valarr wandered the length of your chambers with deliberate, unhurried steps. He paced like a scholar wrestling with an impossibly stubborn question.
Back and forth he walked, hands clasped behind his back, each measured stride accompanied by the gentle rhythm of boots against the floor. The singular streak of silver running through his otherwise dark hair remained impeccably in place despite the afternoon bath, while shafts of sunlight caught within his mismatched eyes, making one appear almost molten amber while the other glimmered somewhere between pale blue and deep indigo depending upon the angle. His thoughts held him captive enough that he failed to notice you watching him.
"Husband," you called softly, careful not to startle him from whatever labyrinth his mind had sauntered into. "Is something the matter?"
He stopped so abruptly one might have believed he had forgotten you were present at all. Turning toward you, remorse immediately softened his sharp, handsome features.
"No... Seven, no," he answered hastily, shaking his head. "Forgive me, my love. I had not realized I was disturbing your reading."
"No harm has been done, my dear."
Offering him a reassuring smile, you lifted your book once more, intending to lose yourself again among Nymeria's fleet. You had scarcely reached the bottom of the page before his voice dragged you ashore.
"I was wondering..." He stopped. "...No." Another pause. "On my journey through the Riverlands, Daeron and I happened to discuss... certain matters."
His hands, which had remained folded neatly behind his back, finally dropped to his sides before one rose to cradle his chin while the other folded across his chest.
The unusual hesitation in his speech, together with the faint crease between his brows, convinced you that whatever occupied him deserved your full attention. Resting the book upon your lap, you lifted your gaze to give him your undivided attention.
"What matters, my love?"
Valarr lowered his gaze to the floor.
"My cousin informed me..." he began before stopping yet again. To your considerable astonishment, a delicate flush began to creep across his pale cheeks.
"...that within a certain Inn in the Riverlands..." Another pause followed, his embarrassment deepening visibly. "...the Pussywillow... certain men enjoy drizzling honey over the lady's.... pot... before licking it clean off."
Silence settled between you as you stared at him in disbelief. For a moment, your face rendered emotionless due to your husband's unexpected lewdness. Then ever so slowly your brows slowly drew together.
"...What did you just say?"
"I have never visited the establishment," he blurted before you could gather another thought. "Nor did I accompany Daeron to any. I swear it before the Seven. I would never betray or disgrace you in such a fashion."
Crossing the room in two hurried strides, he reached for both your hands with such earnest urgency that the suddenness of the gesture startled a quiet laugh from you.
"I believe you."
His shoulders loosened by a fraction.
"Go on, then."
"I merely wondered..." he said carefully, choosing every word as though navigating a field strewn with hidden snares. "Not because I possess any particular interest in the practice itself. When Daeron mentioned it, I simply found myself wondering what you might have thought."
The flush upon his face deepened until even the tips of his ears had surrendered to it.
"I am not asking that we attempt such debauchery," he hurried on, his hands now accompanying every sentence in increasingly animated gestures.
"It simply occurred to me that if, hypothetically, I were to place honey upon your.... pot... would you find the notion absurd? Would you think less of me? Would it upset you?"
He hesitated one final time. "...Or would you perhaps find yourself... interested?" His brows lifted in subtle hope.
You considered his question for a long moment before gathering your thoughts. A similar hush of pink tainting your cheeks.
"I do not believe it would upset me," you replied slowly. "Nor do I imagine it would alter my opinion of you."
The smallest victorious smile threatened the corner of his mouth before disappearing beneath his princely composure.
"Precisely," he said with entirely too much enthusiasm.
"You see, the Tyrells sent us carriages of jars of spring honey. An extraordinary amount, truly. It would be terribly wasteful to leave it untouched."
Your expression flattened. "So that is the argument you intend to present?"
"You understand, then?" His eyes brightened at once. "Such generosity deserves appreciation. It would be deeply discourteous to allow so fine a gift to languish upon the pantry shelves. House Tyrell has shown our family remarkable support throughout the years. It would border upon an insult."
"I see." You feigned a serious nod.
"We ought to use it."
"Is that truly what you wish?" You questioned regarding him with an exasperated smile.
"My love," he answered with the utmost dignity, clearing his throat despite the unmistakable colour still lingering upon his cheeks, "I assure you I have no desire whatsoever to lick the liquid from your.....pot" Another pause. "It was merely... an inquiry." He shifted awkwardly. "...Unless.... you are interested." Another pause. "But truly, it was only an inquiry of the heart."
A smile escaped you despite your efforts to supress it.
"Very well, my love." Satisfied that the matter had concluded, you reached once more for your book.
"'Very well' as in... you wish to?" His head snapped towards you. He crossed the room in three swift strides, eyes suddenly impossibly wide, his larg hands pressing your book back down onto your lap.
You laughed softly.
"No, Valarr. I meant only that I understood you were only asking."
"Oh."
The single syllable carried enough disappointment to shatter your heart. His shoulders sagged with unmistakable resignation as he turned away and wandered toward the bed with all the forlorn dignity of a knight returning from a lost tourney.
You watched him for several long moments before releasing a defeated sigh of your own. Closing your book, you placed it carefully upon the polished mahogany table beside the settee.
"I would like to try, husband."
The transformation was immediate. Where moments before stood a dejected prince now stood a delighted boy scarcely capable of containing himself.
His entire countenance brightened with irrepressible excitement, his mismatched eyes sparkling with unconcealed triumph as though he had just been informed his petrified dragon egg had hatched.
"Well," he declared, striving, and failing, to sound composed, "if my precious wife should happen to desire such an experiment, who would I be to deny her?"
Without another word, he strode purposefully toward the leather satchel he had carried into the chamber.
"Perfect. It is as though the gods intended it."
From within it, he triumphantly withdrew a neatly stoppered large jar of honey.
"I happened to have one here."
You stared at your husband once again. Speachless.
"Come on then, wife, lie on the bed. I also have silverware prepared."
Despite every attempt to preserve your composure, laughter escaped you in bright, helpless peals as you walked towards him.
Summary: The celebrations have not died down yet in the capital and it has been a week since your husbands confession of his desire to love. A tourney is held over three days for the victory — he is jousting. Mayhaps he will name his wife the queen of love and beauty if he wins. Word count: 7.3k
Characters and contents: Young Maekar Targaryen x wife reader | Forced marriage/political marriage, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, lots of exposition.
Authors note: Firstly I would like to say thank you to everyone who has reposted or interacted with the last part! It really means a lot to me! Secondly I apologize for this taking just over two weeks to write.. so just bear with me.. and lastly, do we like our reader having no specified house so that you all can choose whichever suits best? If not I am more than happy to put up a poll for you all to decide on for following parts!
My master list here - Requests open! Part one here!
Every night for a week the Red Keep was still as jubilant as it was on the first night back from the rebellion. For sevens sake — people went to their chambers drunk and awoke still drunk. Many of the great houses stayed in the crown lands, and many more arrived within the time being. After all, there was a tourney to be held.
It was to take place over the course of three days. The first day would be all of the men who came from nobility, the second day would be hedge knights and sell-swords and whatnot, and on the last day the ones who advanced from the prior days would joust for the title of champion. Today was the first day.
The dawn had came quite early it seemed this morning, or perhaps you went to bed too late into the night with the commemorations. A draft of the ocean breeze entered through the window you left open for the exhausting heat. It was only spring and it was beginning to become unbearable. The smell of the city was never pleasant. If you ignored it enough the smell of the bay was the only thing you could smell, the bay and your expensive oils you applied to the nape of your neck; to your wrists and the insides of your elbows, the nice ones you had imported from Pentos.
Next to you he laid, the prince. Maekar. Your husband. The light that came in cascaded over his body and face and you watched him snore softly. You mumbled under your breath, wishing to silence that sound with a pillow. It had been a going on a week since he had argued with you about only the gods knew what about. Later proclaiming how he wanted to know what love felt like because he saw it on the Redgrass, how he wanted you to teach him, to understand what it is like to have a woman want him in her bed.
In truth, you did not believe it, and rightfully so. The two of you still slept with a pillow in between, yet no longer with backs turned. He did not converse with you at lunch, yet his eyes met yours with admiration. It was unclear what he wanted, you or the idea of you.
You had watched the light dance across the room, heard the bells of the morning chime, and the strong waves of the bay crashing against rocks. When you turned to your side to shield your eyes he had rustled a bit, you turned back and watched him hold onto the pillow and mumbling slightly as he stirred awake.
His tired eyes met your awake ones and he stretched his arms out slightly. “You cannot bear to draw your eyes away from me for a moment my lady?” He chuckled.
“I was already awake before you, do not flatter yourself.” You answered as you tousled your hair in your hands. Maekar offered you a grin as he sat upright in the bed. His face had a look of teasing, he leaned back into the hardwood. He looked around the room and realized just how early it was.
"What's the hour? It seems early no?" He stated, and briefly bringing his rough hand to comb through his mustache.
"No later than the sixth hour I would assume. I have an awful headache." You noted, the sweet wines seemed to have gotten to you especially with the little amount of rest you had gotten.
"Is it a fever or just crapsick?"
"Crapsick, I had too much wine."
A laugh left his lips. “Now you know for next time to not indulge as much.” He pushed the heavy white blanket off of his body and now sat on the ledge of the bed. His bare feet touching the cold stone floors.
You stared at his back. Tracing the scars that he had gotten gently, they were all rather fresh still. He had gotten stitched on a few of them, and the bruises he had earned were slowly fading into a dull purple. He held his arm out and tested the joint of his shoulder, wincing a bit.
“I do not think it wise for you to enter the lists today.”
“Why would that be?”
“Your arm is still in pain.”
He turned his attention back to you and replied, “I hold the lance with my right. The maester says it will be fine as long as I go easy on it.”
“You will still be holding a heavy shield. That is too much weight to bear on a shoulder you broke a fortnight ago.”
“It will be fine. It’s not as if I can break it again.” Maekar noted, giving you a look full of sarcasm. You did not argue with him, it would be easier to just let him be dim-witted. If he were to injure himself again it would not be your fault as you clearly warned him. When he stood up the thought of you caring for him in some manner crossed his mind, he shooed the thought away, laughing to himself.
The sun was still on its journey to make itself to the height of day. The birds were still awakening and some were beginning to just chirp. You laid back in the bed to prepare yourself in an attempt to return to sleep. Maekar noticed your shuffling around and asked the obvious, “You are going back to rest?”
“It’s still extremely early.” You sighed. He moved across the room to call a maid inside for a wash basin. “It is better to just get up. You are already risen. Break your fast with the birds in the Godswood.” A shy girl came in at his request and quickly left to go retrieve what he had asked of her.
You contemplated that thought but deemed it better to break it in your chambers in quiet with no particular person going to bother you as you indulged in honey cakes. When the girl returned he dismissed her and set the basin down on a standing table by the dresser, he lathered soap on his face and pulled a chair to him. He grabbed a sharp blade he kept in a wooden box by his bedside and moved back. Maekar shaved his jawline free from the white fuzz that began to grow and only left the facial hair above his lip that he found now suited him. You watched him carefully, but pulled your eyes away before he could catch you.
It was approaching Midday now and the fanfare would soon begin. You would soon have to go down to the courtyard to join the wives of your in-laws in the carriage taking you all to the tourney grounds. Jena the ever bright would be going to see her husband joust, while the Lady Aelinor and Lady Alys would simply be going for entertainment as neither of their own husbands would be jousting. They much rather preferred keeping their noses in books all day.
The men had ridden off hours earlier to prepare themselves for the taxing activities. They went to warm up their bodies, polish their swords, polish their armor, and test out the field and whatnot. Eventually you arrived at the yard and you donned a loose sage gown in honor of spring. It was lightweight and gave you enough room to move in, the sleeves draped down and the neckline was cut low. Your hair was let down but a circular tiara wrapped itself around your head just reaching your forehead.
When you entered the carriage the three women were already inside and waiting for you. They did not seemed bothered by your tardiness or rather being on time and they just so happened to be early — a relief. On the way to the grounds you all conversed of the usual. The gossip that trickled itself into court was one topic and who would win the joust the another. Neither of you were familiar with any of the men participating in the melee or the archery contests however a jest was made that a Tarly would win the archery simply because of the Tarly sigil.
Alas you all arrived at the spectacle, one of the Kingsguard and several others of the city watch led you to the stands where you would be watching the jousting event. As you passed through the crowds you could see the Red keep looming up ahead. Even from outside the city walls its great shadow made itself ever present. Colorful tents were set up all around and the banners of several houses flew high. The clamor and anticipation of the entire event filled you with a sort of warmth.
You stepped up onto the great wooden stands that were reserved for the royal family. The king was there and so was his wife while Aerys and Rhaegel were absent as expected. The four of you bowed to your husband's parents and took your seats to wait for everything to begin.
The trumpets were loud. They pulled everyone to their feet, the masses clapped and watched as Daeron the good gave the go ahead for it to begin. You sat back down and watched them all ride. The first tilt was a Tully boy whose hair was a fiery red, his opponent was a Royce who looked rather dull. Though he was not dull in his skills since he threw him off his horse.
Almost an hour had passed and you found yourself rather bored. Baelor had ridden against a Blackwood but he had lost the grip on his horse and took a nasty fall. You were dozing off until the herald had loudly disturbed you, announcing the names of those in the coming round. You closed your eyes and rest your face on your hand, not bothering to hear.
"Prince Maekar Targaryen, the anvil!" You quickly opened your eyes to sit up properly to see who he'd be riding against. "Damon Lannister, The grey lion!"
He approached the end of the fence and signaled for his squire to hand him his lance. His armor was in fashion of a dragon. Spikes emblazoned all over his armor, in the center of his chest the sigil of the three-headed dragon decorated him. Your husband's hair was long enough for his silver braid to creep itself out from underneath his helm. A horn blew and he was off. He kicked at the side of his horse and rode hard, yet missed the gray lion by a few inches.
You heard his frustration as he reached the end of the tilt barrier. He grunted loudly and took off his helmet then spat onto the dirt floor. Maekar looked all around the stands and met the eyes of his mother and father — then yours. The world seemed to go still for a moment, his eyebrows softened slightly but stayed in a scowl. The pools of violet engulfing your ever being until he pulled his helmet back over his head to go for a second ride. No lances being broken yet.
Maekar had taken note of the way you looked at him, the way your hair moved in the wind, the color of your dress, gods. BREAK. Damon Lannisters lance had broken through his own lance and he hadn't realized it. He threw down the splintered one, calling for its replacement. Your breath caught in your throat as it broke. The crowd held is breath as well, but let out a cry of joy when he stayed put on his horse.
It was clear who was favorited amongst everyone, the prince. The third round kicked off hastily, another splinter of wood was heard. When their lances had caught both of them were thrown off. Maekar by his white stallion, throwing him hard into the dirt. Your body had reacted quicker than your mind could and you now found yourself standing on two feet with your hand covering your mouth as you gasped.
Everyone around you had gasped, but you were the only person standing. Skirts rustled as heads turned and ladies who were once speaking now went quiet. You felt like a mummer and felt the heat to your face. Quickly you sat back down.
Jena leaned over to you, "My sweet." She laughed slightly.
"Do not." You hissed at her with no malicious intent. Only wishing for not another word to be ushered.
"You were halfway into the yard." You pinched her on the arm where her sleeve exposed skin. She stayed quiet for the remainder of the tourney.
However, the lists fell quiet and observed your husband as he regained his footing, yelling across the field for his squire to bring him his mace. The skinny boy ran across to him handing his preferred weapon.
The grey lion called for his sword and both of their squires pulled the horses away as they began to swing at each-other. Maekar gave him no room to breath, swinging relentlessly at him. He did not fight as the men in songs would. There was nothing graceful much about the way he wielded his mace. Only strength and ruthlessness as he caved the man's armor in.
Damon fell onto his back and held his hands up high in the air as the loud clang on metal rang out.
"I yield!" The poor man yelled out, exhaustion and a hint of fear in his tone.
Maekar threw down his mace and pulled of his helmet roughly. Sweat shone off of his face while blood trickled down his lip. The herald walked over to him and held his arm up high; proclaiming him as the winner of the tilt. The masses all jumped up off of their feet and clapped loudly. They all chanted, "The anvil! The anvil!" You did too with a smile on your face. He gazed up towards you and took note of how you looked in the light of the afternoon.
There were a total of six and ten competitors in the joust. Each competitor went for two tilts each and left eight men to advance for the third day. They would go against the eight who advanced on the second day, six and ten men total once more. Then they would get eliminated one by one until a champion was left. Your husbands second opponent was the Royce from earlier in the day, but he proved to be an easy enough fight, advancing for the third day.
It was well past sunset and the celebrations for the being had finished. You rode back to the keep with exhausted from sitting down on hard wood. The thought of a plush bed comforted your mind so drinking and the revels could wait for a different evening. When the carriage pulled up into the yard you found Maekar dismounting off of his horse. He wore his red doublet now and his bloody lip from earlier seemed to be taken care of. You walked towards him carefully trying not to get trampled over by other horses riding in through the portcullis.
He had noticed you while he was handing over the reins of his horse to his skinny squire. The torches had burned low out here, the stars and the moon dancing above. The pair of you walked towards the steps leading into the keep in silence. He walked slightly ahead of you and you watched as his left hand flexed, his shoulder stiffening.
"You favor it."
"Favor what?"
"Your shoulder."
"It is merely stiff."
"You should have listened to me." You scoffed
His brow raised in utter confusion as if he could not piece together context clues. "About what?"
"About entering the lists."
"I won?"
You shook your head, he simply shrugged his shoulders. A familiar voice could be heard from behind though neither of you thought to turn. Maekar jumped forward as someone from behind clasped onto his shoulder. "There you are!"
Baelor already held a goblet filled with Arbor gold wine, "Come! Your victory of the day is enough reason to drink." He boasted, waiting on his answer.
"I was just heading there."
Baelors eyes turned to yours. "And you, good sister? Will you be joining us?" You yawned slightly at his question. "I find myself in need of rest, but do enjoy yourselves."
"I shall drink for the both of us then." He smiled warmly, bidding you goodnight. You inclined your head to both of them, going on your way up to your chambers to find solace.
The great hall was full of people boasting, goblets clinking, the singers singing whatever song interested the crowds. Fresh capon, warm biscuits, berry tarts, venison, the list could go on. The atmosphere smelled exquisite, it smelled like home. It smelled like the feasts from when he was a boy. The same feasts he had always dreaded and begged his mother to leave early from.
All the candles atop the chandelier were lit. Their hot wax dripping down slowly but surely. There was a crowd of drunken rivermen holding up their cups to him as he passed them simply offering up a nod of appreciation. An old fat lord stopped him, grabbing him by the fabric of his sleeve. "You fought well my prince!" He said heartily — though he could smell the stink of ale on him.
They made their way to a table on a far off corner so nobody would disturb them much. At the dais everybody would approach, and if they weren't sat there they would just think them gone. Much needed after a tiring day of throwing men to their knees.
"The entirety of the Westerlands have sworn that you cheated." His elder brother said as he picked off a grape from a discarded plate. He picked another off and spoke while chewing, "Though in all honesty nobody really believes that. Damon is a bad jouster, nobody understands why he still enters the lists." Now his mouth was full of grapes. Maekar studied them, taking one off of the vine to see if they even tasted pleasant.
"He has too much pride. My squire could win a tilt against him, and the only time he has held a weapon has been to hand it to me." Maekar snorted, he rubbed his shoulder.
"Still hurts?"
"It will heal."
"You had us all worried." A serving girl had placed a fresh goblet in front of the two and Maekar pulled his closer, watching the ripples of the Dornish red dance inside.
"Especially your wife." His head perked up.
"What?"
"You didn't notice?"
"Notice what?"
"Seven hells, no wonder she despises you. When you fell. She stood." Baelor clarified, nudging him. Before he could speak his thoughts more one of his companions approached him, now leaving him there alone on the bench. Why did you stand? Did everyone else stand or was it just you? Gods, he really had not been paying attention. It was not his fault he was half limp on the ground trying to yell for his mace.
He made his way back up to your chambers, leaving the wine on the table untouched. He did grab a honey cake on his way out. The walk was silent, the only other sound being his leather boots on stone. He lifted his arm up, smelling and recoiling. The one thing that would serve him justice would be a scorching bath, the smell of sweat and dirt clung to him like a babe on its mother's teat.
When he entered, he found you asleep on the bed. Your eyes closed as your foot peeked out from under the covers. He did not attempt to wake you, only calling a maid to bring water in for his bath in an unoccupied guest room. However, before he had left he had taken note of how you did not put your defense of pillows up. He raised a brow and left. He returned from his bath dressed and smelling of mint, his hair dripping water. He grabbed pillows that were already at the foot of the bed, laying them in their usual place of inhabitance. Unsure if you meant to forget to set your boundary, seeing that you were tired when you departed from him.
He laid down on his side of the featherbed, firstly fluffing out his pillow and secondly pulling the covers over his sore, aching, bruised body. He would have a Maester see to his wounds on the morrow, but for now sleep would find him. Maekar drifted off quickly into a state of peace, joining you.
The next day was a day of rest, for you at the least. You awoke alone, it must have been noon. The sun was high, not to mention that the bells had begun to chime. It did not bother you that you were up late. Your quarters were empty for once. Your husband must have gone off to watch the second days tilts, most likely scouting out who would be a hard ride or the weaknesses and strengths of his upcoming foes.
Your maids readied you to wander the castle, mayhaps you would visit Jena if she did not attend the second day of Jousts. The castle was oddly quiet, but it was not a surprise to you. The masses loved their entertainment, placing bets, drinking, dancing, who didn't?
You made your way down long halls to see if Jena were in her chambers, knocking gently. A maid opened the door and called back towards her. "There you are!" Jena greeted, she sat on a rug, bouncing a small baby boy on her knee. You made your way deeper into the room towards her.
"I believed that the tourney whisked everyone away from the keep." She laughed as she said that, watching you crouch down to greet her son.
"I believe it has. I only find servants roaming the halls." The babe was no more than a year old, yet with a head full of brown hair with a white silver streak on the side running through it.
"Valarr is big already, isn't he?" You cooed at the babe, yet it was directed to her. He reached a chubby hand out toward your hair and tugged at it. She pulled his hand away before the pulling intensified.
"He does that often, yesterday it was his father's beard."
You giggled at that and answered, "I pity him."
"He was saddened after he was unhorsed and went to drink all night with some Lord. Do not pity him." She laughed as she began to bounce Valarr more hastily on her lap when he grew fussy, only wanting to tug at you once more.
"Maekar was with him." You said. His name slipped from you. You meant to add to the conversation, somehow, someway; but it did not benefit it, confusing her. "And?" Jena questioned, trying to understand your point.
You gazed up confused at her, "Just that he was.. drinking with him." She raised her fiery brow and left the conversation at that. Now focused on the crying boy whose cheeks turned red. "I believe he may need rest." Jena pointed out, standing up and patting his back. She moved across the room, her skirts rustling up behind her as she handed him over to the maid who earlier opened the door. "I shall leave you then."
She looked as if she wanted to stop you, to spend more time with her, but you did not wish to overstay your given time. You knew how much of a nuisance that could be.
The halls remained quiet until well after the sun had set. You had spent the remainder of the day in the godswood, you had your lunch there. Honeyed ham with a strawberry pie to satisfy the tooth you had for sweets. You studied the blooming flowers of the gardens and watched birds sing. It was dusk when you returned to your chambers, when you moved to light a few candles for a source of light you stumbled upon your husband's discarded tunic on the tiles of stone floor. A reminder that he would ride again on the morrow.
Once you finished illuminating the room you quickly left your chambers once more, making your way up the narrow turnpike stairs to where the Maester resided. You asked for bandages and a salve, thanking the old man as you left to return.
You laid the bandages out on his bedside, along with the soothing salve you inquired about. The Maester said it was one of eucalyptus and dried mint, assuring you that he had applied it many times to the bruises and scrapes of men. You changed into your night shift, a loose one that allowed for you to not feel as exhausted with the heat. A book you had been putting for far too long about the histories of the first men caught your eye, you picked it up and settled into the plush chair by the hearth.
As you flipped the pages the noise in the yard down below grew louder with every passing moment, horses whinnying, the sweet tunes of the bards, and the wheels of carriages struggling in the stone. The next page you read spoke of the war with the children of the forest, how they came with bronze swords and great shields. They rode horses and burned down the weirwood trees sacred to the children, provoking the wars.
Rough footsteps approached your quarters and you thought it someone simply passing by until the oaken doors creaked loudly, your head turning to the culprit of the noise. Maekar stood there. He moved across the room and nodded in your direction as a means of greeting. He shrugged off his cloak to toss it on the bed, then took off his gloves with more ease than the last week when you aided him. He paused on his second glove and spoke up, "Did the Maester come by?"
"No."
"Then who left these here?" He resumed with the glove, tucking them into his drawer.
"Leave what where?" You asked, not pulling your eyes away from your pages.
"The bandages, and salve.." He picked them up and moved across the room to sit in the chair beside your own, showing you the objects. You closed your book abruptly, sitting up to look at him.
"I did."
He stayed quiet, "For me?"
"No, I simply thought it nice to adorn your bedside with them." You opened your book once more. "I suppose that was a question a mummer would ask." He laughed slightly.
"Why though? My shoulder has healed." You closed your book again with a sigh, "That is why, because you are so insistent that it has mended on its own. I simply wish to spare everyone from hearing you complain about it." His face now looked as if you had offended him and the new gods. "I shall use it then. If it pleases you." You opened your book for the third time, "I did not bring it to please me."
He unlaced his black tunic, pulling it off over his head in a single gesture. The light from the candles you lit now danced along his body, along the grotesque indigo and green bruise on his left side. He opened the salve as you pretended to read, though your eyes did not move from the page. Maekar pulled his braid to the side and dipped two fingers into the holder.
He rubbed it on his skin, wincing slightly. Yet he struggled to reach the back, you watched for a moment.
"You are doing it wrong."
"Am I..?" He asked with a hint of irritation as he fumbled. You put your book down, again. You moved toward him and picked the salve up, dipping your own fingers. He winced as you put it on properly, it would hurt regardless. "Do you still think it is healed?" He responded by throwing his arms up in surrender.
When you finished rubbing the salve on him you grabbed the bandages that he left discarded and held his arm up, wrapping it tightly around his injury. "It will feel better in the morn, though it will not be healed if that is what you believe." You walked away, making no attempt to pick the book up for another time. You strode off to the bed as he sat there yawning.
"The hedge knights are good."
"Are they?"
"Against each other, we shall see how they fare against me." You let out a laugh, he thought himself Aemon the Dragon knight mayhaps. Though you did not respond yourself, pulling the sheets down from when the maids had tidied and putting your pillows back into the middle of the bed. He rolled his shoulder as he made his way back to the bed.
"You are not going to bathe?"
"I will bathe when I wake, sharpens my senses." He pulled off his breeches only left in his undergarments. You did not understand why he could not bathe now and on the morrow, your face scrunched.
You blew out the candle nearest to you, turning over in the bed. Maekar settled into his own side, pulling the covers up to his waist. Silence fell between the two of you. The room felt less uncomfortable than it had almost a week ago. A sense of familiarity making itself present.
The third and final day of the tourney had arrived alas. Dawn had broken over the city and the castle was alive. You could hear the shuffling of servants throughout the halls as your own maid did your hair. She laid a beautiful hair net adorned with moonstone crystals on the back. Your hair had been braided the night before, when she undid them your hair fell down in an entrancing wave. She was pinning the delicate net in your hair with the help of a younger girl new to your service.
Maekar had came out of his bath with a soft towel around his waist, you stared at him through the mirror as he barked orders at his own servants to bring him his garments. He let his towel drop to the floor as he grabbed them from the boy handing them to him. His buttocks on display for all to see. You pulled your eyes from the mirror to fumble on the clasp of a necklace.
The dress you wore was a white one, you prayed to the seven for it not to dirty easily. It was brand new, just commissioned a fortnight ago from your seamstress. Its sleeves were long, and you had a silver belt wrapped around your waist — inlaid with moonstones as well. Your maids chattered excitedly about who would win the entire thing, they had bets placed with others you would wager. Leo Tyrell was a name you heard leave their lips, you had seen him unhorse his opponents with ease and wondered if he would do the same today.
Your husband left the room a few minutes later to depart on his own horse, the tourney would start earlier than the past days. More time for festivities you supposed, you made your way down to the yard the same as the first day to join Jena, Aelinor and Alys. Aerys and Rhaegel would be watching today, yet they followed on horses behind. Baelor rode with Maekar earlier as well.
The streets from the keep to the grounds were overflowing, barefoot boys selling honey cakes, old beggars pleading for a coin, and the people trying to get there to begin with. You were thankful for being inside the carriage rather than being on your mare. You fanned yourself as you gazed out the window.
You arrived at the grounds over an hour after you had departed, when you arrived to the stands the king and queen still had not been in their seats. The streets held them up no doubt. You called a serving boy for a goblet of cooled cider, cider seemed more appealing than wine. Once King Daeron and Queen Myriah arrived you bowed to them and sat back down. The trumpets blew before you could have a thought process in your head.
The knights each rode out before the crowd, holding their colorful banners or whatever coat of arms they took. The fabrics all danced in cloudless blue sky, among them Maekar rode holding the Targaryen banner. The red three headed dragon against a field of black. His dark armor making him stick out, your eyes found him quickly. He looked up proudly and rode back out to wait for his tilt.
The opening tilts passed by quickly, lances ripping faster than you could blink. They split cleanly against shields, one knight from the Stormlands fell off his horse before a lance even came into contact with his body. The crowd laughed at him, though you felt sorry for the man. Now he would have to ransom back his horse and gear for nothing.
Coins were exchanged all throughout the stands, wine had spilled, boos and cheers were made. Maekar rode his first tilt well, he advanced into the following round.
By midday only four men remained. A hedge knight made it till now and it surprised everyone. He rode out in front of the crowd, his armor looked dull and worn out. Following behind him was the prince. His armor polished, looking like obsidian in the bright sun.
"I almost pity the lad." You heard Aelinor say to Alys beside you. He looked no older than six and ten name days. He took off his helmet to bow his head, as did the prince. The boys hair was a mousy color, his eyes big. You were unsure if they were naturally like that or if it was the fear.
The trumpets sounded and they rounded their horses to the ends of the tilt barrier. Their squires handed them their lances and shields, running off quickly to avoid being caught in the havoc. Their destriers charged against each other. Dirt flew with the rough pounding of the ground. The boys lance caught on Maekars shield harmlessly, while his caught on the center of his breastplate.
The hedge knight had been thrown clean off, tumbling down onto the floor. Everyone stood, the acclamation was deafening to your ears. He pushed himself up to the ground as his squire no younger than him ran to his aid. Maekar reined his horse over, inclining his head out of respect before riding back out.
Relief washed over you, yet not entirely. You knew another tilt to determine his opponent remained. The next men to approach the Royal pavilion were Leo Tyrell and Willas Estermont. Leo's armor looked as if a garden grew on him, it was a vibrant green. The rose of Tyrell engraved onto the center of his chest as vines branched off onto his arms in a white gold. It looked too delicate for war, doubtless you knew he was showing off. His jaw was hard and his beard grew thick, the color of chestnut.
Willas Estermont's armor was not as flashy, a simple silver with the turtle of his house adorning his chest. They both rode off after their courtesies, Leo Tyrell looked unafraid, his contender looked unsure as his horse would not stop shifting beneath him.
As the heralds cry broke out, hooves thundered across the lists. Leo rode as if he knew the outcome, he looked clean, it almost annoyed you with how sure he looked. His lance looked as if it were to hit, yet it did not. Willas had cracked his shield and made him falter, wood hit the ground and Leo Tyrell shifted from his horse as it buckled from the force of the impact.
He grunted loudly, yelling at his squire for a new shield while his foe called for a new lance. Again they lined up, lances held steadily. However, it was uncertain who would win now. Was Leo Tyrell as good as you thought him? Was the gossip of your maids true?
They thundered off once more and you bit the inside of your cheek, you felt as if you yourself were charging against him. The impact rang out once more as wood exploded. Leo's lance splintering against Willas Estermont's painted shield. He had won. He held his reins as he strode off casually. He was too arrogant to even acknowledge the man on the ground yelling out for his squire and left without a nod of respect. Seven hells.
The crowd did not settle properly after that round, bets were being made on who would win it all. Baelor rises from his seat and walked over to Rhaegel, "Will you place a bet with me?"
"I am not going to bet against our brother with you. Find a different person." He quickly laughed, shooing his elder brother away.
The herald came out to announce the final tilt. "Prince Maekar of House Targaryen and Leo of House Tyrell!" The masses exploded. Cheers and screams for each contender. They both drew near to the King and Queen for a final time and retreaded to their designated side of the barrier.
Seven hells.
The crowd did not settle properly after that round, bets were being made on who would win it all. Baelor rises from his seat and walked over to Rhaegel, "Will you place a bet with me?"
"I am not going to bet against our brother with you. Find a different person." He quickly laughed, shooing his elder brother away.
The herald came out to announce the final tilt. "Prince Maekar of House Targaryen and Leo of House Tyrell!" The masses exploded. Cheers and screams for each contender. They wanted an upset. They both drew near to the King and Queen for a final time and retreaded to their designated side of the barrier. Leo Tyrell had a confident smile on his face.
The trumpets sounded the second they had a grip on shield and lance. The first pass both lances shattered yet they did not falter from their destriers. Maekars white stallion whined at the force, he soothed him, petting the side of his neck. He rounded him to his squire, calling for new equipment. As he settled back in line he tugged at his armor protecting his bad side. You thought him a fool then.
The second pass nobody had faltered, both men had missed each other by a few inches. You now gripped your seat tightly in agonizing anticipation. You could see how irritated Maekar was just by his body language, he rolled his shoulder once more and lifted his helmet to spit on the ground. His violet eyes piercing through the eyes of his foe.
The third pass kicked off and Leos lance seemed perfectly aligned to throw Maekar off his stallion. Though, Maekars lance hit him before his own could reach his shield. The crowd fell into a hush of silence, unsure if the blow was enough to declare him champion.
Leo Tyrell struggled with the reins as his horse panicked under his body. He was thrown off. The crowds silence was broken as your husband was declared the winner of the joust. You clapped and cheered for him, now you could truly feel relieved. He threw his shield and lance to the ground, freeing himself of his helm. He beamed and lifted his arm up, riding around the lists and drinking in the glory. He dismounted his horse and walked over to his fallen enemy, holding out a hand and lifting him up.
"Well rode, my prince." Leo said to him.
"Well rode as well, my Lord." He clasped him on the shoulder when he was on two feet and walked back over to mount his horse.
Maekar nudged his destrier in the direction of the herald. The old man stood there on his post, holding the victor's laurel, a wreath of white roses. He extended it towards him with two hands.
"The queen of love and beauty, my prince." The crowd had not yet calmed from the win. The dust had settled however and Maekar accepted the circlet from him.
The smell hit him hard, they were freshly bloomed. Their sweet scent covered up the sweat and dirt of the lists. Tradition held in the seven kingdoms that the victor of a tourney could select any woman present and name her queen of love and beauty. Dedicating his victory to her. It was frowned upon for a married man to name someone other than his wife, an invitation for scandal. However, most of the younger girls sat up straighter in their seats once he had rounded his horse to the stands once more. Noble ladies and fair maidens all wanted the honor that lasted for the night.
He called for his lance a final time and put the circlet of flowers onto it. He looked towards ladies hiding behind their jeweled fans, blushing maidens, to girls fixing their veils and began to ride. He glanced up at a few, tugging at the reins for his stallion to halt. More than a few of them smiled at him hopefully, giggling. He hesitated, yet tugged again.
His horse led him through the stands, passing one lady, then a second, then a third. He could have chosen any of them yet he did not. His eyes searched only for one woman. They found her almost immediately.
Moonstones glimmering in the afternoon sun, her dress white like doves, her hair moving slowly in the breeze. You were watching him. The words that Baelor had told him came to mind, that you stood when he was unhorsed. Now you watched him. Like he mattered. His hands tightened. He knew what they would make of this, they would sing songs of the anvils love for his wife. People would whisper. You were his wife, was that not enough justification?
He hesitated once more before galloping towards you. He sat there nervously, swallowing hard before speaking loudly for all to hear.
"My lady." He raised his lance up towards you. You stood up, leaning over the wood that kept you from falling onto him. You extended your arm down towards the wreath, removing it from the tip of his lance as you held yourself. You smiled down at him softly and his pale skin reddened. Everyone was watching you both. Seven hells.
You placed the flowers atop your head then you spoke, "I thank you for the honor, my prince."
"It is my pleasure." His deep voice projected. You sat back down and watched him ride off, the masses even louder than when he won the damned joust. Jena nudged you as your smile remained on your face long after he left your view.
"You seem to have taken a liking to him."
"I am only relieved he did not break his other shoulder."
"I do not believe that to be entirely true." You did not correct her.
The royal party began to rise from their places, to head back to the keep to the victor's feast. You followed them down to the carriage, yet your eye caught the black tent with the banner of the dragon flying atop. You excused yourself and made your way over to the tent, pushing aside the flap. Inside Maekar stood there with his squire removing his armor. He cocked his head, then excused the boy. He passed you, bowing to you and leaving hastily.
"My lady."
"My prince."
Your lips perked up in another smile. "Do you like them?" He asked, nudging his head to the roses on your head.
"They're beautiful." You answered. He moved closer to you, adjusting them slightly. He moved his hand down towards your face, tracing your lips with his thumb. You gazed up at him. The flaps leading inside stirred and you quickly moved away from each other. His eyes remained on yours for a moment before pulling away to look who had entered.
"What are you two waiting for? There is a feast to attend!" The intruder known as Baelor exclaimed. Maekar sighed, turning to see you laughing.
years before the battle of redgrass, maekar shares suspicions of uncle daemon with his brother baelor.
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im afraid most of this dialogue is likely incomprehensible if you aren't locked in as a fan of ASOIAF and I apologise for that but general context if you'd like it:
Daemon Blackfyre (named for having a sword named Blackfyre) attempts to stage a rebellion to take the throne from the king at the time, Daeron Targaryen, and his heir and first son, Baelor. This comic depicts Maekar, Daeron's fourth son and Baelor's youngest brother, suspiciously watching Daemon talk to Ser Quentyn Ball, a man he will eventually recruit for his rebellion. In Page 2, Baelor talks about Targaryens coming close to extinction due to family conflict in the past - he's talking about the events of House of the Dragon there, with Rhaenyra and Aegon's war.
⟢ SUMMARY aerion is desperate. the one girl completely out of reach, just had to be the one girl he wanted. he would make it happen. he would will it.
⟢ NOTES this was so long awaited, i'm sorry guys. been missing the peace of akotsk fandom so crawling back into it. hope you enjoy!
⟢ WARNINGS 18+, if you haven't watched obsession then maybe watch it first, smut, toxic!aerion and reader, coercion.
MASTERLIST
"You can't be serious." Aerion scoffed, fiddling with the corners of the small cardboard box his older brother, Daeron, had given him.
"Try it. I'm serious." Daeron reasoned. "My friend knew a guy who wished for a girl to love him, and shit just— happened."
"This? This thing— this twig? Can grant my wishes? Really?" Aerion's tone dripped with sarcasm. Because the idea of snapping a twig to make a wish come true was a concept of fiction, it sounded exactly like something Daeron's stoner friends would say.
Daeron raised his hands, shrugging at his naive brother. "Don't believe me. Or do. Your choice."
The box sat on Aerion's nightstand for weeks, collecting dust just as the thought did in his mind. A stupid prank from his drunken brother, one he wouldn't entertain. Busying himself with work, running the length of his street for an hour each morning and evening, driving until his gas ran on empty. Trying not to let you consume his every waking moment.
But you insisted on it anyway.
You had been friends since you interned at his father's company, only for a summer just to get some experience and a glowing recommendation. Aerion, to his core, was naturally standoffish, so he hadn't warmed to you until you were forcibly locked in his office with him to help stay up to date on reports. One of the boring tasks that Aerion fought defiantly.
It was that afternoon, he finally warmed to you. Though it was more akin to ice melting. He remained silent, gone were the scoffing and pompous commentary. Then, he began to laugh at your jokes. And that afternoon had been the catalyst to a strange friendship.
A friendship of unspoken words, lingering glances when the other was unaware, living life in show for each other. You played the part of friend well; hiding every ounce of yearning in your chest behind your poker face. He was none the wiser to your ache for him; the way he brought you a coffee every morning on his way toward his office, the way he praised you for everything you did to help him, the silent car rides he would give you home.
You would confide in Valarr, another intern you met, who you had found out was Aerion's cousin. Great. No escaping this man. But Valarr didn't much care for his cousin, wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. So your secrets were undeniably safe with him.
It had been months of yearning of Aerion, veiled with friendly teasing comments and an appropriate distance. Telling Valarr how you wished Aerion would just reject you, so you could move on. But he continued as if your friendship was completely pure, as if he were naive to the way your hands would be less than an inch from each other when you would share his desk for a task. Even when you had left the company after an extended internship, hoping to latch onto someone else at your new job. But your mind refused to unlatch from the pale haired brat you found a friend in.
"I bought you a gift." Valarr had his hands tucked behind his back when he met you at the cafe. You kept touch with him, meeting him for lunch whenever you could. And even today, to celebrate his promotion.
"For me?" You cheered, standing from your seat to embrace him. "You're the man of honor today!"
"Humor me for just a moment. Close your eyes." He took his hands from behind his back, placing the box into your outstretched hands. Your eyes peeled open to see a triangular box, a ONE WISH WILLOW.
"What the fuck is this?" You frowned.
"I was looking for a gift for my dad's birthday and saw that in a crystal shop." He explained, taking a sip of the piping hot beverage you had ordered for him minutes before he arrived.
"You were looking for a gift for your dad in a crystal shop?" Your face scrunched more intensely at your strange friend, the small box still sat in your hands.
"Besides the point." Valarr deadpanned. "It's a One Wish Willow."
"And what does this Willow do?"
"You wish for something and snap it. And your wish comes true." Valarr spoke so casually, as if this were as common knowledge as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.
"You're hilarious." You gave him a wooden stare, dismissing the small box into your purse. "`What do I wish for? A new best friend?"
"I was thinking you could finally wish for my wretched cousin to cease his existence." Valarr suggested. "Or for him to love you as intensely as you do him."
"Hey!" You exclaimed.
"What? Your love makes me sick." A half-truth. He loved seeing you happy, but not where Aerion was involved. He would snap a Willow of his own to wish you would forget your puppy love for his cousin.
"The only wish I'll be making it for you to be quiet."
Perhaps your neutrality with Aerion didn't just sink into his stomach, or fade into nothingness. Perhaps it mutated in his mind, sending him into a vastness of insanity. The constant, unusual fear of saying something stupid, cheering himself up with watching your social media intently, unwilling to let go of the hold he had on you. He had been driven to insanity over you. That very feeling had him sat in the corner of the backyard, in his designated smoking spot that his father had ordered him to use, because the smoke "keeps lingering in the house".
He held the triangular box in his hand, observing the dated red-and-white design, vexed at himself for even considering resorting to this foolishness.
He studied the box between drags, letting the cigarette sit between his lips as he read the words.
Need help? Call today!
1-323-747-7118
He could wish for his infatuation for you to cease, then he could live his life more peacefully, more for himself and less in show for you. He could wish for you to move out of town, forcing himself to get over you and live your lives separately. But Aerion was a selfish man, he knew it. He wouldn't do anything that didn't serve him.
REMOVE FROM THE BOX AND JUST MAKE A WISH!
SPARK THE MIDDLE AND BREAK IT IN HALF.
WHAT ARE YOU WISHING FOR?
"I wish," he sighed deeply, tapping his foot to find the wording.
It were as if something in his mind had snapped, the sound of a twig snapping echoed in his mind. His emotion felt dialled, it had never burned so violently in his stomach, it had never sounded like a deafening ring as much as it did in this moment.
This was where insanity had taken him, wishing for you to love him as he did you, wishing the one girl who was so passive with him to truly, deeply love him. And so, he spoke his wish aloud. For you to love him, to match his desire. Before snapping the willow, a clean break in the middle as it sat in each hand.
"So stupid." He scoffed, discarding the trinket onto the lawn beside him, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out between the fragments. He hoped to wake in the morning and have this useless feeling in the pit of his stomach to be gone, for you to be gone—
His phone chimed, the screen like a stun grenade in the darkness of the garden.
You: Hey, you.
Aerion's mouth dried. This was stupid coincidence, right?
Aerion: Hey.
Was that too blunt? Did he look uninterested? Had he ruined his wish already?
Aerion: What are you doing up so late?
You: Can't sleep.
Aerion: Me neither.
He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear over and over, impatiently waiting for your reply. He lit another cigarette through pure stress, inhaling it as his phone balanced on his knee.
You: Want to go for a drive?
"How have we not done this sooner?" You sighed, settling comfortably into his fully reclined passenger seat, your view of the city below and all its little gleaming lights.
"Busy, I guess." He shrugged. "We live different lives now."
The words felt like a lie as he spoke them. If you wanted to make the time, the two of you would have. But you had become professional and skirting around your feelings, pretending the blossoming in your chest was simply not there.
"That makes me sad." You sighed, looking over at him as his head was already turned to face yours. "I missed you."
Aerion could feel his mind buzz with anxiety, the hankering for another cigarette had his hands balled tightly at his side. "I missed you."
The world looked darker around you. Each different hue now warmer, redder, than it should be. As if a vessel had burst in your eye, the blood coating your vision until all you could see was Aerion. The man who looked no different than when you worked with him a year ago. Hair still unnaturally white, eyes still sunken and jaw still tense. A cigarette dangling from his lip at any given chance.
You had always admired the small details of his face, but only tonight had you truly seen them. It felt like the wires in your brain had been tangled, heightening any sort of feelings you already harboured. His eyes looked darker, smile wider, you could hear the blood passing through his veins, you could hear his heart pumping rapidly.
Your Willow had worked.
Aerion watched you intently; he noticed your tinged cheeks as you smiled at him, he noticed the way you were intensely staring into him, he noticed how you fiddled with the rings on your finger sheepishly. He wouldn't even admit it inside the privacy of his own mind, he would not give Daeron the satisfaction of saying this stupid Willow had worked.
"Want me to drive you home?" Aerion offered. "You look tired."
"No." You answered quickly, reaching a hand out to settle on his chest. "I like it here. With you."
Aerion placed his hand over yours, where his heart was buried beneath, calling out to your flesh above it. "Then you can come home with me."
You nodded. Your mind wasn't your own tonight, you knew better than to go home with a guy you hadn't seen in a year. But it was Aerion, your heart was encased in tattoos of his name, memories of words he'd spoken to you. He felt like home.
Laying beside him in his bed felt feverish. His sheets felt coarse against your bare legs, his hands were weighted as they rest on your hip. You were looking straight at him and all you could make out were the glints in his eyes. His features kissed by shadow and darkness, just white holes where his pupils were.
"You're freezing." He noted. "Do you want some more blankets?"
"No," you whispered, unable to take your eyes from his, "I'm okay."
"I can make you warm. Come a little closer."
You shuffled your legs into his, feeling that hue of warmth return. Aerion's features had brightened, no longer the scary monster in the closet, but the man you loved. The man you pined for day after day, now beside you in a bubble of quiet, intimate vulnerability.
"This might be crazy to admit," he breathed, no longer did he feel a rush of anxiety when you listened to him, no longer did he fear he would mess up the words he spoke, "but I love you. I have loved you, for a while."
Your heart had ceased its rhythm for a moment, Aerion's words the sole focus in those few seconds. "And I, you."
Your days were taken by Aerion, as his were taken by you. You would wake and sleep together, kiss the other goodbye on your way to work, meet for lunch and stay just a few minutes over. He consumed your thoughts, your autonomy, your heart, body, and soul. You were the object of Aerion's desires, there hadn't been a thought that didn't involve you. His mind was held captive by your memory, work on the back burner as he remembered your laughter at his stupid joke.
His father would click in his face, send him reminder emails, all to remind him there was in fact a world outside of you. But it didn't exist to him; he lived in a world without you for years, spent his days and nights in agony wishing for you to be his. And now he had you, he found purpose, he got as he wanted, he would not let his gratitude falter.
Valarr would watch you in concern over coffee, talking as if from another planet entirely. As if you had met the perfect man, and not the parasite his cousin had become.
"Do you not think this is all a bit... sudden?" Valarr frowned, tapping at the sides of his ceramic mug. The sound rang in your ears, taking you from the story you were just telling him of.
"What?"
"You guys seem very in love." Valarr stated.
"We are."
"It's nearly been a month."
You scoffed. "Love doesn't know time, Valarr."
He cared deeply for you, watched you sing and cry and lose your breath with laughter. But he hadn't seen you so in love before. Not to this extent, where you felt antsy without him. Where each moment spent apart felt like a waste of time.
"Just be careful, please." Valarr intoned. "You know my thoughts on Aerion, and I don't think this is healthy."
"And who are you to decide that?" You laughed, gathering your things from the booth beside you. "Call me when you've learnt my love life isn't your business."
And of course, you ran straight to Aerion. Told him all of Valarr's comments, how he felt about your love, how he stuck his nose where it didn't belong. You sat on his lap as he soothed your tearful words, hand dragging up and down your back to calm you.
"He doesn't understand." Aerion whispered. "The poor boy hasn't felt a love like this, he won't understand until he does."
"I just want to be with you, I feel safe with you." You wept onto his shoulder, your salty tears dampening his shirt. "Don't want to leave."
"Then don't. Stay here, leave that wretched job of yours. I earn enough to make you happy, to keep you here with me." His words carried such weight, despite being unaware of the poison laced within them. He was whispering incantations into your ears, to burrow into the folds of your brain, to darken that hue of warmth you saw.
You felt most like yourself with Aerion. Going on walks, watching movies, baking, grocery shopping, visiting him on his lunch break at his office building. You felt both hands leave the wheel when he kissed you goodbye, but the car maintained its speed. It hadn't slowed down when your hands left the wheel, if anything it gathered speed. Your vision blurred, your heart threatened the break the ribcage that guarded it. You felt on the verge of collapse until Aerion would return home, his hands would settle on your cheeks, and all would be right in the world.
Those feelings of derangement would only flare when Aerion was gone, or an obstacle presented itself. And the newest obstacle had been the secretary, disturbing your private lunch break with Aerion.
"Sorry," she peered through the door with a wide grin, a stack of folders in her arm, "your father told me to give you these."
"Just leave them on that shelf." Aerion instructed, his eyes tearing from you for a moment to gesture to the shelf. "Thanks."
Gratitude. For her. Thanking her for the disruption to your conversation. The world paled until the door clicked shut again, and Aerion's hand sat on your knee.
"As you were saying, sweetheart?"
Locking her in her office felt the most reasonable response, hearing her fists slam against the windows as you walked with Aerion to his car once the office building had shut. It felt good, you moved the obstacle. It was necessary.
But it had failed.
Aerion had been called to release her, as he lived the closest. And your blood bubbled beneath your skin.
"No." You spoke. "I haven't seen you all day."
"I know, sweetheart." Aerion always jumped to comfort you, to soothe your every worry as you did him. "But you locked her in, it's been long enough. I'm sure she's learnt her lesson."
Tears burned at your waterline. Aerion was siding with her, choosing her.
"She disturbed us, she can't get away with that. Who knows what else she'll try next?" You fretted, advancing towards him. Your hands rested on his chest, his hands atop yours. A position you assumed when obstructions appeared.
"Feel that?" He whispered. His heart slammed against your palms, a living, breathing reminder of your wishes. Merged into one, spurring him on. "That's for you."
Your heart was clawing its way out of your body, searching blindly for his own. His hands felt safe, secure, as they pulled you closer to him. There was nothing except him in this moment, just the charge of your skin against his.
"I need you." His teeth nipped at the skin of your jaw, grunts falling from his lips. "I want to crawl inside you."
You whimpered, letting him paw at your shirt. The material was nothing short of an inconvenience, he would tear it from you if it wasn't your favourite shirt. But he felt controlled, he saw himself outside of his own body. Biting at your neck, drawing blood and letting it stray down your skin.
"Aerion," you cried, compressed between him and the living room rug.
"What do you want, sweetheart?" He cooed, bunching your skirt up to your hips.
"I need you... please." You breathed into his mouth, your blood marred his lips so deliciously. His smirk shaped his teeth as fangs, you willed him to drink you in more, to consume you.
He burrowed into you, cradling your back as you arched off the floor. You squeezed around him, pulling him into you further, to keep the connection between you both. He set a firm pace into you, breathing his desire into you, as if being inside you simply wasn't enough.
Whether it be owed to the Willow, or Aerion's true heart acting on behalf of him, he didn't care. He wished for you, he yearned for you, and now he had you. He didn't just have your heart, he had your mind, body, and soul. He had you under his thumb, just as you had him.
Summary: You arrive at Summerhall with Rhaefyre… and Aerion caught within her claws. Or are you caught in his?
Word Count: 5.7K
Warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, canon divergence, lowkey violent behaviour, Aerion lol (kinda ooc but he still mean asf), typical GOT-verse things, Reader is described with Silver hair and purple eyes but nothing else specific, sprinkles of fluff and angst and a sprinkle of smut at the end, there will be SMUT in future parts!
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!!! Hi lovelies!! this blog is new so please be kind lol I haven’t written any fics in a long time but this idea was so stuck in my head. any comments, reblogs and feedback are appreciated, thank u! lmk what you guys think of part 2 <3
Part 1 , Part 2
“That’s not fair!” Egg shouted through his pouty lips. “Aerion’s going to ruin it!”
The young prince was thoroughly stressed, with frustration etched onto his childish face. And you could not help but fail at suppressing your light laugh. He had returned to Summerhall with his large friend, The Hedge Knight who he squired for, only this morning.
“I want to see the Lady’s dragon! If Aerion stays, he’s going to try and shove me in front of it with a few sheep so it mistakes me for a sheep and EATS ME TOO!” Little Aegon was howling at his father, pleading to send his cruel older brother back to King’s Landing so he could meet your dragon in peace and with utmost safety.
You had come to learn that Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen, was a mad menace amongst his family. The arrogant, entitled young man was continuously attempting to provoke you after what you had put him through at your initial meeting. It was clear to you that whilst he had a cruel and vain nature, his behaviour towards you must have stemmed from some feelings of inadequacy. You also knew that your refusal to yield before him, only spurred his rage on which you took slight satisfaction from knowing you were also getting under his own skin.
Maekar was beyond his limits, after years of herding his unruly flock of children. He was tired. So tired and lonesome. And itching to keep his disorderly children contempt so that he may find some peace for himself. And it was going well… until you dropped his second eldest son into the gardens of Summerhall by the foot of Rhaefyre.
Out of all the Houses in the Kingdom, of course the mysterious silver-haired lady and her dragon showed up to his home first. Fifty-six years of extinction and the first Dragon to be alive, swoops down near the grounds of Summerhall with one of his fuming sons caught between its sharp, gigantic, white claws.
You were having a marvelous time, you admit. Seeing the fear and chaos that flew around you and your dragon, did elevate your internal pedestal. You couldn’t help but enjoy the power that came with your dear Rhaefyre and your pure Valyrian blood.
A few days had passed since you met Aerion and dropped him into his home gardens. The memory of his vexed shouts echoing through your memories. Of course, you weren’t going to kill a Targaryen princeling you had just met, you had authority and power to inflict. To ensure the stability of House Alaerys. To ensure that your House does not die with you. To ensure that Dragon’s once roamed this world again. To have a home.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
“Does this satisfy you for ‘real enough’, My Prince?” Your taunting flowed through the winds as Aerion’s shouts bursted out like a ship’s cannons.
“PUT ME DOWN YOU BASTARD! FUCKING NOW!!!” He was thrashing and wriggling between Rhaeyfyre’s large, sharp, white claws. His strong arms held tightly at Rhaefyre’s claws as he looked down at the soil of Westeros from the height above.
This was incredibly amusing. You couldn’t help but giggle along the ride to Summerhall. What a sight this would be to those already on the castle grounds. What an enjoyable entrance for you to make!
“Please!” Aerion shouted, frustration and something along the lines of embarrassment bubbling up his throat.
“Once you are well reassured that I am in fact, no witch and that I possess the only living Dragon with the roots of Old Valyria in my blood, then we shall return to your palace.” Your voice was firm but teasing and it was driving his outrage like nothing else. Rhaefyre circled the grounds of Summerhall four times after that.
You sat pleased on your great She-Dragon with a swirl of emotions running around your chest. Ignoring the curses which the Targaryen Prince spewed towards you, it was a rather nice evening-fall. The sun was setting over The Red Mountains near the palace grounds and the warmth of it was refreshing. Summerhall was quite a beautiful place. At least, from the outside you assumed so. Floral’s bloomed within the surrounding gardens and water fountains and ponds were scattered around the property.
“Alright!” Aerion huffed out, enraged and tired from everything that occurred within the past few hours, finally gave in. “I will introduce you to my family, Lady Alaerys!”
“Pykās (Let go/Release)!” The Valyrian word, softly spoken from your plush lips, brought relief to Aerion’s struggling body before panic quickly rushed over him. Rhaefyre was still too high from the ground. Before he could rectify anything, Rhaefyre’s large claws loosened their grip around him. He had attempted to cling on, however the sheer force of Rhaefyre’s flight had him quickly stumbling down through the air straight towards the ground.
You weren’t stupid. It just seemed as if this rude, arrogant Prince was in need of a reality check. It is laughable that this Dragonless Prince dared to insight his entitlement over you.
Your Father has taught you to be strong. He had taught you that you would be able to grow yourself and resurrect House Alaerys into something mighty and utterly compelling. Mayhaps not in the same manner as House Alaerys was before The Doom, but certainly exceeding the majority of the Houses in Westeros. But, you needed The Crown’s aid for that. And The Crown needed you too. You just needed to express your potential in a somewhat less violent and hostile way than you had heard of King Aegon ‘The Conqueror’ and his Queens. You were one with Rhaefyre, not three with three dragons. There was only so much you could do with no formal title in Westeros, yet.
So, Rhaefyre was above a small pond in the gardens of Summerhall when you made the command and Aerion’s yells rang through your ears.
Aerion’s body was enveloped by the cool waters with a colossal splash that shot water droplets in all directions. Spent and exhausted, he hauled himself out of the pond. He was groaning in pain as his body ached from the movements. He was drenched, dripping everywhere with water running down him and through his soaked clothing.
He screamed your name, lividness consuming him as he limped through the once peaceful gardens. He saw Rhaefyre land and perch on the expanse of grass nearby. He watched as you elegantly slid down your She-Dragon’s shimmering wing and stroked her scales, muttering something that he couldn’t hear before you dropped your bags and began to walk in his direction.
He was storming over to you, red faced, drenched and breathing harshly.
“Did you enjoy the ride?” The question rang through the air amongst the sloshing of his wet steps and heavy breaths. You approached him with a small grin, Rhaefyre now far back in the distance from you with her attention turned to the trip of goats residing near the Red Mountains.
Even after the treachery which he had endured from you, you were still smiling lightly. Silver hair flowing with the evening breeze, skin radiating under the golden glow of the sun setting, lilac eyes darkening to match his lavender ones, and a certain gracefulness with your body language. Something dark, destructive and desirable stirred within him. Who the fuck does she think she is?
You awaited his response, lips in a slight tilt as his visible outrage.
Unexpectedly, Aerion surged forward. Despite his injuries, he was still incredibly fast. Gripping your wrists with his large hands and pushing you back into the nearest wall of the Castle which extended around, blocking Rhaefyre’s vision of you. A choked gasp escaped you as the Targaryen Prince caught you within his strong grasp. The strength he exuded, muscular arms powering over your smaller form, as your back hit the stone wall was nearly enough for you to forget where you were.
“Do not,” he seethed through pointed teeth, his tight grip crushing you further against the wall with your own arms. Your elbows were bent and your wrists were being roughly pushed against your heaving chest. “Do not ever do that again! Putting a Prince of the Realm in harm’s way is treason.” His arms flexed as he spoke, his body was feeling heavier on yours as his wrath fuelled him further into you. His words spat at you like flames. “Play like that again and I will take your pretty little Valyrian head myself, Lady Alaerys. Learn your place here or I will teach you.”
You inhaled sharply, heart jittering in anticipation. You didn’t yet know what he was capable of right now. His lavender eyes were set alight with fury.
“One word,” you muttered, chest rapidly rising and falling against your arms and Aerion’s weight. “One High Valyrian word and Rhaefyre will come and turn you to ashes to protect me. Threaten me and you threaten her also. She will not take kindly to anything happening to me.”
His hard grip loosened slightly at this. The rest of his wet clothes were starting to seep onto your own due to the close proximity of his body nearly flush against yours. The strength and heat radiating off him mimicked your own Dragon and it was becoming too much.
At his loosened grip, you raised your leg and your boot went straight into his shin, effectively kicking him away from you. He groaned and grunted as the pain hit him, releasing your wrists from his hold, nearly folding over until he steadied his stance. The corners of his lips quirked up and low chuckled left his mouth. His tongue dragged along his inner cheek, then darted out across his lips, slowly swiping across his lower lip. His silver wet hair dripped down his forehead and he swiped some drops away with his damp doublet sleeve. His lavender gaze focused on you, burning with flames. He breathed deeply, torso expanding with each breath as his soaked clothing clung tightly to his form.
“You need to be humbled.” You explained with venom laced between your teeth, rubbing your sore wrists, in an attempt to sooth them. “Too much fire and not enough Dragon in you.”
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Since then, you have been staying in Summerhall. The poor staff were petrified once they saw Rhaefyre on the grounds and over these few days, you had met Aerion’s Father, Prince Maekar, his brothers and sisters and even the Heir to the Iron Throne.
Prince Baelor was evermost kind, yet he remained apprehensive which you ultimately understood. You assured him that you were only here to raise your great ancient house back up. A high and noble place in court is what you wanted for now. And a property where you can live comfortably with Rhaefyre. However, you can not receive in this world without giving too. You offered yourself and your Dragon to aid any battles or political matters in the name of The Crown. You swore fealty to The Crown and were now a guest at Summerhall until your own future home was to be established, after much debate.
You offered coin to the Iron Throne Heir and his brother to help pay for your stay at Summerhall which Baelor politely refused, expressing his appreciation for that to be of your concern. Honestly, you had two pouches of gold dragons and silver stags filled to the brim with the circular metals, stashed away in the same satchel that you stored your dragon eggs in.
They couldn’t have Rhaefyre in the capital so suddenly without official announcements first. So you were to stay here until the King’s Small Council prepared some arrangements for you… they couldn’t really say no to a Valyrian girl and her living Dragon. They needed you. They needed Rhaefyre. Having you there with Rhaefyre benefitted the Targaryen’s, this you knew well and weren’t ignorant to. Everybody was playing to get what they wanted.
You knew why they were keeping you there and being a ‘guest’ was a kinder word for it. Baelor assured that he had no plans to discourage your wishes of residing in Westeros, yet he wanted you to remain in sight, with his family and away from plenties of the smallfolk. You were told that the King was sick and dying and that is why he did not come to Summerhall with his sons. But the King still wanted to meet you and your darling She-Dragon. After the public announcements are made, of course. Baelor appeared for a day and then disappeared back to King’s Landing.
Egg was still moaning about not wanting to meet Rhaefyre with Aerion near.
“Nobody is feeding anybody to Rhaefyre.” Your lilac eyes narrowed towards Aerion as he sat, opposite of you, across the dining table. He had boredom plastered on his Valyrian features and you fought the urge to roll your eyes before you faced his younger brother next to you. His stubbly silver-haired head was reflecting the candlelight. You’d have to ask him why he wished to be rid of his Valyrian hair. “I’ll introduce you after dinner if your Father allows it, Egg.”
Maekar paused the movement of his knife and fork scraping across the fine plate. He raised his brows. “If he must.” He straightened himself, posture tight as he loomed over the head seat of the table before proceeding to announce. “Now, this goes for all of you, my children. Do not step a single fucking foot near Lady Alaerys’ Dragon without her present. Do you hear me?”
To approach a dragon without its rider was a near death sentence. As magnificent and loyal as Rhaefyre was to you, she was still wild and unpredictable around others like every Dragon can be. Or at least, that’s what you were told by your Father. And it seems that knowledge was well known as Maekar ordered his children not to go near your dragon, unless they were with you.
A murmur of excited responses rippled through the dining hall from the younger children. Aerion turned, leaning down to his youngest sister beside him and whispered. “Maybe the Dragon will eat you first because your name is like hers.”
Rhae, the youngest Princess, panted and let a small shriek fill the room as she shoved her small arms onto her larger brother in an attempt to push him away. Aerion barely shifted.
“Aerion, enough!” Maekar’s raspy voice commanded. “Or you’re coming back to the Red Keep with me, boy!”
Aerion sighed. He did not wish to go back to King’s Landing now. Perhaps a few days ago, but now? He didn’t want to even consider having you out of his reach. Purely tactical, he reassured himself. Somebody had to keep a watch on you. You could betray his Family and the Realm at any time!
“My apologies, Father.” Aerion tucked his head back onto the high back of the dining chair, his eyes dancing around the sight before him. Your silver hair was braided up, leaving your jaw and neck bare and the new dress which adored your figure was rich and deep with red and black. The neckline dipped slightly into your cleavage but he did not stop himself from staring. The colours of His House. The last dragonrider of an ancient Valyrian House, wearing his colours.
Your lilac irises caught his lavender ones and the tip of his tongue swept across his lips like a serpent. Like he was tasting the air. Like he was trying to taste you.
“Lady Alaerys,” Daella’s sweet voice interrupted your thoughts. “What was it like in Asshai?”
“Well, I was the only babe ever born there. Living in hiding was easy until Rhaefyre grew bigger. The Shadow Lands are exactly as they seem. Lawless and filled with many magics, chaos and somewhat scary at times. I had never been around children until you and your siblings, My Princess.” Addressing the Princess, you looked towards her younger siblings too, Egg and Rhae. A smile graced your lips.
There were still lots which Baelor and Maekar did not know about you. Of course, you enlightened them with the vague story. They still did not know that you had three dragon eggs within your possession or the extent of the full prophecy which your ancestor dreamt of. There were certain things you had to keep close to you, for your own self preservation. You were still unsure whether to fully trust these dragonless dragonlords or not.
But sitting here, amongst this dysfunctional family, this was the first time in your life where you were surrounded by an actual family and you didn’t know any difference. You never knew what it was like to have siblings, to grow up with someone around your age. You never interacted with children until these past days at Summerhall.
The Princess listened to you, purple eyes growing wide with your words. “Are there sweet cakes over there at least?”
“Always about the cakes.” Egg huffed at his older sister as he stuck his fork into the cooked vegetables on the sharing platter in the middle of the table.
“Only if you find the right person to whip some up for you.” You grinned at the older Princess.
“And who was that for you?” Aerion interjected, his stare heavy on you. Unsettling.
“My late Father,” exhaling calmly, your gaze lifted to meet him. He was watching you. Waiting. Looking for a point to crack between. A point of weakness. A point where he could get under your skin, just where you were consistently getting under his. “My Mother taught him before I was born… It was a family recipe.”
As if Daeron felt you trying to strongly, not falter in front of his cruel brother as you spoke about your deceased parents, he joined the conversation. “Our Mother used to bake us sweet treats from Dorne. She was Dornish.”
Daeron went on to swallow his cup of wine, whole. “If it wasn’t a day for Dornish treats then it was sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a midnight feast in the gardens.”
The mention of Prince Maekar’s dead wife and the children’s Mother, made the table grow silent. Maekar and his children, visibly not over the loss, all lowered their heads or shifted anxiously. Grief was a strange thing, but Aerion kept his sight steady on you.
Your expression softened. “I’m sure that you all miss her dearly.”
“How would you know?” Aerion scoffed, rolling his shoulders casually as he played with the slab of bloody steak on his plate with his knife. “You cannot miss something you never had.”
SMACK!
Before you even had time to react, Maekar’s hand met the polished wooden table in a fist with a loud thud, shocking everyone at the table..
“Aerion, I have fucking had enough of your behaviour! She is of Old Valyria and has a bloody Dragon! And dragon or not, you will respect and show honour to Lady Alaerys. Unless you suddenly raise The Black Dread from the dead to claim him yourself, then we can dismiss your fucking manners!”
Biting your lip, you now lowered your own head.
Maekar’s defence of you made something swell within your chest despite the beration of his son. The latter was well needed and supposedly an ongoing concern that has only grown in recent years, you had gathered. Maekar’s gaze moved onto you, easing off as he gave you an apologetic look. He knew how his son could be and he knew that you had been the one to put up with it in recent days.
Maekar’s words rung through your ears loudly. As they also did through Aerion’s.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
A long couple hours later, post dinner, after taking Little Egg, Daella and Rhae to meet Rhaefyre in the Gardens, you excused yourself once you had safely made sure of their return to their bedchambers.
Sighing, your sore feet carried you through the grand halls of Summerhall. You had grown so used to wearing your boots that these new slippery turnshoes were uncomfortable. The hallways were dimly lit now as night had fallen. Flickers of candle flames danced along the walls in shadows, over paintings and many various extravagant household objects.
There were few guards littered around the halls as if patrolling but one stood out to you in particular. He was not dressed like the other Knights and serving guards. He was also absurdly tall and large, but his face was kind. His nervous gaze fixated on you as you drew further down the hall until you reached him.
“M-my Lady.” He greeted you and fumbled to bow with his large build.
“I think the young Prince told me about you. Ser Dunc, is it?” Your tired expression passed over to a small smile as you looked up at the man.
He nodded, nervously shifting on his legs. “It’s an honour to meet you, My Dragon Lady.”
A small laugh escaped you. Maybe that is why he was nervous. He knew of you and your dragon. “I believe the honour is mine, Ser Dunc. Egg has told me of some of your adventures together.”
The hedge knight’s face flushed with warmth. “Only the good ones, I hope.”
A small giggle escaped your mouth. “They were all good! Worry not, Ser Dunc. My favourite in particular is when you met at the Ashford Tourney.”
“O-oh! But, My Lady, that was a mess.” He gazed down at his shoes, shame and embarrassment consuming him.
“Not from how Egg tells it,” you grinned. “And I enjoy that you beat Aerion at his own game. May the Gods bless us for no tremendous injury that day.” It was true. How a Trail Of The Seven left all participants alive, you could not believe. Surely, it would have ended with at least one death.
Dunc let out a small, awkward chuckle. “Yes, it was a blessing.” He paused for a moment, lips faltering as he hesitated on his next words. “My Lady, I hope this is not too forward in asking b-but P-prince Aerion… is he not harming you? I have noticed the way he talks to you, it is not nice nor how a Lady should be spoken to.”
This you had grown accustomed to since you met Aerion. You had learned of his brooding and cruel temperament. He yearned for his own dragon for many years only to start believing that he himself is a dragon. And when Dragons are raised in royalty with everything but one thing at their spoon, entitlement and arrogance ruled over. It was just him. Some of his Father you could see but other parts of him remained enigmatic. Aerion had you in a constant state of whiplash with his moods already and it hasn't even been a full week since you arrived at Summerhall.
“He can be cruel, I’m aware. But I can handle myself,” You began smirking up at the tall knight. “And I have a Dragon. I know how to tame them.”
Dunc flushed further, his cheeks now bright red at the insinuation of your tone.
“Ser Duncan!” A deep, smooth voice rippled through the near empty halls.
Dunc quickly jumped back into a well-postured stance, away from you. You fought off rolling your eyes at Aerion’s interrupting voice but stilled, watching as Dunc’s easygoing expression fell. His heavy steps appeared closer, louder. And suddenly, they stopped behind you.
“I think our Lady has gotten lost, I shall escort her back to her chambers.” Aerion’s presence loomed over you, the warmth radiating onto your back. His breath, hot by your ear.
“I am quite fine conversing with Ser Dunc. Thank you.” Holding your ground, you stepped forward and turned to face the Targaryen Prince.
Aerion’s gaze floated between the large hedge knight and you. His eyes were scanning over your Targaryen dressed figure and then a distasteful expression appeared on his features when he stared at Dunc. Clearly, a grudge was still held.
“I have been waiting for you, Lady Alaerys. You must come.” Aerion lifted his chin, catching the curiosity in your lilac irises as he waited for your response.
A sigh escaped you before you turned to the kind knight and bid him goodnight. You wished that you could keep speaking with him. There was something endearing surrounding him and you felt his good heart. He flashed you a quick smile and waved goodbye after Aerion began walking away, to which you quickly waved back at the large man before following the Targaryen Prince. You didn’t want to follow Aerion right now but as you were in his home, under his family’s care until you had your own home, you were obliged.
Although, there was an intense burning within you, wondering what this was leading to.
The hallways became larger as Aerion stalked through Summerhall, heading for your chambers which were located in a separate section of the Palace. Children in the North Wing, adults in the East Wing, guests in the West Wing and staff in the South Wing. Your chambers were in the Guests wing of course, to the West. Opposite to where Maekar, Daeron and Aerion resided.
As of now, Rhaefyre was currently lurking around the grounds of Summerhall, resting in the expanse fields next to the Palace and feasting upon the goats of The Red Mountains.
“What is this regarding?” You asked, anxiety beginning to bubble through your veins at being alone with him. He was too unpredictable, you had learnt over these last few days and it set you on edge.
“I have a gift for you, My Lady.” The latter words tasted mockingly to you.
“A gift?” You questioned him, his pace still slightly ahead of you.
“Yes, which I had been waiting for hours in your chambers with.” His tone was irate, dark and dripping with irritation. “Only for me to later find you giggling away with that stupid hedge knight.”
“Aerion, I apologise. I did not know.”
“No!” His sudden outburst had stunned you as he spun around to face you with a hard expression. Your legs stopped moving and you froze. His shout echoing off the stone amongst the soft fabric of the house banners hung along the walls. “You will call me, My Prince.”
“When you earn it, Alberzeys (Brightflame).” You calmly repeated your words from when you met, holding your head upright as you stared up at him. His lavender gaze darkened further as he clenched his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck rippling as he moved toward you.
“You are insufferable,” he sneered, taking another step closer. “Zaldrīzītsos (little dragon).”
“And you are nothing but a vengeful Dragonless Prince,” frustratingly, you huffed out whilst placing your hands on your hips. His face flashed through something unidentifiable for a mere moment before he was clenching his jaw again and his fists were balled up at his sides. “It is pitiful that your ancestors would ruin such great creatures with your own fanciful family affairs. And I will not continue to entertain you with the idea that I will simply bend the knee to you because you are a Prince in this realm. You claim yourself a Dragon Lord but you have no Dragon. I will not bow to a lesser Dragon Lord who consistently disrespects me.”
It felt like fire was coursing through your body. The heat, about to make you succumb to something much less tamed. You hadn’t realised how much anger had been pent up within you these last few days.
Aerion was eerily still, listening to your words. His focus was sharp as you stood there, eyeing you through narrowed brows. Your chest was heaving from the words which shot out of your mouth. You hadn’t realised how loud you were either.
His fists relaxed and his jaw went slack, providing the perfect escape of his serpent-like tongue to slowly stretch across his lips. His long, muscular legs stalked over to you like a Dragon would swoop down to catch its prey between its claws. And you were between his claws.
Aerion’s large hand lifted to your face, fingers resting under your jaw whilst his thumb steadied your chin. You tried to shake your head away from his hot grasp but it only tightened as he forced you to look at him.
“I may have no dragon,” he began, vocals low and scarily calm. “But I am The Dragon. And dragons do as they please. The blood of old Valyria runs through me.”
“But more so in me,” you spit out, swatting his hand away from your face. He only gripped your forearms instead, manhandling you to stay in position in front of him as you squirmed under his hot touch. His hands burned on you, like fire dancing with smoke. And it was illuminating. “You are jealous of that, Aerion. Yes, I will call you so. Aerion. You wish to be of blood as pure as mine and you wish to ride with your own Dragon. But you were dealt in the wrong path. And now that I’m here, you will constantly be reminded of that as if you weren’t already before.”
Aerion sighed dramatically, fanning your face as he still held you close. It was as if he was expecting some of those words on your part to be spoken. “What a sad evenfall this has become.”
“I’m glad you see it too,” you exhaled deeply, responding to his latter words. His expression only hardened with his grasp on your arms. You attempted to pull away, eyebrows furrowing as he refused to release you.
He opened his mouth, poisonous words on the tip of his tongue before you cut him off.
“Do not make me kick you again, I will aim higher this time!”
Aerion begrudgingly released you from his hold. The loss of warmth from your body, striking him back into the cool air of the night. He pivoted on his foot, contemplating his next steps. You expected him to raise his voice again, in a fury at the words you had spoken to him, spat at him. But instead of fighting with you, he stood back, elegantly gesturing down the hall to your chambers. Like a noble prince would if escorting a Lady.
“The gift is on your bed, Lady Alaerys.”
Your eyes drifted down the dark, dimly lit hall. And when you turned back, Aerion was gone.
You felt like you wanted to hit your head against the stone walls of the hallway as you strode through, heartbeat bouncing against your ribcage. Why would he just disappear like that? Why was he so cruel and mean? And why is he always still so composed after such outbursts?
His behaviour made your head spin. Head pounding from the questions you had and the heightened emotions you just experienced, your body shook with relief as you swung the door open to your chambers.
It was a large space, a huge four-poster bed, luxurious furnishings scattered around, a marble wash basin, a lounging area and a dressing area. At the edge of the bed, nestled a big chest with a lock, holding your possessions inside. And on top of that bed was a small stack of three very old books, wrapped together neatly by a piece of string and a piece of parchment beside it. The gift.
Sitting into the soft, comfortable edge of the bed covered in various fur blankets, you reached for the books and untied the string.
‘House Alaerys of Old Valyria’
‘The History of Westeros’
‘A Dragon Lord’s Claim’
It was happening before you realised it. Tears rolled down your cheeks. Hot, salty and unforgiving. Your fingers drifted over the syllables etched onto the leather binding of the first book. It was written in High Valyrian and about the history of your house before The Doom. The second book was written in Westeros’ native tongue, revolving around Westerosi history. And the third book was something that you had never expected. A Romance, written in High Valyrian, about a Dragon Lord in Valyria who falls in love with an already betrothed Princess. A tale of passion and affairs.
You wiped your tears away with the backs of your hands and picked up the note which was left next to the books. You unfolded the small piece of parchment and began to read.
“ For you, zaldrīzītsos (little dragon).
One for your birthright.
One for your new home.
Another for your own pleasure.
Your Prince, Aerion Brightflame ”
His voice rang through your brain as you read his words and for some reason, you found yourself wishing to rectify your recent argument despite everything. Empathy began to seep through you. You couldn’t imagine being born into this, being promised a life with a bonded dragon and the greatness of your House ruling over Kingdoms, only to be left a dragonlord with no living dragons due to ancestral fighting. You suppose that must have been some motivation for his unstable temperament, which you certainly were not helping. A small part of you began to regret your words spoken to him.
Groaning in annoyance, you fell back onto the overwhelmingly soft bed. Has he really picked these books out for you? Where did he find them?
‘Another for your own pleasure.’ Shivers went down your spine. A romance book? What in the world was he thinking? You couldn’t help but wonder if there was some secret implication until you flicked through the pages to land on some very vulgar and inappropriate High Valyrian language that made heat rise to your cheeks.
A woman moaning, a man burying himself inside her as he bent her over a balcony overlooking the Old City of Valyria where Dragons constantly roamed the skies. Whimpers and pleasured grunts filling the air.
‘His hands were gripping my hips tightly, pulling me back onto his thick length as a mixture of wetness met us both where we connected. “You will take what I give you, little dragon.” He whispered heavily, panting between thrusts.’
Zaldrīzītsos. Little Dragon. What he had begun to call you… You slammed the book shut, flushing at the heat pooling between your thighs.
Summary: You arrive in Westeros, being the last of your Great Valyrian Houses bloodline, with your Dragon.
Word Count: 4.7K
Warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, some descriptions of violence and death, dead parents, misogyny, canon divergence (made up my own thing and baelor lives ofc), Aerion (lol he's kinda ooc I tried to keep him as mean as possible), typical GOT Universe things, Reader is described with Silver hair and purple eyes but nothing else specific, there's sprinkles of angst and fluff in here, there will be smut in future parts!
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!!! Hello my lovelies! this blog is very new but I wanted to start writing for Aerion! bro has sucked me back into writing fanfics... it's been a while. any comments, reblogs and feedback are appreciated! lmk what you guys think, this is gonna be a series <3
PART 1
Nothing spreads faster than wildfire in Westeros, all except whispers. And as soon those whispers reached the Red Keep in King’s Landing, utter chaos ensued.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Maekar demanded, exasperated, as soon as the Master of Whisperers announced his findings at the handcrafted table of the Small Council Chambers.
He didn’t want to be here right now. However, he received an urgent call to the Red Keep from his Hand Of The King, older brother, whilst residing at Summerhall. ‘A family matter of great importance to the future of the Kingdom and House Targaryen.’ He thought that their sick Father, The King, had finally joined the new Gods and that his brother was being ever so dramatic about it. Their King Father had been on his death bed for many moon turns now. The Great Spring sickness had been taking its toll on King Daeron The Good, second of His Name. So for a while, Maekar had been expecting his Father’s time to pass over.
He rolled his eyes at the delivered scroll, prepared for and made the journey to the Red Keep regardless of his own wishes to remain within the walls of Summerhall.
“A winged shadow has been spotted across the realm, My Prince.” The Master of whisperers breathed deeply, addressing Maeker. His eyes drifted between both of the starkly different brothers and the rest of the small council seated at the table within the chambers. The Master of Whisperers continued, eyes filled with worry and locking with Baelor’s own heterochromic mix of light blue and dark brown. “First in Dorne, then The Reach, Riverrun, The Eyrie and even The North. Reports from farming establishments have been coming through frequently in recent weeks. Flocks of cattle left in ashes and embers without explanation. One Fisherman in The Arbor has even stated that he has seen this winged beast swoop down to the waters whilst expelling flames from its mouth. It is said to be a great winged beast of pale, shimmering colouring.”
The room was silent, save for sharp intakes of breath and the thrumming of heartbeats against the council’s ribcages. Baelor’s expression remained steady, ever the most poised and diplomatic but his eyebrows pinched together as he was processing this information.
These whispers carried a vast weight and could change the Kingdoms and House Targaryen as he currently knew it. As everyone knew it. A heaviness began to sit deep within his chest. Never did he think that such times would be possible during his reign of being his, actively dying, King Father’s Hand and Heir to the Iron Throne. Everything was about to change drastically. And for once, Baelor felt slighty at a loss. He was unsure of how to proceed, especially if this creature possesses a rider.
“Brother,” Baelor spared a wary glance towards Maekar. His mixed irises were focused on the shining embroidery of their House’s sigil which was wrapped around his brother’s tunic in a display of fiery colours against black. “If many a people have witnessed such, then it may bear truth.”
The council members tensed at this, knowing what it mayhaps mean for the future of the realm and their own Houses but most importantly… House Targaryen. Maekar remained rigid in his seat, eyes falling shut, as if a burst of aches had quickly begun to pound against his skull.
“I will send a ship to the Arbor to gather more information from this fisherman, Your Grace.” The Master of Ships piped in, face visibly panic-stricken and words swallowing through the air with stress attached.
Baelor leaned forward, shaking his head at the man, elbows resting on the surface of the table whilst his aged hands reached for his face, his fingers rubbing on the sides of his temples. “This information is not to leave these chambers… we will continue to speak and operate on this matter within these four walls alone.” Baelor hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Have there been sightings of a Rider?”
The Master of Whisperers gingerly took his seat at the table again and struggled to express the correct words next. “W-well, Your Grace, i-it seems t-that…”
Maeker grunted, eyes flicking open again, interjecting with no patience for the stammering man.. “So spit it out then. Yes, or, no.”
“A-a woman of silver hair has been seen riding this beast, My Prince. Your Grace.” The Master of Whisperers addressed both of the brothers.
The rest of the Small Council’s expressions perked up at this description. Eyes drifting to each other’s sides, monitoring their peers' reactions. One Lord shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Another struggled to tame a biting smirk. And one other Lord even laughed. The thought of a random Valyrian woman bringing back a Dragon after decades of extinction, was entirely laughable to most of the Small Council.
The Grand Maester shook his head and inhaled deeply. “A bastard girl, perhaps?”
Balor hummed at the Grand Maester, it could be true. Targaryen King’s and Prince’s were not exactly known for their virtuous behavior. Seven Hells, The Dance of The Dragons revolved around Targaryen bastards with those bastards claiming their own Dragons. But then, where would a lowborn bastard even acquire a Dragon when there were no more living beings known?
Maekar scoffed in disbelief. “After fifty-six years of extinction? All this time passed and suddenly a Dragon is seen flying over the Realm. With a woman for its rider?” His rough hands slammed onto the table as a laugh escaped him. “It’s not fucking possible!”
However, it was very much possible.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Your long silver hair whipped behind you as the harsh, fast winds blew around you. After years of dying your silver hair to blacks and browns, it was liberating to finally be released of that constriction. The blood of Old Valyria still ran strong through your veins.
The heat beneath you was warming against the cool air. A loud laugh blessed your lips as you took in the freeing relief of riding your great creature. Shimmering, pearlescent, white horns and pale pink scales were fluttering with you through the skies. She was magnificent.
“Rȳzys (fast), naejot (foward) my Rhaefyre!”
The She-Dragon roared beneath you, the sound reverberating, making your body vibrate, radiating up from your legs where they laid either side across her back. Your skirts flipped and flapped against the wind along with the satchels homing your goods, which were strapped securely around your body.
Large grey clouds began to filter through your vision. Your hands clutched tighter around her white spikes as she made haste and you suddenly felt raindrops scatter around you, rolling off your skin, dampening your hair and clothing. A storm.
For centuries since the Doom of Old Valyria, your family, House Alaerys, had been in hiding. For centuries, your family has masked their distinct dragonlord traits with hair-dyes and blood magic. The Histories had known House Alaerys to die with the rest of the mighty dragonlord houses in the Doom of Old Valyria. But those histories were mere assumptions.
Initially your family’s House had fled west of Westeros and beyond, a great ancestor of yours had prophesied the Doom of Valyria and the extinction of your beloved dragons. The ancient dreamer of your family also happened to see a great resurrection of your bonded beasts, centuries in the future. And therefore, when House Alaerys had fled as the Doom began, six Dragon’s clutches were taken. Nineteen Dragon Eggs, totalled, were taken with your family as they escaped.
House Alaerys was one of the largest and most powerful in Old Valyria, with 43 members of your family fleeing before the Doom. Some members of your House chose to disregard what was prophesied however and perished in the molten rock, lava, flames, smoke and ashes that consumed Valyria. Since seeking refuge from the destruction, siblings, cousins and relatives alike consistently married each other, in tradition, over the centuries to ensure the bloodlines remained pure for the prophecy told.
Eventually, House Alaerys slowly relocated over the years, moving back to the East of Westeros until only 2 members of House Alaerys remained. When you were born with your parents in The Shadow Lands of Asshai only 4 of those, now stone-turned, eggs remained. Over the many years, your ancestors became desperate to bring back your beloved Dragons, having lost your living creatures in the Doom. The eggs were taken with blood magic practiced to revive the stone-turned eggs eventually and ensure hatchlings, although nothing ever succeeded. Until you.
You and your parents were the only remaining members of the great House Alaerys when you came into this world. Your mother died very quickly after childbirth and your grieving father did everything he could with the dark magic sorcerers in Asshai to assure your success in this world. Your birth was one of Fire and Blood. Your mother bleeding out, an egg placed on a burning hearth in the centre of a dark room surrounded by flames, healers and sorcerers.
Your father cried out as he held your newborn form in his arms and heard the egg cracking between the flames, with your mother’s body laying lifeless amongst the chanting sorcery.
For the next fifteen years, you and your Father, both remained hidden with your dragon hatchling. Now a large She-Dragon, beginning to rival half the size of the Dragons of Ancient Valyria, it was increasingly difficult. Fifteen years of safety finally came at a price, it was not easy to hide such a grand creature in privy. The sorcerer’s demanded more blood to secure the secrecy of your Dragon and your Father sacrificed himself despite your screaming pleas and endless begging. The memory of your Father being split open and bleeding out on a large engraved, stone table surrounded by dark sorcerers to ensure your and Rhaefyre’s protection still haunts you and makes your heart ache deeply.
Five years later, without your Father to guide you any longer, and here you were. After two decades of living in secret with Rhaefyre in The Shadow Lands. Coursing through the sky’s above The Golden Empire of Yi Ti, The Red Waste, flying over the Summer Sea and eventually, it led you to the land of Westeros. It has been a few weeks now since you decided to stand your ground in Westeros, seeking shelter in the wide landscapes with Rhaefyre.
“Quba (Low)! Tegon (Ground)!” Your voice commanded your gorgeous She-Dragon to land over an expanse of fields surrounded by forests, after your gaze reassured there were no households within a short distance.
As far as you knew, you were now alone in this new world. Despite the knowledge of a Dragonlord House claiming this realm, you had been informed that they no longer possessed any dragons within their grasp.
You were well aware of the histories of Valyria and the other Dragonlord houses of that time. House Targaryen was said to be the only surviving house of the Doom but, of course, you knew that wasn’t true. Although, now you were the only member left from House Alaerys. In the fifteen years you lived with your father, up until five years ago, he had taught you everything you needed to know about this world. He had well-paid spies across each region feeding information back to him in order to remain updated about current times, which he always shared with you.
The bond you shared with Rhaefyre as her rider was protected with Fire and Blood in Asshai, and it was a reassuring protection if the Targaryen’s dared to approach you with violence whilst you ventured in their Kingdoms. Rhaefyre was extremely protective of you. Your bond with her was unbreakable.
Coming here was not a whimsical decision to you. You wanted to ensure that your family name lived on, and what better way to do that than to incite the power of your Dragon onto a lesser Dragonlord House of Old Valyria with no current living Dragons for themselves.
The Alaerys prophecy was ringing around in your mind like sparks flicking from a fireplace.
A small chuckle left your throat as you wiped at some of the rain coating your soft cheeks. Rhaefyre landed swiftly and perched onto the damp fields. How shameful it must feel to have your own Dragonlord House be the very reason which you no longer process a single Dragon.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Daeron was deep in his cups trying to decipher and mostly ignore last night’s dream. Fire, Blood, Dragon Eggs, a silver haired woman with striking expanses of purple in her eyes. And so much more which he wishes to long forget. The images flashed through his mind no matter how much he wished, drank and attempted to ignore them.
“What is it today, brother?” Aerion stalked into the room, as if a Dragon roaming the wild, with a glare present as he eyed his older brother.
Daeron took a large gulp of the bittersweet red wine before slamming the now empty cup onto the small table beside him. The fire next to him crackled as he sprawled out on the cushioned chaise lounge. He didn’t want to tell anybody what he saw, let alone Aerion. It would complicate matters much more.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Daeron huffed, letting his eyes close softly as he settled into the plush lounge chair. Hoping that his demeanor would ward his troublesome younger brother off, he exhaled and leaned further into the plush velvets of the pillows beneath him.
But Aerion’s heavy steps only echoed through the tiled flooring in the room, amongst the crackling flames until he loomed over Daeron with a peculiar glint in his harsh lavender eyes. He wanted to know what Daeron saw. He had always dismissed his older brother’s dreams. Disregarding them for nothing but a drunken fool’s fancy. But that didn’t stop him from always wanting to find out. It was intriguing after all.
One of the older brother’s eyes peaked open as the air grew heavy with the looming presence and he scrunched his nose up, hand motioning to his now-empty chalice. “Pour me another would you, Brother?”
Aerion scoffed, arms folding over in agitation, a slight snarl leaving him as he retorted. “I’m not your wench. I am the Blood of The Dragon. It would do you well to remember that, Daeron. Now, fetch that red-haired serving girl instead.”
Daeron sighed tiredly, “I told her to leave me be this evening.” He wasndesperately wanted to be alone. To be able to find his own distractions to ward off the festering visions that bloomed whilst he vulnerably slept. Closing his eyes he attempted to relax yet again, the alcohol making his head spin as he lay still, only to be met with the sight of the silver haired woman in his dreams standing with his cruel brother at her side.
But, this time it was closer. Last night, Daeron saw this silver-haired woman in what appeared to be an argument with Aerion. And now, well, Aerion’s hands were wrapped possessively around her waist with a burning predatorial look seeping through his lavender eyes. Aerion’s sharp jawline slots into the crook of her neck, lavished by her warmth and scent. He inhales hungrily, muscles flexing beneath the expensive fabrics which adorned his body, and holds her tighter as if she will disappear at any given moment.
Daeron choked out a sudden gasp, eyes snapping wide open. Quickly sitting upright and reaching for the crystal flagon of wine next to his chalice, he swipes the flagon up to his lips and drinks straight from it in large gulps.
Aerion rolled his eyes, crouching to level his brother and meet his wine-hazed gaze. “You’re a mad, pathetic, drunkard.” The words spit at Daeron as Aerion mocked him.
“And you brother,” Daeron began, wiping some spilled red wine on the corner of his mouth with his dark velvet sleeve, “will be far more pathetic than you ever intended to be in the next weeks to come.”
Daeron was struggling to decipher his visions. Does this mean Aerion will find love? It never seemed likely to him. He had always seen his brother as more of a possessive, deceitful, demanding and cruel type. The type to fuck his way through life with blood, riches and entitlement. Certainly not gentle, understanding and loyal, as love should be. Daeron thinks that Aerion would run from love or feverishly grapple in obsession, if it approached him.
Aerion scoffed at these words, shaking his head and standing from his crouched position. Making way towards the large oak doors of the room, he turned to face his brother before taking his leave. “Forever speaking the most profound shit within our family, Dear Brother.”
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Loud, rumbling chirps awoke you. Your light lilac eyes were adjusting to the brightness of the clear sky as Rhaefyre stretched her sheltering wing above you. She always released sweet, heavy chirps when she was content or trying to communicate with you. You suppose she was hungry now. By the positioning of the sun, it appeared to be midday. You slept in. The grass beneath you was slightly dampened from the rain but Rahefyre’s wing provided shelter for you over the night. The grey stormclouds have fled the sky now and passed over to the sun shining like you had witnessed often as of late. Weather in Westeros was always unpredictable it seemed. Unless you’re in The North, then there was only cold and snow. Rhaefyre didn’t like it there.
“Alright, my friend. Apologies for keeping you waiting,” a small smile appeared on you as Rhaefyre hummed back. You rose from the ground, stretching your stiff limbs before shifting the wool blanket from your warm body and into the large leather satchel beside where you were resting. You peered into the bag, wrapping the blanket around the three shining dragon eggs, safely.
Warmth flushed your cheeks. Would your dragon ever have the opportunity to ever have her own clutch? Would you ever know what it is like to ride with a lover? All these silly thoughts were just that at the moment. You were here to bring House Alaerys back to its former honour and glory. You were here to revive your ancestor’s beloved Dragon’s with Rhaefyre by your side. ‘Come now,’ you thought to yourself, ‘I am here to keep my House alive. Not to indulge in childish fantasies.’
Rhaefyre chirped again, then let a loose low growl escape her giant jaws.
“Lykirī umbās (wait calmly), Rhaefyre.” You were also hungry, stomach now aching and rumbling.
Striding into the nearby wood, with wet leaves and twigs crunching under your boots, you approached a blackberry bush and plucked a handful of the bittersweet berries. Along with the berries, you also plucked some edible mushrooms by some of the tree roots, which you placed in a small pouch attached to your waist by a piece of thick twisted silk. It was then that you spotted a nest upon a low branch and you decided to pinch two bird eggs from that nearby tree.
Unfortunately, on your way from descending the tree, your skirts got caught and a large scrape broke the soft skin of your knee. A loud yelp bounced around the bark in the woods as you quickly cursed yourself for being too loud, wincing from the pain. “Shit!” You stumbled slightly from the damage to your knee after rising but tried your best to shrug it off and continue persisting on. Hoping there were no living souls around to hear, you promptly set off back to the direction you came from.
Once you reached Rhaefyre with your forest foods, she shifted loudly, the ground shaking slightly, as she smelt the blood from your leg.
“It is okay. I am okay.” You tried to reassure her, reaching up and gently rubbing your hand on her large pale, scaly snout before placing the small white eggs on the ground in front of where her head rested on the grass.
Rhaefyre raised, perching off the ground as you rushed to the side to shield yourself behind one of her wings. A deep guttural noise ripped through the air as small flames flew from her mouth and onto the patch of grass where the eggs lay. The green shards of grass now presented crisp, black and smoking. But at least, you could have two freshly cooked, soft eggs along with your blackberries and mushrooms.
This had been routine for you now, since remaining in Westeros. Every day on the morrow, but midday today, you would forage to break your fast and then ride Rhaefyre until deeming a low populated area for her to feast on the cattle in farming fields.
You had remained in this stagnant routine for a moon’s turn now and you had begun to ponder on why no royal soldiers were sent to deter or even capture, question and potentially torture you. After everything your Father had warned you about this land, maybe there was far more cowardice than expected. Mayhaps they simply did not know what to do or even feared approaching you with your dragon. It has been decades since The Last Dragon was alive and seen here.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Aerion was growing increasingly bored within the stone walls and stained glass windows of Summerhall. His Father had left Daeron in charge of his leave and yet, that drunken fool did nothing but steep further into his cups and attempt to isolate himself. Aemon was long gone in the Citadel and Aerion was happy to be rid of him. Why would a Dragon stoop to such a lower level? Egg was far off at some lower-Lord’s Tourney with that bumbling giant of a Hedge Knight, so he couldn't even torment them for his own amusement.
And then there was Daella and little Rhae. Ever so floundering and wrapped up with their expensive jewels, playing pretend tea parties, potion-making and wreaking havoc in the kitchens by stealing an endless amount of sweet cakes instead of attending their embroidery lessons. Aerion couldn’t fault his sisters for the latter, he supposes.
Most of the time, Aerion felt as if he was the only worthy and honourable Dragon in his family. He was born for greatness in Fire and Blood. Destined to be a mighty Dragonlord but instead, he was riding off far into the woodlands on his Destrier with a set of sharp pointed arrows and a large bow slung over his back.
He gave a hard kick to his horses behind, commanding, “Faster!” The light brown horse rose on its hind legs before galloping off with a loud ‘neigh’ ripping through the humid air.
As he was riding further into the woodlands, Aerion suddenly halted the reins, forcing his Destrier to stop. A loud, higher pitched shriek bounced through the trees and moments later the trees shifted with a rumble. Water droplets fell from the leaves, birds quickly vacated into the skies desperate to exit the woods and his Destrier spooked, began to take off in the opposite direction of the commotion. Aerion huffed angrily, jaw clenching and attempting to control the animal beneath him, was knocked off in a rush. Luckily, he was quick, shifting his black lathered boots from the stirrups and pushing his legs off to one side of his horse. He hit the wet, jagged ground and groaned in pain as the solid quiver containing his arrows broke beneath his back from the fall.
He laid there for a few moments, twisting and grunting in pain. “Fuck!” he screamed out, pushing himself up from the woodland floor. “Stupid horse,” he murmured, “I deserve better. I deserve a bloody Dragon.”
With his eyes squinting, his head felt slightly dizzy as his gaze drifted upward and spotted smoke rising in the distance. It would maybe be a short walk before he could pinpoint the source, he was too far from Summerhall now and would not return ‘til darkness fell.
Who would deny a Prince of the realm a steed? He set out, limping slightly, in aims of seeking people to give him means of return to Summerhall whether they liked it or not.
As he drew closer to the source, the smoke simmered out and guttural noises began to fill the air with a soft spoken voice. Aerion’s brows furrowed as he treaded lightly behind the large bark of the trees, his legs still limping slightly. A sense of fear from the unknowing filtered through his veins. He could see a giant pale, scaled creature shifting between the treeline gaps. Was he imagining things now? Perhaps his head hit the ground harder than he remembered.
𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
Uneven footsteps crunched through the treeline, making your ears perk up. You quickly dropped the second egg that you were picking the shell off, the cooked egg white bouncing on the ground as if it were rubber, and Rhaefyre’s neck snapped around facing the woodlands. She was huffing heavily out of her nostrils and took a protective stance before you. Smoke was filtering out of her nostrils as she began to groan, as if readying herself for an oncoming onslaught.
Heartbeat pounding in your ribcage, you whispered lightly to your dragon. “Lykirī (be steady/calm down), My Rhaefyre.”
Despite your nerves, you did not want to instantly meet whatever was awaiting and watching with instant death by dragonfire. If you wanted a place to call home with Rhaefyre and to resurrect House Alaerys along with your three dragon eggs, then you could not damn well start by conquering Westeros with Fire and Blood, not knowing the full extent of other motives.
“It can not be.” A deep, well enunciated voice rang out as the damp crunch of footsteps drew closer. A slender man with Valyrian features and a sharply attractive bone structure stepped out into view. Mouth slightly agape and lavender eyes wide, as he took in the sight before him. His gaze simmered over Rhaefyre before drifting towards your figure, floating up your body until he reached your own lilac eyes. He appeared to be around the same age as you, around two decades into life. His skin glowed against the skylight, beyond the small blood and mud splatters scattered around his face and body.
He appeared to have been rolling in the mud and mayhaps injured in some way. But his Valyrian features and the expensive silks, leathers and velvets adorning him were a clear indicator that he was no ordinary man. Then you noticed it, the embroidered red dragons on the black arms of his doublet.
An awestruck look passed over his slightly dishevelled features before he abruptly raised a strong hand to settle his spikey silver hair and narrowed his gaze. “What type of witchcraft is this, wench?”
Holding back a small laugh at his words, you raised your chin to him and kept your gaze steady.
You expected hostility. “You must be a Targaryen.”
The slender, silver haired man clenched his jaw. “You will address me as ‘My Prince’, Witch.”
“I will address you as such when you earn it.” You responded, stepping forward with a smirk gracing your lips. Rhaefyre glowered at him and he stumbled back in shock which spurred on the upwards curl of your lips. “She will burn you alive, if I command it, you know?”
The Targaryen man’s eyes opened in slight and he swallowed thickly.
“But of course, my Prince, you would not know. Where is your Dragon?” Smugness was starting to overcome you as you mocked him.
He was still in a dishevelled and startled state, like he was having a mental battle with himself as if contemplating whether this was real or not. He was dumbfounded by the sight before him. A Dragon. It looked as if his blood was beginning to boil within.
“How dare you meet The Blood of The Dragon with such tricks and mockery. You must be a filthy Witch. Who are you?” He commanded your response, anger flowing through his vocals. He took a step forward, intending to close the distance between you both, but abruptly recoiled back again upon the movement and glare of Rhaefyre.
You responded with a smile, still sickeningly sweet and calm. “I am no witch, boy. You can call me, Lady Alaerys.”
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