Howdy all! You can call me Hilda, if you’d like. I’m pretty new to writing like this but I have ALWAYS been a major lurker/reader. Excited to finally write some of my own stuff and share my brain with you all. Just as a general note this blog is very self indulgent and thus is strictly an “x Reader” space, as well as mainly “Fem!Reader” perspective, may change in future but for now that’s what I’m comfortable writing. Now onto the rules-
Safe space! Any mean or negative comments will be removed and addressed accordingly (by that I mean unnecessary rudeness, deliberate name calling, or not genuine criticism). I hope to grow a healthy and happy community here and it all starts with communication. If you don’t have anything nice to say, keep it to yourself please and thank you.
Off the table topics. Currently the only thing off the top of my head is anal, which I know is silly but bear with me. Maybe, as well, only writing for M x F relationships, so no M X M or F x F (just because I’m not very comfortable writing something I have no experience with). May change in future and if I think of anything else I’ll add it here.
Muses. As of now I am only writing for Finn Bennett characters (I.E. Aerion, Bobby, etc) and specifically Valarr. Maybe I’ll expand in future but I’m content with these for now.
Criticism and community encouraged! The only way to get better is to learn, and I’m very open to any feedback on my writing. I enjoy the blogs that have a following where it feels like a community and I would love that for this space.
Inbox is open for comments, questions or even possible requests (though I may not be good at them, and I maybe a little slow to reply if I’m busy).
Current WIP: Mafia!Valarr x Reader (From poll)
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Series:
Changing Fate- Prologue, Part One: The Crone, Part One & A Half: The Fool, Part Two: The Warrior, Part Three: ???
Description: You are picked as a champion for one of the Seven. The goal? Keep the Targaryen bloodline from falling apart. So when you’re dragged to a world that’s opposite of your own, you’re left scrambling to keep up. How do you plan on saving the realm?
One-shots:
Royal Literature- Academic Rival!Valarr Targaryen x Reader (Smut, MDNI) WC 6.7K~ “Valarr has been getting on your nerves since the start of the semester. When he gives you an olive branch you try to take it in your own way. Earning more of his attention than you bargained for.”
Bad Idea- Modern!Aerion Targaryen x Scholarship Student!Reader (Smut, MDNI) WC 10.6K~ “Aerion Targaryen always gets what he wants. When he invites you to have dinner with his family, things take an unexpected turn. You decide to indulge him even if he is a jerk.”
Currently, WIP is Mafia!Valarr and a possible Aerion something or other, but I plan to remain working mainly with AKOTSK characters. Changing Fate Part Three is still on the roster and- very exciting- lots of Valarr (and possibly Aerion) in that next chapter, finally, I know.
BUT-
Just saw Spiderman: Brand New Day, um hello?
Oh my gosh, what the heck, didn't know I needed that? Absolutely flabbergasted. Pondering some ideas, maybe, possibly. I’ll give it time.
Also-
Running into trouble with Mafia!Valarr, simply because the concept has gotten away from me, and now I have a fic that's too long. I'm going to break it up, but I'm unsure if I should cut out the fluff and post the straight smut OR take the time to do both a fluffy and a smutty post. Let me know what you think!
Mafia!Valarr Problem:
Post the smut! (Don’t worry about fluff)
Post the fluff first, then smut (The way it's written so far)
Post the smut, then fluff (For the impatient that don't want backstory)
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Valarr Targaryen
Prologue / Part One / Part One & A Half / Part Two
Description: The day feels heavy from the start, and you can't shake the feeling that something’s shifted. Blindly following crumbs of theories and your gut as you try to piece together how to prevent mayhem before it breaks out.
WC: 8.3K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Canon divergence, Himbo!Duncan, angst?, Aerion is his own warning, gore, mild violence, horse death, anxiety?, religious themes (slight?), lemme know if I missed anything
AN: So sorry this took me so long to get out. I’ve been dealing with a lot IRL and only want to post the best content, nothing half done. Please forgive me! Anyways let me know anything I need to work on, still iffy about my tags but you live and learn. Have a little something for the trouble-
That night, when you returned to your camp after Cyvasse, you slept like the dead. Not uncomfortable or uneasy, just dreamless. The Old Woman did not come. This is the first time since you arrived in this brutish world that she did not come, and you were able to sleep, and that was what terrified you the most. Normally, when she's trying to tell you something, she doesn't let sleep come. She lets your lids stay weary, and your limbs grow heavy, but she never lets the darkness take you—this time she did.
The tourney's main event would start today, and you needed to be ready.
The royal family would be staying in Lord Ashford's castle, too prim to sleep in the outdoors like everyone else. Or is it now too far beneath people to sleep under trees? Fancy pavilions that were more structured than the barn you'd been sleeping in for years were not nearly luxurious enough for royalty. Seeing as they are special guests, it would make sense that thick walls and a moat guard them. The only way into the castle was through the heavily ironed gates, if you were permitted. A strange woman scuttling around would draw unwanted attention.
You pondered what the best course of action could be. You could imagine the stone walls were sturdy, much too sturdy to try and climb in. A pebble found its way into your hand, smoothing your finger over it in contemplation. You could try to sneak in as a maid, but you're certain that with extra security, you would be caught. You wouldn’t even begin to know how to navigate the inside. The stone turns to a tough fabric, firm and dull yellow. Similar to the material Lord Ashford’s maids wear. Twisting the fabric, you're now lost in thought.
You spend the walk to the tourney grounds mulling over what it all meant. The fact that you were able to use the Old Woman's gift, but not see her, suggested she was watching. She was paying some kind of attention, but you couldn't speak with her, which could only mean you were getting into the thick of it.
The Game.
Something about your gut was saying that the prince you met- while you shouldn't have been gambling- Aerion, needed a watchful eye. The Old Woman had trained you to listen to said organ for four years now. You've made it this far, and by the gods, now was the time to lock in.
The way the crowd interacted with him yesterday made you reevaluate what you knew. You knew he was intense. You knew he was known for his cruel nature: 'Aerion the Monstrous' they will call him. You knew what the world said about Targaryens in general: 'The gods flip a coin'. Yet the gods have not made Daeron unkind. That prince you met was sad. Nor has it touched Aegon; he is still a child.
Maybe there is hope, if you're quick enough.
There were plenty of ways to go about this, and few correct answers as you went about your morning. Baelor would die. If you did not do this correctly, there would be consequences that would ripple through time. His death would cause another, then another. Then all the work you've done would be worthless. Then all this time you've spent away from home, living like this and training for this, would be null and void. You're not even sure if you'll see home again. So you must get this right. Because gods, if you don't- you might have to live in this world and the aftermath.
As you trekked up the stream from your makeshift campgrounds, you only got so far before a peculiar noise caught your ear. Somewhere nearby, a shrieking shout was in the early morning. You walked inland a bit until you reached a small clearing. The squealing is booming through the morning dew, and you can't help but watch in mild amusement.
The little boy from the Inn, whom you now know as Aegon, is running around with a lance in the air. Barefoot and energetic, he runs among the long grass and sheep. A horse runs with him- not Tart. He juts out the weapon into the air with a screech. Dressed in plain clothes, with a shaved head, he looked every bit the wild child the Old Woman said he’d be. A stark difference from the fine cloak you saw him in before.
As you come up behind him, you make yourself known, stopping at the tree line to make him feel safe. Seeing as you've met before, you didn't think you'd spook him off. You also didn’t want to take chances. You were also curious to know how he got here. "Some are not yet awake in these hours, boy." Calling out as you watch him spin around. He nearly drops the lance as he does it. You can see his eyes more clearly in the light of day, a vibrant purple when they aren't in the loft of a barn. You’re not sure how you didn’t see it before.
"There is nobody else here." He retorts quickly, something smart and on the tip of his tongue. Shocking you from the first time you met him back at the Inn. The boy in the loft was a little timid thing, speaking only of his horse. So this was foreign. You were unsure how to approach.
This boy was a fairly big piece to your puzzle. All the deaths you were trying to prevent from transpiring all lead to his rule. Here you are before the deaths, and you wonder if this small boy has any idea the horrors that await him and his family. Aegon The Unlikely. Not if you could help it.
"There has to be somebody here. You have the wrong horse." Shooting back, amused at his change of character. What has happened in the span of a few days? "Which poor traveler did you rob for that?" Teasing him as he clams up, the lance slowly being ‘hidden’ behind his back. Clearly growing uneasy as you press him about his current conditions. He shuffles to stand around the other side of the steed, placing the beast between you and him. A sort of guarded position, you note.
"I intend to return him." Aegon starts, a little less confident as he tries to defend himself. However, he is still grasping at what he can. “It’s not robbing if you intended to return it.” He peeks at you from around the horse, looking a little too guilty, which gives you all the answers you need to interrogate him further.
"Do you? To whom?” You chirp, still amused but also plotting. Processing and take in everything to discern how to handle your next move. Your every step needs to be more cautious from now on. There are no do-overs. You eye the chocolate-colored horse as it munches on the grass. Unfazed by the whole conversation happening around it and pleased not to be running around anymore. This isn’t one you’ve seen before, not Tart and not any that you had housed when you left the Inn. Yet the beast seems at ease in the boy's company, unafraid and willing to do as he is told. You don’t come any closer. Looming outside the clearing as Aegon took you in. Not the curious, wary eyes from before, but assessing. Deciding if you were friend or foe, rather than a passing blur as before. He seems to have more spirits than he did at the Inn.
He looks like he considers something before ultimately giving in. “I am practicing to squire for the tourney.” He offers simply, as if it were self-explanatory. Vague enough to be true, but you knew that Daeron didn’t want to be anywhere near the tournament. You knew the boy had the wrong horse, and you knew- he was a prince. He should be dressed in fine clothes and squiring for his brother or a cousin of some kind. Yet he is not. Instead, he has a bald head and looks like a beggar. Which means he is up to something.
If he was squiring for the tourney, he must’ve been picked up by some knight along the way.
“Is that so?” You hum out, intrigued by his change of energy. This boy was not the quiet and subdued creature that hid in your loft. This boy had some confidence, some strength behind him that he wasn’t so scared to use. “Well, I know it’s not your brother, whom I met while he was wallowing in that room you two bought out for the week.” You can see him freeze a bit as you say it. Suddenly aware of the fact that you knew something he didn’t think about. You knew, even with that shaved head of his, that he was a Targaryen. That he was supposed to be in his brothers' custody. “I also know you left Tart at the Inn and replaced her with whoever this is-”
“Thunder.” He corrects, similar to the way he did Tart. A hint of deja vu.
“Ah, yes, Thunder- who belongs to?” No response. Which leaves your guess correct. “Someone. Someone who’s not your brother- who’s still at the Inn-” You see him shrink even more, looking a bit sheepish at your assessment. Because he did technically leave his brother at the Inn. “Do you even know this ‘knight’ that you’re with?” You can’t help but ask. Looking him over to study if he was truly alright or if he was in over his head. This world was full of dangers, and the last thing you wanted was for anything to happen before The Game even truly started.
“I’m squiring for Ser Duncan the Tall; he said he'll take me back home after the tourney.” You knew this would happen; you just didn’t anticipate it would be happening now. Ser Duncan is another piece of the Targaryen puzzle that you learned about early on. While you haven't technically met the man, you know he has been by Aegon's side through all of these tragedies, including his own horrible fate. You don’t even know how Aegon fits into this part of The Game. What did he have to do with Baelor's death? Was he involved in the cause for the trial by combat? The vision was all a blur of lances and limbs, and no matter how many times you may have gone over it with the Old Woman, it never was clear. You knew Ser Duncan had a part, so maybe Aegon being in his care wasn’t the best idea?
“And what happens when he doesn't take you back?” Would that be reason enough for a trial? Is he technically missing right now, since he is away from his brother? Do they think he is kidnapped?? You knew very little at this time, and you almost wish you had asked these questions before, when the Old Woman could answer you. Duncan came into the family's service, but the recollection of how is now becoming unclear.
“He wouldn’t do that.” He states it with such certainty that you want to believe him.
You are left with an odd feeling that’s a mix of worry and curiosity. What could have caused this boy to leave his family, his brother, and go off with some random knight? What were you missing? You didn’t notice the figure passing by through the grass at first. He wasn’t quiet, but you were too focused on Aegon. Too wrapped up in your head to listen-
On your right.
Your head snaps over, quick, to lock on the man. Your heart lurches into your throat as you try to keep your wits. He’s a decent distance away. Coming closer through the field, gnarly walking stick in hand, making no move to slow. You move closer to Aegon, placing yourself between him and the approaching man. “Can we help you?” You call out, making it known that you see him coming. You size him up to see if he is a threat or someone just passing through. Why would anyone be passing through here? He looked a bit older, with medium hair and dark leather armor. Grey patches and wrinkles, an eye patch over his left eye, and a mean mug. The horse, Thunder, was a good barrier, and as you got closer to them, you were able to take the reins. A good ground to have in case things go south.
He seems to take you in. The readied stance, the caution and awareness of his presence. You don’t seem to intimidate him, but he doesn't come any closer. Stopping in his place a good pace away. “Just scouting the area.” Though you can’t tell who he’s with or why he's scouting. You spare a glance at Aegon, checking to see him staring the man down as well, as if a flicker of recognition passes through. His gaze is steady on the stranger as he wracks his brain for something.
“You’re Ser Robyn Rhysling. The maddest knight in the kingdoms, what are you scouting here for?” He blurts out, and you can see the man still. Looking between you both as if he is spooked at being recognized. Which is enough to give you certainty that’s exactly who this man is. It’s impossible to keep everyone's histories in your head.
“We are a vessel for the Warrior. When we are asked by a The Painter to scout, we scout.” Monotonous and cold as he stares off, somewhere far away and vaguely familiar to you. It’s a look you can’t quite place. Before he pivots and heads back the way he came. Not another word spoken, and that’s what irks you the most. Some queasy feeling settling in your stomach as you watch until he’s gone back over the hill. You don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath, and your palm hovers over the handle of your dagger that's tucked along your belt. You don’t break your gaze until you feel a pull at your sleeve. Breaking your stare to look. Aegon is blinking up at you with concern and curiosity, but he doesn't speak. Almost holding his breath to see how you’ll react. Your lungs decompressing in a way you hadn’t realized you were holding them.
Suddenly you’re aware of your grip on Thunder's reins. “You heard the man, Scout. Take me to that knight of yours so I can get a good look at him.” Guiding the horse to his hold and letting him lead the way. “I’ll decide if I should drag you back to your brother or not depending on his knightlyness.” Giving Aegon a reassuring smile, all while sparing glances back towards where Rhysling went. Aegon didn’t seem like he wanted to lead, but he did anyway. Knowing you would only persist and that it was better than facing that “Mad Knight” again.
It was only a short distance. Enough for the boys' squeals and shouts from earlier were muffled a bit from their encampment. However, that didn't matter, as the man there was already wide awake and fidgeting. You could see his long limbs from where you were creeping up behind the tree. He looked to be sewing-
“Don’t wander off without telling me.” He bellowed out. The man sounded tired, weighed heavy either from worry or something else. As you toed closer, he didn’t realize you were there as well. Peering around the tree he sat at to get a better look at him. You could see him angrily poke at some fabric and pull his thread through. Broad shoulders, thick hands that can hardly manage the needle he's meant to be pinching. His hair is a dirty blonde, cut spotty to his head. Worn clothes that have seen better days and shoes that seem to be falling apart at the soles. He was cute, in his own little way. However, you knew better than to think such things of anyone here, especially someone so relevant to history on your divine goal. Or is it technically the future? You’re not entirely sure how to think about it anymore. Aegon goes to tie the horse up with another as you stay quiet. Waiting and watching the interaction with a calculation of sorts.
Aegon then squats close to the fire, eyeing Dunk and choosing to press him. No apology for taking his horse, no acknowledgment of Dunk’s request, just straight on to the next thing. “What are you doing, Ser?” He quips out. Watching the man pull at his needle with an intensity that was similar to the look on your face now.
The man grumbles, “Sewing a patch.” He almost pouts. You want to laugh, but you reel it in. Still wary of the man and his reaction. He still hasn’t noticed you were there, so points off for his spatial awareness.
Aegon makes a face at this. A sour look that tells of his internal woes without much resistance. He pokes at the fire with a stick as he shoots back, “Is that not my job?”
“You know how?” The silence says everything. Seems there was some lingering attitude, one that you didn’t like. You weren’t entirely sure of their relationship at this point, but you were wary of leaving a child in the hands of a strange knight. A knight of great renown, but not yet. This man was tense and curt and answering the boy too shortly for your peace of mind. “Then quit jawing and get the brushes. Thunder looks like he's been dragged through a hedge.” You want ot buzz in protest of some kind.
“But what about breakfast?” Aegon starts, clearly disappointed at the knight's demands.
The knight takes a moment to answer, focused on pulling the thread through without it breaking. “There’s hard salt beef when you’re done.”
The boy pulls a pouted and dejected face, “I’d sooner eat the horse, ser.”
“You’ll eat my fist if you don’t do as you’re told.” Correcting evenly, low and a bit stern. The more you watched the interaction, the more you saw him to be a worried figure rather than a mean one. The boy ran off, as he seems to do; of course one would worry where he went. You were no different in doing the same now.
“Maybe it would be wise to teach him?” Finally, you peep out, earning a startle from the large man. Ser Duncan whips his head quickly to the sound of your voice. You're leaning on the tree to look down at him, and he gets up so fast your neck snaps at the angle you have to look up. He was tall. The kind that had you squinting up at them because the sun was also right in your line of vision. It spooks you as he fumbles to get up, thinking the worst, only for him to bow down awkwardly.
A bent display that tried not to trip on any roots as he took you in. Wide, pale eyes blinked from you to Aegon, then to you again, “M’lady, I-I did not realize-” Stuttering out as he thumbs at his patchwork, only to poke himself and hiss from it. You can see the pink on his cheeks from being caught off guard. “Are you lost? Egg, why didn’t you say anything?? How long has she been standing there?” He grits out the last bit, and Aegon shrugs, leaving you to wonder if he would’ve ever noticed you looming over him at all. You seem to fluster the poor knight, and for some reason you can’t fathom that. After years of quiet, you are now in the middle of a storm that you're going to have to learn how to wage. You can’t squirm at every blushing boy. You also can’t hold your breath when strange men come lurking around.
You straighten up, fix the clasp at your throat for your cloak. You enjoyed how the extra fabric covered you enough to shroud your form. You learned you did not want to be under any watchful eyes. The best strategy would be in the shadows. “I was just coming to bring the boy back safely.” Aegon shuffled in his spot by the fire. Watching you speak with a careful attention that said he was listening. Trying to figure out what you were going to say. “Found him waking the wildlife and running your poor steed around in the damp. He claimed something about squiring for a knight, and I had to see to it myself.” You didn’t speak of his brother, or the Inn, or anything of your previous encounter. Taking the role of a concerned traveler instead. You came on a bit too strong with Daeron. Maybe going a little easier with Aegon would be just your luck. Any help would be beyond what you have now. You could see the boy relax a bit. Now that you recall, the man had called him Egg instead of his name. Plus, Ser Duncan doesn’t seem as intimidating as you thought he'd be. Maybe Egg hasn’t told him anything, and the poor sap is just along for the ride. Sorta like you.
Hm.
Ser Duncan, for all he was worth, is still a man. He looks frazzled at you being here, unsure of how to navigate the sudden intrusion. As if he couldn’t possibly fathom that someone else had been here the whole time as well. Aegon looked slightly smug at the ordeal, the distress entertaining after his earlier treatment. Stuttering speech and gawking face you could read him ever clearly- he was a great big oaf. “I think I might linger for a while, make sure the boy is treated fairly and such. I hope an esteemed knight such as yourself doesn’t mind?” It’s an excuse, of sorts, to stay close to them. Keep an eye on ‘Egg’ and make sure he’s in good hands with Duncan.
The knight looks perplexed and keeps looking to Aegon for confirmation that he’s seeing this too. Why would you want to hang around them? Yet Aegon seems pleased, and Duncan has too much of a heart for the boy to deny such a pretty lady- “O-Of course, M’lady, stay as long as you’d like.” He looks like he might implode, so you wander a distance away to sit and give the two space.
Which is more than enough.
The two huddle up together and start bickering; you can see the dynamic now, clear as day. It was that of a sibling relationship. Maybe something was missing with his older brother; maybe it was just Duncan's personality, but he was different around him. Daeron made Aegon silent, cold, and zombified into obedience. While Duncan made Aegon free, free to speak how he pleases, do as he pleases. Which included bickering openly and without repentance.
They were quite a duo once they made up. Duncan had offered to teach Aegon to patch, per your earlier request, and everything fell into place after. He was patient with him in teaching the correct stitch technique, and reinforced his efforts when he did something correctly. When they got done with that, they brushed Thunder together, which you distinctly recall Duncan telling Aegon to do. Chatting along the way as you sit idly by and twiddle with that same maid's fabric you were in the morning. You decide to trail them for the rest of the day. Sometimes easing into the conversation, most often just listening in. They went into the market to get eggs for breakfast; Aegon teased Duncan about his flounder with a woman named ‘Tanselle’ which you witnessed, and it was a struggle. Came back to their camp to eat, and they offered enough for you too, which you graciously took. One less meal you had to find. They watched the tourney; they drank and sat and just talked. A real relationship building before your very eyes.
You’re all three sitting in the grass on a hill. Watching the grounds below as the common folk go about their lives. It’s peaceful in that moment. No divine work, no pressing prophecies, just the bustle of a place that has no idea what's coming. “I think I could be happy in a place like this,” Aegon says, out into the air. No real reason other than to get the thought out there. He’s sat in a ball next to Duncan, who is lying out next to him.
“You’re in a place like this.” You say, piping in to point out the contradiction of his words. He was happy. You could tell. Just from how he’s been clinging to Ser Duncan’s side, you could tell. You were sat a little further from the two, giving them space and not quite pressing, but not really having anywhere else to go. You still considered Aegon as a catalyst that you must keep your eyes on.
You can see the moment change, something defeated coming to his tone. “I meant for a while.”
That was enough. Enough for you to recognize that, wherever he came from before, before the Inn and his brother, he was not happy. He may be a prince, yet he did not seem to care for the things other princes do. Daeron demanded wine, Aerion commanded attention, and Aegon? Aegon just wanted to be a boy. You wanted that for him too.
You get lost in your own thoughts as they chat. Only vaguely hearing of Aegon’s campaign for Duncan, the knight complimenting the boy's work ethic, and other idle chatter until a man approached. You saw him before he spoke. Calling out to Duncan before the giant was pulled away elsewhere. The whole time, your gaze was set on them until they were off in some direction obscured by the trees. Leaving you and Aegon alone.
“Your knight is a good man. Hard to come by these days.” Deciding to finally break the silence that Duncan left. Pausing your mind to focus on the boy in front of you. You hated that you had to bring it up- “Aegon-” It’s the first time you use his real name, soft and whispered so as not to spook him, but it ends up doing that anyway.
He goes rigid, swift to stop you from speaking further. “It’s Egg.” He corrects, not wanting to confront the thing he’s been avoiding since he left.
Egg. So simple. “Does your knight know?” Prodding gently, wary of the fact he could clam up any moment and then you’d be starting at square one again. You needed him on your side. You needed this to go smoothly. When he doesn't immediately respond, you know your answer. “Don’t you think he should? He has a right to know who his squire really is.” It’s not mean, more contemplative. Trying to get him to see the larger picture without spoiling it for him.
“It doesn’t matter. He said he’s to take me home after the tourney anyway.” Yet Duncan doesn’t understand where ‘home’ is, and the tourney is a breeding ground for chaos. You couldn’t wait for that to happen because you needed to fix this now.
“Do you not think if someone were to see you, that he would be to blame?” It’s a bit more stern. A bit more unrelenting because the gravity is weighing in and you needed him to feel it too. Turning yourself on the grass to face him more directly. Scooting in a little closer as he shrinks to avoid you. As if he could just simply vanish into the air if you’d just let him. “I know you want to squire in the tourney. I know you want Ser Duncan to be the knight you squire for.” There is a pause. “-But I also know that your family is worried about you.”
He scoffs, something soft and disbelieving that makes your heart squeeze. “They would not even notice me gone.” The quietest and most heartbreaking thing he could’ve said. No child deserves to think such things, but one from royalty? Such a large family?? If you recall correctly, this might be one of the times in Targaryen history that the family is flourishing. What, without dragons and such. Someone, anyone, has to care about this boy. His father had six children; you don’t have that many children on a whim.
It was a burdensome decision, how to go about delicately broaching the subject with him. Without giving away too much. “I think at the very least you should tell him your-”
A horn sounds. Somewhere far off in the distance, blaring over and over like a war call. Calling everyone towards the tiltyard. You and Aegon lock eyes, and it’s enough for you to pause your conversation for another time. Aegon gets up to start down the hill, and you follow. Eyes peeled for Duncan or any signs of why they were calling the horn. You grab Aegon by the scruff of his rags and make sure you don’t lose him among the crowd. Scooting and shuffling forward and towards the fence at the front to get a better view. This is where the games begin. This is where the trial would be if you couldn’t stop it. You will stop it. You weren’t much on the violence of it all, but it seems the people around you couldn’t get enough. Aegon was twisting in your grasp, but you refused to let him go. Eventually spotting Duncan, who looked more in his head than usual, a full head above the sea of people.
Once grouped back together, you finally release Egg. Letting him climb the fence to stand taller and see the field better. You don't pry Duncan on what happened with that man, but you can tell whatever it was really bothers him.
It’s only then that you see what all the commotion is about. You had missed the introductions last night when you fled the grounds after Cyvasse, so now, looking over the tents and the gallery, you could see him plan as day. Baelor Breakspear. He looks exactly as in your dreams. Obviously not battle-worn or bloody, but his hair is dark and peppered. From here you can make out that one of his eyes is lighter than the other, though it’s too far to tell. He sits alone with Lord Ashford, and you are left wondering where the rest of the Targaryens are. Seems they can't just stay in one place for long. Scanning the crowd, you find a lazed prince sitting outside his tent. On the opposite end of the field is Valarr Targaryen, and you only know it’s him because of the banner behind him and his hair. That silver streak catching the light. It’s like time has stopped and you’ve just been hit with the weight of the world. These people, living and breathing in front of you, were your responsibility now. You had a job to keep them safe. Your gaze falls to Aegon, who is eagerly watching the yard, bouncing on the wood of the fence.
You had to keep them safe.
You hardly were paying attention to the herald, his voice booming as hoofbeats galloped closer. It’s who he announces that catches your attention, towards the end of his spiel. “-Prince Aerion Brightflame.” Gaze snapping up to the tiltyard to see him riding in. Oozing menacing energy as he trots around. Armor ebony and jagged, a terrifying face for a helm. His mount no better with its elaborate headdress. He stops in front of the Gallery, a silent gesture exchanged between him and Baelor, before he heads over to Valarr. Speaking loudly enough. However, you can’t hear it. You can’t hear anything over the people screaming in your ear and your heart hammering in your chest and the dread that's been building since you first laid eyes on him. You knew he was trouble, and somehow he was going to prove it. Aegon could feel it too. You kept stealing glances at the boy to find him glaring daggers at his brother. His brother.
It doesn’t take long for the chaos to start.
Aerion challenges some knight to a whirl. Calling him out of his tent and demands he go up against him. Which wouldn't be an issue if it were anyone else. You’re left holding your breath as you watch them take their places, a moment of silence before they are off and running towards each other. You could hardly watch. Something was telling you this was wrong. Something was wrong, but you couldn’t quite place it. Scanning the crowd again, for danger, for Targaryens. For anything that might explain what was happening. Was this a gift from the Old Woman, or was this your body betraying you? Your ears ringing with white noise as you barely catch a look of them missing each other. Passing without contact, and it makes relief sag at your shoulders.
“We should go.” You say swiftly, leaning into Aegon's ear as you place a hand on his shoulder. He tries to shrug you off, but Duncan just grabs the other shoulder to keep him from wiggling off the fence. The knights gaze firmly set on the field as they turn for their second go. Releasing Aegon, you grab Duncan's arm instead, tugging to try and get his attention. “We need to leave.” It leaves no room for mistake- slight panic, but still no budge. You couldn’t tell if you had said it loud enough. You didn’t even know if they heard you or even cared. Glancing the field again, you see it. Of course you do. Aerion was aimed too low. His lance headed straight for the other rider's horse, and before you could think, you were moving.
An arm comes out from your cloak and loops around Aegon's waist, the other hand coming to cover his eyes as you yank him back. Earning a wail of his indignation, but you had just barely- by the skin of your teeth- kept him from seeing the horror. As the two drew closer, Aerion's lance speared the poor steed in the neck. Causing a spray of blood and mayhem as the beast crashed into the post, landed on his rider, and the noises- you couldn’t do it anymore. Dragging Aegon away with your hand firmly shielding his eyes, Duncan left to gawk as you pulled him out of the crowd. To the treeline and waited until the riot started, and Duncan finally pulled out as well.
Aegon was quiet; Duncan was quiet. The walk was mute as you all tried to wrap your heads around what you just saw. The cruelty of it. You knew, then and there, that he was your culprit. It was a reminder of this world and its brutal nature, one you needed from time to time.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You departed from Aegon and Duncan. The silence was too loud, and the boys seemed to need their time alone. Duncan seemed good for him. Wandering into the woods to clear your head and walk the wall of the castle once more. Like you had done religiously when you arrived. Counting the stones, the steps, the guards. Just to have something to do.
And you prayed-
My lady,
I know you are watching me now with your all-knowing gaze. Let it be known I am trying to work with the hand that you gave me, that I may fail and hope for your forgiveness and mercy.
My lady, this world is too brash. Too quick with its comings and goings, and I am not nearly prepared enough for the task you have given me. I am afraid I will fail you. I know of brief glimpses compared to anything I've encountered thus far. Every path feels wrong. No roads feel right; no matter what I try, I can’t help but agonize over whether it’s the right decision. How will I know which path is the right one? How will I be able to make any difference when I can’t even get close to the people I am meant to protect?
My lady, I ask for a sign. Something to guide me in the right direction and ensure my victory. Your victory. If not for you, then for the sake of the realm.
May the seven have mercy.
You hear no response. You are not tired, nor do you hear any whispers in your head. The quiet is what bothers you. You can only assume she doesn’t answer for some better reason than you can understand. You hope. As you continue your walk out of the woods, you spot a gate along the castle wall. You recall a time in your brief plans that you had meant to infiltrate this place. Now, you can only gaze upon its glory and wonder if it will even matter in a week. A day. Whenever the plans of fate will come and end this misery of perpetual anxiety of ‘what’s next’?
That’s when you spot him.
A glint coming out of the castle gates, a billowing red cloak. Silvered armor that you know you’d seen before. A face you grew to recognize in this lifetime. Art. What was he doing here? His hair was a tad longer, thankfully the same amount of pepper in it. His stubble was still on his chin, but he looked deadly. Hand on the hilt of his sword with a stern look on his face. Tense and alert and-
Oh.
Thank you, my lady.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You had dodged Art’s sight. Dipping into the woods and through them to journey back to the grounds. You had to find Aegon. It was a matter of utmost urgency. You came up with a plan, one that could work if your gut was right. Gods, you hoped it was right. Keep both Aegon and Duncan safe- Baelor safe- everyone from falling into the worst-case scenario, which would be a failure.
A disaster, really.
Each face you pass isn’t the one you were looking for. Children scuttling to their parents as the sun sets. Some heading towards their tents, others heading to shops. Some to the puppet show. You scan through as you keep to the edges of the paths, tucked under your cloak and searching for Ser Duncan's head pillaring out of the sky. Or the boy's bald head-
He’s there. Duncan isn’t with him, and he looks like he’s sulking. Glaring at the ground with a confused and haunted look on his face. Marching towards the puppet’s tent, and you can feel it-
Go.
Your feet move before you catch up to them. Rushing through to do as you did earlier, arms looped around his waist and heaving him to drag him off. Throwing him off as he flails and shrieks. However, you were dragging him to the shadows anyway. “It’s me, Egg; calm yourself.” Picking a spot that was past the tents and just barely into the woods. Once he realized who had a hold of him, his fingers stopped digging into your arms. You only just noticed when the pressure of him releasing his grip made you aware you probably spooked him.
“Why would you do that?” He spits out, clearly upset and still shaken from your sudden kidnapping. Spinning around to face you as you released him from his hold. You’d gotten ahead of yourself. Again. You’ve been trying to get this right, and it feels as if you keep pushing too hard. Yet you knew- felt it in your bones- you had to convince him.
Plain and simple then. “You need to turn yourself in.” It means business, no room for argument. Nothing says you're joking or considering another option. This is it. It was the only thing that made sense. If Aegon was back in his family's custody, then the trial would be resolved. It had to be.
Everything was adding up. Meeting Daeron and Aegon at the Inn first, then Aerion, then everything today. It all led to today. You heard The Old Woman's voice. You could feel her watching. If you sat still long enough, you could feel more than just her eyes. Like you had an audience that would bear witness to this moment because it would either make or break everything.
“What? Are you crazy? I’m not-” He starts, shocked and displeased, but you don’t let him finish.
Fingers digging into his shoulders as you go level with him. Eyes on his. As if you would press the weight of what you were about to ask on his shoulder to see if he could bear it. Yet you had to keep going, because the world doesn’t stop for anyone. Not even a pawn. “You and I both know the kind of person your brother can be,” The urgency of it bleeding into your tone. That caught his notice. Making Aegon look several shades paler and giving him an uncomfortable look on his face. As if he’d swallowed his own tongue. “You saw what he did out there on the tiltyard when your father wasn’t there. You know what he’s capable of, and I beg you-” Falling to your knees, your hands slide down to his, taking them in your own. Tiny. A child.
A quivering breath.
“You must reveal yourself. You must go to the castle and tell them who you are and that you’re unharmed, that you traveled from the Inn, and inform them of Daeron’s whereabouts. Do not bring up Ser Duncan; don’t say a word to anyone except your uncle. Just walk up to the gates, and I’ll make sure you're safe.” You swore it. On your life, you would make sure he wasn’t harmed on your watch. Already coming up with a plan to sneak into the castle so he wouldn’t be alone. You had a plan; you just needed him to trust you with it.
He stands there, fingers gripping yours tightly as you stare at each other. Hushed and wide-eyed, fearing the dread to come because he could sense it. You know he could, based on the way he shrank and looked elsewhere and was quiet about it. He knows, “But what about-”
You already know what he’s going to ask: “I will figure a plan to have Ser Duncan fall under Prince Baelor's charge, but you must be patient. I know someone inside those walls that will keep you safe with his life, just say the word.” It made sense why he disappeared now. Jenna being worried about him and all. What doesn’t make sense is the how and why. Though you suppose you’ll have to seek him out to try and get answers at another time. “I’ll walk you until I can’t anymore. After I drop you off, I’ll find your knight and tell him, then I’ll come visit you in the night to make sure you’re alright. Is that a deal?” You try to think of every little thing you could offer, everything to convince him. The thing is, the more you went on, the more horrified he looked. Like something was clicking for him. The seriousness. Or maybe just the understanding that he would eventually have to come home.
His deep purple eyes, dark as the shadows, started to settle in. The night starting and slowly the last of the sun with it. If you focused, you could see the glint of tears rim his lids. It made your heart crack open.
“Promise?”
Ah- “On my life.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The problem was letting him go. Something about it pit in your stomach as you watched from the woods, him walking to the gates. Mumbling to the guards and then- chaos. Shouting and hustling and dragging him further into a castle you currently had no way of getting into. You would find a way. Though you couldn’t deny the relief that flooded your system when you saw him make it back in safely. As safely as he can be, that is.
The next course of action, of course, is finding Duncan. Informing him of the development with his squire and coming up with a plan. The problem- you had no idea where he could be. Other than camp, you were unsure of where the giant would go without Aegon with him. Yet when you had found the boy, he was alone, having parted ways. It’s not like you could miss him should you walk past.
So you wandered the long way towards his encampment, cutting through the grounds and the nightlife. Even after such events, there are plenty of creepy-crawlers that lurk about. Eyes peeled and watching for not only Duncan but danger as well. Echoed laughs and muffled movement from the tents you pass. Trying to listen for whether you heard the man's deep timber. Only when you reach the named houses' pavilions do you hear his hearty laugh, booming out through the heavy fabrics.
Toeing carefully, you reach the entrance and peek in. Just barely enough to check, and what you see is warm lighting. Red linens, fine interior, two men sitting across from each other- “Ser Duncan.” That hay golden hair was hard to miss. Especially attached to such broad shoulders. The back of his chair wasn’t wide enough to fit him properly. His back was to you as he faced the woody-haired man. Dark oak and curls with a goofy look on his face. Maybe surprised? Duncan turned to spot you, and before he could speak, you cut him off.
“Egg is gone, and I need you back at camp. Time is of the essence.”
Then something clicked.
Duncan went from fumbling with a dumbstruck face, unsure of how to react, to focused. Staring at you as the neurons fire and his brain is working. You said ‘Egg’ and he went into overdrive. Turning towards you with the stillness of a man who's made his decision. “Well, where’d he go?” The alarm and alert are striking, seeing as you’ve never seen him so locked in.
You don’t answer. Instead, you just dip back out of the tent and head towards his camp. His stomping footsteps and the other man's calls fall on your ears as you move. For some reason, your stomach was in knots. Duncan was a large man, and while he was gentle with Aegon, he could be a different monster entirely with you. You were a stranger. Someone who just showed up in the morning, and by nightfall you’d stolen his squire and led him into the woods. Truly, a terrible idea.
You didn't get much farther than halfway when you heard the tumble. Something large hitting the ground, a scuffle. You hear Duncan’s groan as you whip around, squinting against the dark to try and see what exactly was going on. Your hand instinctively goes to the dagger on your hip. Limbs and curses in the shadows of the forest floor as you rush closer. Metal clinking and blows landing, and you can hardly see through the bushes they’ve rolled in. It’s only when Duncan kicks the man off him that he goes flying. Jumping out of the way as he skids across the dirt. You take that moment to dive after him, blade quick as you shove it against the stranger's neck. A handful of his hair and yanking to expose his neck. You’ve never killed someone before. You prayed you didn’t have to quite yet.
And almost like your prayer was answered, those eyes clicked in your eyes. Cold. Deadly. Confused as to why you’re here. “You were meant to bring Jenna wood.” Throwing the completely irrelevant fact into his face. It’s been days since he left the Inn. Days since he vanished, and you thought maybe something had happened to him. Not that he would try to strangle your knight. Suppose he was your knight, for now. Just till he was back in Aegon's service.
He grunts at your presence. As if you were a pest he decided was a pet, and now he’s too invested to change. Laid out on the ground and coiled like a spring. “We need to kill him.” He demands, a shiver running down your spine. Duncan is watching the interaction with mild shock at what’s happening. You were gagged by his words-
“Kill him? Why??” Pulling the knife back, you release him. Unmoving from your spot over him, but not holding him in place anymore. Art could listen to reason. He was the wisest man you had met so far. Pushing you to be better and do more things than you thought yourself capable of. You had a feeling you knew what he meant. You’ve had a feeling for a while now. The moment he showed up, some nagging feeling that rattled in the back of your skull. “I returned the boy to his uncle; my hope is he will send the Brightflame to return his father and brother. Ser Duncan doesn’t have to die. He will not die on my watch.”
He paused. Laid in place as he considered your words. If they were true, then that meant Aerion would be busy. Busy away from the tourney, busy enough no trial or treason could prevail. Which is exactly what you wanted.
Art sat up slowly, studied the giant knight in front of him, and you couldn't tell if he was considering your demand or plotting how to smite him where he stood. Duncan had a thoroughly puzzled look on his face as he touched his lip. It had been split in the haze, and he was only now noticing it. “What’s a Brightflame?” The knight quirks out, and you can’t stop the sigh of some exhaustion slipping out. Art just pulls his face. Like he’s wondering if he’s serious or not, then looking to you when he's had enough of wondering that.
“Then what do you need from me. That was my only plan.” Rumbling out, and that's when it truly sinks in. Your guess- that wild gut feeling you swore was crazy, and just your imagination turned out to be correct.
He was a pawn too.
AN: Oh my gosh! Let me know how I did the in comments. I know this one is kinda vague and a bit of a cliffhanger but I was hoping if you had questions or conspiracies- to hear them! I plan on making this a seven part series and this is only the first major change form the show-ish. Thanks so much for reading!
If you do a 4th chapter of Aerion and his woods witch, it could be both of them drinking the sex pollen this time
I Promise You
Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader
✿ having spent time with aerion at summerhall, you both come to a realisation (part four of Here With Me).
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.5k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, possessive!aerion (not as bad this time lol), dual consensual sex pollen/stimulant consumption, SMUT, slight predator/prey (chase), unprotected piv, semi-clothed sex, outdoor sex, prone bone, creampies, slight hyperspermia?, multiple orgasms, praise, pet names (sweet girl, etc), dirty talk, hint of a breeding kink, fluff (so maybe ooc but shhh), strong language, maekar being a good father, ser roland mention again <3
✿ a/n: lol here is the highly requested part four. thank you all for the love and support on this series !! i hope you enjoy :)
part one here — part two here — part three here
The gardens of Summerhall hum around you as bees flit from flower to flower, and birds nesting in the lush elm overhead sing out loudly. It’s peaceful here. It’s peaceful and quiet as you sit between two protruding roots, your back pressed to the elm’s trunk with a book spread open in your lap.
You compress a small, delicate flower to the page and scrawl around it. You note its smell, the colour of its pollen, the way its light pink petals feel like silk between your thumb and forefinger. You note where you found it: growing small, undersized beneath the towering, well-pruned carnations that grow in abundance before you. You tack the flower in place with a small droplet of sap, thumbnail indenting the amber as if it were a wax seal, and you blow it gently to set it dry.
The soft padding of footsteps across grass draws your gaze from your notebook. Prince Maekar approaches, his hands clasped behind his back, head cocked slightly in curiosity as he notices the book open in your lap.
You move to stand, a slightly embarrassed scramble as you place your book aside, but the prince holds up his hand. The gesture stills you immediately, and you peer up at him from your spot at the base of the tree. You watch him exhale a deep breath as he steps into the elm’s shadow and takes a seat a metre or so from you on a low stone bench.
Silence stretches as the prince looks out across the garden of carnations, the blooms varying in pinks and the lightest of purples. Fidgeting with the edge of a page, you watch the prince carefully, a small knot of guilt forming in the base of your stomach. You’re not sure why you’re feeling this way, but a prince of the realm was sitting calmly across from you, and suddenly you realise just how out of place you are here.
“My wife had these planted,” Maekar says suddenly, nodding towards the garden. Your eyes dart from him to the sea of carnations. He continues, “She grew quite fond of them. They made up the crown I gifted her during my first tourney after our marriage. I suppose, since then, she saw no reason to favour roses or lilies or what have you.”
You listen carefully, eyes finding the prince’s side profile again. You observe the hard lines of his face, the slope of his nose, the pox scars across his cheekbones. Having spent the past month at Summerhall, basking beneath the clear summer sun, his pale skin has the comings of a golden Dornish glow.
“They’re beautiful,” you decide to tell him, thinking back briefly to your discussion with Aerion about the flowers several days ago.
Maekar turns to you then, his attention leaving his wife’s flowers. His eyes, light in colour, appear darker beneath the thatching branches of the elm, but his gaze is surprisingly soft. He takes you in, and you watch him take you in, like a man thinking of what to say next.
“What have you done to him?”
The knot of guilt in your stomach suddenly grows tenfold. “I beg your pardon, your grace?”
“You’ve changed him,” the prince says. “Aerion. He’s… different.”
Your fingers curl around the edge of your book as you lean back against the elm’s trunk, hoping for it to swallow you, draw you in and hide you amongst bark and sap. But you remain under the watchful stare of the Prince of Summerhall, and all you can do is clear your throat and try to gather your thoughts.
“I apologise—” You begin, but Maekar quickly cuts you off.
“Since… you,” he says pointedly. “The boy has been… calmer about the home. He is still Aerion, I must admit, and he is still intense and rather poor-mannered, but he is calmer. He has more patience with our servants, and he speaks softly to his sisters.”
You listen. The knot of guilt in your belly has shifted into something else. Something warmer. That fuzzy sort of feeling you get when someone bigger than you, someone more important, praises you without warning.
“He hasn’t threatened to kill anyone in a very long time,” Maekar continues, a small laugh escaping him. It makes you smile. Then he shakes his head, lips a flat line across his face as he looks at you. “So what exactly have you done to him?”
You think for a moment, still fidgeting with your notebook.
“In all honesty, your grace, I’m not quite sure,” you answer truthfully. “I have treated his injuries, and soothed his illnesses, and I have—”
“Given him what wants,” Maekar interrupts, nodding. “He’s never needed to chase attention. He’s always been the centre of it. But now, with you… things are different, aren’t they?”
You reply with a slow nod.
Maekar huffs out another laugh. “Gods above, he’s absolutely infatuated with you.”
The heat in your stomach burns hotter, and it spreads wide too. It fills your chest, ichored sunlight seeping between the ivory of your ribs. You lean back against the tree, unable to keep the nervous smile from your face.
A few beats pass before Maekar shuffles further down the bench. He taps the spot beside him then, gesturing for you to sit. You obey, folding your book neatly beneath your arm and padding across the grass, churned slightly by the exposed roots. You sit down beside the prince, feeling the warmth of his body amidst the cool shade. And then the pair of you sit there in comfortable silence for another few moments, listening to the bees and watching the light summer breeze brush through the rows of carnations.
Quietly, Maekar resumes, his eyes on the garden. “You are welcome here for as long as you see fit. Although—” he turns to face you now. “—I must admit, I hope you see fit that your stay here be… more permanent than temporary. Aerion is, well, better with you.”
You feel the press of the prince’s eyes on the side of your face as you look out at the sprawling gardens. A worker passes through the flowers, humming peacefully to himself.
“I have a shop,” you say quietly, placing your book back on your lap so you can curl your fingers around the edge of the cold stone bench. “I have a community to help. I… I am not a maester, your grace.”
“I understand that.”
“I cannot—” You take a deep breath. “—I cannot just leave that behind.”
“I understand that also.”
You look at the prince now, spending a split second gnawing nervously on your bottom lip. You release it to sigh, feeling the corners of your mouth twitch downwards. You fight the pout as you reply, “Then what am I to do?”
Maekar thinks for a moment.
“Do you wish to leave?” He asks, head cocking to the side to gauge your reaction.
Your reply is instant and frighteningly visceral. “No.”
The branches overhead tremble as a pair of birds cut through the leaves, chasing one another, screaming and shouting. Maekar waits for them to fly on, the sounds of their fighting disappearing around the gleaming castle, before continuing.
“And I suppose my son would have my head if I even insisted you go.” He reaches across then and places a hand against your knee. It’s comforting and friendly in a way you hadn’t been expecting, and for a split second, you feel the hot press of tears behind your eyes. He looks at you, expression soft. “As I said, m’lady, you are welcome here. You are welcome in the Keep. You are welcome anywhere my son needs you.”
The word need pierces you through the chest.
“As for your shop,” Maekar says, removing his hand from your knee now. “You must keep working. You enjoy it, do you not?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Then you shall continue working, and if Aerion really lo—” The prince stops himself. He stares out at the flowers, then draws himself back into the conversation as though nothing had happened. “If he really needs you, if you mean that much to him, then he will allow you to do that. I will… I will also have a word with him, if that would be helpful.”
You can’t help but smile. “Thank you, your grace.”
Maekar looks you up and down once more. He smiles then—again, it is small and a mere press of his lips in a slightly curved line—and offers you one last pat on the knee, his hand large and warm against the linen of your skirt.
“No,” he says softly. “Thank you.”
—✿—
That evening, you watch the sun set from one of the latticed windows of your chambers. Streaming lights of watery pink and orange move across your desk as you sit before it, your notebook open in front of you. The candle adjacent casts a subtle yellow halo across the pages as you finish your notes for the day and close the book.
There’s a knock at your door as you gather yourself to your feet. You pad across the chambers and pull the door open, finding Ser Roland waiting there patiently, his hands clasped behind his back.
You offer him a warm smile. “Hello, ser.”
The kingsguard nods in return, his armour glinting beneath the flames that mount the walls and light the long hallway.
“I apologise if I’m disturbing you,” Roland says first. “But I have been asked to fetch you. By his grace.”
You lean against the doorframe, frowning slightly. “Ser Roland, we’ve had this discussion. Aerion can fetch me himself. You must not let him run you about.”
Ser Roland gives you a small, nearly embarrassed smile as he looks up and down the hall briefly before replying, “I understand that, my lady, but he said it was urgent.”
“Of course he did,” you mutter, unamused, as you draw back into your chambers to grab your cloak and your satchel of supplies, just in case.
“He’s in the gardens,” Roland tells you, and you follow him then, through the winding halls of Summerhall and out into the garden.
The sheer expanse of the space is covered in shadow as dusk falls heavily, and the large elm trees that frame the perimeter appear like dark, hulking masses silhouetted by a pale pink sky. Ser Roland gestures to the closest elm, and you thank him, before crossing the gardens alone until you bend beneath a particularly low-hanging branch and enter the cool shade.
Aerion paces over the exposed roots. The sound of your footsteps snaps his attention over to you, and even through the shadow, your eyes now adjusting, you see the flash of relief on his face. He rounds the low stone bench, and you smile warmly as his arms circle around your waist, pulling you into him. His face immediately finds the crook of your neck, and he inhales deeply, nose pressing to the tendon along the side as your head tips to accommodate him.
“Little witch,” he greets you, words muffled against your skin. The vibrations are tickling, and you can’t help the way your smile grows wider and a pleasant heat settles in your tummy. The prince groans softly against you, his body warm against yours, arms tight around your middle. “I’ve missed you.”
You can’t help but laugh. “You have only been away since midday.”
“And that’s too long,” he admits, taking a few more moments to inhale the rose water and honey from your skin, before he pulls back.
His hands remain on your sides though, fingers pressing firmly against the plush of your hips.
The way he’s looking at you makes you want to step back within yourself. Fire burns deep in his irises, and the way in which he drags his eyes down the length of your body, then back up again to trace the lines of your face through the shadows, is intense. He stares at you as if he can see inside. As if he can see through the linens that cover your body, through the barrier of your skin. As if he can see the clattering of your heart against your ribcage.
You look away, hands finding the strap of your satchel nervously. It rests heavily against your hip. But the prince doesn’t let you look away: one hand finds your jaw, surprisingly gentle, and guides your eyes back to him.
“What’re you looking away for?” He questions you, cocking his head to the side. His tongue darts out, presses briefly to the corner of his mouth as he waits for your response, then disappears again. “I’m right here.”
You maintain eye contact for as long as you can, and a victorious smile stretches across his face. He takes a step forward, and the hand on your jaw vanishes—as does the one on your hip—and he takes both to bring your satchel up and over your head. You watch him carefully as he takes the satchel from you and steps back, placing it on the low stone bench and flipping it open. You join him, watching him rifle through the contents without protest.
You can’t help but smile and huff a laugh out through your nose as the prince searches near frantically, muttering to himself.
“What exactly are you looking for?” You ask, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looks at you. “The first day we met. What did I drink?”
You huff out another laugh, shaking your head. “The stimulant?”
“Yes, that,” Aerion says, still looking at you. “Do you have it?”
You look at him strangely. “Why would I bring a stimulant here?”
“Because you’re a good girl and you’d bring everything from that little shop of yours if it means it would make me happy,” the prince says, a serpentine smile crossing his face. He leaves the satchel on the bench and draws you into his arms again, before dipping and pressing the softest of kisses to the very corner of your mouth. When he lifts his head, he’s still smiling. “So?”
One of his hands finds your back beneath your cloak. It sits on the small of your back, and that warmth in the base of your stomach kindles even warmer. The brashness of his words, his ego, should make you roll your eyes and shove him away. You wouldn’t pack nearly half of your shop into your satchel to make him happy; you’d do it to make yourself happy, knowing you could help anyone. But—
Slowly, you nod.
His smile grows as you dig through the contents of your satchel. Bottles and vials clink together, and Aerion watches you carefully with his hand still on the small of your back. Your heart beats heavily behind your sternum as, in the shadowed darkness, your fingers brush against a small velvet pouch near the very base of the bag. You pull it out and then unthread the ties, pulling out a little vial: the liquid inside wine-red, shining like it was coated in oil.
“Gods above, you never disappoint me, do you, sweet girl?” Aerion practically purrs as he takes the small vial from your grasp. He uncorks it with a push of his thumb, and he brings it to his nose to inhale. You smell it from where you’re standing—internally congratulating yourself at such a clean, potent batch—and taste overripe grapes and crushed honeysuckle at the back of your throat. Aerion groans, eyes closing as he says, “I remember this.”
He raises it to his lips, but you shoot a hand out and clamp your fingers around his wrist.
“What are you doing?” You hiss out, urging his hand away from his mouth. He relents marginally. You frown. “Aerion.”
The prince returns your challenging stare with one of his own. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know,” you reply simply, slightly annoyed. “But you cannot—”
“I have missed you,” he repeats, firmer this time. It’s loud in the silence of the night, dusk having shrouded the garden in still, dark shadows. The hand on the small of your back presses you closer by a fraction, and you feel the heat radiating off of him. A pyre of a man, fire thick in his veins. “And so I am going to drink your little stimulant, and then I’m going to fuck you for as long as I want.”
Your mouth goes dry, but your fingers remain tight on his wrist. “Your grace—?”
“Don’t start that now,” Aerion whispers.
“Aerion,” you begin instead, your other hand finding his chest. You push a palm flat over the beating of his heart, softened by his padded doublet. You are about to convince the prince not to drink the stimulant. Convince him not to go through that intensity again. But there’s a glint in his eyes that makes you reconsider, and the heat in your belly certainly isn’t helping. You sigh slowly. “Aerion, you need to be careful.”
He watches you thoughtfully.
Carefully, your fingers rise from his wrist and he lets you pluck the vial from his grasp. He continues to watch, patient, trusting, as you lift the vial to his mouth. If not for the blurring of shadow around you, you would have seen the way his pupils expanded like a cat’s and the way his throat bobbed in anticipation.
“Open,” you whisper.
He obeys immediately. His lips part for you. With gentle precision, you tip the vial against his lips, and watch through as drop after drop, thick like blood, slips over his lip and into his mouth. You count out the measurement in your head, and you pull the vial away when six drops gather behind his teeth.
He swallows before smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And how much did you give me?”
“Enough,” you reply simply.
He eyes you skeptically. “Enough?”
“It’s the correct dose,” you tell him honestly. “So it will make you feel good. There won’t be that… well, breathless desperation you experienced last time.”
It’s a subtle jibe, and he takes it, rolling his eyes. But the moment passes quickly before he’s grinning, rubbing his hand over the base of your spine as his eyes drop to where you hold the vial in one hand, your other still across his chest.
“Well?” He nods down at your hand. “Drink up.”
You frown. “No.”
Aerion leans in and presses his mouth to yours. The tip of his tongue swipes serpent-like against the split of your lips, and you can’t help the way your body reacts: eyes falling closed, blood heating up, and you open up for him and that sharp tongue of his, letting him slide it across your teeth and then against your own. You taste grapes as he kisses you deeply, and the sickly-sweet drip of honeysuckle down the back of your throat has a whine lifting from you, your fingers balling against the material of his doublet. The prince responds with a noise of his own, a deep purr from the top of his chest, as he coaxes your tongue into a rhythm that is almost too slow and too much at the same time.
You’re not sure how much time passes before Aerion pulls away. He rests his forehead against yours, and you’re both panting slightly, the space between you non-existent as he pins you to his front, the hand on your back a solid anchor.
“It tastes nice, doesn’t it?” He whispers, eyes scanning your face. He angles lower then, speaking against your lips as he holds them there, brushing softly. “It tastes so good, sweet girl. C’mon, just this once.”
The next kiss is slower, more tender, but he still tries to bully his tongue into your mouth. You turn your head with a huff, and he chuckles against your cheek, smearing spit over your jaw with his kiss-slick lips before pulling back. And then he watches you with rapt attention, the smile on his face near villainous as you lift the vial to your mouth.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Aerion mutters, pleased, as the deep red liquid drips slowly from the vial, all viscous and thick and sweet-smelling. He watches the droplets, and he observes the way you obviously count in your head—six, then no more—before you cork it and stuff it back into your satchel. Aerion is beaming as he chases your movements, both hands wrapping around your waist again. “Oh, my sweet girl. Always so good for me.”
You roll your eyes. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“Of course not,” Aerion replies sarcastically. Then: “So, how long will it take before it starts working?”
“With the correct dose?” You lilt, wriggling free of his grasp. You take your satchel and heft it back across your shoulder. “Not long. Twenty minutes, I suppose.”
You walk away from him then, ducking out from under the elm’s low-hanging branches and following the narrow stone path back towards the castle. He follows you with a wicked grin on his face, his cloak billowing out behind him, casting a shadow that appears like wings beneath the rising moonlight. His hand slips around your waist again, and he pulls you into his side, still walking. Ser Roland stands near the door, ever dutiful.
“Shall we make this more fun, then?” Aerion whispers in your ear, and he thinks about sinking his teeth into the outer shell, but he decides against it.
You shoot him a pointed look as you come to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Roland’s eyes flit down to the pair of you for the briefest of moments, before they drag back to the darkness that envelops the garden. A torch glows hot overhead, his armour appearing gold.
“What?” You hiss out as Aerion’s touch finds the delicate belt at your waist.
“You have twenty minutes to hide,” he tells you then. It’s a quiet threat that pushes on the heat in the pit of your belly, the weight threatening to seep between your thighs. He’s grinning, and you see the points of his teeth flash in the moonlight. “And wherever I find you is where I fuck you.”
He says that last part louder. It’s pointed. Sharp and purposeful, and Roland shifts his weight nearby, turning his head to scour the perimeter.
You slap Aerion on the chest, getting one foot on a step. “You’re horrid.”
Aerion’s hand clamps down on your wrist and he leans in. “You love it.”
You pull your arm from his hold with a huff and ascend the steps. He remains at the bottom, smiling up at you when you pause in the doorway and gaze back at him. You know the effects will take him earlier—you didn’t feel the need to tell him that these stimulants typically work faster for men—but you know the effects will find you eventually. You suppose, then, you’d need to find a good hiding place.
“Ser Roland,” you begin, still looking at Aerion. The knight turns his attention immediately and steps closer. Enough for you to place a delicate palm to the plate across his chest. You look at him then, smiling softly. “Would you escort me to my chambers?”
Aerion watches the interaction from the bottom of the steps. His smile has not yet disappeared, but even through the dusk-blurred darkness, you could see the narrowing of his eyes. You could see the fire burning there, raging deep in the colour of his irises, and you could feel the heat of his stare as you continue to offer the kingsguard a disarming smile.
“Of course, my lady,” Roland nods, gesturing for the door.
You turn and follow the gesture without another look back, but you don’t miss the call out from the Targaryen prince behind you: “I’ll see you upon the hour, little witch.”
—✿—
When you had returned to your chambers and slipped your cloak and satchel back into their place of belonging, you had thought briefly about taking the antidote. Sipping the tansy-soured liquid and warding off the stimulant’s effects, thus leaving the prince to moan and whine through the corridors of Summerhall while you hide yourself away. You thought of it with a cunning grin, a golden and far-reaching pride spreading through your chest. But ultimately, with Summerhall quiet of the rest of the Targaryen family, and the sun having set completely behind the horizon, you decide against it.
Especially when, upon the hour, twenty minutes having whisked by like a billow of smoke, you find yourself creeping down one of the long halls with an ache between your thighs. The batch was pure and potent and it had taken you like an illness.
You trawl a hand along the smooth wall, trying desperately to keep yourself upright as heat blooms through your chest and runs down your spine, pooling in the base of your stomach. It’s seeping into your womb too, a low pressure beneath your navel, collecting strongly in your core until you can feel yourself. Warm, wet, pressing hot into the linen of your smallclothes, and each movement, each shift of your thighs, draws the material too close to your cunt, to the peak of your swollen clit, and you withhold everything inside you not to whine out like befallen doe.
The hall is mercifully empty of kingsguard and servants, and you reach the grand doors leading to the gardens with sweat damp on your forehead. Your face is hot to the touch as you press the tips of your fingers against your cheek.
As you do this, you hear hurried footsteps behind you, and you whirl around, skirts floating around your shins. At the very end of the hall, beneath the casting flickers of the mounted candles, Aerion rounds the corner. Even from a distance, you can see the flush across his cheeks, how dishevelled his white hair is, and the part of his pink lips as he sucks in desperate, ragged breaths.
He freezes when he spots you, fists balling at his sides. His doublet is missing, and his tunic sits loosely against his abdomen, the ties near the neck and wrists undone, exposing slivers of ivory skin.
“There you are,” he says quietly, and it barely travels down the hall. It’s a comment made more to himself, you realise, as a low groan fights out from the back of his throat. He takes a step closer, flamelight overhead shrouding his face in shadow. “My girl.”
You shoulder the door open, fighting past the need sitting high in your chest and ignoring the fluttering of your heart at the sight of him. The tepid night air greets you, and you break out into the gardens with a small, breathless laugh as you hear footsteps breaking out into a run behind you. You descend the steps quickly and run across the garden, fingers fisting the thin fabric of your skirts as you hold them free of your ankles. You run by the elm, slipping through the darkness, and the rush of air on your face is heavenly.
But a pair of arms wrap around your middle before you can get much further, and they haul you to the ground between a row of rounded shrubs. You breathe out an easy laugh, giddy and slightly dizzy with need, as Aerion flattens his body against yours, pinning you to the plush grass.
You turn your head and watch him from the corner of your eye as he pants above you, his hips grinding against the curve of your arse. A blazing shock rips through your core at the press of his cock between the split of your thighs as he nudges your legs apart and hikes up your skirts. You react with a loud whine, hips bucking back to push him deeper against your covered core.
You feel the prince shift behind you, moving as he rocks his hips and groans.
“Gods, this is going to feel so good, sweet girl, I promise,” Aerion whispers, and you catch the glint of metal beneath the pale moonlight. The prince has pulled his dagger from its sheath at his hip, and the sight of it has you biting your lip to suppress a loud moan. He pulls his hips back just enough so he can pinch the fabric of your smallclothes away from your cunt, and he hisses out, “Fuck, you’re—fuck, you’re soaked.”
It’s breathless and near pained in the way he says it, before he’s slicing through the linen of your smallclothes. Night air braces against your core, and you cry out, hands scrambling in an attempt to grab fistfuls of damp grass as he tosses his dagger aside and runs two fingers up and down your slit. The movements are heavy, rough, as his other hand pulls apart the strings of his trousers and breeches.
The stimulant clouds your thoughts as you try your best to arch back off the grass, pushing into his touch. You whine, his name jumbled somewhere in the sound that whispers through the garden. The heat in your tummy sits heavy and low, and something taut tugs against it each time his fingers draw across the puffy bead of your clit, then down through your swollen folds.
“I promise,” Aerion breathes out, and you feel the blunt press of his cock against your cunt, warm and solid where you clench around nothing. His body rocks against yours as he pushes forward just slightly, his entire being shuddering with restraint as he notches the head inside you. He groans, eyes screwing shut. “I promise, little witch, this is going to feel so good—I’ll make you feel good. I’ll—fuck, f-uh-uck—I’ll make you feel so good, I promise.”
He’s rambling and groaning as he slides into you, the thick of his cock pushing you apart. But you take him. Whining and shaking, you take him: your pussy opens, warm, willing, desperate for him as his hips press down against your backside. It’s a slick, tight heat that has his blood roping hot in his veins as the stimulant commandeers his thoughts: take it, take it, take it.
“Aerion,” you breathe out, hot cheek flat against the cool grass.
It’s as if you can feel every ridge, every vein that warps up the underside of his cock as he pushes inside you. Your nerves are alight, bleeding too warm through your stomach, drawing pleasure from everything around you: the thick split of his cock inside you, the hard press of his body against yours, the wet chill of the grass against your skin, the silence of the garden around you. It works you up, need whipping up like a fever through your body, skin clammy with sweat, heart hammering against your sternum.
And it all feels so good.
The prince bottoms out inside you, his hips snug against your arse. It’s unceremonious and needy. But he doesn’t stop—there’s no point of relent before he’s pulling back out and then driving back in.
The sound of the movement is wet, loud, the press of a thumb into the flesh of an overripe peach. It makes Aerion’s cheeks burn redder, blood pumping hot in his ears as he drives into you, arms straining as he holds himself up.
And, gods, you’re so warm. The heat of your body is plush, the smell of you is intoxicating. He groans, bending his head to nose at your temple while his hips slam down against your arse. He ruts you into the grass like this, just panting against the side of your head, listening to the wet schlick of his cock splitting your pussy apart, and the pretty little moans that tumble from your mouth.
“Oh gods,” you whimper. He nails that perfect spot inside you, over and over and over. But then again, with the stimulant flowing freely in your veins, every spot inside you feels like the perfect spot. “Aerion—Aerion, oh—”
“I told you,” he whispers right by your ear. “I told you it’d feel good. I told you, sweet girl.” He pulls back then, head dropping, eyes falling shut again as his hips move, and he has to focus hard on keeping his rhythm as your pussy clenches tight around him. But he continues, voice finding him hoarse: “You always take me so fucking well—fuck, fuck—”
His movements speed up until the sound of flesh-on-flesh echoes quietly around the garden. He groans hard, the noise splitting from between his lips so loud it makes your heart jolt in your chest. You reach behind you then, arm moving blindly, until the tips of your fingers brush against the linen of his tunic.
Your first stimulant-induced orgasm finds you quickly. You can feel it coming—you can nearly taste it, red wine bitter and floral sweet around the edge of your tongue—and you moan as it builds. Intense heat festers in your tummy, slots heavy between your lower vertebrae. It takes over your body, seizes your autonomy with a winding, molten hand and holds you limbless against the grass as the prince lures it to the surface.
“Aerion, please,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as it slams through you. You tremble against the grass, your cunt drawing tight, clenching tight, as you release around him. Your blood turns to ichor as it hurtles through you, and you feel like you’re glowing. Pulse after pulse, gilded gold, body trembling as you whimper, “Aerion… Aerion.”
The prince comes without warning. He simply anchors himself to you, pushing the head of his cock as far as he can reach, and spills right up against the plug of your womb. He groans as he flattens himself to your back, his hips rolling desperately as he empties himself inside you, mentally begging for you just to take it, take it, take it.
Aerion groans, counting the beats of his racing heart—one, two, three, four—as he’s buried inside of you, still feeling his seed drooling, cock twitching where you wrap warm and tight around him. You grow still beneath him too, and the pair of you suck in breath long displaced, blanketed by nightfall.
A silent minute passes. A raven barks somewhere in the far distance.
Then, you whine, fingers tightening on his tunic. “Aerion.”
“I know,” Aerion groans in response, his cock still achingly hard inside you. He feels it twitch, a heavy weight in his balls as he adjusts his hips, the movement sliding him against you and wrenching a deep-seated moan that interrupts your whining. He grunts as he sits up. “I know, I’ve got you.”
His cock slips from the wet clutch of your cunt, and he bites down a pained groan. His hands find your waist, and you move with his urging until you’re flat on your back. Your skirts remain bundled above your hips, and the prince uses the new angle to pull your torn small clothes away from your thighs now, tossing them aside. You can’t find it in you to care as you lift your hands beneath his tunic, tracing the lines of his abdomen. His skin is warm, your hands strikingly cold from the grass, and he hisses when you trail them quickly up and over his pectorals, swiping across his nipples.
For a moment, he fists his hard cock, the tip red and leaking, as he watches himself dribble out of your pussy. He moans, low in his throat, and you respond in kind, the feeling of his cum drooling down the curve of your arse making you squirm against the ground.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, before he’s ripping his tunic over his head.
You grin lazily, remnants of your orgasm still sitting comfortably across your brain. Your hands run up and down the pale expanse of his chest and abdomen as he guides his cock back to your cunt. Then, he’s pushing in in one deep thrust. You gasp, arching off the ground, air sucked from your lungs as he fills you.
“Oh gods,” you manage to mutter, fingers tightening against the muscle of the prince’s chest as he ruts into you, sweat beading between the curve and rolling down towards his sternum. You whine out, the pleasure inside you aching, bruising. It hurts too good. “Aerion, like—like that, fuck, just like that.”
Then, Aerion dips to kiss you.
It’s a brief clash of tongue and teeth as he fucks you. One of his hands finds the plush of your thigh, hefting it around one of his hips. Almost subconsciously, you lift the other, and now both of your legs are wrapped around his middle, pulling him closer and closer with each thrust into the cool grass. Your hands wrap around his neck as you kiss him, and small, breathy noises escape you with each press of his tongue.
When he withdraws from the kiss, his lips shining, he pitches his hips and forces his cock even deeper inside you. The neat patch of hair at the base rubs against your swollen clit, and as he knocks up towards the base of your cervix, you feel tears pooling in your lashline.
The stimulant is potent as you suck in a desperate breath. You can taste it, feel it coagulating deep in your chest as raw need strings taut through your womb. It’s a craving you’ve never had before as the prince fucks you with all he has, panting and grunting and moaning your name as if it were the only word he knew.
A carnal need sinks its claws into your psyche, and the moan that rips free of your throat sounds nothing like you. Your pussy clenches tight around his cock, urges him deeper, and you bring the thought home—deeper, need it, need it, harder—by pressing your ankles to the flesh of Aerion’s arse. He groans above you, a dip forming in his brow as he blindly obeys, thrusts coming deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your stomach.
“Fuck, I know you feel it too,” the prince says around a grunt, eyes on you. “You need it so bad, sweet girl, I know. I know.”
You’re nodding because it feels right. You’re nodding because it’s Aerion who’s speaking to you and you’re nodding because it’s all you can think to do with him filling you like this.
“Aerion, please,” you whisper and it nearly hurts coming out. All the vowels and constants are slurred together as it squeezes past a moan lodged in your throat. The prince thrusts into you hard, body pressing down against yours even firmer, and it frees the moan, which finds the tepid night air like a yowl. “Aerion.”
Aerion’s barely holding on. “I know, I know. This is it, sweet girl, I promise—this is it. You—you feel it? Yeah? Fuck, fuck, yeah—” he rambles around a moan of your name. “—Tell me what you need. Tell me.”
One of your hands finds the back of his head and you thread your fingers through the soft white locks there. He groans lowly as you give him a small tug, anchoring yourself as close to him as possible as your second release packs tightly into your womb. It’s hotter than the first. It’s more visceral, leaning with all its weight behind your navel.
And that carnal need, the need with teeth and claws and an inhuman desire, holds on. It doesn’t let you go. It shakes you in its maw until you’re trembling against the grass, trembling in his hold, thrumming like the plucked string of a harp.
“Need you,” you whisper to him, tears rolling down your cheeks now. You’re burning hot and the muscles in your thighs are stiffening around his waist. “Need you, Aerion. Need you to—to come in me a–uh–gain.”
Aerion moans your name like a prayer. It’s wanton and lax across his serpentine tongue, tasting of ripened grapes and crushed honeysuckle. It tastes of you as he lowers his head and takes your mouth, passing the ending syllables directly between your teeth. You accept the kiss with a small whine.
When he pulls back, you’re both teetering on a wire. His eyes are black beneath his pupils and the shadows that consume you both.
“Tell me—” He breaks off with a grunt as your pussy flutters around him. “Tell me you love me when you come.”
“Aerion,” you mewl, a couple of tears rolling down towards your temple as your head tips back, spine arching off the ground.
He says your name in return. “Tell me.”
So, you do.
Your second orgasm comes crashing through you like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. You’re shaking, your legs are clamping around him, and your fingers grip tightly as it passes through you. A pure current of energy as it tracks down your spine and fissures over your womb. Your pussy clamps down around the thick of his cock, pulsing, hammering with the wild beating of your heart.
And while it drowns you, while that carnal need rips you apart from the inside out, you’re whimpering, begging almost, “Aerion—gods, I love you. I love you, I love you—”
Aerion comes with the muscles in his jaw flexing as he bites down a loud moan. His cock twitches, his balls jerk tight where they slap against your arse, and then he’s spilling straight against your womb for the second time.
But you watch his jaw unhinge as he empties himself inside you, and he whimpers your name as his hips lose their rhythm, spurred on only by the press of your heels against his arse. His thrusts slow, and he’s still filling you, muttering your name as you whisper how much you love him. And you do this, a murmuring of confessions beneath a cloak of glittering stars, as he keeps coming, thick and warm and full. You whisper and hold him tightly until his cock finally stops twitching inside you and slowly, slowly, begins to soften.
The prince collapses on top of you, and you let out a tired “oof” as he settles. Your legs drop from his waist, fatigued. The movement makes him groan where he’s buried his face against your neck, breathing you in.
You pet his hair and let the silence simmer as the heat in your body gently seeps away, leaving nothing more than a pleasant tipsy-sort of giddiness in your brain, and a dull ache deep inside your pussy.
You don’t know how much time passes before Aerion lifts his head. All you know is that you’ve gone cold against the dewy grass and goosebumps have raised across your arms.
“Did you mean it?”
You peer at him. “Hm?”
“What you said,” he mutters, shy. Aerion Targaryen didn’t get shy. But here he was, a blush crawling across his cheekbones. He was thankful it was dark. He continues softly, “What you said when…”
“Oh,” you mutter as his sentence lulls.
He grunts, obviously anticipating your response.
But you smile at him. “I suppose I did.”
He freezes against you.
You breathe out a small laugh. “Aerion?”
“It’s the stimulant, isn’t it?”
You shake your head slowly. “No, Aerion. I… I love you.”
Aerion looks at you. Studies you in the dark. His eyes trace the lines of your face: your eyebrows, your eyes, your nose and your mouth. And his gaze doesn’t rise again until he’s repeated the movements a few times over. You bite your lip, hiding your smile, and shift your muscles until your cunt clenches around the width of his softening cock.
You feel his abdomen clench and he shoots you a look. “Witch.”
You just smile.
Then, he sighs and leans forward. He plants a delicate kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your fingers still move against the back of his head, and you see him preening as he pulls out of the kiss.
“I…” He huffs through his nose, as if annoyed that he was struggling to find the words. “I love you, sweet girl. And I don’t think—I’ve never loved anyone like… like this.”
Like this. He’s never loved someone this viscerally. He’s never cared this much.
It’s your turn to lift your head and kiss him, and he allows you to lick over his lips. You share the lasting remnants of the stimulant before it dissolves forever.
And there’s thoughts of impossibility in your mind. You are a woods witch. He is a prince of the realm. There is no room for love here. You are two seeds, planted and grown in two completely different worlds, watered by completely different storms and yielding fruit of lives completely different to one another.
But as he kisses you with a tenderness you once assumed no Targaryen could possess, you begin to convince yourself otherwise.
You tell him, mind clear, “I love you.”
He replies in the same tone, in the same breath, “I love you.”
And it doesn’t taste of overripe grapes and honeysuckle. The words are not burnt around the edges from the heat of pleasure, fraying with lust or obsession. I love you tastes like you; of rose water and sugar, and the ink on your fingers and the sweat on your skin.
He kisses you again, and whispers another I love you against your lips for good measure.
———
ok not marathon sex but they both got a prize at the end :)
I have too many ideas in my head and none are coming out and I feel like I’m going to explode so I need to figure out what I’m gonna write and stick with it. Certainly will finish Changing Fate Part Two, in the works, but I want to have another one-shot in progress along side the main series so it can be balance of both coming out (I know it’s a slow burn, and I know the people want smut).
Some of these concepts are not my own and I do not take any credit for the original ideas, I will give credit to their creators and tag them below because they have amazing work. As far as I am aware they are ok to write about so if I’m wrong please make me aware and I will always take it down! All the options below will have smut in them, in one way shape or form, but all have different degrees. If it’s on this list I will also probably write about it in future/make another list at another time.
Creators of the AU’s and their ideas, respectively:
@louloucake : Trailer Trash Aerion
@the-darklings : Entity/Bobby Backrooms
@brutalizermp3 : Camp Counselor Aerion
If you haven’t checked out these people, they are amazing and I read from them often. If I have the incorrect information or if any creator does not want me to write about such topics I will take down any post they are not comfortable with.
PICK FROM THE HAT:
Trailer Trash!Aerion x Childhood Friend!Reader
Mafia!AU Valarr x Reader
Entity!Bobby x Entity!Reader
Camp Counselor!AU Aerion x Reader
Modern!AU Valarr x Reader
Bad Idea- Part 2: Modern!Aerion x Scholarship!Reader
Pairing: Modern!Aerion Targaryen x Scholarship Student!Fem!Reader
Description: Aerion Targaryen always gets what he wants. When he invites you to have dinner with his family, things take an unexpected turn. You decide to indulge him even if he is a jerk.
WC: 10.7K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Aerion being Aerion, cursing/swearing, shy!reader?, SMUT, groping, pinning, slight non!con, dry-humping, handjob-ish (M!Receiving), finishing in pants, IDK lemme know if I missed anything.
AN: I don’t take credit for the Modern!Aerion idea, I’m not entirely sure who the original creator is. Thank you guys so much for the traction of these! Sorry it took me so long to get to these, I will do better in future. Lemme know how you like this piece about Aerion!
When you applied for King’s Landing University, you didn’t think you’d get in. There were plenty of other people more qualified and more funded than you were. It was just a stroke of luck that you actually were considered and put on the wait list. Then it was like winning the lottery when you won their full-ride program. KLU was known for its lead in academics and connections. If you wanted to get a head start in whatever field you were getting into, go to KLU. So when August came around, you had packed all your things and shipped yourself across the country to attend.
The campus has been busier than usual. It’s always packed, but in recent weeks it’s been unbearably so. The wealth gap between you and the other students was becoming more apparent by the day. You had arrived far too early to get a head start on settling in. It was also cheaper to fly before the rush. Most students made it in with either family names or just paying the insanely expensive tuition. That was the first striking difference. It was a world of designer clothes, luxury cars, and impromptu vacations. Girls giggled about being gifted a ‘shit’ diamond necklace on a date, and boys complained about trust funds their parents paused due to overspending. You felt like an outsider, struggling to keep up financially and socially.
Information is power here.
Gossip was traded loudly, and whatever you heard, you always kept note. It was the only way you could get any details of what’s happening on campus, considering you were isolated. A sort of social outcast among the elite, and you embraced that. You couldn’t afford the bars and nights out, nor could you understand the fake friendly faces people put on just to make digs at you. So you weren’t the most popular. Mainly keeping to yourself as you focus on school rather than the ‘Uni experience’ everyone goes on about.
One day you’re studying at the library, and a shadow comes to block your light. When you spare a glance-
“Hello?” You hum out curiously, cautiously, to the Targaryen standing at the edge of your table. Aerion Targaryen, to be exact. It was hard to miss when a member of the royal family was on campus, but it’s always impossible not to know when Aerion was around. His spiked silver hair is a tell, but it’s the trail of chaos and gaggle of girls that usually trails him that gives him away. You’ve heard the rumors. You knew what kind of man he was. Dressed to impress with tight-fitting tees and a leather jacket that you're certain could pay for the whole semester and then some. You’re slightly surprised to see him here in front of you now in a frumpy hoodie and singular. No whispering ladies in tow.
“May I help you?”
Aerion stood there with his signature smirk, one side of his mouth crooked compared to the other. Violet eyes assessed you with a calculation like he’s trying to figure out some sort of problem that you’re a part of. His presence commanded attention even in the quiet of the library. He didn’t have to do anything to do it, just stand there. The problem prince of Westeros had deigned to acknowledge a scholarship student. But why? You’ve never spoken before, so why was he here in front of you now?
"You're the charity case, aren't you?" His voice carried that aristocratic drawl that made it clear he was used to getting what he wanted without care for what he said. You watched as he pulled out the chair across from you without waiting for permission and plopped himself down. He lazily sprawled in his seat as his gaze kept on you. The leather of his designer jacket creaked as he settled, his dragon tattoo visible at the collar. The edge of it barely peeked from his neck and dipped lower under his shirt. His cologne, expensive and spiced, mingled with the scent of old books. You hated that he looked this good up close.
It was interesting at least. He knew of you. Not only that, but he came up to you specifically. Sought you out on his own initiative. Sitting up a bit straighter, you gently set down your pen, giving him your full, undivided attention. As well as your full guard. “I am.” It’s wary and calculated, but it doesn’t deny his harsh words. If anything, it embraces them. You’ve been called worse things since you’ve gotten here. You watch him with careful consideration as you try to gauge what he wants.
Because surely he wants something.
Why else would he be here? What could this possibly mean? You never needed to speak with him before; there’s been no reason to. Yet here he is. Sat in front of you like he’s always been there. You try to recall when you’ve ever been around him, and the closest thing that comes to mind is orientation when he sat a few rows ahead of you. Glimpses of him since, but nothing that would warrant this.
“-and you’re Aerion Targaryen, right? What does a Targaryen want from me?”
An amused noise escaped Aerion's lips at your response. His gaze is gleaming with something you can’t quite figure out yet. He notices your defensive posture, but it doesn’t sway him.
"Clever girl," he purred, his eyes never leaving yours. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Miss Charity. Top of the class, a thorn in the side of my dearest cousin." He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease despite the tension radiating from you. He was playing with you. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the table, each tap echoing through the library's silence like he can’t just sit still for two seconds. Always fiddling, shifting. You wonder if he’s ever stepped foot in the library before today. “And here I thought you were just another scholarship student. But you might be more... interesting than that."
Just another scholarship student?
“Well, I’m glad my presence is amusing to you.” Droning out as you pick up your pen again, no longer interested in the conversation. At least not fully. He was just full of rude remarks and distractions, which were the last thing you needed. You were the first full-ride scholarship student at KLU in years, and you were the first woman recipient. You were more than ‘just’ anything. Resuming your notes with half awareness of his presence. You’d been expecting something different when talking to the Targaryen, yet it seems Aerion would not be the threat you had been warned him to be. Not mentally, at least. Just a poor flirt who floats by on his looks, money, and temper.
He watched as you casually resumed your note-taking, seemingly unbothered by his presence. Causing his smirk to falter for a moment. Surprised at the fact his purred charm didn’t work, especially on you. Heiresses, models, and actresses all swoon if he so much as looks at them, much less calls them ‘interesting’. He wasn’t used to being dismissed so easily. He was used to everyone giving him their full attention. But here you were, treating him like any other student in the library.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain his cool composure. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" He asked with a hint of irritation creeping into his tone.
Ah.
It seems you’ve struck a nerve. You give it a beat before gently laying down your pen again. Turning back to him with a firm, assessing gaze. Lest he throw a fit. “I’m not an idiot.” Correcting softly, glancing around to see who all was listening. Because someone was always listening, the library was empty, but you still erred on the side of caution. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there something I can help you with?” It’s not that you were trying to get rid of him- maybe a little- but there is genuine curiosity. A nervous need to know what the reason is for his being here. Some anxious part of you is ready for this to be over so your nerves could settle.
Aerion's jaw jumped at your straightforwardness. No one had ever dared speak to him like this before. With a casual indifference that was similar to the way he would speak to others. Most of the time, people fawned or feared him, not whatever this is. His fingers went from drumming to tapping, an impatient rhythm. "I wanted to see what the competition looks like," he said finally, trying to have an unbothered air to it. He took inventory of your table. The binders and textbooks strewn out, notebook full of neat handwriting. "Valarr's been less than thrilled about losing to the likes of you.” He leans forward, sitting up from a slouched position to something more alert. Something more ‘at the ready’ than before. The library seemed to grow quieter around you both, as if the space shrunk down for just the two of you. It made you nervous. How the air changed the minute he grew more serious.
"And I wanted to see if you were worth all the fuss."
You try to ignore how he said it. Choosing to focus on what he had said instead. “That’s- pleasing information. I’m glad that pest of a Prince is being humbled for once.” Using the title as an insult, as you imagine Valarr squirming. You’ve been on his trail all year, fractions of a point behind him or ahead. It kept you on your toes, but it did make things harder to have that challenge of him. A small, half smile plays on your lips as you relax a fraction. Just a fraction. Grateful that the table is wide enough that Aerion leaning closer doesn’t bring him into your space. Otherwise, it would be hard to ignore how pleasant his cologne is. Though the warm smell of him still wafts over, you can’t help but wonder if he wears it for attention. He seems the type. Leaning back in your own chair as you mull him over. Taking in his intense expression with a tinge of nerves. “And? What do you think?”
Aerion's amethyst eyes narrow at your response, the half-smile catching him off guard. He hadn't expected you to be so... cheeky. Your comment about Valarr being humbled made his lips twitch, fighting back the muscle with great effort. To be fair, any sly comment against Valarr would make him smile. He just loathed the boy.
"I think..." he paused, studying your face intently. Lingering in a way that made your stomach flip. Something almost embarrassed at the fact that he was looking at you so hard. You couldn’t understand what he was looking for, and it was a little too intense. "You're definitely not what I expected." His head tilted slightly, silver hair catching the overhead light and glowing.
"You don’t seem intimidated by me. That's a start." His voice had lost some of its edge, replaced by a curious tone. An almost graveled calculation, he seemed to be reassessing you in his mind. A preconceived idea of you based on what he’d heard was being rewritten. The same could be said about him in real time as you do the same.
“Oh, I am intimidated by you-” Admitting easily, because you’re not afraid to admit such things. Maybe a little eager to do so, just to get it off your chest. It was the truth, and you would never shy away from the truth. “You’re a Targaryen; that alone is enough to be worried. Plus I’ve heard things about you in particular.” It’s not mean or judgmental; in fact, you try to joke with him, but it is still wary. Still not wanting to poke the bear. His infamous temper was the last thing you wanted to see. It would be stupid to try to test him when you knew better.
And you weren’t stupid.
A dark glint appeared in Aerion's eyes at your admission. Propping his elbows on the table, clearly pleased and intrigued that his reputation precedes him. Your direct point out his status, admitting to being intimidated by it, and yet the way you hold yourself hasn’t changed. You’re not giving him any special treatment because of it. A bit of anxiety, sure, but nothing like the bumbling sycophants that throw themselves at his feet. "At least you're honest," He hums in a hint of satisfaction, though not enough to give away the game. Because that’s what this was to him: a game. The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Most people pretend they're not afraid. It gets boring."
"What exactly have you heard about me, Charity?" The nickname spoken with purpose, like pressing on a bruise, but there was an edge to it that suggested he was genuinely curious about your opinion. Aerion knew what people said about him, and he knew it wasn’t pretty. Normally, he wouldn’t care about such a thing, but with you he wanted to know what you knew. You had heard about him, but what exactly did you think? What information did you have? What let you sit there and speak to him like this? Knowing the kind of person he was- or did you even know?
And that makes you pause.
A moment where you're left chewing the inside of your cheek, debating just how much you should say. From what you can tell, he seems to be enjoying the conversation. Seeing as he’s still here, sat across from you with such confidence as if he is conducting an interview and apparently you’re doing well. The rest of the world is still going on around you as you engage in this weird push and pull. You hate the nickname he’s given you.
“Enough.” Choosing to answer simply. It’s not dismissive; it’s telling. Recalling some of his more temperamental moments from the rumors, and you can only confidently verify half of them. A popular girl, Hightower maybe, said he blocked her number after dumping her at some club. The Baratheon heir said he was punched for bringing the wrong beer to a pool party. Then there was something about cursing out a professor and calling him an ‘egg-headed dick’. That one made you chuckle when you had heard it. “Enough to know not to get on your bad side. Though, that’s generally my rule of thumb with everyone.”
Aerion sat there for a moment. Processing your answer in tense silence until he chuckled at your non-answer, finding your caution both intriguing and refreshing. An unguarded laugh that for some reason made your chest tighter than you’d ever admit. "Careful, you might hurt my feelings," he joked- actually joked- though there was a glint of something more serious in that violet of his. A warning. He was used to people walking on eggshells around him, afraid to say the wrong thing or invoke his wrath. But you weren't afraid to be honest, even if it meant acknowledging his less-than-desirable reputation. He leans back in his chair again, manspreading to take up more space. Leather creaked as he shifted his weight.
"And how do you find KLU so far?"
Maybe this was an interview. It’s all rather odd. Was he messing with you? Why would he care about how you feel about this place? From what you understand, he hardly shows up to class as is, so his sudden interest in your own academic opinion felt more like a test. Maybe the Targaryens wanted to know if you would speak poorly about this place, as a PR test of sorts. Maybe they sent him here to trial you for your funding and see if you deserve it. “I am grateful for the opportunity to learn at such a prestigious institution. KLU has been nothing but supportive and accommodating in my time of need.” A perfectly curated answer for this exact occasion. If anyone asks, this is the best school to be in. There were other options out there, but none quite as renowned as King’s Landing. The people here make it more like a reality show at times, but you couldn’t exactly say that, not without causing a stir. So your answer stays civil and cordial. “Why are you making small talk with me, Mr. Targaryen?” You use a formal approach to get to the bottom of his current behavior.
He clearly didn’t like it.
Glaring through your practiced response, clearly seeing the polite facade for what it’s worth. His fingers started to drum against the table again, as if he were deciding how to handle such a display. There’s a tension in his brow that wasn’t there before.
"Because I want to," he spat out bluntly, a hint of his usual arrogance returning. "Everyone else is either spoiled wannabe-be’s or brown-nosing businessmen. You are something different; you are neither.”
He’s leaning forward again, this time across the table, scooting in. He puts his weight on his elbows as he deliberately invades your space just enough to make you uncomfortable. Because if there was one thing he was good at, it was getting under people's skin. It does. Your heart jumps into your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s from him saying you’re different or if it’s his sudden proximity.
"And don't call me Mr. Targaryen. Makes me sound like my father." His tone dropped lower, almost conspiratorial. He was so close you could see the fine hairs of his brows, a little scar on his chin and another on his nose. Something dangerous that made your skin prickle. Those eyes- "Call me Aerion."
Trouble.
You’ve decided, just now, that he’s nothing but trouble. The way he talks and holds himself screams it, all the poking and prodding. The look in his eye, the smell of his cologne, the subtle shift in the air when he enters a room. It’s all designed around his chaos. A walking scandal is sitting in front of you, and you’re just worried about him getting you into something you didn’t have time for. That was all. No other reason. Certainly not because if you keep looking at him too long, you wonder what his lips taste like. His last statement is noted as you lean back in your seat, creating some much-needed distance, as if you could get further away. “Well, Aerion- while I’m flattered, I was in the middle of studying.” Gently shutting down whatever game he was playing, as you wanted no part of it. The minute his lips come into the picture, he’s out.
"You can study later," he dismisses your attempt to flee with a wave of his hand. Gesturing vaguely to your papers and books on the table. "I'm more important than whatever's on those papers." A finger reaches out and taps one of your books, a smirk playing on his lips. Because he likes pushing too far-
"Come have dinner with me tonight. At my family's place."
Your stomach drops, and a pit forms that makes you feel nauseous. You didn’t hear him right- “What?” This knocks you completely off your feet, brain rebooting to try and process his demand. You’ve only just met this man- a Targaryen no less- and he wants you to have dinner with him? Not only that, but with his family, at his family's place?? A brush of pink comes to your cheeks, against your will. Slightly panicking as you gawk at him. Rigid with confusion as you try to figure out if he’s joking or not. He doesn’t seem to be joking. He seems deadly serious- “I’m sorry I just- you’re messing with me, right? I don’t even know you-“
Aerion cuts you off, looking all too pleased with himself at your flustered reaction. His stupid smirk only widened. Enjoying seeing you so thrown off balance, finding it amusing in some sadistic sense. He must just enjoy the mayhem he brings. "I'm not messing with you," he hums out, violet eyes beaming with mischief. He’s scheming something. You just know it. "I'm being completely serious. My father wants to meet you."
He says it as if I should be grateful, as if the very opportunity is more than what I deserve. While he’s not wrong, something about it irks you. “Ha-” Bewildered, you can’t help but laugh a bit, frazzled to the point of stupidity. This wasn’t what you expected. When he came to your table, you had prepared for a million other things, but not this. Maybe he would try to pay you for doing his homework. Or maybe bully you into sharing your notes. Not demand that you go to a family dinner.
He’s trouble indeed.
“This is completely insane- " you mumbled to yourself as you rubbed the tension from your face. Feeling the beginnings of a headache as you try to process the logistics of what he’s asking.
"Dinner. Tonight. Seven o'clock. My father's expecting you." He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a sleek black card, sliding it across the table to you. "Here's my number. Text me when you decide you want to stop being difficult and accept my invitation." He was confident; you’ll give him that. Assuming you would say yes eventually. You don’t have time to argue before he stands and starts to leave.
Left reeling, not quite the mouth-open kind of shocked but blinking in your seat. Trying to wrap your head around what’s happening. Gently picking up the card and studying the elegant number written on it. Obviously expensive. Blinking back up at him to find his stupid smug face. “What if I can’t go?” Finally able to speak, but it doesn't sound confident at all. Garbled and half-formed as you try to think of how terrible an idea this is.
"Then I'll come get you myself," He said simply, as if that was the most obvious solution. You weren’t sure what that entailed, but for some reason you didn’t want to find out. His voice dropped to a whisper, something low mumbled out as he checked his phone. Unbothered by the whole ordeal. "Think of it as an opportunity. To see how the other half lives." He straightened up, adjusting his jacket. "I'll see you tonight."
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It’s been hours. Hours of panic, of pacing and debating on canceling, then changing your mind again. You don’t know these people. After Aerion left the library, you did too, locked yourself in your dorm to make a game plan, yet came up with none. It’s inching closer to 7, and still you have yet to text him. Tanselle, your dorm mate, was the only person you could talk to about this, and she’s busy at the movies on a date, which would be your luck. So you spiral and go back and forth about the issue until it’s too late.
At precisely 6:45 PM, your phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number. It's from Aerion, of course; you knew that because of the contents. The message simply reads: "Don't make me come get you. I'm already in my car." The implied threat is clear. He's serious about all this, and his patience is already wearing thin. The fact that he's texting you means he’s here in the parking lot waiting for you.
How did he get your number?
It’s a good thing you got ready anyway, showered and cleaned up as best you could for such an event. Fashioned together in a nice pair of pants and dress shirt, cardigan pulled over your shoulders as a sort of barrier against the world. Makeup light, modest. You’d been fighting yourself on this since the invite, but the temptation of free food and possible connections did win you over. That and the panic of disappointment. To refuse a Targaryen of all people- you head down your dorm building to meet him. As you step outside, you see Aerion leaning against a sleek black sports car. Something expensive and fast that made your stomach tight with unease. His silver hair gleams in the evening streetlight, and he's dressed in a lavish black suit that looks like it cost more than your entire wardrobe. He spots you immediately, pushing off the car with a predatory stalk. Leaving you queasy already as you approach. He's wearing dark sunglasses despite the setting sun, giving him an even more intimidating presence.
"About time," he says, popping open the passenger door for you. "I was starting to think you'd chicken out."
He was a gentleman, at least; getting the door for you was unexpected. Though now feeling even more out of place and underdressed. “I don’t think I had a choice.” Humming out in soft displeasure as you climb in carefully. Shrinking down small as you buckle up. You can’t remember being this nervous in your life. It’s like all sense has left you, and your brain has reverted back to being a simpleton. The car smells new and overpriced, and it makes your stomach squirm in knots. Your worn purse in your lap is the only respite as you fiddle with it. Aerion gets around the car and slides into the driver's seat, his movements fluid and confident. Glancing over at you for a moment, you feel his gaze.
"You look like a deer in headlights," he remarks, starting the car up with a purr of the engine and pulling out onto the road. He reaches over and turns on some classical music, the soft violin filling the silence between you. Also surprising. You’re not entirely sure what that means. It felt odd that these threw you off. He was raised in a royal setting; of course he would have manners and enjoy classical music. Or is that just a stereotype? You weren’t even sure anymore; you were so worked up. The violin music is somewhat pleasing but not enough to help.
“I’m still not sure why I’m here.” Barely breathing out, looking out the window as the city scene passes. He had said it’s because you beat Valarr’s scores, but that seems wrong. Wouldn’t they have your file? Couldn’t they just look at that? This whole family has the world in their hands, so why toy with you? It’s like entering a dragon pit-
Aerion’s gaze skimmed over to you again, studying your worried face as you questioned your presence. He seems amused by your uncertainty, as if your discomfort is somehow endearing to him. Or maybe just anyone’s discomfort, really. "Because you need to be here," he says simply, not elaborating any further and leaving no room for arguments. His hand rests casually on the gear shift, the silver signet ring on his pinky catching the light. The rest of the drive is silent. Partly because you can’t think of what to say, partly because he doesn’t seem the type to indulge in idle chit-chat. The city passed by and changed; he weaves through the street, and after about half an hour of driving in music and internal panic, the scene starts to change to a more affluent neighborhood. The buildings grow further apart and become more luxurious as you go. You’re becoming more aware of how cheap your clothes probably are, nervously tugging at them as if being covered more would help you in any way. Making a mental plan of how to go about all this. Eventually you pull to a gate, and as soon as the guard sees Aerion, he waves you through, down a long driveway-
“Woah…” The place is huge, more of a museum than a home.
The Targaryen estate looms before you, an imposing structure of marble and custom glass. The driveway circles around a fountain with a three-headed dragon statue spitting water into the air. The front entrance is flanked by towering columns, and the door is made of ornate wood, standing ten feet tall. Aerion parks in front of the steps and gets out, coming around to your side and opening your door with practiced grace. "Welcome to Summer Hall," he says, extending his hand to help you out even though you hardly needed it. "My father's pride and joy."
The massive front doors swing open as you near, revealing a grand entrance hall with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a giant staircase down the middle leading to a painting covered in a black curtain. The floors were polished stone so shiny you could see yourself, and beautiful paintings lined the walls. Two steps behind him. That’s how you’ll keep from being too nosy, as well as keep a respectful distance from anything too expensive to touch or breathe on. Two steps behind him as he leads you inside. Eyes wandering across the Lysian rugged floors, vaulted ceilings, and grand scenery. It’s breathtaking. Feeling even smaller in the house than you did in the car. This has to be a dream, and maybe you hit your head back at your dorm. Fumbling to stay behind Aerion as you try not to look too out of place. A stranger in his home. As you enter, several staff members in formal uniforms bow their heads respectfully. Aerion walks with long strides, clearly comfortable in his own home and uncaring of the people he’s just passed. You follow quickly with a quick wave to them and a tight smile. A woman appears at the top of the staircase, her expression cool and calculating. She's dressed in an elegant evening gown. Her hair, the color of moonlight, cascades down her back, and her lilac eyes lock on the pair of you.
"Aerion," she says, her voice carrying an elegant drawl. "You're late." She looks past him to you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in your appearance. Her gaze is assessing, like a predator sizing up prey. Enough to make your skin crawl. Unlike tabloids and magazines, seeing someone like this in person is something else entirely. Like a well-known statue or a goddess’s likeness come to life. It makes your cheeks flush and look elsewhere to gawk, feeling even more underprepared. “I-I’m sorry if I made us late-” Whispering behind him for only him to hear.
Aerion's hand suddenly finds the small of your back, a firm but possessive gesture. He guides you forward, not letting you hide behind him. Almost presenting you by his side. "Relax," he murmurs low enough in your ear that it makes you tingle. "That's my sister, Daella. She's just dramatic." She descends the stairs gracefully, heels clicking against the marble with each step. She stops in front of you, studying your face with intense curiosity. You felt suddenly cornered, what with his arm around you and her in front of you.
"So this is the scholarship student," she says, her voice soft but with an edge of disdain. Spearing through you like she would a piece of food on her plate. "The one who's been making Valarr look bad."
Oh no. Your stomach drops, and your chest squeezes so tight you forget how to breathe, not only from Aerion’s nearness but his sister’s judging glare. Gaze falling to the floor in an effort to keep your composure. “It’s nice to meet you.” Squeaking out automatically, holding out your hand, but she just brushes by. Awkwardly, you pull your hand back and fold it in front of you, hurt and embarrassed by the exchange. Sucking in a breath as you try to keep from exploding right there and then. This is all too much. Daella ignores you, clearly unimpressed. Aerion doesn’t speak or defend you, but his grip on your back tightens just a fraction, subtly bothered.
As you all head down the hall, servants pass by carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks. They give you curious glances, no doubt wondering who this stranger is that Aerion brought with him. He leads you into a large dining room with a long table set for eight. There are already people at the table, all with various silver and blonde hair and a regal look about them. There are so many that Aerion points each of them out in your ear - his older brother Daeron, his younger brothers Aemon and Aegon, his sister Rhae, and of course Daella as she takes her seat. His father isn’t there yet. Aerion’s closeness is even more overwhelming in all the bustle, and you can’t help but let him drag you to your seat. Ever the gentleman, he pulls it out for you as you finally settle down.
The siblings all watch you with varying degrees of interest as you sit down. Daeron gives you a calculating look over his wine glass while Aemon, if you remember correctly, studies you with open curiosity. Aegon stares at you with wide eyes. Rhae leans over to whisper something to Daella, who rolls her eyes, earning a smile as she peeks back to you. Sending a chill down your spine. Aerion takes his seat next to you, his leg brushing against yours under the table. He seems completely at ease in this chaotic family dynamic, unbothered by your discontent, though he keeps shooting warning glances at his siblings when they get too obvious about their staring. You don’t know these people. You hardly know Aerion, aside from the rumors you heard and the interaction from earlier in the day. One conversation and now, somehow, you’re here. How did you get roped into this? His leg keeps bumping yours, and you can’t tell if it’s on purpose or not. Keeping your head down as you study the table set-up instead. Anything but dealing with the stress of this situation. Why did you agree to this? Because of food? Connections?? You’re feeling most certainly disconnected if anything-
The siblings continue their subtle but obvious scrutiny, while Aerion leans closer to you, his breath tickling against your ear. "Breathe," he murmurs; his voice is not helping right now. "They're just vultures. They won't eat you... unless you give them reason to." He places his hand on your thigh under the table, a gesture that's both comforting and possessive. Causing a bolt of electricity to shoot through you at the casual touch.
Oh-
“May I use your restroom?” Croaking out clumsily. Feeling your skin prickle at the mortification. He mumbles vaguely where it is, and you shoot up a little too fast. Giving a soft ‘excuse me’ as you all but run away. Once you find the restroom, you waste no time locking yourself inside. Finally- finally- taking an unscrutinized breath since he picked you up from your dorm. Aerion watched you practically flee from the room with a blank expression, something processing behind those assessing eyes. He knows he's pushed you too far, but he can't help himself; it’s all a part of his plan.
The siblings exchange knowing looks at your hasty departure. Daella leans over to Aerion just enough for him to hear- "She's cute when she's nervous," she chirps, her tone dripping with mockery. "But a little... plain, don't you think?"He doesn't say a word, but he shoots her a deadly glare. That makes her straighten up fairly promptly.
A moment. That’s all you take; it’s all you need. Cooling your heated cheeks with water from the sink and cleaning up your makeup as much as you can. You look simple compared to them, but it’s ok. It’s all going to be ok. You’ll have dinner, speak when you’re spoken to, then go back to campus and never see them again. Except the idea of leaving this bathroom seems daunting in a way that’s impossible. You, who made it all the way to KLU on a full ride, are having trouble at a family dinner.
As you linger in the bathroom, there's a soft knock on the door. Aerion's voice comes through, a muffled sound. “You alright in there?" His tone is different than before, lacking its usual arrogance. He sounds almost… worried. His footsteps pacing outside the door suggest he's waiting for you to come out or at least for some kind of answer. The rest of his family must be wondering where you've gone, and he probably doesn't want to deal with their questions. In a split moment, you’re left with two options. Or at least that’s what your brain tells you. Go out and face him and his family, or- you drag him in. In a flash of pure stupidity, you’ve unlocked the door, reached out and yanked him into the fancy bathroom. Slamming the door shut behind him with a decisive click. He stumbles slightly as you pull him in, caught off guard by your sudden action. When he turns around to face you, his eyes widen momentarily before narrowing, a mix of surprise and amusement crossing his face. Now you’re locked in here with him, and that’s even more daunting than dinner-
“I don’t think I can do this.” Gasping out, now doing your own pacing in front of him. Feeling the air grow thin and your bowels gurgle and your stomach burn with bile that threatens to come back up- “I can’t do this. I want to go home. Take me home-”
He watches you pace, your distress clearly visible. It makes the small bathroom feel even more confined with both of you in it. "You're panicking," he states the obvious, leaning against the counter as he watches you pace. His presence fills the space, making it overwhelming when it’s meant to be a respite. He crosses his arms, studying you with an expression that's slightly annoyed and a tinge of sympathy if you squint. The amusement fading to something else, replaced by something more serious. Then he’s stepping closer to you, his tall frame blocking your path and forcing you to stop. "Hey," he says softer, reaching out to stop your pacing. He grabs your bicep firm enough to hold you still. "Look at me."
His hands move to grip your shoulders enough to ground you, forcing you to face him. The room is quiet except for your rapid breathing and his steady breaths. "Breathe," he commands, his violet eyes intense as they lock onto yours. He leaves no room for argument, as if the longer you freak out, the less patience he has for it all. "In and out. Slowly." Though it feels impossible. Stuttering breaths that make your ribs ache, and you feel like you’re going to be sick. His hold is too overwhelming.
Your hands coming to his chest to push at him to make space. “I can’t-” Spiraling further as the weight of it all crushes you. Unable to meet his gaze as it feels too intense, unable to leave the room because you're scared, unable to do anything at all. Too much. This was all too much- “I’m gonna be sick-” Your head is starting to throb-
Aerion's expression turns steely as he sees you truly panicking, a moment of hesitation, before he pulls you against his chest. He wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace that makes you wheeze. "No, you're not," he states fiercely, one hand moving to cradle the back of your head. "You're not going to be sick. Just breathe, with me." His heartbeat is steady against your ear as he smushes you close, his body heat radiating through his expensive suit. The scent of his cologne surrounds you, creating a strange sense of security despite your state. Something about it all is… intoxicating. "In through your nose, out through your mouth," he guides, his voice surprisingly gentle as he speaks into your hair.
For a moment you still fight against him, weak attempts to pull him off you. Gasping and trembling with built-up adrenaline that has nowhere to go. When that doesn’t work, his heartbeat is all you are left with. Steady. Firm. Unwavering. Your heart's hammering much too fast you’d think you’d stolen something. Eventually, instead of trying to push away, you bury closer, his heart the only thing keeping you steady. In. Out. It doesn’t work. In. In. Out. In. Out. Out. “I’m gonna pass out-” Muffled by his buttoned shirt as you dig closer. Trying desperately not to do just that. Aerion feels your trembling intensify, your body against his as you struggle to regulate. His grip tightens fractionally, one hand coming to rub soothing circles on your back. "No, you're not going to pass out," he says, a quiet determination, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You're having a panic attack. Just focus on me. On my voice." He shifts slightly, his chin resting on top of your head as he continues holding you. The bathroom feels like a sanctuary from the chaos outside of the world. "Keep breathing. I've got you. You're safe." His words are grumbled but kind, meant to anchor you in the present moment. He feels your breathing gradually slow as you begin to calm down. Your shaking subsides slightly, but your grip on his shirt remains solid. He continues holding you, his hand still tracing circles on your back. His other hand gently massages the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair in a surprisingly tender gesture. The bathroom fills with the sound of your shaky breaths as you slowly come down from the panic attack.
In. Out. In and out. His embrace is warm and comforting in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. His gentle touches feel too nice to ignore, and you slowly start to be able to think clearly again. Gently un-crumpling his shirt in your hands, hesitantly standing more on your own. Eventually realizing how ridiculous you probably look as you pull away. Head still pounding, but at least you’re not clinging to him like some baby. “I-I’m sorry…” Mumbling out softly, unable to meet his gaze after such an embarrassing display.
Aerion lets you pull away, though he keeps his hands on your shoulders until he's sure you're steady. His expression is unreadable as he watches you compose yourself. "Don't apologize," he offered quietly, which felt very unlike him. He’s studying your face, noting the lingering distress and the flush of your cheeks. The bathroom feels smaller now, the intimacy of the moment hanging in the air between you two. "Do you want to go home?" Giving you an out if you need it.
Ah-
“Gods I wish I could-“ Except home isn’t here; it’s miles away from King’s Landing, and the next best thing is some too-stuffed dorm room. That isn’t home, but he doesn’t need to know all that. “I just need a minute.” Taking a step back to catch your breath. To straighten yourself out when it feels nonviable to do so. Now you don’t feel good, and you’re wound up so tight you feel as if you could combust. It feels especially bad with him in here, seeing you like this. Vulnerable. “I’m sorry-”
Aerion's eyes darken slightly at your repeated apology. He takes a step closer again, his presence dominating the small space. "Stop apologizing," he growls, though there's no anger in his tone. He reaches out and gently cups your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. Twisting you in the light as if to really look at you. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, a surprisingly light touch. The intensity makes your skin prickle, his violet eyes boring into yours. "It’s annoying." That sounds more like him.
Oh.
Oh-
“I-I can’t help it, it’s a force of habit-.” Sputtering out as you flush, yanking away from him entirely. Recoiling so fast your head spins. His touch was warm, but his thumb on your lip tingled in a way that was dangerous. What is wrong with you? Unable to meet his gaze- “I’m here because you said this was an opportunity. I won’t be taken seriously if I’m like this-” A mess. You always have been, but it’s getting harder to hide the longer you’re with people of this tax bracket. This world demands perfection constantly. “I can’t-”
Aerion lets go as you pull away, a flicker of something crossing his face before it’s quickly gone. Morphing into something else - a darker, more intense emotion that flashes behind his eyes. He watches as you look away, your vulnerability evident in your words and body language. He takes a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets to prevent himself from reaching out to you again. The air is thick with tension, the weight of your self-doubt palpable. "Opportunity for what? To show off your intellect? To play ‘business partner’ with my father?" He grits with a scoff, dismissive. But there's an undercurrent of something else in his tone - a hint of admiration perhaps? "Well, you're wrong, about everything.” He starts, “My father never wanted to meet you; I’m the one who wanted you to meet him. He’s been shitty with me lately and threatening to cut my inheritance, but I know he’s seen your scores and he was intrigued." He stops, watching your response with a careful eye. One that keeps pushing you- “You are supposed to be out there making me look good, and instead you’re in here falling apart. That’s pathetic.”
Shivers run down your spine. You take a wobbly step back till your back hits the bathroom counter. “So you lied to me.” It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. You’ve known this man less than a day and yet here you are. Why did you just blindly listen to him?
Aerion's eyes darken as you back away, a smirk forming on his lips. Dangerous. He follows you, caging you against the counter with his palms planted on either side of you. He makes the cramped space impossible to escape his intense gaze. "My father isn’t an easy man to please. He wants the best of the best," he states, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "And you’re supposed to be the best. Better than Valarr." He leans in closer, face mere inches from yours. His eyes flicker down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again. Something that makes your pulse spike. You can see the moment some terrible idea enters his head. "Maybe you could be good for me in other ways…" His tone drops to possessive, like he's already decided something.
He’s too close. Too much in your personal space that you can’t think. Leaning further back as your spine aches- "Whatever you’re thinking, stop it..." Trying to cut off whatever havoc he was thinking of doing. He steals the air from your lungs. Hands coming to his chest to try and push him away, but he doesn’t budge. If anything, he comes closer- “Stop it-” Gasping out as you try to get him off. To think properly. To breathe air that isn’t from his lungs. Yet he weighs a million pounds against you. Why is he doing this? One moment he was sweet and caring while you were spiraling, and now- now he’s making you spiral.
Aerion's grip on the counter tightens as you try to push him away, his eyes flashing with something primal. He ignores your protests, reveling in the way you're stuck between him and the counter. The sound of your gasping breath only fuels his desire to push you further. "C’mon, you don’t even know what I'm thinking," he teases, his face inches from yours now. His free hand comes up to grip your chin again, this time with enough force that it aches. Looking directly into your eyes. " Could be really good." Leaning in even closer, his lips hovering just above yours. Air mingling together as your brain short circuits.
Panic.
Flustered panic as he presses closer and closer. Such a handsome man so close would make anyone melt, but him? A prince? His hold on your chin hurts to the point you wonder if you’ll bruise. You can’t exactly pull out of it. So you do the only thing you know you can do, palm coming up to his mouth to cover it. Your heart is hammering in your ears as you blink at him. This is not how you planned for this to go. Pushing him away hasn’t worked; the next best thing is to- pinch. Free hand coming to nip his side and it makes his ears jump from him. Just enough to let you move. Squirming your way out from between him and the counter as you break his hold.
Aerion's eyes widen in surprise as you pinch him, a low grunt escaping his lips against your palm. He hadn't expected you to fight back, and for a brief moment, he's caught off guard. His grip on your chin loosens enough for you to slip away, but he quickly recovers, turning to face you with a mixture of irritation and some amusement. He rubs his side where you pinched him. "That was a dirty move." He seems more determined now that you've done that to him, and you can’t imagine why.
“I am not above using dirty tricks to get you off my ass.” Warning him, careful and low. Another step back, and this time you’re bumping into the bathroom door. Every time he keeps coming closer, and every time your brain turns to a puddle. Why is that? “And whatever it is you are planning, it’s horrible, and I can tell before you even open your mouth.“ Discouraging him before he can really get set on whatever he was thinking, holding a finger out at him and wagging. As if that was enough to keep him at bay.
A mix of annoyance and surprise flickers across his face as you poke him in the chest. The audacity of it catches him off guard, and for a moment, he just stares at you with a mixture of mild disbelief and amusement. No one has ever dared to stand up to him like this, let alone physically reprimand him. Except, maybe his father. His gaze flicks down to your finger, then back up to your face, taking in the fierce determination in your eyes. A slow smirk spreads across his lips as he realizes that you’re not backing down. Despite your obvious nervousness, you’re fighting back. "Oh, you have no idea-" He grabs your finger, holding it firmly to his chest. Refusing to let you take it back. "You think you can stop me with a finger poke? That's cute."
He tries to step closer, and before you could process it, your body is moving. Free hand coming down between you two to grab at the softness of him. Right between his legs. A warning- “I know plenty of ways to stop you; I’m just trying to be tasteful about it.” It makes your skin flush. It’s not like you wanted to do this, but he leaves you little choice. Now you quite literally had him by the balls.
Aerion’s easy attitude falters for a moment as your hand suddenly seizes him, the unexpected move causing his breath to hitch in his throat. His grip on your finger tightens reflexively, eyes widening slightly at the boldness of your threat. A wave of heat washes over him, his body responding to your touch in ways he didn't expect. Gaze darkens with a mixture of pleasant surprise and desire, a low growl rumbling in his throat. "Oh yeah?" He manages out, his voice huskier than before. Swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his pulse quickens at your daring move. Despite the warning, he can't help but feel a thrill of excitement coursing through him. He never expected you to be so... hands-on. A part of him wants to see just how far you'll go to make good on your threats.
For a moment you just stand there, looking at each other. Waiting for the other to make a move or break. It’s only when you feel him twitch against your palm that it registers. The feeling of him slowly hardening- “Pervert.” Yanking your hand away as you flush a painful red. Shoving him away as you scoff. You had planned for him to get livid, or back off, or something- not this. “You liked that, didn’t you?” Huffing out in disgust as you wipe your hand on your pants. Yet your hand tingles from the ghost of the sensation.
Aerion stumbles back slightly from your push, but his eyes never leave yours. Watches as you wipe your hand off. His expression is a mix of something dark and endless. A hunger you can’t quite shake. His breathing is slightly uneven now, his body still reacting to your touch. The accusation only makes him grin wider, his eyes sparking with lust. "Of course I did," he admits shamelessly, adjusting himself blatantly in front of you with zero disregard. "You're full of surprises, aren't you? I never expected you to be so... aggressive." He takes a step forward again, his predatory gaze fixed on you. Enough to make your skin sweat in anticipation. The tension in the bathroom is electric now, the air thick with unspoken desire and challenge. "But don't act like you didn't enjoy it too." He reaches out to snatch your wrist, dragging you back towards him. Toward the thick tent of him through his perfectly tailored pants-
He isn’t shaken in the slightest. If anything, you made him worse. More insatiable. The hot weight of his length against your palm as he fills out. It makes your brain turn to mush. Pressed against him as you try to pull away with no luck. He is strong, dire in his want. What was meant to be a deterrent seems to have only made things worse- “Stop-” This isn’t how this was meant to go.
Aerion pinned even closer, his body flush against yours as he puts you back against the door. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. The heat radiating from him is almost overwhelming, his breath humid against your skin. "Why should I?" He rumbles low, his voice rough with desire. His hips roll against your palm, seeking more friction, and it makes you bite out a surprised noise of your own. "You started this. You can't just grope me and expect me to want you to stop." His thumb digs into your cheek. He holds you in place as he dissects your every reaction to his filth. "You feel that?" He grinds against you more deliberately. Making sure you could feel him throb through the layers of fine silk. "You did that to me."
This has gone too far. How did you get here? His grip is iron as he holds your hand to him, making it impossible to ignore. Smushed against the door, there’s no escape, only him, only his molten hot need. So what are you meant to do? A trembling breath tumbling out as you reason with him. “A-alright…” Relenting quietly, feeling your stomach flip and your senses screaming at you to pull away. “-but only if you admit you lied and that you’re sorry for wasting my time.” Hesitant and wary, a whisper. Unsure of how he would react to such a demand.
His eyes narrow at your ultimatum, a flicker of anger crossing his face. He hadn't expected you to concede so easily, but he's bothered by your conditions. He tilts his head, studying you intently as if trying to gauge your sincerity and whether you really mean to help or if you're just saying it. "You want me to apologize?" He repeats incredulously, voice low and dangerous. His grip on your wrist and jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it immediately. Doesn’t shoot you down just yet. He leans in closer, lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. "And what exactly will you give me in return, hmm? What do you have to offer me that could possibly be worth it?"
Well- “I’ll help finish what I started.” Tipping in to whisper in his ear. A gentle squeeze of his member earned a groan. It’s not like he wasn’t tempting, or handsome, but he can’t just act however he wants. This whole thing was cutting into valuable study time. Your free hand coming to his waist, sliding under his suit jacket to hold him close. The fabric is much too expensive for your fingers. Not wanting him to look at you while you do this. Because when he does, it’s like a spell has been put on you and you freeze, which is embarrassing enough as is. “I think that’s pretty fair.”
A shudder runs through Aerion's body as you toy with him, his grip on your wrist tightening reflexively. The sound of his groan sends a jolt of pleasure straight to your core, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. His violet eyes flutter closed as he tries to compose himself, the hand on your jaw coming to rest on your hip instead. He lets out a shaky exhale, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing at such a simple touch. Your conditions are fair, but giving an apology feels like a concession he doesn't want to make. The temptation of your touch is too strong to resist. "Fine." He snarls out, his voice strained with need. "I lied, and wasted your precious time. Happy?"
“I can work with that.” Sighing in some relief at his relent. It wasn’t exactly what you wanted, but you knew it was the best you were going to get. The heel of your palm digging into him as you pull him closer. Claustrophobic but relishing in how he seems to crowd you. Like being this close isn’t enough and he needs more, needs under your skin. His hips are bucking against you. “I’ve got you, use my hand.” Mumbling against the skin of his neck, drowning. Hiding against his chest so he doesn't see the mess he’s making of you just by doing this. Tempted to press kisses but restraining yourself just barely. Unsure of what boundaries could or should be crossed, and trying to have some sensibility. A low growl thunders in Aerion's throat as you give him permission to use your hand, the sound almost feral with need. The feeling of your palm grinding against him through his trousers is unbearable, and he bucks his hips again in a desperate search for more friction.
Sweat starts on his brow as he works for it. His fingers dig into your hip, leaving marks on your skin despite the layers as he tries to maintain some semblance of control. The scent of your shampoo and the softness of your hair against his neck are driving him insane with desire, making it hard to think straight. Something clean and warm and inviting. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent like a drowning man gasping for air. His free hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer as he grinds against you brazenly. His breath comes out ragged gasps now, body trembling with desire and restraint. He squishes you to him, bending you at an awkward angle to accommodate him in your space. At this point he’s just grinding against you, and your hand just happens to be there. The passion, his smell, everything is making you dizzy with bliss as you try to keep on goal. Somewhat breathless from the intensity of him. “That’s it-“ Huffing out as your fingers try to memorize the outline of him, pressing at the tip of him through the layers. “Get there.” Your chin finds his shoulder as you try to come up to breathe-
Aerion's hips snap forward violently at your encouragement, his control slipping further with each passing moment. Your words and your hand are driving him wild, his body responding to you like you're the only thing that matters in the world. The feeling is too much, and he bites down on your clothed shoulder to muffle his groans. His grip on your hair tightens as he ruts against you desperately, chasing his release. Hot and heavy against your skin, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He's close, so close, and you can tell. The coil in his stomach is wound tighter than ever before, threatening to snap at any moment. "Fuck-" He curses against you, voice strained and wanton. "I'm gonna-"
Gods-
“I’ve got you.” Cooing out as you buck against him, hand constricting him as you hold him. Your arm that’s around his waist tugs him close as your palm flattens to his spine. Nose nudging the pulse of his neck, offering the softest and faintest kiss you could manage without being obvious. It could be crossing a line, but we are too far into this for it to feel like it. Your mind is a haze of pleasure, anxiety, and something soft. Seeing him like this, so open and vulnerable with his pleasure, feels like something special that should be handled with care.
Aerion's entire body shudders as you coax him and kiss his neck; the sound of your voice and the gentle press of your lips against his skin is what ends up sending him over the edge. He buries his face in your hair, muffling his cry of ecstasy as he comes undone. His hips jerk against your hand, cock throbbing as he spills into his underwear. Fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you right against him as wave after wave of intense rapture crashes over him. The sensation of you on his spine is almost too much to bear, making a thrill shoot up in a way he's never experienced before. He can feel himself shaking against you, completely undone by your touch and the tenderness in your actions. It scares him how much he wants to stay like this, wrapped up in you and feeling things he shouldn't. He goes rigid, squeezing the air out of your lungs, then melts. Releasing his weight into you as you try to hold you both up. His hand finally leaving his pants to wrap around his waist and keep him upright. “Woah there-” Holding him as he goes dead weight against you, boneless. Propped against the door for support. Your hands rub his back gently as you try to coax him to stand on his own. “You’re heavy; I will drop you.” It’s a hollow threat.
Aerion lets out a shaky laugh against your neck, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his orgasm. Yet he makes no move to stand on his own, instead enjoying the feeling of being held by you. Your gentle rubbing feels too nice, and he's reluctant to pull away from your embrace. "You won't drop me," he mumbles, his voice hoarse and slightly smug. "You like holding me too much." He nuzzles closer to you, breathing in your scent again. This time without all the burning desire and hormones. His hands slide from your hip to your lower back, pulling you flush against him once more. Despite his earlier bravado, there's a hint of vulnerability in his posture now, as if he's secretly enjoying being cared for by you.
Ah.
You hate how he’s right. The weight of him, the warmth, the closeness is all too pleasing after so long without such a thing. When’s the last time you’ve been touched like this? Held like something worth being wanted? Yet the tug closer makes you all too aware of what you just did, the careful consideration that- “My pants-” Trying to pull your hips away from him to keep your pants clean, all while still trying to hold him up. “I’m serious-” Hissing out in a warning. You still had dinner to get through.
Aerion groans in protest as you try to pull away, his arms tightening around you before you could leave. He doesn't want to let you go, not yet. The idea of having to face his family with the evidence of what just happened is mortifying, but the thought of you leaving his arms is worse. He eventually loosens his grip slightly, allowing you to create some space between your hips. "Fine," he grumbles, though his hands still linger on your back. “But you’re cleaning me up."
AN:Oh boy. This came out alot longer than I meant for it too. Please excuse me. Lemme know if there is anything I can/should be doing differently. I'll take any and all feedback! Thanks so much for reading this far.
So sorry for the delay, I have been dying IRL and trying my damnedest to write but with no luck. Between a family loss and myself ending up in the hospital (double infection, not fun), I have been worn out and not in my best headspace to work on Part Two of Changing Fate.
I am home, resting, hydrating and on medicine that should help me feel better. Part Two is maybe 1/3 of the way done and I have a Modern!University!Aerion draft that is halfway done. I hope to complete one or both of these by the end of this week.
I also want to get more involved in community to help keep me accountable, so if you have any words of advice or questions or anything please feel free to comment and let me know! Thank you all so much for the support so far, I promise I haven’t forgotten nor will I not finish this series. I already have Part Three mapped out and the rest of the story is in a rough draft, but the main plot is basically set in stone.
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Valarr Targaryen
Prologue / Part One / Part One & A Half / Part Two: The Warrior
Description: After arriving to the tourney you take in the scene. Something catches your eye and sets you off track. Though maybe you’re not as far off track as you think?
WC: 2.8K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Nothing crazy, jerk men, Aerion is his own warning, gambling.
AN: This was originally the end of Part One but I didn’t like how it came out so I redid it and now here it is. I apologize for the inconvenience and hope it’s not too terrible of a re-read. Let me know how it is, thank you all! P.s. I am the Fool.
The trek had been miserable.
It took two days on foot to get from Sun Meadows Inn to Ashford Meadows. Feet swelling and blistering from the miles of travel on uneven terrain. You didn’t walk the road. You walked along the edge of it, careful not to draw any attention. When any cart or horse would pass, you hid in the trees till they were long gone. Winding down the southern path, turning at the Millers farm, and kept going along till you saw the beginnings of the large settlement.
It was unlike anything you’d ever seen. Various vibrant colors and banners were everywhere you looked. Children running along the grass, playing as they squealed in delight. Men and women scuttling around in numbers you hadn’t seen since your time in the modern world. A million different distractions. You were used to the quiet of the Inn and the bustle on occasion. Not the overwhelming bustle and nowhere being quiet.
You ached in places you didn’t know you could. The first thing you did when you got there was find somewhere else to be. Following downriver in hopes that the isolation will prevail, setting up camp once you find a spot with enough cover. You didn’t have anything other than your small bag of food, clothes, and the dagger, but you didn’t think much of it at the time. It would be a problem for later. You’d figure it all out eventually. For now, your pillow was the stuffed sack, dagger hidden in your boot.
You spent the next day walking around and mapping the place out. The guards walk stiffly along the dirt paths that have now been carved with all the foot traffic. The knights that train in the yard, their squires that they train with. The maidens who are half dressed and sat in the men's laps, the butcher that's carving some fresh meat that’s been caught, the smithies- it was all a bit much to keep track of, really.
You took note of the edges of camp, the places that had fewer men. The little lords and their parties that had muted cloth for tents and ordinary swords. This group was loud, wandering from one tent to another, mugs of ale in hand as they sloshed around. The further into the encampment you went, the more extravagant it became. Crimson banisters on poles. A Dijon yellow shelter that couldn’t be a tent because it was just as large as the Inn. Dark navy, emerald greens, they all blurred together with house sigils and men who laughed with a bit too much force. Instead of being rowdy outdoors, most of these men stayed in their tents. Opting to get plastered in private. Much to your relief. You haven’t been around this many people in a long time.
There was a market somewhere in the mix. Selling various goods, made up of the common people and their wares. Plenty of food to choose from. An arrangement of clothing, armor, and swords. There was even someone selling a small assortment of spices from somewhere farther south. It was dizzying to have so many options after so long. A pang of something nostalgic creeps up before you shove it back down. You end up buying a new cloak simply to have cover in your new setting. Something brown and indistinguishable from any of the other ones you’ve seen roaming around.
In the evening, you walk to Lord Ashford’s castle. It's tall and intimidating. The structure was sturdy, with men sitting atop its walls. A moat along the outside. Though it wasn't very deep, and more like a sad puddle than anything. Well guarded, though. You knew it would be, but it still makes your palms sweat. You take note of the workers who come in and out of which gates and how they are dressed. Who gets by? What do they carry, if anything, and what do they say? You note the guards' rotations and the nobles they trail behind. Yet the whole time, you find no sign of any royal company.
You spent that night at camp under the stars and sleeping in the grass. It was here that you missed the barn more than you missed your life before all this. Because from here you knew the barn was still waiting for you. You could turn back and forget about all this. Accept the world you got put into and rejoin Jenna at the Inn. You wonder what Jenna thought of your sudden departure. Missing Salmon more than you should. It was hard to sleep that night.
It was only meant to be passing through.
Doing a sweep the next morning of the paths and the camps to see if you eavesdropped anything useful. Saw anything different. What caught your eye instead was a small crowd gathered together. There have been many games and events hosted thus far, but you paid them no mind. Boorish tug of war, sparring, or wrestling. One tent even had a play that went on. But this was quiet. This was men silently huddled around in a tight circle that made you too curious to pass.
You’re not entirely sure how it happened.
Eventually, you pulled enough courage to peek inside the crowd to find two men sitting at a table with a board. It was chess. Or something like it, and they were gambling. You watched each turn as they played the game. One taking the other, the other countering, and vice versa until someone won. A balance till one lost, and the people around would groan or cheer depending on how much money was in the pot. A day wasted watching and learning, and then you lost another just studying technique. The pull of the thrill chasing you when you went to sleep till you woke up in the morning. You had been so bored with chores, cooking, and cleaning that you forgot such games existed. It’s been years since something like this caught your interest. Something other than your task at hand.
On the fourth day, you weren’t doing rounds like you should’ve when someone spotted you. It was the first time since you arrived that someone addressed you directly. Some challenger is calling you from his spot at the table. Forcing you to sit and play. “You, girl.” He booms. Some knight who had won three games in a row who wanted a change of pace. He had wanted to make a fool of you. A plain girl who’s been watching from morning till night for two days. “I bet you a copper you haven’t learned a thing all day.” Clearly, he noticed you gawking. So you took this as your chance to try it out. You ended up winning.
It wasn’t hard to grasp. Certain pieces are similar to those in chess, and you heard the rules through the days you watched. The game was called Cyvasse. Strategic moves and daring traps to annihilate your opponent for your dragon, your king equivalent. How fitting. One round turned to two, then to two more. Somehow you’ve been surrounded by the crowd- that’s only grown larger- for a few hours now. The sky is turning dusk as you rake in your sixth win and its earnings. Managing to get at least two silvers and five coppers so far. At least six different squires and knights tried to beat you and failed. Wordlessly, you would end them in a handful of moves. Relishing in the mental workout it gave you, a tantalizing game you fell too hard into. Your seventh opponent was a lord who wasn’t doing too well.
The large man was sitting across from you, sweating profusely for someone who hadn’t moved from his spot in the past hour. His clothes were fine and his appearance clean, but the wrinkles on his face only seemed to deepen. Making him look years older. As if the game was more than he bargained for, and he is only now realizing. After the last squire lost, Lord Burberry stepped in and wagered 5 silver stags that he would win. So you had agreed. Because you needed the coin more than you needed to be wandering around. Now the man is in a tight corner on the board, and while you were sitting in your chair with a slightly smug air, he was dying inside. It was his turn, and you noted his every hesitance. Unaware of the shift in the air.
The quiet came first. What had been whispered chatter during the match had died to nothing. Everyone is holding their breath as the restless energy changes to something suffocating. Something different. You were so caught up in the piece that the lord was hovering over you that you didn’t even process the turn of the evening. The tingle on the back of your neck came first, which suggested someone was behind you. Confirmed when a hand comes from over your shoulder and places a large pouch onto the table with its contents clinking inside. A move that made you freeze in your spot.
“I shall play next.” His voice is casual, rumbling from behind you as the hand pulls back. You use all your willpower to tip your head slightly and look over your shoulder. The face that greets you is pale. Sharp. Hardened in a way that steals your breath because you’ve seen nobility, but this was regal. If the silver hair didn’t give it away, then those violet eyes did. They bore into you. Cold and burning into your soul as he takes you in. Giving you a once-over that made you all too aware of yourself. Every blink, every muscle, every breath. This was another Targaryen. When had their party arrived? You’re not sure. You should’ve known; you should’ve been out there watching for them, but you were too busy playing Cyvasse. Now, by some cruel fate, it seems they keep finding you.
His hair was cut short. Little tufts that reminded you of the lifetime before this that seemed fitting for such wealth. His eyes are lighter than the other Targaryen man you met. Daeron had a sleepy, colored hue, while this was something pale. A lilac or lavender, yet it was steely compared to its floral likeness. Holding something dangerous you couldn’t quite place. Heated and withering in a way that made you feel small. He was dressed in a blood-red doublet that stood out against his paleness. A dark cloak on his shoulders that matched the one Daeron and Aegon had at the Inn. Fitting.
You knew this man too.
Aerion Targaryen.
There were a few scenes the Old Woman showed you that you couldn’t stomach. Having gotten used to some of the gore and numbness in this reality. His death was not one of them. His was one that seared into your memory the first time she showed you. You remember his hair being a bit longer, age showing with the lines and scars across his skin. He had tried to drink wildfyre, and you couldn’t forget something like that. His screams were agonizing, the choking after, and then the silence that followed. There were a few scenes you couldn’t watch, but his made you sick to the point you could only stomach it once. Yet here is a young man who doesn’t know any of that pain. You’d like to keep it that way if you had any say.
Your gaze quickly landed back on the lord, who was now gawking at the prince with a terrified look. “Prince Aerion, when did you arrive? We were only just finishing-” He fumbled for words before turning his attention back to the board. You could see his throat try to work a swallow, only to fail. All too aware of the eyes on him now, and how bad it would look to lose against you in front of a prince.
You felt the prince move around to walk to the other side of the table. The crowd shuffled out of his way as he glided over. Stood on top of the lord like he had with you and watched over his shoulder. Intrigued. A calculating gaze that assessed the game, then the lord with something mischievous building behind his eyes. A snake coiling around its prey. He was waiting for the lord to make a move, and when that took too long, the prince huffed. “Then finish.” He growled out, low and sharp. That alone made Lord Burberry flinch. The lord picked up the piece he’d been hovering over all turn and placed it anywhere it could. A horrible place, really. You didn’t want to miss out on 5 silver stags, so you cornered him even further. Easily scooting your pawn over to press him in further. When you looked back up, Aerion’s eyes were on you. That made your stomach drop. “I wager my entire purse that she loses the next one.”
Lord Burberry was bumped out of his seat as soon as he conceded and paid his due. Aerion was taking his place with a languidness that seemed impossible for the setting. A small army crowding you while you played Cyvasse with a prince? You should’ve just kept doing your rounds. You didn’t speak as you reset the board. Mentally cursing yourself for being in this situation in the first place. You most certainly couldn’t run now. Winning was not an option unless you wanted to face his wrath. You quite liked both your hands, and you’d like to keep them attached. There is only one answer. “God bless, your grace.” Mumbling out in some effort to appease the man, but he doesn’t even acknowledge your words. Just watch the board as you make the first move.
The game goes on slowly. It feels like years have been taken off your life. Each move is agonizing as you try to find solid ground. At first, you played normally. You didn’t want to upset him by not playing like you were before. He was good, pulled some moves you didn’t know you could do. Then again, you’ve only known the game for two days. The first signs of your winning were small; you made sure to keep the distance minimal between his success and yours. Most of the people around didn’t see the board for what it was. How you were setting up your pieces, how he was setting up his. He played with a bored look. Not pushing or pulling, but a reaction to every step you took. Quick. Tactic. Ready for his victory with the arrogance of thinking he would always win. It was only when the pieces dwindled that he actually saw the board for what it was and what you were doing. His expression shifting. You had taken one too many of his, and he noticed, just barely, a trap you could easily put him in. Yet you didn’t. You conceded the piece he had pinned, and he had noticed.
His gaze wasn’t on the board anymore but on you, never wavering. As if his eyes could peel back the layers of you and take the answer he’s looking for. It sends chills down your spine. Having his undivided attention was too much. Everyone’s eyes on you became too much. So you fumble. On purpose. To make the game and your suffering end quicker, not caring if he saw through your lie. The pause after is him adjusting. Recalibrating. Then moving. He pushes in further, to the point you have to take another of his pieces or have one of yours taken. You choose the latter. His gaze remained on you. Jaw jumping, and you can see the way his mind is working over the way you’re playing. He pushes you over and over till you’ve forfeited most of your pieces, and he eventually wins. You can’t meet his gaze anymore. It’s burning holes into your soul. You can feel him going over the match again and again, his silence too heavy. The inconsistency in the way you played before and then after. There was a distinct change that he had picked up on and couldn’t let go. When he won, everyone cheered with relief, money passing from one person to the next. The bets were on his odds, but more out of fear than of his actual skill. Yet the crowd didn’t care as the prince was given his win, his temper still in check as he was still stuck in his head.
Some lord or another clamped down on his shoulder with a ‘congratulations,’ and you took that as your cue to leave. Somewhere in the chaos, you were able to slip away. Quick to disappear into the sea of people to avoid any further conflict. Leaving the coins you won on the board as collateral. You didn’t agree to bargain your coins, but you didn’t want the prince mad at you either. So instead of being called a cheat or a thief, you left your day's earnings with him. Exiting the grounds and returning to your own encampment for the rest of the night.
You don’t play Cyvasse again.
AN: If you took the time to re-read this, I am so grateful! Normal updates should be coming soon now that I've got my set up how I want it. No back tracking. I hope to have Part Two done by Monday or Tuesday, we shall see.
Pairing: Academic Rival!Valarr Targaryen x Fem!Reader
Description: Valarr has been getting on your nerves since the start of the semester. When he gives you an olive branch you try to take it in your own way. Earning more of his attention than you bargained for.
WC: 6.7K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Slight Scholarship Student!Reader (sorry), Brat!Reader, Reader has slight anger issues (if you squint), ragebaiting, bit of filthy talk, Pervert!Valarr, oral (f!receiving), panty stealing, IDK lemme know if I missed anything.
AN: Academic Rival!Valarr is not my original idea and I take no credit for it. Will try to work on the tagging, but I keep thinking of Valedictorian/Business Heir Valarr and had to write something. Let me know feedback or anything I missed. Thanks!
King’s Landing University was the most elite school for the overly powerful and filthy rich. The University prided itself on its academics. State-of-the-art labs, brand new classrooms, and a canteen that served the best of the best. Classes had started a few weeks ago, or maybe it’s been a few months by now; you can’t quite remember. Students are trying to get into their habits and memorize their schedules. You’d gotten used to the courses, both the challenging ones and the ones that came more easily. You set aside more time for History and English because you noticed that those professors gave out more work than the others. Keeping your head down and nose to the books. It was different than what you were used to, difficult in ways you hadn’t expected. Trying to survive in a world of the obscenely wealthy felt impossible. It leaves you with endless days of little human contact, yet your grades have never been better. You refuse to let them slip.
It gets lonely.
The only friend you truly had was your dorm-mate, Tanselle. Seeing as everyone else on campus really only cared about celebrity gossip or when the next Gala would be. Tanselle was a nice respite from all that with her easy demeanor and pleasant conversation about the upcoming theater show or something of the sort. Tanselle was busy with her Drama major, which alone took up all her free time. Hence, most of your time outside of class was spent in the library. It wasn’t often, or even, that you went to bars or parties. You couldn’t afford it. One wrong move and you’d be struggling to fight back to the top spot for weeks. Every day after classes, you would pick the same table in the corner and shove yourself there till the sun went down.
Valarr had picked up on your pattern of disappearing. Top of his class, high marks, and future heir to the Iron Thrones Bank of wealth. Valarr’s life is also defined by strict schedules and rigorous timelines planned months in advance. That’s how he likes it. The discipline and structure of it are what make him who he is. He sees something that might throw off his whole plan, and he adjusts to it. Everything in his life is meticulously thought over at least three times. Obsessively so. He has to be in control of everything, and so he is. A quiet power. He can’t afford to make mistakes; he's too busy, and too many people are expecting perfection from him. In fact, his days were usually booked out and written in his planner at least three weeks in advance.
The only exclusion was you.
You who always, at any given time, were battling for top of class by a point at any given time. You who would constantly find flaws in anything he said, possibly just to argue. You who would always answer in class just to spite him when he had had his hand raised first. You were the one thing he couldn’t fully comprehend. One day he would be on schedule to be valedictorian, and the next- a new grade entered- putting him in second, you leading the top spot. It drove him wild. So the further the term went on, the longer he seemed to watch you.
His curiosity was piqued when he saw you in the library, always alone and surrounded by piles of work. While he usually preferred his own company as well, something about your isolated state bothered him. He would pass the library every day to get to his afternoon meetings or classes, and every time you were there. He can’t recall a time you weren’t.
On this particular afternoon, he found himself passing by after one of his piano lessons. The library's quiet atmosphere enveloped him as he scanned the shelves, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet. He spotted you in your usual corner, completely absorbed in textbooks. His fingers traced along the spines of nearby tomes, pretending to browse while his gaze kept drifting back to your focused form.
You were taught very early on to be aware of your surroundings. So the looming presence nearby didn’t go unnoticed, though it wasn’t a pressing issue. People came into the library all the time. Either studying or piddling around till their friends came in, or they got bored enough to leave. So after a few minutes of scribbling at your notes, you grow more tense when the presence persists—sparing a glance, only to find Valarr Targaryen of all people. Thinking it’s a fluke, you turn back to your math worksheet and continue. Though now with the knowledge that he’s here too.
Hovering.
Valarr had felt you look at him briefly; he plucked at a book while you returned to your notes. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at your attempt to ignore him. Taking it as a challenge to see how close he could get before you lecture him. Because you always addressed him. Some smart comment about his views, or a correction on his opinions, whatever the case may be, you couldn’t help yourself. He moved closer, his expensive cologne now unmistakable in the quiet space. Something woody and clean, warm that fits the atmosphere. Something someone like Valarr would wear, which only grated your nerves further.
You felt him moving around, coming to lean against the bookshelf opposite your table, messing with the shelf and its contents. You had tried to keep your attention on your work, but sparing a glance you saw as he pulled out a volume of High Valyrian poetry, his silver-streaked hair catching a soft light as he skimmed over the book's contents. As if trying to decide whether or not to take that text in particular.
"I must say, the isolation suits you less than I thought it would." His voice carried that distinctive Targaryen drawl, though barely above a whisper. Something that commanded your attention against your will. He didn’t look your way, but you knew he was speaking to you. There was hardly anyone who came here in the first place. "Though I suppose even the cleverest need company sometimes." Sighing out as if the burden was his to carry.
Of course. Of course he would want to pester you; why wouldn’t he? It seems your misery amuses him.
“Is that why you’re here? To be my company??” Speaking softly, quietly in a way that respects the library’s existence and its rules while addressing his jab directly. Defeated in a way that says there would be no argument. Not today. Not if you couldn’t help it. Peeling your gaze to look up at him as you note his attire. The soft wool sweater, the perfectly tailored khakis, his polished shoes. Ever the appearance of perfect. Always the diplomat. Though you suppose he gets it honestly. Considering his family and background, it wouldn’t be good to walk around him anything less than aristocratic—a beat of studying him before you turn back to your worksheet. Trying not to think about the way his shoulders filled out the material of his sweater, or the way his chestnut hair looks so soft in the sunlight.
Valarr's heterochromatic eyes narrowed, only slightly, at your vanquished tone. Something about the way you said it stirred an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. Something he doesn’t inspect too closely but catalogs and files away somewhere to assess later. He moves attentively, pulling out the chair across from you and settling into it with deliberate grace. As if he owns the very space and you’re a guest in it. Which isn’t entirely wrong. He sets the book he pulled from the shelf onto the table, his bag next to his seat on the floor. Making himself comfortable.
"Perhaps I am simply curious about what keeps you so absorbed here all the time. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you tucked away here." Valarr’s fingers drummed lightly on the poetry book, watching you intently. His gaze was always intense in a way that made your stomach twist in knots. One eye violet and piercing, the other chocolate and unwavering. Both are unnerving. "Though your academic dedication is impressive, to say the least." The admission seemed to pain him slightly, but there was something genuine behind his words, like the words cost him to say but not enough to dwell on it.
The silence of the library stretches.
This was odd. It’s very unlike him to come here and speak to you at all, much less like this. He doesn’t compliment you. That's not how your dynamic works. Usually, he says something wrong, and you cannot help but correct him. Which then turns into him quietly steaming while you get louder and louder with your argument. Usually put to an end when some professor gets tired of hearing you two go back and forth. He always kept his cool. Always the stoic, rigid posture of a man who’s holding back for the sake of decorum. So here and now you don’t tell him to leave, but you don’t exactly tell him to stay either.
“If you mean to keep me company, then please do so quietly.” Scribbling out some numbers you messed up, frustrated at the fact that you have a distraction at all. Because Valarr Targaryen is most certainly distracting. Though you continue on, calculating and writing down the different equations and answers that aren’t due till the end of the week. You just wanted to get them done, hunched over a thick textbook with a precision that borders on neurotic. Notes are organized in a way that is painful at times to keep up with, but helps in the long run.
Valarr raises his brow at your blunt dismissal, but instead of leaving, he merely leans back in his seat. You can feel him watching you work. His presence remains steadfast as he gets a front-row seat to your method. So this is how you keep up with him? Hours of mental labor just to pace yourself with him?
The late afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows across everything it touches. He observes how your fingers move with mechanical precision over the paper, logging the way your bottom lip would occasionally catch between your teeth when you were particularly focused. The rest of the library had the occasional student lingering, but never any real foot traffic. These books were old. In a time of modern technology, who needs to check out books when most are at your fingertips?
After several minutes of silence, he finally spoke, his voice softer than before. "You know, this is the first time you haven't scoffed at my existence in weeks." It’s the first thing he noticed. No arguing, no trying to prove him wrong. Just quietly studying that almost seems normal if it wasn’t coming from you.
A mistake.
His words make you write the wrong numbers, one off, and you scratch them out in frustration. If you can’t ignore him, then you’ll just have to indulge him till he leaves. Gently set down your pencil and now give him your full attention lest your homework suffer. “This is also the first time we’ve spoken outside a lecture hall.” Pointing out with a hint of annoyance, but quickly shoving it down. He didn’t deserve your outright anger for something so trivial. He was trying to be civil. Or so it seems. You could try as well, for his sake and yours. “Is there a reason you’ve graced me with your company?”
Valarr felt a strange mix of surprise and satisfaction at your unexpected attention. Usually he felt the opposite when talking with you, but then again this wasn’t a hostile conversation. It had sharp points but nothing like your heated debates in class. The way you put down your writing and gave him your full focus was disarming, especially with your eyes fixed on him like that. He shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly aware of how close he was to you. He tries to recall a time he’s ever sat across from you- he can’t. Clearing his throat, he tried to maintain his usual composure despite the unexpectedness of the moment. “No particular reason. Just thought I'd see what had you so thoroughly captivated here." His gaze flicked to your papers and books scattered across the table, where you'd scratched out your previous attempts. "Though I must say, your dedication to erasing mistakes is... thorough."
You blink. Letting his words sink in. He seems to be trying to make casual conversation, which doesn’t feel right. You’d assumed he wanted nothing to do with you. Seeing as you’re always poking holes in his points in class. Having settled for the outcome of his hatred a long time ago. “What are you reading?” It’s an offer. Something like a hand extended to meet him in the middle for a normal conversation. Changing the topic entirely as you try to look at the book he picked up off the shelf, if he was even planning on keeping it. Valyrian poetry. Seems unlikely he would want to read such a book for fun, unless it’s for some class, which you doubt.
He caught your quick glance, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Picking it up, he turned it slightly toward you, showing the worn cover of ancient Valyrian. "Seven Songs of Love and Death." His fingers traced the embossed title; the gesture was unconscious but elegant. "One of the few things that's actually in my native tongue. This library has quite the collection, though this particular volume is older." Valarr watched your reaction carefully, noting how you studied the strange language.
“Your native tongue?” Trying to keep the conversation flowing, since he decided to be here anyway. You didn’t know his native tongue wasn’t English, but you knew he could speak plenty of other languages. One of the many things you hated about him. It’s not like you knew much about him, but what you did know pressed just about every button you had. He was infuriatingly calm, argumentative when he felt he was right, and effortlessly intelligent. That last part was the hardest to come to terms with. Not that he was some rich, pompous heir, but that he fit the title of it seamlessly. He wasn’t just paying his way to the top; he earned it with his own dedication and was quick enough to keep it. You’re trying not to hold any of that against him now. This whole scene was uncharted territory, and you didn’t want it to turn into an argument like usual. Not in the library, at least. “Does that mean you grew up speaking Valyrian?”
Valarr's expression softened slightly at your curiosity, a rare occurrence in your interactions. He shifted, unconsciously straightening his already perfect sweater. "Yes, though my father insisted I learn the Common Tongue as well. Something about needing to understand the people we govern." His voice carried a hint of bitterness at the last bit, quickly masked before continuing. "Though my grandfather was rather insistent on maintaining the Old Tongue." He took a moment to absorb your face, noting how it seemed to glow in the fading sunlight—making something warm in the air that wasn’t there before.
He had willingly shared a piece of himself. However small, or even if it was common knowledge, that fact mattered. No tug-of-war for the relent of it. “So you’ve read it before, I’m assuming?” Nodding towards the book again, gently picking your pencil back up to resume scribbling. Though this time it’s just that. Scribbling. Little doodles to occupy your hands while you listen to him. It’s a nice, subtle change from the angry math from earlier. “Since you know its contents.” Lots of assuming, since he never said it directly, but the way he spoke about it made it seem so.
Valarr's gaze followed the movement of your pen, intrigued by the sudden shift from your previous obsessive note-taking to casual doodling. Leaning forward slightly, he watched as you created little patterns on the paper. "Seven Songs can be- intense. Most versions I've read are censored for the modern age." His voice dropped, with an almost conspiratorial edge. He’s bent closer over the table to speak about it as if it’s a secret in itself. "The original Valyrian tells tales of dragonlords who took multiple wives, who feasted on each other's flesh in ways that would make even some of our more... adventurous students blush."
Oh.
A subtle challenge lingered in his tone, testing your reaction to his bold words. When you don’t say anything, he takes it as permission to keep going. His eyes gleaming with amusement at the fact that you press the lead harder into the page. Avoiding looking at him entirely. He leans back, casually crossing one leg over the other under the table. His foot is brushing yours. He was messing with you on purpose.
"The modern version omits the more explicit details. In the original, dragonlords would sometimes take two to three wives, and there are descriptions of their... intimate practices." His voice remains steady, maintaining that dangerous edge of confrontation. Low enough not to draw the attention of anyone else. "They were quite creative in their debauchery, these ancient Targaryens." He watched your face carefully, the slight flush creeping up your neck. He looks much too smug with himself because of it.
The thing about Valarr Targaryen that very few people know is that he is no saint. By no means is he a perfect man. He has a temper he handles well, emotions he keeps under careful control, and a hunger he keeps on a strict leash. Because of his status, he has to make sure his image is curated exactly as a prince of the realm should be. Yet that doesn’t dismiss the Targaryen heat he still holds. He found out early on in his life that he’s been cursed with an insatiable appetite for the more carnal of desires. His worst vice. He was taught to manage it under a watchful eye and the right restrictions to ensure no scandal comes in tow. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the itch of it. Something about seeing you this quiet, this subdued, and slightly pink does something that makes him hone in. Makes him want to press you further.
By some grace of the gods, his phone buzzes, and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His brow furrowed slightly at the interruption, but he pulled out his phone with practiced elegance. His expression shifted to something more controlled as he read the message. Annoyance crossed his features. "Apologies." He stands smoothly, slipping the poetry book into his bag as he picks it up off the floor. His long limbs move with a fluidity that only someone with his confidence has. "Duty calls.“ He lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, that familiar intensity in his mismatched gaze. "Though I must say, you're quite different when you're not arguing with me." It’s a simple statement. Something that shouldn’t hit you as hard as it does. He adjusts the strap of his bag before turning and heading out of the quiet and into the rest of the world.
You didn’t realize how hard your heart was hammering in your chest. Or how hot your cheeks felt. The bewildered look on your face slowly shifts from confusion to something flustered. The one conversation you have with him outside of class, and this is how it ends. Suppose it’s better than yelling. It left you with an odd feeling and an even more odd thought- could Valarr be pleasant company?
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re not entirely sure why you did it. It took time and effort away from your studies; it gave you no reward, but the gratification alone was what kept you going.
The day that book made its way back to the shelf, you checked it out. You couldn’t read Valyrian. That was the first problem, trying to translate a text as old as the country itself. Languages were difficult as is, but a language that hardly anyone spoke was even more so. There were very few resources, but you were able to find a few books and some online materials that helped you do a rough translation. Emphasis on the word rough.
The next problem was actually reading it. Words hardly make any sense. It felt less like poetry and more like blunt caveman literature. Half of what you read barely made any sense, and the other half made you blush at the crude remarks. The text spoke of dragon battles, some gore, and mainly vulgar rituals that Tagraryens performed to ensure a male heir. Though compare the text to actual history books and you’ll know that said rituals hardly ever worked.
The last problem was what to do with the information once you were done. Feeling unsettled at the fact that you couldn’t understand half of it. The purpose of doing all this, because it ended up taking two weeks, was to understand what secret Valarr was hiding with this book. If anything, you just felt more confused. Why would someone of his stature read such a thing? What did he have to gain from it? For your own peace of mind, you wrote out your own analysis on the subject. Maybe a bit too harsh. Complaining of the inconsistency, the poor subject matter, and how it was articulated. Targaryen history was part of this country's founding and therefore should be preserved, but this wasn’t worth preserving. This was just some sexual fantasy someone wanted to write down. You had said as such in your writing. Folding it up and tucking it into the book, you felt satisfied at beating such a difficult task. When you returned it to the librarian, she didn’t even flip through it before tucking it back on the shelf. Your note, which you meant to throw away, is still hiding in the pages.
Valarr had found the note tucked inside the book about a month later. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was, rambling pages on notebook paper that looked more like mad scribbles.
Scribbles.
He recognized your handwriting once it clicked; the countless sticky notes you'd left in class debates gave you away. The thought that you'd gone through such trouble to not only translate the text but also analyze the ancient script, write out your thoughts… just to place them here. For him to find. That made something stir within him. Sure, he had seen you blush before, and that left an itch he couldn’t scratch, but now you’ve done this. Now you’ve taken it a step further. He took that as some kind of invitation.
Later that evening, as he sat in his own penthouse near campus, he found himself rereading your words and trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind your analysis. He could tell it was you from the angry tone of the text. As if you were still trying to prove him wrong, even though he couldn’t understand why. The fact that you'd left no name only added to the mystery, because he knew it was you; he just didn’t have the proof for it.
The next day in class, he found himself watching you more intently than usual, wondering if you were aware he'd found your little analytical gift. Valarr caught himself staring at your focused profile. The way you took in the lecture, the way your eyes scanned the board. The memory of your note and your hidden thoughts about the book had become a persistent distraction. He had never thought about you this much before. Not in this way, with some distant pang of hunger. It seems like since that interaction in the library, he's been noticing you more and more.
When class ended, Valarr didn’t immediately leave for whatever was next on his schedule like he normally would. As you packed up, he approached your desk with measured steps, his usual composure masking the unusual tension in his shoulders. "I see you've been exploring Valyrian literature." His voice was low enough for only you to hear—the crowd of students shuffling by for their next classes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your stomach drops. Denying all too quickly. Keeping your head down as you try to get your things a bit faster. Trying to beat the crowd before they completely leave you alone with him. You hadn’t meant for him to find out about your little project, but one way or another, he had. He was so intense about it, too. It wasn’t a very appropriate topic; you worried you’d say something stupid and make yourself look an even bigger fool than you are. Feeling him standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours as he crowds your desk. Probably the closest you’ve ever been to him. It’s making you feel uneasy. “I don’t even know Valyrian.” Brushing off his accusation with the truth, or at least part of it. You didn’t know Valyrian, but you knew how to translate it. Those were different things, and only after 3 failed attempts and a YouTube video did you manage.
Valarr inches closer, deliberately invading your personal space to assert himself. The smell of him wrapped around you as he leaned down slightly; you could catch the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. Voice dropping to a whisper, sending shivers down your spine.
"Don't play coy. The note in the book was quite telling." His breath ghosted across your ear, making the hairs on your neck stand on end. His hand rested on the desk beside yours, dangerously close to brushing against you. He didn’t. He kept the space as minimal as possible, but he never broke through. "Though I must admit, your translation was entertaining."
“Entertaining? Was it truly that poor of a translation?” You spoke too soon. Snapping at his words in defense. He had done it on purpose to drag the truth out of you, which he did. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you freeze. Feeling a dread creep through your insides as you wait for his response to your blunder.
He huffed low in his throat at your guarded reaction, the sound coming through his chest. Shifting his hand slightly, his pinky brushing against yours, the contact sending an electric jolt through both of you. Subtle. Almost imperceptible, if you didn’t know any better. But you knew. He knew too. Small enough to brush off if you wanted to.
"Oh, it was certainly unique. Your interpretation was colorful, to say the least." He leaned even closer, his shoulder now almost touching yours. His proximity was maddening, making it hard for to think clearly. The feel of your soft skin against his pinky made him want to press closer, feel more of you against him. "But it did get me thinking. You must have some interesting reading habits if you decided to tackle a Valyrian erotic text for fun.”
Your brain shut off. Something about him being this close and saying things like this made it impossible to remember what you were doing. Hands trembling as you try to continue packing up. Most of the class has already left; a few students crowded the professor's desk, but mostly alone. Alone enough, he felt comfortable to grab your pinky with his. Your breath is catching in your throat to the point you nearly choke on it. The warm appendage didn't even do anything, but it was enough. You didn’t dare look up at him. Feeling his hair tickling your skin, his breath hot and his voice low. A secret shared. Isn’t that what you wanted? “Come with me.” He doesn’t move at first, giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, he takes that as his answer. Tugging at your pinky as he gets you moving. Pulling you away from your desk to robotically follow behind him. His head is on a swivel as he watches every person, every camera in the hall, every possible thing that could catch what he's about to do, which was be reckless. Which he does not do often.
At some point, he had let go of your pinky, opting to lead you instead as he went down halls and corners you’ve hardly seen before. The quieter it got, the more aware you were. The fact that you were following him at all felt like some kind of fever dream. The tension in his shoulders was the only thing that gave away his worry. You weren't sure where you were going, what you were doing, or anything really, but you were in too deep to stop now. Something about it felt exhilarating. There was something in the air around him that you were trying to figure out. Was he flirting? Was he angry? Was he about to blow up on you, and he didn’t want any witnesses? You can imagine Valarr finally yelling at you, and for whatever reason, it makes your hands sweaty. Why is that?
As you enter the admin part of campus, you see him spare a glance around, casual and precise. Checking all routes before unlocking a door and pushing it open. The room is dark, the windows are covered, and barely any light comes through. You don't get to look further before you're shoved in. Tripping on your feet as you stumble in, ready to spin around and shout at him for doing it until you feel his hands on you.
His hands.
Firm, sure in their grip on your waist as he steadies you. Earning a gasp from you as his touch registers. He’s locked you in, and while your eyes try to adjust to the light, he is already moving closer. You felt him first. The heat of him. Stepping closer and closer until you had to take a step back, to which he followed. Back you up until you bumped into something and couldn't go any further. His breath fanned across your face, then your neck. It made you dizzy as you tried to keep up. “Your translation was abhorrent.” He starts, low and graveled. It sends something hot to your belly. Something embarrassing you would never admit, but he keeps going. “Not only that, but you got the plot of it all wrong. So I think we should go over it again-I’ll translate.”
His nose brushes your cheek, and it makes you jump. The only thing you can make out is the shape of him. The quiet room, whatever this place is, is doing nothing to help you get your bearings. Hands finding his chest to try and make space. At least to breathe or something, maybe stop him. Except his lips graze your jaw- “Valarr…” It’s soft and betraying you instantly. Cursing your body for reacting so easily.
This was Valarr, for Gods sake. The man you hated, the man who made every class unbearable with his arrogance and yet-
He presses a kiss to your skin, just below your ear, as he leans even closer. You can feel him press against you. Feel the strength of him, the weight, and something hard pressing at your hip. You choose to believe it's his belt buckle. “The Mother gave her blessing to those she deemed worthy.” He starts, mumbling into your skin as his hands start to wander. From your waist to your hips, holding you still. As if afraid you might slip out of his grasp now that he's got you here.
“Fertility and love to her followers who walked in her light. The dragonlords at the time took that to heart. Deeming the Mothers favor as they pursued fertility through lovemaking.” His lips brush against you as he speaks. Teeth dragging across your neck, wet kisses that make you tremble in his hold. Fingers digging into the fabric of his expensive shirt. Squeaking when he suddenly lifts you and sets you down on some table that creaks under your weight. “Showing their love and devotion to their wives in an effort to curry favor. They would divulge in their pleasure until pleasure could come no more, and their wives were left with nothing but pain in its stead. Only then did the past dragon riders try for their heirs.”
His words held no meaning to you as you tried to keep pace with his touch. Valarr’s intensity never let up as he kept going. Kissing and nipping until he reached your collar. To which he decided was a nuisance and tugged the whole shirt off in one swift movement. Pulling it up and over your head, and the thing is- you let him. Your arms were going up, and you were left in your bra. The cool air helps with the heat, and the dark helps hide any embarrassment you have. He kisses his way to your breast, latching on to leave a mark at the swell of them. Somewhere you could hide easily. You're grateful for that at least. Fingers come to the card through his hair, and that earns a groan. Suddenly, you're very aware of the noises in the room. Your heavy breathing, Valarr's panting across your chest. Your head's spinning-
“Tell me to stop and I will…” He offers, though it sounds pained. Like the thought of stopping hurts him on a level he was trying not to show. Nuzzling into the softness of you as he waits for your response. You were too wrapped up in the moment to even speak. The only words that came to mind were ‘more,’ and you couldn’t even manage to get that out. So you tug on the strands of hair you held hostage, and that made him snap.
Whatever you were sitting on protested with a groan as he lifted you. Just barely as he pawed at your pants. Pulling them down your hips to set you down again, ripping them the rest of the way down your legs. You felt too exposed like this, even in the dark. So, in an effort to level the playing field, you reach for his shirt. Tugging at the fabric with a little too much haste- “Off.” Grumbling out as you try to pull it over his head. Only it gets caught on his arms, and he can only give a soft chuckle, easing the intensity of the moment.
“Impatient.” Tutting out as he helps you, pulling the garment off and tossing it somewhere into the room. As your eyes have adjusted, you realize this place is some kind of records or storage room. Somewhere, nobody would come looking for you two. Which you can only assume was his plan from the beginning. His hands find you again as you watch him kneel, settling on your thighs as the heat brands your skin. The sight of him beneath you floods your senses. Normally, the rational part of your brain would be screaming at you to stop this, to get yourself together and not indulge in such vulgar behavior on school grounds, but-
“Show me.” It’s barely a whisper, a challenge.
“Show you?” He muses, a hint of a smile coming to his lips. Hardly visible in the dark but more than clear in his tone. Amused at your neediness. “Show you love, devotion and pleasure? That’s a tall order…” Yet he doesn't argue. That mop of brown hair dipping to press a kiss to your ribs, then your stomach, then lower-
He doesn’t stop once he reaches your ruined underwear, mouthing at the fabric with a slow reverence that sends tingles through you. Your hands find his hair again as he settles in. Sighing against you as he works more of your slick and his spit together. The contact made your mind static as you scooted closer to the edge, eager for more of what he had to offer. His hands come to tug your legs over his shoulders. Skin against skin as the sweat and molten feeling builds. Dragging it out as you grow more impatient, the longer your panties stay on.
He grants you some small mercy when a whine slips through you, his fingers that had been playing with the waistband coming to tug them down your legs. You lift your hips to try and help him but end up bumping his jaw in the process. Your nerves are a bit too frazzled to make this ‘perfect’. It’s been a while since you’ve been touched like this. “Sorry-” Huffing out, settling back onto the table as he tosses your drawers somewhere else. If anyone were to walk in, it would be quite the scene.
“Don’t be. It’s fine, more than fine-” His voice was raspy and wrecked in the dark. Only adding to your pleasure as he wraps his arms around your thighs again. Yanking you to the edge as you gasp, and he laughs at you. Normally, you'd be peeved at such a thing. “You taste good.” He hums against you, dragging his tongue through your folds as you choke. Unsure of what to do or how to handle such feelings, he's giving you, and he can tell. Yet he doesn't stop. If anything, he goes harder. Sucking on the bundle of nerves, ever so lightly nipping, and it earns a moan. An embarrassing noise that you couldn't choke back.
“Valarr-” You start, but he sushes you. Delving in to feast you like a man starved. His tongue works your entrance as his nose grinds against your clit. Hips jerking against him as you try to keep still. One hand still in his hair, holding for dear life, while the other tries to keep you upright. A rumbled noise comes from him as your thighs gently squeeze at his head.
The longer he goes on, the more the pleasure builds, and the more work he puts into you. The fire in your belly is only growing as he replaces his tongue with his fingers. Poking and prodding until one thick digit fills you up. Then another. “Nuhor lir gurenna” He mumbles into you, sucking on your clit. It earns him a sharp, garbled noise as he works you open. Fingers curling and pumping torturously. The pace is slow but unrelenting. As if he wanted to drag this out and take as much as possible.
It felt like hours. He was kneeling between your legs and eating you out with such thoroughness that it left you dumb. Grabbing and grinding against him, the longer he took. Tears starting to prick your eyes the closer you got to the edge- “Please.” Whimpering out, not caring how it may look. He knew what he was doing. You knew you couldn't handle much more of it. He didn’t stop for your plea, but he did give you what you wanted. Pressing harder as he changed pace. Sloppy sounds coming from below as you watch the shape of him in the dark. That damned silver streak catching the light. You could see his muscles flex as he worked, and the sight alone sent you toppling. Over the cliff and into the plunge of pleasure as you sighed. Clenching around his fingers as he hummed against you. Only adding to the bliss that he gave. Working you through your orgasm, he carefully pulled away. Just enough to look at you.
His face glistened with your slick, and that left you mortified once your senses returned, a smug smile on his lips. Satisfied and obscenely wrecked as he looked you over. You both looked debauched. “Seems I didn’t really go over the texts very well either.” He chimes, only earning a groan from you. How could he be so ridiculous in a moment like this? You watch as he leans over to grab something from the floor, holding up your panties in the light. Except instead of returning them, he stuffs them into his pocket. “How about you get these back next time we study?” He grins, making your stomach flip.
Maybe Valyrian wasn’t so bad after all.
Translations: Nuhor lir gurenna- “I will take what is mine”
AN: If you've read this far, thank you! I have been trying to release better content and switching from my phone to computer has helped a ton. Please let me know if you enjoyed this and anything I can work on in future. Thanks!
I’m currently writing Part Two to Changing Fate but also want to do small Oneshot? Drabble? Idk the term, but pick which sounds better. Kinda the same concept but different. I take no claim in the making of the concepts, only using them for slutty purposes.
Who should get a smutty piece?
Academic Rival!Valarr x AFAB!Reader
Modern University!Aerion x Scholarship Student!AFAB!Reader
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Valarr Targaryen
Prologue / Part One / Part One & A Half / Part Two: The Warrior
Description: There is a tourney happening a day’s ride away. You must go to it. Keep your eyes and ears open, stick to the plan. You have a Targaryen to save. This is what you’ve been training for.
WC: 6.3K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Possible cursing, domestic life, jerk lords, canon-divergence, inaccuracy to the time/books, Aerion (he’s here briefly), no Valarr (next chapter, sorry), angst? (Not really), slow burn, I’m not good at this.
AN: OMG! I didn’t think my first piece would get any traction, thank you all so much! Please continue to let me know how I’m doing and give feedback (I’m relishing in it). I have big plans for this if it keeps going well and I LOVE a slow, painful burn where things are dragged out for no reason other than the plot. So sorry if that’s frustrating but I promise it will be worth it. Lots of love and thanks!
The man’s name is Art.
He doesn't talk much. You're unsure of where he came from or why he helped you that day. He never explained his reasoning.
Art has been staying at the Inn for a few years now. Jenna gives him room and board for free after the incident. We never talk about it. It's a rule you've come up with after trying to broach the subject with Jenna, only to earn a pot thrown at your head in reply. We never talk about it. Even though that was the day everything clicked for you. This wasn't some silly game. Some fairytale with stop signs and warning lights when things got uncomfortable. The old woman never gave you a verbal warning about what would happen because those don't exist in the real world.
Danger ahead.
She gave you warnings in sleepless nights. The nights she didn't come to visit your dreams, the nights that the sky kept you company instead. When your head was too full and your lids too heavy, but even still you couldn't sleep because she wouldn't let you. Those were her warnings. Gut feelings before something happened. The occasional directional nudge when you needed it.
Though most nights she came. More often than not, she showed you Westeros, hidden meadows tucked deep in the woods, and quiet pastures along the countryside. Bustling city centers, their shops, their people. She showed you the world and what it had to offer. The animals, the plants, the trees. You weren't the most experienced, but you were educated. You knew the current King and court, the current government affairs, and their worries. Social matters as well as practical things. The difference between medicinal herbs and toxic fruits and venomous bugs, and how to use them if you ever require it. You knew the currency of the land and how to bargain or barter. You knew what acceptable behavior of a lady was and what wasn't. She made sure you knew. All she had to give was advice, and you took it.
Art taught you what he knew. It took a month straight of asking him. In the beginning, he would grumble and refuse, sticking to his solemn corner of the Inn that he had taken root in. All he ever did was sit there and drink those first few weeks. After finally wearing him down enough, he agreed. It started small. He'd have you run, which felt like the opposite of what you'd asked, but he never faltered. You'd run around the Inn until you were tired and weary. Some days, your legs would give out before your chores were done, and Jenna always let you know how 'unacceptable' that was. When the Inn became bearable enough to run around without getting winded, he changed course. You ran around the barn. Then the field. Then the surrounding woods, then further. You ran and ran until your lungs gave out and built back together better, stronger. After months of running, you grew tired of just that. You wanted to learn how to defend yourself, not run away.
Eventually the running changed into something else.
Art taught you how to avoid a sword. Not how to use one but how to avoid it. At first, he held back. A wooden stick with some weight that he would swing, and if you weren't quick enough, you'd have bruises for a few days. He taught you how men swing, how to look for it, what to do to dodge it. It took forever for you to get some grasp on it. Months for you to actually be decent at it. The first day you were able to dodge all his blows, he switched to his blade. He kept the sheath on it, but it was enough of a difference that after the first blow, you had to take a week to recover. He never did teach you how to use a sword, but the lesson in maneuvering around one was worth it.
You hated dresses.
After the incident, when you tripped up on your skirts, you made a point to avoid them when you could. They were binding in a way that felt impossible to move. Overly complicated for no good reason. You vowed to only wear them when necessary. The world you lived in now was different from the one you had known. Ordinarily, it wouldn't be that big of a deal, except this was Westeros. Where ladies were meant to be silent, delicate things, and the men were meant to be fierce and mighty. You did not want to be delicate. You wanted to hold your ground, to be able to fight off someone if you needed, to not trip on your skirts.
Jenna grew on you, slowly, like a benign growth. After the ear incident, you had decided you hated her, but after seeing what state those men left her in… You learned she was a widow; her husband was the original Innkeeper before he caught some pox and never recovered. She didn't have any children, or family, or anyone really. Maybe that's why she was always so snippy. Apparently, before you woke up in the loft that fateful day, you had a life before this. She sometimes comments on how different you've been since then.
'It's a vast difference. Ya ain't the same little lady as before. Not sure what changed.'’
Whoever you were before doesn't matter now. Sure, Jenna got on your nerves when she tried to rush your training with Art or complained about your cleaning skills when you missed a spot on the floor. But she was like family. Begrudging family. Whatever family you could get in this world. She cooked your meals, made sure you were clothed, and gave you a roof over your head. When it was close to your birthday, she would gift you a small tin of tea, stating how much you loved it. You had mentioned it once in a ramble you didn't mean to start. Most of the time, you were silent, so the fact that she listened showed her true intentions. No matter how crabby she was.
You did your chores. You ate your meals. You trained with Art. You dealt with guests when necessary, and that was all. You learned to live with the bore of it.
You counted the lines in the wood of the barn. Each plank of the loft. You had the time. Each plank had its own story. How many years had that tree been alive before turning into this? 53, 61, 78, 56, and on and on. Each plank of wood. Each dent and carve had something to say. You learned to notice the little things everywhere. The Inn's cobbled stone was sturdy. A slated gray that suggested it came from somewhere other than these hills. The straw of the roof worn from yellow to a pale tan from years under the sun. The tables and chairs were made from a different wood than the barn, something dark and sturdy to hold the people who came in.
Sometimes you tried to make things appear in your hand, like before. A copper star. Some days you could manage such a task. Most days, you could not. You hold a small grudge against whatever magic caused such inconsistency. Blaming your lack of knowledge or effort.
You spent the years perfecting your knowledge and your ability to do exactly what the old woman had asked of you. You grew to a peak physical shape. You learned every morsel of information you could. You stayed put just like she said. One day, winter would melt, and you would need to be here.
Spring was coming quickly this year. You've learned to spot it when the little clumps of grass turn from brown to yellow, yellow to green. For four years, you've been here. Four times you've gone around the sun, four times the seasons have changed, and four years older than when you first started this arduous journey. Was it technically a journey? You never went anywhere. Not really. In your dreams, you've scoured the land and its contents, but in reality, you've never left the Inn.
Business grew as the snow thawed. It always did. That's when people traveled, with less risk. Less likely to get caught in the cold or die from starvation. The roads became more populated, and the wares became more expensive, and you never had the money for any of it. Salmon was just about all you spent your money on. A spare apple, an extra carrot, when celery came by, you bought it by the bundle. That's how every spring went.
The past few days have turned up people from everywhere. Mainly men from the Stormlands and Riverlands, but the occasional Crownland crowd came through. Caravans and parties were traveling for the tourney as they did every year. Knights would come through on their way there to enter the lists. Some came back with extra armor, an extra sword, and some silver stags jingling in their pockets. Some came back with less than what they arrived with. However, every year was the same. Sometimes you saw familiar faces, but they never acknowledged you. You learned very quickly that you'd rather it be like that than have their attention. One time, Art had to pull a squire off you who got too handsy after too much ale. One of his hands didn't make it to the tourney with the rest of him.
‘He deserved it.’ Was all he offered when pressed about it. Art was a man of few words.
You were up early to start saddling horses, getting them ready for the men in the Inn who slowly woke up. Jenna would at least offer them breakfast before having them move along. She was the kind of Innkeeper who never let you overstay your welcome, especially after the last few weeks of hangry men who had been stopping by before heading south.
The barn was quiet in the early morning hours. When dawn just barely peeked over the trees, and you could see pale pinks and purples bruising the sky. The stalls were more full than usual. Carefully, you would pull each horse out, brush them down, and chuck a saddle on their back. Once the reins were in place, you would lead them over to the fence by the entrance of the keep to tie them up. Then again and again till they were all addressed. After feeding the rest, the rest being Salmon, you make your way around the Inn to the food storage behind it. The room was always stuffy. No matter how long you aired it out or how hard you scrubbed those floors, it remained stenched with something stale. Just as you were about to wedge the entryway open, the door to the Inn opened instead.
"There ya are." Jenna sighs in some relief, her face growing less tense now that her grey eyes have landed on you. She looks a bit frazzled, probably because cooking for roughly 20 grumpy people at the crack of dawn was exhausting. "Have you seen Art? Sent him to get some wood last night, and I'm not sure if he came back." She worries in her own way. She doesn't like to show it, but after enough time spent with her, you can tell. "Need more damn firewood."
A huff of a laugh slips out, and she glares at you, though it holds no heat. You finish propping the door with a rock, "No, not since supper," moving around her and into the bar of the Inn to start fixing tables and chairs to look a bit neater than before. Some patrons have already come down from their rooms. Meandering to wake up while they dine on eggs and sausage from the Millers' farm. It wasn't odd for Art to go missing for periods of time. The longest stretch was about a week. So you choose not to worry about a man as capable as him. "I'll bring in some wood from the shed before checking rooms." A reassurance that eases her enough, you can see her shoulders visibly drop.
She doesn't respond as she goes to poke at the skillet of food on the fire. The large pit was attached to the wall on which the storage room was. Adding to the ambiance of the place. As you make your way back out, you make mental notes on what else you have to do for the day. The horses are done. The rooms need to be checked, bedding brought down, and aired out.
You scurry around the place with a practiced ease. Dropping a few logs of wood off for Jenna to chuck into the fire, appeasing her as she fights a smile. You check the now vacant rooms upstairs that require a once-over and a clean before the next person comes in to settle for an evening. Knocking on the closed doors and only earning grumbles from sleepy knights who refuse to get up yet. The bedding you can get, you drag down the stairs to the storage room to beat out the grime and dust. It feels like Déjà vu. Something nostalgic and therapeutic about using the beater to lighten the fabric of its dust and dirt. The men who stayed last night slowly roll through their breakfast, take their horses from the post, and depart south without too much fuss. By noon, the Inn has grown quiet as you ready for the next wave to come through. Whether that be today, or tomorrow, or the next, you're not sure. You were messing with the hearth to fix the flames, Jenna next to you, breathing down your neck, chastising you for doing it when two travelers came in.
You heard them enter, eyes flicking to find the cloaked figures. One of them was shorter, head just barely hitting the other's shoulder. That's the first thing you noticed. The second was their drapes. They were dark, a lavish fabric that spoke of wealth even when it seemed they were trying to be discreet. No embroidery, emblems, or flashy marks. Their hoods are up and obscuring their faces. Jenna leaves you to greet them cheerfully. "Welcome in! Make yourself comfortable, I can-"She barely got through the sentence before the taller figure cut her off.
"One room. Five nights. Have wine brought up, or whatever you've got ." His voice is surprisingly soft. Tired but sure in a way that meant he knew what he wanted, but didn't have the energy to do it. He moved with a sluggish pace towards Jenna, the smaller cloak tailing him. You kept your gaze down. Or at least you tried to. Poking at the logs to make the fire burn brighter as you glanced over your shoulder. Once he was close enough, he and Jenna spoke in hushed whispers, as if there was anyone else here to listen in on their conversation. Other than you. Maybe that was why they whispered. The distinct sound of coins clinking catches your attention. Weighty. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as the man moves to climb the stairs, most likely to head to his room. Yet the little cloaked figure doesn't follow. By the time you turn around, the little black cloak is dodging back out the door where they came. Jenna's back is to you. She looks rigid, muttering to herself.
You gently set down a hot poker and creep closer to her, peering over her shoulder- “Holy-“
She zips around to face you, all too ready. "Shh. None of that is out of you. Take care of his horse and make sure you do it well." She hisses out. A low warning that meant business. It meant not to dilly-dally. She's frazzled, but in a way that makes her softer. As if she's trying to let you see past the wall to whatever just happened. The gold dragons that were in her hand, she shoved into her apron pocket. It's not often you see such a coin. Jenna squeezes past you to head into the storage room, and your feet move on their own. You know, if she catches you still standing there when she gets back, you'll get an earful.
The horse that's tied to the post is large. Sturdy, with a dark coat and hairy hooves. It's intimidating to say the least. Its saddle is a fine leather, the reins soft in your hand. A mysterious duo comes in with all the signs of nobility, yet none of the boisterous attitude. That was a quiet entrance. No flare or excessive demands. Not even guards that follow them- so far. They wanted solitude. They wanted wine. They also wanted their horse well taken care of. They wanted their room kept quiet. An Inkeeper with their lips sealed. Carefully, you lead the big beast into the barn and park him in the biggest stall. The equipment is heavy, bags still attached. You place their belongings aside as you put the saddle on the bar. Hanging the reins up on the hooks. Their horse was timid. A bit wary but handled enough to the point he didn't fuss when you brought him in. If anything, he was sort of sweet.
"You're a good boy, aren't you?" Humming out as you scratch his chin. He seems to like that. Leaning into the itch of your nails as you grin. "Sweeter than Salmon over there, which isn't hard to do." A pointed jab at the other horse that lacks the same cuddly personality. You start to brush out his coat, taking time to get every inch and hair.
"She's a girl." The tiny voice startles you. You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear it. Gaze snapping to the sound that came from the loft, a pale face watching over you. He had a sort of plain expression on his face. Just watching. A young boy looming over the edge, but far enough to be hidden. He still had his hood on his head, but it was pulled back enough to see his dark eyes. Possibly blue? It's hard to tell in the barn. He must've been the other one in a cloak.
"Is she? Well, my apologies." Correcting the earlier statement with an amusement you didn't want to quite admit. In my time here, I haven't met someone of their magnitude. Petting the mare's nose as she snickers. "What a beautiful lady. Does she have a name?" Urging him to keep going. Keep talking. It's rare you meet a horse this fine, much less an owner who pays in gold. What noble is traveling with so little to the tourney?
He is quiet. Same as the man. Calculating gaze, trying to see if it was worth it to give such a reply. Eventually, his own curiosity wins out. "Tart." It's muffled as he shrinks. Only making you smile. Your lips betray you at his reluctance. He was just a boy, still new to the world and trying in it.
"Tart? That's a good name. If we keep this up, we'll have a whole feast, won't we?" It's a gentle joke. You said it more for yourself than anything. Except his little huff was just loud enough to reach your ears. Pleased at how the conversation is turning out. Locking up the gate, you give him one last look and warning. "You'd better be out of there before supper. I don't share my loft, and you paid for a fine bed." Wagging a finger as you pluck up the bags from their saddle. A chastising reminder and warning. Marching out of the barn quickly, as you recall Jenna, the brother, and the wine. Heading back to the Inn as you knew Jenna- poor Jenna- would need help. Eager wide eyes watching you the whole while.
Jenna is still somewhere in the back, thrashing about as curses and grumbles sound through the door. Clearly, she's fighting with something already. Whatever the issue was, you'd drop off the bags from the saddle before you helped lug a keg up. Watching the storage room door as you slowly creep by and up the stairs. You didn't want Jenna to stop you. It's not like you were doing anything wrong, but with an important client like this one, you don't want to risk their anger. Or finger. Who knows what's in those bags? You're also certain she wouldn't let you get close alone. You make it up without the floor creaking and head down to one of the only rooms with the door closed. It's our 'best' room, considering they're all the same. Roughly. The faintest knock. Holding your breath until a grunt answers you. Here it goes. Twisting the handle and just barely peeping in. The room is dark, the curtains are drawn, and the bed has a lump of a shape on it. Except the lump shifts, and you can see the dark cloak, and it's still covering him. It seems he couldn't even get his shoes off either. "Pardon, Ser, but I brought your bags up." Offering in a whisper as you slowly shuffle in. Putting the saddle bags down by the door with care.
He sits up, just enough, a shift onto his elbows to look at you- "The wine?" You freeze, not because of his tone but because of him. You've seen this man before. His sandy blonde hair, slightly disheveled, falls in front of his eyes. You're far, and they're deep, but you see the faintest hint of purple in them. This was no ordinary noble. This was a Targaryen. Blinking in shock as you take in his sleepy state. You've seen him solely because you've seen every Targaryen's fate. You've spent years doing just that. Every time you went to sleep, the old woman would show you, one by one, how they were meant to perish. Then again, and again. He looks younger than when you saw him. You look for any signs of sickness or disease, and all you find is a tired young man. Fewer lines in his face, no scar, the bags under his eyes haven't become painful yet. If you recall correctly, this is Prince Daeron- The Drunk.
The wine makes more sense now.
A loud bang makes you jump, spinning to find Jenna at the stairs, breathless. A small barrel at her feet. "Here now, help me with this and leave him be." Huffing out as she tries to lift it once more before grumbling at the difficult keg. It was perfect timing. Pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts, you rush down the stairs to her. Trying to do something other than stare at him. Crouching down, you maneuver the barrel to your shoulder, steadying, then wobbling before steadying again. You take a step. Then another. Slowly ascending with Jenna behind you, ready to catch it as if she could do anything but be squished. You were both going down if this fell.
It was heavy.
Once balanced at the top, you make your way into his room to set it on the table. Jenna waves you out quickly. Ushering you to move lest his patience grow thin. Targaryens weren't known for their patience. "Anything else ya need, just holler away." Her tone is much sweeter than anything you've heard before. Once she's safely got you closed out in the hall, she's suddenly facing you. Finger digging into your chest as she hisses, "Leave him be. I won't have you spooking off royal guests." The tone is too serious to ignore, so all you manage is a curt nod. Watching as she brushes past and seeps displeasure the whole way down the stairs.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You can be patient.
You piddle around, Jenna, the rest of the day with eager assistance to please her. To get on her good side so she lets her guard down. So you can get along with that prince. It's actually perfect. From what you understand, Daeron is only a drunk because of vivid and prophetic dreams that plague his family. Some of them have it worse than others. A burden you could slightly understand, what with your endless nights with the old woman. Not nearly to his extent, but maybe enough to get through to him. Maybe make him understand you're here to help him. It could even be seen as luck that he's the first of the royal family you run into. So you follow Jenna, and press her buttons, to the point she snaps at your over-helpful attitude and shoos you away just before supper's done. Leaving you to twiddle your thumbs until she goes to bed.
Jenna stays up for a while. Longer than normal. Possibly because of the fact that you're still awake, or maybe it's the lingering anxiety that a prince is just upstairs. Either way, by the time she drags herself to bed, she's tiredly muttering a 'goodnight' before heading into her room on the main floor. You give her a moment. Let her scrape along to get ready while you wipe down every mug and plate just to have something to do. The boy never came back inside. Either that or he slipped in and up the stairs when you weren't looking. You doubted that. From what you could tell, they didn't want to be together longer than they had to. As soon as Daeron paid, the boy had run back outside, so it only makes sense.
It was eerily quiet. Without Art or any other patrons, it left the tables empty, the Inn feeling much larger than normal. Yet it was still small enough that you could hear every creak in the floor. The stairs didn't betray you when you climbed them, the hallway barely letting you squeak by. When you reached his door, you felt your stomach twist. Is this a good idea? There's no going back from barging into a prince's room. Yet, what else could you do? Four years spent accommodating to this world and all the things in it, and you were going to let a door stop you?
You don't knock. The hinges squeak when you open them, and just a sliver of light comes through. A lamp lit from somewhere on the table. The bed is slightly rumpled but empty, and a pair of black boots sits on the floor beside it. You push in a little more. Your head poked through the crack to spot Daeron sitting with his back towards you. It gives you pause. Wondering if it's too late to turn back around and forget all this. He's slumped over with a mug in his hand, not even aware of your intrusion. So you step in. Quietly shutting the door, you lock it against every bone in your body. This had to go well. It had to. "Your grace?" A testing whisper. Holding your breath for his reaction, but he doesn't move. You step closer. "Your grace??" A little more firm, not at all confident. This may be the most stupid thing you've done. He shoots up with a woozy quality and halfway spills his drink. Clutching at his head and muttering something.
"Sweet seven-"He croaks out, a gravel in his tone. He looks exhausted. Smells of the wine that we brought him mixed with something perfumed and warm. He still hasn't recognized you being here. Slurping down more of his drink before trying to pour more. You notice his fingers are trembling.
"Prince Daeron." That catches his attention. You can see his body go rigid, waiting to hear if you speak again. Almost calculating if what he heard was in his head or not. After a beat of tense silence, he glances back. He nearly jumps again when he sees you. You're still a safe distance away, but it doesn't feel like enough now that you're here. From this close, you can see his eyes better in the light, a midnight purple that gives away his parentage. "Please, give me a moment of your time-"
He doesn't let you finish. "Be gone. I already told the lady innkeeper I wanted to be left alone. Is that so hard to understand?" His tone has authority to it. Years of being listened to, lording power, coming to the front. Yet it holds no venom. No malice. Just a cold, tired feeling that leaves you a little sorry for him. You wonder how long he's been like this. "You should know it's rude to enter someone's room without permission. Especially mine." Yet he sips his wine and makes no move to escort you out. That alone is enough.
You don't have any way to explain what's happening. Not really. If you say you're from another world and here to keep his family from wiping off the earth, he would simply laugh in your face. "The tourney is a death trap." You spit it out. As soon as the words slip out of your mouth, he freezes. No sipping his wine, or slumping in his chair. Slowly straightening up to turn more towards you. Not fully, but enough to peer through his sandy bangs. Enough for you to keep going. "The crown prince will fall in battle, and its consequences will be- catastrophic."
Daeron turns to you fully. His glossy gaze was a bit clearer than before. Studying you, trying to figure out if he should believe you or have you dragged out. You hope it's the former. Wringing your hands as you anxiously wait for his response. "My uncle is not on the lists." He says simply, but there's a wariness to it. One that suggests he's now listening more than he was before. Even if he doesn't like what he hears. "He cannot fall in battle when there is none to be had-"
"A trial by combat." Reasoning what you know. You'd seen it yourself. The ebony armor Baelor had worn was too small. The aftermath of taking it off after a mighty blow. You knew that a prince was slighted and a trial was demanded, and instead of either party being held accountable, Baelor would be the one the gods judged. You had seen it because it was shown to you, and you had to make sure it didn't happen because then-
Then everything you have done to this point will have been for nothing.
"You speak nonsense." He dismisses you as he swirls back around, not quite believing the words himself. But facing reality is so much harder than losing yourself in a bottle. A keg, in this case. "Men die every day. The crown prince would never fight in a trial by combat, not if his kingsguard could help it. I could have your tongue for saying such things-"
“But it’s true-“
"Is it now? Do you have any proof?" He jabs a bit more sharply, clearly growing put off by the topic at hand. He wants to shut it down before it can get worse. His head was already aching, and his slumber had been interrupted. You were on thin ice.
"You have- the dreams, do you not?" You were hesitant to ask, heart hammering so loud in your ears as your nerves grew. The longer you stand here, the longer he denies you, the more anxious you get. You knew this would be difficult, but you didn't expect such fear to take you. When he doesn't respond, you press further. A step closer. "I only mean to- I want to help. If Baelor Breakspear falls…"
The air is still. Waiting for either of you to break through to address what's been said. Baelor will die. You knew that, and somewhere deep down, he knew it too. Even if he wasn't acknowledging it yet, you can see it in his eyes how they flick through something. A memory, or a thought, but something in them changes. Softens and breaks to show how worn down he truly was. "Dragon dreams." He starts lower than before, as if the words hurt to pull back out. Like saying them aloud gives them more power than they already have. "A dragon. I've dreamt of the black beast falling from the sky. Seen it every night, and you're saying- you're saying that's my uncle?"
You never considered it like that. You knew that different people had terrible deaths and the order in which they would come in. You didn't think about it like an uncle and nephew. Not a family that's slowly picked away by accidents and sicknesses that leave them with nothing. That realization settles in your chest crookedly. Something you'd have to deal with later. "I know it is. And I know it's hard to believe, but I'm not sure how to stop it without help."
For a long time, he hasn't said anything. You think maybe he'll argue some more. Maybe open up about his dream. Maybe even give you a hint of what could happen and why there could be a trial, or what to do about it. None of that comes. Instead, he just slowly sips from his cup. Shrinking back to his original slumped form against the table. A lump. Again. No urgency, no acknowledgment, no nothing. He just sits there with half-lidded eyes staring off into who knows what. "Be gone. Before I charge you with conspiracy against the crown."
After all that, he doesn’t care? He won’t even try to do anything about it? “Your grace-“ Pitching out, but he quickly shut you up.
"Leave." Something in his voice changes. Cold. Sharp. Piercing you in a way only someone of his stature could. The soft sleepiness from earlier is gone, and in its place is something deeper. Something that took years to settle and will be there for many more. Something he just doesn't want to face yet. So he drowns himself in his mug.
So you leave. Pivoting on your feet and beelining for the exit. Just as carefully closing the door as when you entered. That was shit luck. Why did you think you could just ask a prince for help? He said something about a dragon, and I assume that's how the dream came to him. Before, yours were a blob. No features, ideas, or visions, only the feeling. With the old woman, they were clear as crystal. Yes, she had shown you the world, but she didn't show you everything. Which is why this task she's given you feels impossible. If Daeron were here, then that means the tourney and the trial would be some time soon.
Sometime in the next fortnight.
Your feet carry you through the Inn, not so much caring for the noise you make now. Sliding down the stairs and out the door as you march to the barn. There wasn't really much time to waste. You're roughly a day's ride away. You weren't entirely sure how long it would take you to walk, since you didn't know what else you were going to do regarding travel. Sure, you had knowledge of it, but you didn't have the grasp of actually doing it. How far would the walk be? Are your shoes made for such a thing? Will you run out of food before you get there? Food- screeching to a halt to turn back around and go around back to the storage room. Jenna wouldn't mind if you took some things, right? You've been here so long… It's hard not to find yourself feeling a little tug at your chest. Something like guilt and unwillingness to leave Jenna by herself. She was a hard woman, by all accounts, but she was one of the few constants in this bizarre place.
You do have a purpose here.
You take only what is necessary. Some bread, some dried beef, stuffing it into an empty sack. Something in the corner catches your eye. A glint. Faint but there. Your eyes are having a hard time focusing as you cautiously go closer and find a small knife. A dagger. None you've seen before, but something about it feels familiar. You don't have to think about taking it; you just do. It wasn't Jenna's, and she wouldn't miss it. Shoving the blade into the bag that's over your shoulder as you continue your stealth to the barn. Climbing up the ladder to the loft, you stop in your tracks, your eyes landing on a form in your hay pile. The boy. You'd forgotten about him in your hurry. He was using his cloak as a blanket, his chest rising and falling evenly. Waking him up would be trouble, so you opted to leave him be. You had a long night ahead of you. At least someone would get some rest up there. Reaching to the ledge of the loft to grab some folded clothes to bring. As you climb back down from the ladder, you pass Salmons' stall one last time.
This is what pauses you.
For all her trouble, you'd miss her most. Jenna was family, but you didn't speak much. Well, neither does Salmon, but at least with her, she can listen. About your old life. About how you missed it on the random days when you recalled what a candle was like, or clean laundry, a soft fluffy blanket. You missed having an actual bed. She was the one in this place who could hear about it all. Salmon was already standing when you reached her gate. Refusing to come closer. Just being sour. As always. A weary sigh leaves you, and you've hardly just begun.
"I'll miss you, sweet girl." It's a promise. Between you and her, so she knows you'll think about her. About this place. This barn and those pebbled walls. The memories of sweaty days and itchy nights that seemed to grow on you in a way you didn't expect. Before you could change your mind and accept a life here, in this Inn, till the end- whatever it be- you leave, out of the barn and into the thicket of trees and night.
-REMOVED FOR REPLACEMENT-
The entry into tourney grounds and the Cyvasse game has been moved to be redone. I apologize for the inconvenience if you have already read it. I have made it Part 1.5 and it will be a less rushed version. Wanted to fix how the Cyvasse game was handled.
AN: Sorry for the abrupt end on this one, I wanted to give more for you guys to follow and wrote this in a day. I hope it’s good. Please let me know any issues in the comments and if you have any questions I would love to answer them! This was meant to be a bit longer but I’ll add the next bit to the next chapter. It might take me a while longer to write, but thank you all for the overwhelming support! EDIT: GRAMMAR & If you have read this ending before, it has now been moved and elaborated on in Part 1.5 (so sorry for the issue/reread).
Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Reader x Valarr Targaryen
Prologue / Part One / Part One & A Half / Part Two: The Warrior
Description: You fall into the world of Westeros. The Gods have given you the impossible task of changing fate. What was once set in stone is now in your hands, and the Gods refuse to make it easy.
WC: 6.9K~
<For Mature Audiences>
Warnings/MDNI: Cursing, physical abuse/altercation, gore, non-con implied w/touching and manhandling (quickly addressed), gross man behavior, inaccuracy to the time/books, no Aerion or Valarr yet (but they are coming), very slow burn, IDK I’ve never done this before.
A/N: This is my first time writing, in general, anything like this. It’s very self indulgent and if I make any mistakes please have some mercy (but let me know so I can improve, especially with the tag warnings). I’d like to make this a series but we shall see. I also have some other ideas but I’m too nervous to write about those and will stick with just this for the time being. Maybe if this does well I’ll write more? I wanted this to be a longer chapter to explain the foundation of what’s been bouncing around in my head (If I have it my way, I’ll write long chapters all the time).
It had started suddenly.
At first, you thought it was a fluke. A dream, vague and disorienting, jolting you awake in the middle of the night. You couldn't recall what it was about, only the dreadful feeling it left behind. Easily falling back asleep once the adrenaline wore off. It happened again the next night. Sheets tangled around your waist as your hair stuck to the back of your neck with sweat. Another shapeless memory of something eerie. Then again, the night after-
And again.
They were nightmares. You could never remember what happened, only the unsettling feeling that remained when you woke. Restless. Exhausted. Some far-off fear seeping into your bones. Vague scenes you couldn't put into words, as by the time you woke up, the memory slipped through your fingers. You tried everything to make them stop. Hot baths, cold showers, warm milk, cups of chamomile tea- the list could go on. It got to a point where you couldn't function.
Eventually, something had to be done. You're not sure how it happened exactly, but a friend had offered it. After sharing your plight, they thought they had a possible remedy. A sleeping aid. Once a night, an hour before bed, drink a cup before lying down. It didn't seem daunting. Seemed more like another tea, if anything. Your friend claimed it worked wonders for them. They had bought it on a trip about a year ago, unable to recall exactly where they purchased such a thing.
That should’ve been the first warning.
What if it doesn’t work? What if something’s wrong??
You’re overthinking.
With a bubble bath, spending an hour before bed relaxing and sipping that tea. That tea. It had made your limbs heavier and heavier, making it impossible to pull out of the water by the time you were pruny. When you did, it was a battle in itself. Pulling to get dressed in some PJ's that made you feel more put together than you were. Then plopping into bed as some deeper fatigue settled in, to the point that no dream came. Your brain finally turned off the static that had been constant since all of it started. It was the first peaceful sleep in two weeks. Dreamless.
Everything comes too slowly. The feeling in your back is a bit stiffer than usual. However, you had slept for a long time. Or at least what felt like a long time. How long have you been sleeping? Then the sound of a breeze, rattling the walls enough that it seeps in. Slowly. Consciousness creeps in with small increments. A light barely shining through your lids. Some vague stench that makes your nose hairs ache. You stretch just to feel it, and that's when you notice things are different than when you went to sleep. The beds are too hard, scratchy even against your clothes- no- your clothes are scratchy against your skin, and your feet have weight to them.
When did you put shoes on?
Your bones ache as you shift, peeking an eye open to look and-
What the fuck.
The room isn't the one you fell asleep in. The sun shines through cracks in the walls, slivers of gold across a dusty wooden floor. Straw cocoons you, and you're certain that's why you itch. Sitting up in a pile of hay as your muscles scream at you to lie back down. Head throbbing with confusion as reality pieces together. Slowly.
This isn't home. This is- what, a barn? You notice the leather shoes on your feet, then the heavy skirts suffocating your legs. Finding you're in some kind of dress. Layers of fabrics that seem far outdated and much too complicated to have been put on easily. A dreadful panic settles into your stomach. Because you did not go to bed like this, not here, not in these clothes-
How did you get here?
Where is here??
Eventually, you pull yourself from your spot in the pile of hay, which had been tucked up in a loft of a barn that was occupied by a few horses. Nearly toppling down the ladder with how fast your head was spinning and how unsteady your limbs were. The ground level was open and breezy compared to the cramped space of the loft. A stack of buckets tucked in a corner, a wall of hooks with various reins and bridles, a bar for saddles. The barn was fairly organized, all things considered. It was still a barn. The barn had two wide, open doors on either end. On one side is a path leading into a thicket of trees, the dirt road well worn but empty. The door on the opposite end showed a small stone building with a lush field behind it. It looks like something from a fairytale. Its walls are made up of uneven cobblestone, with ivy growing into the cracks. The straw roof has patches of moss and other greens that have sprouted. A sign hangs above the door, Sun Meadow Inn, carved into the wood with crooked writing.
This place looks old.
Something straight out of a storybook to the point it's jarring. Unbelievable. How did you get here? This has to be some prank, right? Some elaborate scheme that someone is dragging out because you're gullible enough to believe it. But who?? There are no pockets in your big, frumpy dress. Climbing back up in the loft, there's no phone or wallet or anything that would normally be on your nightstand. There's no sound of cars, nearby or in the distance. No power lines, or planes passing in the sky, or anything that could possibly say you're still in civilization. So they must have taken you far, whoever 'they' is, for this prank.
It takes an hour of just looking around the barn and the surrounding exterior to confirm you're not losing it. Unable to locate your clothes, or your belongings, or even a camera that caught your "Haha, very funny." moment of the 'prank'. So you do the only thing you could think of, and head for the Inn.
Upon closer inspection, the windows are open, and through them you can hear a woman, muffled but clearly upset about something. Her tone suggests she's grumbling as a rhythmic thumping sounds from inside. You carefully press your ear to the door, hesitant to walk into the unknown even if you are searching for answers. Her voice is hardly any clearer.
“-running off-“ Some muted complaining that’s too faint to hear. “Every time!”
"The Innkeeper is looking for you, y'know." A voice comes from behind you, clear and much too close. Causing you to spin around with a gasp. Nearly banging your back on the door. Because who moves that quietly? A man, no older than thirty, is standing about ten feet away. It's no one you recognize, and where he came from is unclear. What is clear is that he is dressed in armor. Real, metal armor. It shines in the light of the sun, silver and polished to perfection. From his shoulders to his toes, he is covered in an intricate design that seemed impossible to make. Or at the very least, it took a long time and a lot of patience. The breastplate is etched with some sort of star, while the gauntlets and greaves have swirls and swoops that look painstakingly carved. He wears no helmet, and it's clear why; he is quite handsome. His hair is peppered gray, and his eyes have those crinkle lines from years of focused assessment. A scruffy bear, slightly unkempt, sits across his jaw. His skin tanned from what looks like years of being outdoors, and his eyes- they pierce through you. Holding you in place with a cool gaze that feels icy. Keeping you frozen in place. Whoever is behind this, sure is trying to sell it-
"What are you talking-" You don't get to finish. Whatever words you had died in your mouth as soon as the door behind you was wrenched open. Causing you to stumble back a bit before whipping around. A larger woman stands at the door, clearly displeased. Glaring holes into your soul. It sends a shiver down your spine. From this close, you can see the sweat on her brow, the fullness of her cheeks, and the dirt that's smeared there. Her hair is pinned up, and strands of it have come loose with time.
"There ya are!" She sighs out, in annoyance and what sounds like relief. She is also in a similar dress to yours. An apron that's seen better days hanging from her neck and tied at her waist- "You were meant to be beating out the bedding, not me-" She starts in immediately. Quick to grab your ear and start dragging you into the building. The pain is what makes you move, trailing behind her and bent at an angle. It stings where she's pulling so hard. She's continuing her rant, but you're too focused on her grip. Hands coming to try and peel her off, only for her to dig in harder. "How come every time ya have chores ya nowhere to be found? D'ya think this is a poorhouse?? Ya think me a fool, and I'll let ya stay for free?"
"Ow- ow- okay, lady, I get it!" Poor choice of words. As soon as they left your mouth, her hand came up quick. Smacking you on the lips and leaving a sting that's more shocking than anything. Between the grip on your ear and the slap to your mouth, you're overwhelmed and embarrassed. Why is this lady manhandling you? Instead of mouthing off further, you just let her run her course.
"You don't dare talk to me like that- have some sense, girl." Chastising the whole way through the Inn. There are a few patrons sitting at tables with various styles of mugs, all in the same garb and get-up. They sure look the part. Greasy is the first word that comes to mind. Dirty is another word, but it might also get you smacked again if said aloud. Some watch you get dragged along while others ignore you entirely. You're moving too fast to really track anything, and before you know it, you're in a room somewhere in the back. Barrels, sacks, and various crates line the walls, and tucked in the corner is a comforter hanging from a support beam. There is a door that's been left open to the outside world, but it doesn't help the stuffy feeling of the room. "Beat girl, before I have some sense to beat you." Shoving a strange, wired fan into your hands before turning around and shutting the door. Leaving you alone.
What the fuck just happened?
For a moment, everything is still. The whirlwind of what just happened settles as you take in your surroundings. The air in the room is bitter and smells faintly earthy. After peeking into some crates and sacks, it becomes clear this is a food storage area. "She means for you to dust the cover." A familiar voice rings out, catching your attention quickly. That man in the armor. He stands at the open door, blocking the sun and blinding you with the shine off his fancy armor.
This has gotten to be too much-
"Okay, it was funny thirty minutes ago-" Starting off a little exasperated already. You're justified; the prank has been going on too long, a little too real at times. Your ear is still sore. Your mouth is still buzzing from that lady's whack. "Just cut to the chase and pull out the cameras. Tell me, who planned this? What show?? Because I've got to say the production team really thought this out-"
"She'll see you tonight; she's better with words than I am." His tone is not as cold as his gaze, more strict than anything. To the point. Slowly, he steps into the storage room, and the closer he gets, the more the air grows cold. You just now realize he has a sword on his belt; it's been there the whole time, but only now did your eyes catch it. His hand resting on the hilt as if it's second nature for him. "Go ahead and dust, little girl, you're going to have to get used to it."
With that, he pushed through the door into the Inn and shut it behind him. Leaving you standing there alone again with a slew of questions and no answers. The flattened whisk-like object in your hand makes zero sense. The lady dragging you in here with such force makes zero sense. The man in full medieval armor makes zero sense. Waking up in a fucking barn makes no sense. The problem is that nobody is answering any of your questions, and while you had slept for, apparently, a long time, you were still exhausted. After some mental back-and-forth, eventually the anxiety wins out. There is only so much you can do, and-
What would happen if you don’t listen?
That makes you nervous enough to at least try to complete the task that's been given to you. Dust the cover. The fabric is hanging from the ceiling, and at first you try to fan it to air it out. The musk alone is eye-watering. After some trial and error, you eventually sort out that the device given to you has a purpose. Your arms ache by the time you've beaten out the grime. It's still stained, slightly worn at the edges, but it's in much better shape than it was. Having worked up a sweat from the effort. By the time you're done, the lady returns- arms full of other comforters and sheets.
"Go on then. Get to it. We've a decent lot tonight; these need to be sorted before supper. Ken?" She plops them at your feet. The mountain of a pile seems impossible to finish before supper, whenever supper was. Making your stomach twist at the thought. Why are you doing this in the first place? In fact, you didn't have to. This was all just a joke anyway. Except the look she gave you made it seem otherwise-
"Ken?" Your voice is coming out more meek than you meant for it to. Who was Ken? What was Ken? The way she said it made it seem like something you should know. As soon as the question hit the air, she soured. A scowl forms on her lips as she sighs, a heavy and weary sound. Spinning to leave again while she muttered under her breath. Something "stupid," something "ungrateful". Then the tension leaves once she slams the door shut.
Alone.
It seems no matter what you do, you tend to end up that way. At some point while fighting the fabrics, you wonder when the camera crew will come out. When will an audience appear and laugh at how silly this all is? How credulous you are. Half expecting a TV show host to pop out of nowhere and sweep you back to where you came from. Except one sheet after another, comforter after comforter, the hours pass, and nobody comes. Leaving you alone in your own head. Is this still a joke? Who would pull a prank like this? It's definitely elaborately done, considering the whole time there hasn't been a slip-up. When can you go home?? The sun sets, and through the open door, the field outside glows a golden hue. Inside the Inn becomes a little louder, chatter of patrons and chairs being scooted. It would be a peaceful moment if you didn't reek of sweat. Hours of beating at gross bedding have left you in a gross state. The thick cloth of the dress sticks to your skin, and your skirts make everything a million times hotter. Just as you've folded the last of the bedding, the door opens-
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
When the lady returned to find the load of bedding complete and clean, she seemed a lot more relaxed than before. Offering a bowl of suspicious stew and sending you off to bed. When you had asked where 'bed' was, she only replied, "Don't test my patience, girl." Before leaving to attend the call of a customer demanding more ale. Too starving to question the stew or her reply, you made your way back to the loft. It was the only place you knew. It felt more eerie at night. Not uncomfortable but unfamiliar. The creak of the barn settling, the sounds of horses milling about in their stalls, it was a bit nerve-wracking. The stew was bland but filling, especially after the day you had, when your arms are threatening to fall off. Propped against the hay, it was impossible not to fall asleep. Somewhere between spoonfuls, your lids grew heavy, and eventually the darkness took hold.
Slumber was deep, a fog falling over your mind that makes the rest of the world fall away. Left in a dark oblivion that seems to go on forever. No matter where you walk, or in what direction, you end up nowhere. The same darkness surrounds you with no escape in sight.
Until a smoke starts to billow in.
You try to follow it, and it leads to blurry figures that don't quite form together. Shapeless. Blending with the fog, but the weight is still there.
Until one morphs into something vaguely familiar. An elderly woman sits in a rocking chair, knitting with yarn that's milky white. It looks soft. You're not entirely sure why that matters, or why you noticed. Her hair looks like a cloud, curled and short on her head. Her skin is so fragile that it looks nearly translucent. She's bundled up in a blanket that's made of the same yarn she's using. Staring off into the inky abyss without a word, her hands barely poking out of the material to continue her needlework.
Knit, purl, knit knit.
You’ve traveled a long way.
A voice rings out, echoes across the empty space. Her mouth doesn't move, but you know it's her who speaks. It doesn't scare you. You've heard this woman before. Somewhere deep in your subconscious, she's spoken to you. It leaves a nostalgic feeling.
Come, sit. We have much to discuss.
Another rocking chair forms next to her, and you take a seat. You notice, faintly, you don't ache. Not here. The work and labor from the day falls away in this space, and what's left is just you. Only you. Down to your most basic form. A memory, if you will, of yourself. It's not quite right, but it's how your brain perceives you. You give a gentle rock, testing the chair, and you can understand why she wouldn't want to get up.
You have many questions. I am here to answer them. I am also here to inform you of why.
Why?
Yes, why. You think you are here by mistake. I assure you, you are not. We spent a long time picking out our pieces, and the only game at play is one we’ve set up.
Game??
Patience.
The old woman pauses. Her needles stilling. Nothing moves. Not the chair, not her gaze, not even the air. For a moment, you wonder if something's happened until she starts again.
Purl, knit knit, purl, knit, purl.
You are the piece I have picked. It took a long time to find you, but I believe you will do well. I've put a great deal of faith in you.
Do what well?
Ever curious. Though a word of advice?
Listen before you speak.
Sorry.
Do not apologize, child; it is only advice. It is all I can offer to you before the trials to come.
Others can offer strength, some can offer skill, some can offer powers from beyond. I cannot give you these things, but I can give you guidance. It is up to you to do the rest.
The scene changes; the darkness shifts to something lighter. Rolling hills of various crops come into view. A small village is bustling in the distance. The sun is shining, the wind carries the smell of flowers, and the expanse of land looks like a small patch of heaven. A dream. That's all this is.
It is not.
It is your new home.
Home? That is not my home-
It is. This land is now in your hands, as is its people and its future. You will bear its burdens.
The fields fizzle out, and in their place is a roaring cliffside. The smell of salt hits your nose, and the wind whips at your hair, the ocean ramming against the rocks below. It's a far fall from the top, miles between the edge and the water below. Seagulls screech in the sky above, and the clouds look distant and stormy. Somewhere along the coast, there is a castle, half dangling above the water. Old and built of stones that do not decay when the weather rages.
Again, it changes.
You're sitting in your chair as the world reforms around you. The heat seeps in first, followed by the blinding light. The sight of dunes welcomes you in an endless sea; instead of water, there is only sand. The hot climate is bare except for a city in the far-off distance. A palace. Built wide with ivory stone that bounces the sun back like a mirror.
In a blink, the cold snaps into place. The sand turned to white mountains and dense trees. Snow is thick on the ground as it blankets everything. You could almost see your breath with how the temperature has changed. Almost. It feels so real. Like you've stepped into each one of these places, even if only for a moment.
It all falls away, back to the deep black.
I wish to keep these places as they are. Their beauty is their own. Singular. Unique.
You will help me with this.
How could I possibly help you?
There is a story set in motion. Some of us believe nothing can be done about its outcome. Some of us believe change is possible. Hence the game.
There is a dynasty that requires aid. You will give it to them. The peril lies in its downfall; if one tower should fall, then the whole castle will crumble. Devote your life to my task, and you, my pawn, shall win the game for me.
I shall show you.
Hours pass. It feels like hours. You've been talking for a long time, more so than listening. The old woman takes time and care to explain everything and answers every question. She gives details with such clarity that you see it with your own eyes. Scenes of tragedy and turmoil play close enough that you could reach out and touch them. You don't. You sit- and you watch- just as the lady told you to. Every option. Every death. Every whisper, every breath, all of it plays in your eyes and your ears and in your head. She shows you the Targaryen family, how they rose to power, their dragons, and their fall. She shows you how each one of them dies. She shows you all this in preparation.
There will come a day when the snow thaws and the people gather for their own game. You will go too. It is here where the match shall start.
My pawn, you will know what to do. You will be ready by then.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
When you wake, you are half expecting to find yourself in bed. That this all was a weird dream and in the end you'd laugh it off and forget by lunch. You awake in the hay. The sun creeps through the wooden barn as morning roosters call.
It's late August, if you're keeping track. It's been months since you arrived. The first few weeks were rough, adjusting to everything that was majorly different. Being thrown back to a time before electricity, before plumbing, before the ease of commerce and the ability, logistically, to buy anything you need. You missed spices. You missed the ease of hot water. You miss soap. The kind that smells like something warm and clean and fragrant in a pleasant way and not a 'horse manure' way. The availability of choice, the variation of goods, and the agility of anything you wanted. It was overlooked when you had it; you took that for granted back then.
The first month was coming to terms with that.
The first month was coming to terms with that.
The Innkeeper's name is Jenna. That was tough to learn. You didn't want to ask her name, as very quickly you learned she doesn't take in 'Beef-wits', as she called them. You've learned to keep your head down.
Listen before you speak.
You learn a lot of things that way. Jenna's name was one of them. How you came into her service when your family left you here, customers turned deserters. That here is actually in the Reach, somewhere between Ashford and Grassy Vale off the Kings Road. What chores you have, what things need to be done to run the Inn, and how to prepare for your task at hand. The Inn required upkeep that never waned. If you didn't have muscles before, you sure do now. Scrub the floor, do the dishes, organize the storage room, beat out the bedding, clean the rooms, feed the guests, feed the horses- the list goes on. Rough calluses that weren't there before form on the palms of your hands. Your skin is warmer from the work you do outside. Your leather shoes are a little more broken in than before.
You missed clothes. Cloth that didn't make your skin itch. Options to wear to get out of the heat, or at least help with it. The lack of AC was the hardest to get over.
Every night you slept, you dreamt of that woman. She must be important. Hours of time were spent with her, learning about this land. It's people. How to think. What to do. It felt surreal. This world was brutish. Compared to modern times, it was such a vast difference that it left you wondering if you were really capable of what she was asking of you. Sure, gutting the game that came in was gross, but it was no different than handling meat from a butcher. Sure, the men were more vulgar, more handsy in ways you disliked, but Jenna said you were allowed to hit them if anyone got to be too much. Sure, people got sick, and instead of getting treatment, all they could do was put a potato in their shoe and hope for the best, but that was life. The old woman showed you many things you didn't know. How to speak properly, how to act in this time period, how to pass in a shadow or a crowd unnoticed. How to keep your head down. Your dialect isn't from this lifetime, and it shows. People here didn't go to school. They didn't read, or write, or learn math. That means the beef-wits were worse.
I miss my family, my friends.
It's late August, and the summer heat has just barely started to cool in the evenings. Jenna has been nicer since you've been able to finish your chores on time and without incident. She doesn't glare like she used to, but she does get on you when something's not done to her standard. Sometimes, when she's feeling generous, she lets you head to the loft early to get some sleep.
'She's like the dead, that one.' It was something she often said to the sparse patron or two in the early mornings. Every time you overslept, she made sure to say it loud enough to earn a chuckle from them, which made your ears red.
Today was a generous day.
"Go get some rest now, Missy. Tomorrow I'll have you help me drag off some rot from up top before it gets too stuck in the cold." She's been talking about the roof for a while now. It's something you noticed when you first arrived. The moss and sprouts have grown since April, yet she had no way of addressing the problem till recently, when a merchant came through and offered his ladder. Now it's all that's been on her mind.
You peel yourself from your spot on the crate in the storage room. Watching her shuffle different bags of flour and salt around. Stretching to earn a satisfying pop in return. "I should think so. If you tried to climb up there, there's no guarantee you're getting down." Teasing her gently as you brush past her to the door. Loving to press her nerves just enough to not piss her off completely, but you knew better than to stay after saying something like that.
Jenna's lips purse as she lets a bag drop with its weight behind it. "I should hope you fall when you get up there bright and early in the morning."
That makes you leave just as quickly as the smile split your lips. Passing through the near-empty Inn to head out to the barn. There was only one horse whose residence was permanent, and she lived at the very end of the walk. Salmon. Odd name, surely, but Jenna said she wanted to remember the 'most delicious food she's ever had'. Salmon was friendly when she wanted to be, dramatic in every sense of the word. No matter how often you visited her or what treats you brought her, she always seemed to have an attitude. A certain sour look on her face.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
You had nothing for her this time, she felt betrayed.
"There's nobody here to get any treats from, unless you want straw- and I know you don't want straw." Creeping closer to her stall as you pluck a handful of the stuff. Except the golden strands were not what she was looking for. Flipping her lip and turning away from you.
“Don’t be like that.”
She didn’t budge.
"Well, I suppose next time I don't have to buy you any celery if some travels by. Since you're ignoring me." That caught her attention. Mouthing at the straw even though she just pushed it onto the ground. Nudging into your hand as you pet her snout. She always comes around eventually. She was easy to talk to. It's not like you could say much to Jenna. Only the occasional jab.
Once, when you started rambling about cooking, she looked at you like you had three heads. Different metals for pots and pans? Mixed spices? Fresh vegetables, what is an avocado?? You didn't speak for a week after that.
By the time you crawl up to the loft, you're dragging along. Plopping into the hay with a sigh as you settle into your worn-in spot. It wasn't so bad once you got used to it. You close your eyes and wait for the blank space to come.
It doesn’t.
You lay there for a while with your eyes closed, listening to the sounds around you. The birds in the distance. Salmon in her stall. Some faint rummaging from the Inn. You toss an arm over your eyes as you try to relax. Letting the weight and tension go from your limbs.
Still nothing.
She doesn’t come. The abyssal void doesn’t come. The floating scenes and endless conversation never comes.
There’s a screech somewhere off in the distance.
Too far to worry about but enough to notice. Then, after a few minutes, steady hoof beats. Coming closer and closer. It wasn't that abnormal. We had travelers come and go plenty of times. Jenna always greeted them, she always handled the business of it, and she was the one who saw them off when they overstayed their welcome. When they're close enough, you hear the sound of multiple people, men, loud and rowdy as they dismount. That was always a terrible sign. Your eyes opened to stare at the blank ceiling instead. Listening to the commotion of their arrival. The door to the Inn is opening. Jenna's muffled greeting. It has become a routine with everyone who stops by.
The wood grain has 36 lines through it so far. You count the years in the planks as you listen. You couldn't sleep, so you just stayed there. You got to 36 rings before anything happens.
A crash.
Sounding through the walls loud enough to make you jump. Jenna's shriek. You've never heard her sound like that. Something shrill and blood-curdling that makes you freeze. For a split second, you think you might be dreaming until another bang sounds from inside the Inn. That was enough to get you to move. Scrambling to lean over the edge of the loft, looking out to the door from a bent angle. You could see it held open by one of the men who came, and you quickly sat back straight.
Something was wrong.
You could feel it in your bones as you tried to think of what to do. Jenna screamed; she could be hurt, but you were unsure of how many men had arrived, and you knew you couldn't fight them off. Salmon wasn't ready to ride. If you opened her gate, there's no guarantee that you could climb onto her back without a saddle. You scoured your options as you carefully climbed down from the loft. Watching the man at the door the whole time. His gaze was set on whatever was happening inside the Inn. Your feet light as you shuffle to Salmons' stall and creep in. She didn't appreciate the intrusion, but she didn't kick like you had thought she would. That's a relief.
Somewhere in the Inn, a man was shouting, indescript words too far off to hear. Jenna's muffled sobs can be heard, and your gut twists. A sick feeling washes over you.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
She was adding to her blanket. You'd figured that much after seeing her every night. The silky yarn she was weaving was adding to the never-ending blanket she seemed to be making. There was never an explanation as to why or what the thread actually was. Only the steady clicking and clacking of her wooden needles against each other.
Knit, purl, knit, purl.
Some nights, you just sat in silence as she pulled you through different views of Westeros. How can one continent have so many different sights?
You have spent quite some time with me.
I believe I can offer you a gift. A bit more than just advice.
You have spent a while together. Time moves differently in dreams, especially with her. She can make a moment happen in the hours of sleep. Or a nap in the evening feels like a lifetime. There's always a purpose with what she does. Sometimes you figure it out; other times you're left wondering with no answers. You never ask. She tells you what she wants to share, keeps what you're not ready for. Your thoughts are hers. There is no space when you're like this.
Imagine something.
A coin, if you will, a copper star.
You do. The small weight of the metal, the ridges of its edges. The way the bronze catches the light. Each of the seven points of the star. The writing on its back-
Now imagine it in your hand.
You can. Just barely. Closing your eyes to try and feel it. The hot brand of it in your palm after being in the sun all day, the tang in the air when it's wet. You rub your fingers together, and you could almost-
A copper star.
Before your very eyes, a little round coin has materialized in your hand. Stark against the inky blackness surrounding it. It doesn't shine. It doesn't catch the light. It sits there with its weight and its ridges and looks back at you in a way that leaves you astonished.
Small things. Things you’ve seen before. Things you can remember the details of. If you need them, I shall provide.
If you don’t-
Then I wouldn’t have need of them.
That makes her pause. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t correct either. The old woman just stares for a moment before her needles start again. As if processing, recalibrating and then restarting.
Purl, knit, purl, knit.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You're unsure how it happened. You were careful. You thought you were careful. The gate was silent; the shadows held you close. When you reached the reins and bridles, you were still. Holding your breath. Waiting. Watching. Nobody had moved. The scuffle inside continued, and so did you. Making your way back to Salmon to try and half-way ready her. Anything was better than nothing. You could go to another town. Go to the Millers' farm, down the way. Find help. Find help.
Except for two arms wrapped around you, tight and squeezing all the air from your lungs.
Making your ribs ache.
The strength felt inhuman, and any scream you had died in your throat due to lack of oxygen. A rumbling laugh sounds behind- "Caught one! She was hidin' tryin' to get on somewhere before we found her, aren't I lucky?" A phlegmy voice in your ear makes your stomach drop. Your hands came to try and shove his grip off while your feet landed on Salmons gate. Kicking hard to try and break his grasp. Earning a wobble from him before he steadies upright. "Oh, and she's feisty too, I like that."
The world spins.
You struggle against the man, trashing and jerking to free yourself as he drags you towards the Inn. Towards Jenna's crying and the other men laughing and the terrible fate that the old woman most certainly did not warn you about. Tears prick your eyes as you scream. Your skirts are tripping you up as you try to dig your heels into the dirt.
You try to do what she said.
Something you've seen before. Little knife. You imagine it. Small in your palm, folded for convenience. You've seen something like it countless times before. A little pocket knife, the kind you would find at gas stations or stores in the souvenir section. You can recall its weight when it's handed to you. You can see the wood grain of the handle.
You try.
It doesn’t come.
Earning a wail from you as you try to reason with the man- “No- don’t-“ panicked as you try to grapple the situation. How quickly things turned.
He only laughs. A sound you’ll never get out of your head. The stench of his breath hits your nose as he leans over you, squeezing you even closer as you try to maul him off. Your arms locked under his tight grip. You were strong. He was stronger. “Maybe I should keep ya to myself for a bit, hm? Have a bit of fun with you before handin’ ya off.” His voice low in your ear. You feel bile start to bubble in your throat as you knock your head back. Connecting hard as you earn a wet crunch, a groan.
He shoves you to the ground hard it knocks the breath out of you again. Your poor lungs hardly recovering from the first time. The man is ugly. Mangled teeth, greasy hair and scars that litter his face. His clothes hardly fit him. Stained and reeking of piss and booze. “You bitch-“ He sputtered out, wiping blood from his lip. Only to gather it in his mouth and spit it back at you. Making you flinch. You felt helpless. Even if you got to your feet, you couldn’t make it anywhere. You couldn’t fight him off with anything. You didn’t have anything.
It all happened very quickly.
One moment that rat of a man is standing over you, the next there's a sword through his stomach. A pained noise left him. His eyes were wide with shock as he checked to make sure there actually was something skewering him. His hand hesitantly comes to touch the blade before it's pulled right out of him. You didn't notice the spatter of blood on you. You didn't notice the garbled noise you made. Swiftly, hazy in your mind, the man's head was on his shoulders and then-
It wasn’t.
His head fell to your feet as a gasp tore through you, shuffling back in fear and shock at the sight. The blood. So much blood. The man's body fell in a heap, and that's when you saw him.
The man in the armor.
You remember him now, seeing him before you. The silvered plates and greyed hair. How could you forget? You never saw him after the first day, but it was like your memory carefully avoided him till now. His sword was bloody, and his blue gaze firmly set on you. Through you. He looks like he's somewhere far off. Words fail you as you stare up at him, grateful and traumatized by his appearance. How could this have happened? In all the time you've been here, you thought there would be lines. Limits to how far this could go. Like a nightmare you could wake up from before things got worse. It was not. Wordlessly, the man turns, starts towards the Inn, and that's when it really hits you.
This is the final warning.
AN: Hello! I really hope you liked my story, if you’ve gotten this far thank you so much. I know it was a very long fic with a lot of story building, but I promise next chapter will make up for it. Mainly want to focus on the tourney and subsequently meeting Aerion. I’ve got a whole plan in my head. Please let me know if you liked it and thank you for reading! EDIT: Grammar.
✿ despite your warnings, aerion drinks a powerful stimulant, and then seeks your help when nothing else seems to fix him (or, a sex pollen fic with the dragon himself)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 7.7k
✿ cw: fem!reader/healer!reader, no y/n, reader is undefined and smart asf, sex pollen, SMUT, oral (m!receiving), face-fucking, unprotected piv, multiple orgasms, hyperspermia!!, reader gets bent over her shop counter, rough sex, dirty talk, cw for aerion being himself (he's lowkey mean, mentions of frequenting brothels, slight degradation, etc), strong language, ser donnel mentions <3
a/n: inspired by this ask
Your shop is rather small, but you love it.
Behind the sturdy wooden counter—which itself is laden with misshapen plants sprouting from old teacups and half-filled bottles of sparkling powder—sits rows upon rows of shelves. The shelves are stocked full of your natural remedies and creations, vials big and small, pouches of linen and pouches of ribboned silk. You have everything, perfectly organised, by remedy and in alphabetical order.
For years, you’ve operated out of your little shop in a narrow side-street in the heart of King’s Landing, just a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare. You’ve helped countless travellers and residents with a range of issues: from sedatives for unruly hounds and salves to treat festering hoof-rot, to fast-acting contraceptives and bitter-tasting hallucinogens.
You can make anything.
And because you can make anything, you’ve become familiar with many a noble and knight in your time.
The door to your shop opens as you’re serving a little old lady, handing her a parcel of dried mushrooms. A cool breeze smelling faintly of winter rain and freshly baked bread sweeps into your shop, jostling the bundles of herbs you have hanging from your ceiling. You wave goodbye to the elderly women as you look up, smiling politely as you catch the unmistakable glint of midday sun against white armour.
“Ser Donnel,” you greet with a small bow of your head as the older kingsguard enters your shop, his gleaming armour making him appear like a pearl in the sand amongst your dim wooden shelves. “How is your finger? I trust the salve I made you helped the wound heal?”
Ser Donnel approaches the counter, offering you a small smile as he lifts his hand. He flexes his fingers, eyes lingering on the index, which he had sliced open a week prior.
“It did, thank you,” Ser Donnel says, his eyes lingering now on the shelves behind you.
“What can I do for you?” You ask, drumming your fingers on the solid wood of your counter, watching as the older knight spins slowly on his heel, taking in the other shelves and tables packed into your small shop.
“Don’t suppose you have something for horses?” He asks, back to you. When he turns, however, he gives you a rueful smile, then laughs. “Of course you do.”
“Of course I do,” you mimic, rounding your counter and leading the older knight across the room. You find a shelf near the shop’s far side, gesturing to an array of small vials, many labelled “Dog – Rash” or “Cat – Sneezing” and even “Chicken – Eggbound.” Ser Donnel looks at the array of small vials with complete amazement as you turn back to him. “What’s wrong with your palfrey, ser?”
Ser Donnel points to his own eye for emphasis. “Got something in her eye. All red and weepy and that. Not pleasant.”
“I see,” you say, then turn to your shelf. It takes you less than a second before you’re plucking a vial with dark brown glass off of the shelf. You hold it out to Ser Donnel. “Sounds like conjunctivitis. Very common, and, lucky for you, easy to treat. Just a few drops of this, morning and night, and she should be all better in a couple of days.”
Ser Donnel looks at you, visibly pleased, as you gently press the small vial into his palm. “You’re an absolute darling, you know that?”
“I try,” you reply, smiling as you return to your counter. Ser Donnel follows you, dropping the vial into a pouch and pulling out his coin purse at the same time. He drops several stags onto the counter, and you gape at him as they clatter loudly against the wood. “Ser Donnel, this is too much—”
“For the eye-drops,” Ser Donnel insists, pushing the stags towards you. “And for your services, okay? Now, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”
You bite your lip, hiding your smile as you reluctantly scoop up the stags and slip them into the coin pouch on your belt.
“Well, can I at least give you something for your generosity?” You ask, ducking beneath the counter before he could even open his mouth to reply. You snatch up a small pouch and get to your feet, offering it to the knight, who peers at you as if you had grown another head. You sigh through your nose, amused. “Sourleaf. Fresh in this morning.”
Ser Donnel offers you another kind smile, taking the pouch of painkillers and slipping it alongside the pouch with the vial.
“Thank you,” he says, bowing his head, just as the door to your shop opens and another gust of wind blows in.
The cold breeze sweeps through the store, and the door bangs harshly against the side wall, creaking on its hinges from the force. You startle, and Ser Donnel whips around. Composing yourself, you’re quick to sink back, making yourself appear smaller, as Aerion Targaryen bursts into the room with eyes spitting embers.
“How long could it possibly take to buy an ointment for a fucking horse?” The prince seethes as he steps into the shop, looking around with genuine distaste. His eyes linger on a murky liquid in a large bottle on the wall beside him, before they drag through the dim to Ser Donnel. He makes a face, eyebrows raising like he’s expecting something. “Well? Did you get it?”
You hear Ser Donnel release a short, quiet breath.
“Yes, your grace,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder sympathetically before stepping towards the prince. “We may be off now.”
Aerion scoffs, allowing Ser Donnel to brush past him, but his eyes lift and land on you. He peers at you, as if just noticing your presence, his gaze burning holes right through the centre of your face. He looks at you half with distaste—probably due to the leaves in your hair and the powder dusted across your arms and apron—and half with interest, like a merchant admiring a newly minted coin.
“So you are the woods witch Ser Donnel speaks so highly of…” Aerion comments, eyes unwavering in their stare. You shift your eyes to the floor. Aerion huffs, partially amused. “I expected an ugly old thing, but this—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel warns with a sternness akin to a strict father.
“—is unexpected,” Aerion continues, unphased. He traipses into the shop, cloak swishing behind him like a pair of raven’s wings. His eyes scan the walls of bottles and vials and jars, and he plucks a small one from the closest shelf. Spinning it between his fingers, he speaks with considerable disinterest, “How exactly do you know how to make all of this?”
You lift your head slowly, hands clasped in front of you. “My… my mother taught me, your grace.”
The vial he holds holds a sticky green liquid, the colour of forest moss. He peers at it strangely. The liquid inside sticks to the glass, viscous and slow-moving as he turns it.
“What’s this for?” He asks, and you know he doesn’t actually care. You lock eyes, and you realise he’s testing you.
“Eases infant colic,” you reply straight away.
Aerion drops the vial on the floor and it shatters against the wood. You flinch, startled by the sudden noise. You hear Ser Donnel protest with a gruff call of the prince’s title, but Aerion is undeterred, slipping behind the counter and appraising the towering shelves behind you. He takes another vial, the liquid inside a deep, mustard yellow.
“And this?”
“Inflamation caused by pox,” you answer. “Soothes the skin.”
He huffs, and drops that vial too. It shatters, but this time, you don’t flinch. You watch the syrupy yellow liquid leech between the floorboards, glass shimmering in the ghostly light streaming in through the only window near the door.
Aerion walks further behind the counter, and you shift until the small of your back is pressed to the solid wooden lip. The prince closes in on several vials on the very top shelf, and he has to stand on his toes to reach one of them. Your heart leaps into your throat, and you open your mouth to say something, but no words fall.
Aerion’s pale fingers snatch a small bottle from the top shelf. The glass is clear, and it’s labelless, but you know exactly what it is. The substance inside resembles wine: a deep, blood-red that bubbles a little on the surface as the prince sloshes the liquid around. There’s a small, oil-like sheen to it as he holds it up, violet eyes finding yours.
“What’s this?” He presses, and you wonder if he catches the fear in your eyes.
You clear your throat. “I, uh, it’s—”
He uncorks it, and you raise an arm.
“It’s a stimulant,” you blurt out, stopping yourself from pulling the vial from his hands. Aerion continues, unphased, as he lifts the bottle to his nose and sniffs. You can almost smell it yourself: overripe grapes, crushed honeysuckle, and what smells uncannily like the perfumed skin of an expensive courtesan. Aerion pauses, something flashing in his eyes as you continue shyly, “To… increase desire and maintain… maintain a man’s excitement.”
Aerion stares at you, slowly lowering the little bottle from his nose.
He holds it carelessly, and as Ser Donnel sends another warning from across the room, you attempt to prise the bottle from his fingers, your touch slow and gentle.
“Please be careful, your grace,” you utter, fingers skimming the cool glass of the vial. “It’s incredibly potent in large doses—”
Aerion jerks away, and you snap your hand back as though you’d been burned.
The prince hisses at you, serpent-like as the pointed ivory of his teeth glint in the grey light. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
You withdraw. “Your grace, please—”
“You’re trying to scare me,” he seethes, shaking the bottle enough for a few droplets to flick out and onto the pale skin of his fingers. It stains like mulled wine. He continues, staring you down. “How dare you even—”
“Your grace,” Ser Donnel’s voice booms through the small room, and you find yourself cowering back against the counter, stuck between two brewing storms. Ser Donnel sighs loudly. “Listen to her. She knows a lot more than you do, believe me.”
Aerion lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t mock me.”
You chime in hesitantly. “Please, your grace. It’s a concentrated mixture. I wouldn't want you to—”
“I can do what I want,” Aerion spits out, and before you can even react, he downs the entire vial in two quick mouthfuls.
You gasp out. “Your grace—!”
Aerion drops the vial and it shatters right at your feet. You jump back, avoiding the splash of broken glass, as the prince turns on his heel and makes for the door. You scramble after him, but you’re stopped by Ser Donnel, who places a gentle hand on your shoulder.
At the door, Aerion turns and gives you one last look, eyes trailing up and down your figure, before he rolls his eyes and vanishes back onto the street.
You’re breathing deeply, overcome with guilt. Ser Donnel strokes your shoulder gently, calming you.
“It’s alright, it’s his own doing,” Ser Donnel assures you, hand shifting up to pat you comfortingly on the cheek.
“But—he just—the entire thing.”
“Will it harm him?” Ser Donnel asks. His voice is firm and it almost makes you want to cry. “Will it kill him?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, ser! It—it will be very intense, and very, uh, difficult to remediate without—without help, but it will not harm him, no.”
“Can a cure be made?”
You feel yourself warming beneath your clothes, and you clear your throat, soothing your hands over your apron and your skirts.
“I suppose I can give you something to ease the racing heart,” you say quietly, ducking off to the side to pluck another small vial from a nearby shelf. You hand it to Ser Donnel. “Mix with hot water and it will ease the fast-moving heart, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid the other symptoms will have to be cured… in other avenues.”
Ser Donnel chuckles, taking the vial. “I suppose I’ll be taking him to the Street of Silk later tonight then?”
You offer Ser Donnel a sympathetic smile, nodding and trying to ignore the warmth in your belly. You put it down to the shock of the whole thing, and you give Ser Donnel a polite wave as he leaves your shop without another word.
You sigh, turning and examining the broken glass and spilled liquid across your floors. You grab your broom from near the door and set to work.
—✿—
Later that night, you’re setting a new set of vials on a shelf across the store, extinguishing the wall-mounted candles as you move. You hum to yourself, skirts brushing the dusty floor, the street beyond the small window empty and pitch-black as night falls across King’s Landing. A crescent moon hangs, thin and pale, above the horizon.
You take your apron off and place it neatly on a hook near the door behind the counter—the door which leads up a narrow flight of stairs to your home above. As you do this however, there’s a thud at the locked door. It rattles the old wood where it settles on its hinges, and your heart flutters a little in fright as you look over, spying a shadow through the stained glass. Taking a knife from a block behind you, you approach the door with your hand obscured behind your back.
There’s another thud. More like a knock this time.
“Are you alright?” You ask through the stained glass, the outer pane caked in grime kicked up from the street. You gently unbolt the door and open it a crack, peering out at the shadowed figure that hunches in your alcove. “I’m closed for the night, but if you are ill—”
“Let me in,” comes a familiar voice, and you squeak in fright when you recognise it.
Quickly, you pull open the door, still holding your knife, and the shadowed figure slips into your shop. You close and bolt the door behind you, turning with your back to the surface as the figure drops his hood, and subsequently, his cloak, and you watch as Aerion Targaryen turns slowly as the thick black fabric pools at his feet.
“Your grace,” you mutter, dropping into a polite bow. Worry clenches tightly in your chest as the prince looks at you with narrowed eyes, features appearing gaunt in what remains of the shop’s fading candlelight. You spare a glance through the stained glass of the door, then through the pane of the window adjacent. “Your grace, I’m not sure if—”
“What have you done to me?” Aerion interrupts you, his question slicing through the nervous quiet like the blade you clutch. He takes a step forward and you suck in a startled gasp, slipping around him and hurrying towards your counter. You just want to put as much distance between him and you as possible. He groans when you breeze by him, slowly turning as he speaks, “You’ve poisoned me.”
You’re behind your counter now. “I’ve done no such thing.”
“You have,” Aerion hisses, and he takes another step forward. You notice he’s slightly wobbly on his feet, pitching forward chest-first as though his legs are too heavy. He catches himself on a nearby shelf, bottles clinking together as the wood trembles. “This is your fault. You’ve poisoned me. You’ve—you’ve cursed me.”
Your eyes grow wide. You shake your head. “Your grace, please, I would never.”
In the low candlelight, sweat sparkles like broken glass on Aerion’s forehead. His white-blond hair clings to his skin, damp near his temples, and there’s a dip in his brow that casts a dark shadow over his eyes. But when he cocks his head, staring you down, you see them flash violet in the ochre light, his pupils slowly expanding.
“Ser Donnel informed me of what I had taken, and what it would do to me,” Aerion mutters, his voice hoarse as he pushes himself off the shelf. His palms slam down on the counter directly across from you, and you take a step back, fingers tight on the bone handle of your knife. Aerion huffs, “So I drank your little tea for my heart, and I fucked a couple of whores, but nothing is working.”
You swallow, heart in your throat.
“I tried to sleep,” Aerion says, dragging himself around the counter. You mimic his actions on the other end, slipping to the other side to avoid him. He continues, one of his hands shifting to the thin buttoned tunic he’s wearing. He pops open the top button. “I tried to bathe, I tried to pleasure myself, and I went back to that fucking whorehouse twice more and nothing—” He groans, and undoes another button. “—is working. What have you done to me?”
Slowly, he exposes the pale, unblemished skin of his chest. He’s damp with sweat as you round the counter, skirts flowing around your ankles. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest as he advances on you lazily, eyes drawn to the movement of your body like a falcon.
“You drank the stimulant,” you tell him as gently as possible.
You’re at opposite ends of the counter now. He pauses, undoing another button.
“So it’s my fault?” Aerion hisses out.
You watch as he pushes his hips against the lip of the counter and he groans, hoarse and animal-like from the back of his throat. It strings across a whimper, and heat floods your belly. You curse yourself, watching as the prince—the Targaryen prince Aerion Brightflame—ruts himself slowly against your counter. You can see the stimulant’s effects on him: the tent pitched in the front of his trousers, the beads of sweat that trek down beneath his now open-tunic, rolling between the grooves of his abdomen.
“Yes,” you say boldly, holding the knife. “You shouldn’t have drank it.”
Aerion huffs out, then groans again as he looks up at you, hips pressed firmly to the edge of the counter. “You’re a witch. Fix me.”
You release a shaky breath, then approach him. You move behind your counter, and he watches you with serpent-like concentration as you slowly place your knife onto the surface. He smirks at that, moving behind the counter too.
“You…” Your heart is wild beneath your ribs, and you can smell him as he nears. He smells expensive: smoked oud, honey-washed skin, patchouli incense from the Street of Silk. You smell sweat and wine too when he gets within a foot of you. You continue, “I cannot fix you, your grace. The easiest fix is to find… find a woman, or a man, I suppose, and engage in sexual intercourse until the effects wear off.”
You hope you sound confident enough. You fear you may faint as he looks you up and down, bare chest rising and falling, smoke trapped beneath shifting scales.
“This is your doing,” he says, seemingly ignoring your previous statement. One of his hands finds your hip and you seize up. “You will fix me. You will fix this.”
You find yourself shifting then as he pushes you up against the counter, the print of his hard cock pressing between your thighs as he pins you. You frown as he groans, the hand on your hip tightening while the other slowly rises to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“I can’t fix it,” you whisper as he forces your eye contact. You’re trapped beneath him, but there’s a heat in your belly you can’t deny, and the pounding of your heart travels south, settling between your thighs despite your racing mind. “I, well, I can try and make a cure—”
“I don’t want an elixir or a salve or a bunch of dried fucking herbs,” Aerion utters as his fingers tighten on your jaw. He ruts his pelvis against your thigh, and you watch as something flits through his eyes, the black of his pupils having engulfed the violet of his irises. “I want you to fix me.”
You swallow. “Your grace—?”
“I want your mouth on my cock, and I want you bent over this fucking counter,” Aerion interrupts with a voice strewn through gravel, dark and hoarse. Something twists deep in your belly as he bends his head, dipping his nose against the curve of your jaw. He grunts when he inhales, lips vibrating against your skin when he speaks again. “Will that fix me?”
Your hands are tight around the edge of the counter. “Yes, your grace, but—”
Aerion hums, teeth just skimming the skin of your jaw before he pulls back. “Good. Then get on your knees.”
The heat of his body leaves yours then, and you blink up at the ceiling. Aerion Targaryen was telling you to get on your knees? Aerion Targaryen was currently pulling apart the knots of his trousers, panting like a wounded dog as he dips his hand into his breeches to fist himself? Your mind was a mess.
But you did what you were told. You could have easily overpowered him in this state. Simply leapt from his reach and locked yourself in your room. But you didn’t want to. There’s a heavy fire kindling in your belly, fanning out over your womb as blood pumps hot between your thighs.
You sigh gently, slowly pushing yourself off the counter and sinking to your knees, your powder-dusted skirts flowing out around you. The wooden ground is hard but well-worn from years of footfall, and you settle on your knees as the prince takes a step forward, his trousers gathered just beneath the curve of his arse. The print of his cock strains against the white linen of his breeches, the front wet with pre-cum, and the way his fingers tremble when he attempts to unknot them makes you whine.
“My prince…” you whisper, reaching your hands to take hold of the strings of his breeches.
He stills above you, muscles in his abdomen clenching as you pull the knots apart. While you do this, one of his hands comes to rest on the back of your head, and he pulls you to him. Adrenaline is thick and viscous in your veins, but you let yourself be guided despite the hammering of your pulse up the side of your neck. You’re dizzy with both need and fear as you open your mouth and press it, hot and wet, to the front of his breeches.
He bites down a hiss. “That’s right.”
You kiss over the line of his cock, open-mouthed and messy against the soft linen. You smell perfume and imagine the skilled hands of trained sex workers pulling the prince’s breeches down for him. You squeeze your thighs together at the thought, and you finally manage to pull apart the knots beneath his navel.
“Kiss me, that’s it,” Aerion groans out, holding your head firmly as your lips move across his covered cock. He’s burning hot and rigid beneath the fabric, and your hands find his thighs as you lave your tongue. That earns you a groan, and your eyes flit upwards to find him already looking at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “That’s it, fix me… fix this.”
Your head rocks beneath his hand as you mouth at his covered length. You feel him twitch beneath your lips, tip drooling out onto the fabric as you run the point of your tongue across it. Aerion hisses, hips bucking so harshly he knocks against your nose. Tears well along your waterline as he pulls you away then, just long enough to shove his breeches down.
He pulls his cock out, pale fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft. He groans at the raw contact, and you can’t help but gape as he clutches himself, tip a bruising red and wet with pre-cum. Pearlescent beads roll down the dip of his frenulum, and down his length as he slaps it against your cheek, then the other. He groans again when he pushes the tip across your lips, your eyes glassy as you watch him.
“Didn’t think witches could be as pretty as you,” he says suddenly as he ruts his cock along the warm lines of your face: over the curve of your cheekbones, rolling beneath the angle of your jaw. You kneel there, breathing hard, as he rubs himself over your skin. His words have heat flooding from your belly to your chest. The prince continues, “Might take you back to the Keep with me, huh? Keep you locked away…”
He tapers off when he groans, his balls drawing up tight. He grips the back of your head as he slides the head of his cock across your wet lips. He manages to bite out a quick “open” and you listen, opening your mouth and letting him slide just the tip in before he’s spilling in thick, hot spurts. Aerion groans, a shaking timbre from his chest as he rubs the head of his cock against the front of your tongue and spills into the warmth of your mouth. Some hits the back of your throat, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to choke as he releases, fingers firm on the back of your head.
After a moment, his cock jerks, but doesn’t soften. A loud, frustrated groan rips from Aerion’s throat as he pulls out and smears the remnants back over your cheek again.
“You did this to me,” he growls out as he shoves himself back into your mouth, barely giving you enough time to swallow. You open your eyes when he feeds himself into you, cock a velvet warmth against your tongue. He releases a stuttered breath, his other hand finding the back of your head as well. “So you’re going to take it.”
You gag when his hips rock forward and the leaking tip nudges down the back of your throat. You swallow, huffing out of your nose, and he groans loudly enough for it to echo. His hands tighten on your head and he physically starts moving you, pulling your head back and forth and fucking his cock down your throat. You try your best to lax your jaw, minding your teeth as you slide your tongue along the underside—you find a prominent vein easy enough, and you squeeze your thighs together as he whines, the muscles in his abdomen shifting.
The velvet of his trousers is plush beneath your fingers as you grip his thighs. They sit low on his hips, ties swaying as he pitches his hips, pulling your head back and forth. Every other thrust, he’s pushing you deep against him with a guttural groan, forcing your lips to the very root as the tip knocks against the back of your mouth. Your nose finds the neat white hair at the base, and the smell of perfumed oil should be a turn off, but it isn’t.
You whimper around him, cheeks hollowing. Your eyes are glassy and there’s a thin rivulet of saliva running from the corner of your mouth as he fucks your throat. Heat settles deep in the marrow of your bones, fluttering heart between your thighs. The feeling of spit rolling down your chin makes you whimper again, and suddenly, his eyes are on you. They’d been closed in, what you can only assume, is ecstasy as he chases another high. But now, he stares down at you with a subtle pinch in his brows. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.
“If I knew you’d take my cock like this,” Aerion utters, petting the back of your head as he stretches your lips apart. “I’d’ve skipped the fucking whores and come straight here.”
You moan, something like a protest, but it’s shoved right back down your throat by the leaking head of his cock. You choke and splutter when he rolls his hips and he, somehow, goes even deeper. Aerion pulls back with a groan draped across a chuckle, letting you suckle the head as you catch your breath. His balls twitch as he slowly ruts back in, and once you blink the tears from your eyes, you reach a hand up to cup them.
He hisses out, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods—”
You let him press you to his pelvis, nose between the prominent lines of his hips. Your fingers and thumb work gently, rubbing over smooth skin as the grip on either side of your head tightens as he thrusts once, twice more before he begins to lose his rhythm.
“That’s it, that’s it, take it,” the prince moans, still looking at you, eyes black with lust as his hips slow and he forces you right down onto his cock again. He moans again when he spills—another thick, hot release that splatters down the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, practically holding your breath as his cock jerks, balls drawing up beneath your fingers. When your eyes close, Aerion lets out a quiet, “Look at me.”
It’s surprisingly soft. You blink up at him. His hand finds your warm cheek then, petting you two times like he’s trying to be gentle, and the effort puts a pit in your stomach. But it doesn’t last: his cock, still hard, dribbles as he pulls it from your mouth, taking a step back but still holding your head in one hand. His other hand finds the base of his slick cock and he moans as it pumps hot against his palm.
His bare chest is flushed, as are his cheeks. He pants like a dog too, and as he grips his cock, you watch with lowered lids as cum beads against the slit, then strings out like a spider’s web. It drips onto the floor as he groans, his lip curling up in a frustrated snarl.
“Why isn’t it working?” He asks you, fingers on the crown of your head.
You flick the point of your tongue across your teeth before you speak, tasting his release in the grooves. Overripe grapes linger in the back of your throat.
“You drank six doses worth,” you whisper, hands caressing his thighs.
“Fuck,” Aerion curses, and he watches with dark eyes as you lean forward, testing the waters, and press a wet kiss to the tip of his flushed cock.
You continue speaking as you slowly kiss down his shaft. “A single dose will usually allow a normal man three or four releases, if he’s lucky.”
Aerion grunts as you lick over the vein on the underside. It’s throbbing and hot against the flat of your tongue.
“But you, my prince…” Your tongue lowers and you lick a stripe from root to tip, and the sound that leaves him is more animal than human. You hide your smile. “Are not a normal man, are you?”
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, but he’s preening. Like a cat being praised, a small groan lifts from his chest like a purr, and something flashes across his eyes. Pride. His hand pets your hair softly despite the venom in his tone, and he watches you in awe when the tip of your tongue darts out to collect a welling bead of pre-cum. He grunts then, pulling his cock away from your mouth with great effort. “Stand up.”
You do as you’re told. You clamber to your feet, and you feel slightly silly as you wait for him to kiss you. Of course he doesn’t—he spins you around with a grunt and pushes you roughly against the table. It hits your tummy as you bend, and you exhale a little “oof” as his hands make quick work of flipping up your skirts. He gathers them at your hips before he’s ripping your smallclothes away from your core.
“Cunt this wet from sucking my cock?” Aerion plasters himself to your back, leaning over to whisper in your ear as he runs the length of his cock from your arsehole to your pussy. You whine as he spreads you apart, slick webbing between your folds before they snap where he runs his cock through you. He groans at your heat, head dropping to rest between your shoulder blades as he rocks back and forth. “Gods, you’re dripping, sweet girl.”
The pet name has you reeling.
You hadn’t been expecting it, and it seems like he hadn’t been either. The length of his body stiffens behind you, as if his words were involuntary beneath the haze of his pleasure. With a grunt, he pulls back, taking the flat of his palm and muscling you down from between your shoulder blades until your tits are pressed tightly to the surface of the counter.
“Fucking witch,” Aerion seethes, still holding his cock as he drags the flushed tip through your folds. You suck in a breath, mewling when he slaps it against your clit. He makes a pleased sound, squeezes it out between clenched teeth, before he circles the tip at your entrance. “You did this to me. You did this to yourself.”
He pushes in with a low moan. There’s no slow stretch. There’s no slow.
The prince shoves himself in like it’s all he can do, the thick of his cock pulling you apart from the inside out. There’s a sting low in your pelvis and a dull kind of ache that festers like a bruise in the base of your womb as he bullies himself into you. A deep, keening sound is pushed involuntarily from your chest as you clutch the counter, followed by a gasp of “my prince” as he bottoms out, hips flush with your arse.
Your pussy is slick and warm around him and you squeeze tight when he pauses.
He’s panting. You can feel him straining behind you, his hands gripping your hips so hard it’s like he’s anchoring himself to you. The walls of your cunt hug around the thick of him in such a way that he’s completely lost himself.
You press your cheek to your counter, attempting to look back at him, but the angle is awkward and you can only just make out the look of pure awe on his face. His dark eyes focus on the tight pull of your cunt as he slides out, shaft slick with you. A small whimper—he covers it quickly with a grunt—falls from his parted lips when his head notches at your hole.
“Maybe you belong in a whorehouse,” he whispers after a moment of tense silence. He rolls his hips and shoves himself back in, ears picking up the wet schlick as he slides home, balls coming to rest against the curve of your arse. He hums, pulling out again, then pushing back in. “Men’d pay good coin for a cunt like this.”
The prince sets a rhythm that rocks you against the counter. It’s sharp, desperate. You clutch onto the edge as if he might push you over, his cock rutting in and out of you at such a pace you’re becoming dizzy. He’s panting, frantic, the speed of his hips filling your small, dark shop with the echoing sounds of skin-on-skin.
His previous words settle and then he hisses like he’s offended himself. A disgruntled jeer as he grips your hips and fucks you back onto him.
“Too bad you’re here,” he utters. His thighs are a firm bracket behind yours as he fucks you. The way he speaks is dark and smooth. Dangerous flashes through your mind as you moan, a solid heat collecting in the very depth of your belly. He continues, “Too bad you’re here. With me. Too bad no one’ll stuff this cunt like your prince.”
You gasp around a small moan at his words. They hit you right in the stomach, churning something erotic inside you. You grip the counter, bottles nearby clinking at the movement, and you try to turn your head to look at him again.
“My prince—”
“Shut up and take it,” Aerion interrupts with a bite. A gnashing of ivory as he fills you over and over, the head of his cock finding that spot inside you that has you arching for more.
Your body trembles, shaking against the counter as he folds you over it. The fat of your arse shifts with each of his thrusts, his fingers a bruising hold on your hips. Sweat builds beneath your dress, damp along the dip of your spine as you grow hotter and hotter. It’s an unbearable sort of heat that sparks in your womb, then spreads. It spreads up and out, flaring like a pair of glowing wings.
“Fuck, I can feel you, sweet girl,” Aerion says, his pace slowly losing it’s pattern. He’s scrambling now, sweat tracing down the back of his neck as his heart clatters against his ribs. Your pussy flutters around him like she doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, eyes slipping up your body, before resuming on where you take him. “Let me have it. Give it to me.”
You gasp out. “My prince, I—”
“Don’t fuss,” he snaps, hips stuttering. “Don’t fucking fuss and do what you’re told.”
There’s a heaviness in his tone that pins you down, but you expect nothing less. You instead focus on those gold-guilded wings spreading out inside you—filling your tummy, fanning heat through your chest as your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the wooden counter. The flames of pleasure are crawling down your spine now too, and with four more heavy thrusts of his cock against that perfect spot inside you, it reaches your core.
You can’t help what happens next: you call for him, his name, a sickeningly sweet “Aerion!” as you come around him, pussy pulling tight as the warmth overwhelms you. Your release is bulky as it takes hold, dragging you into ecstasy as his cock drives you through it. Your eyes squeeze shut, body shaking, as it takes over.
He mutters something under his breath then, hips rolling as he slowly begins to lose focus. You feel his cock jerk inside you as he slams inwards, tip nudging up towards the plug of your cervix. The feel of him is muddled in your brain and you feel sick with need as your orgasm begins to fizzle out, embers flickering.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Aerion groans.
He spills then, with his cock flattened deep inside you and his fingers vice-like on your hips. He curls forward, dewy forehead finding your shoulder blades as his cock twitches, filling you in hot strings. It’s thick and viscous and makes you moan, and Aerion matches the sound with his own, feeling the clutch of your pussy tighten around him.
Some long seconds pass and he’s still spilling. Your eyes fly open as his cock, still pulsing and hard and hot inside you, jerks with his release. Spurts of it, again and again. You whine at the feeling. Too full, too full, you want to mutter, but you can’t. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, throat dry as the prince rolls his hips, rutting himself against you with his face in the laces of your dress. You writhe, and he groans, open-mouthed and pained as he holds your hips, unwilling to let you go.
“No, stop, fuck,” he hisses out, muffled in the material of your dress. “Don’t fucking move—don’t—ah, ha, fuck, fuck.”
You still immediately, freezing like a scolded puppy. The prince breathes heavily against you as his cock jerks and jerks inside you. He whines into your dress. The sound has your heart fluttering.
“Gods above…” Aerion whispers after another long moment.
His cock stills now, but he’s still hard. And he doesn’t pull out. He does, however, lift himself from you gingerly. His hands tremble on your hips, but you pretend not to notice.
“I can’t…” He tapers off, breathing heavily.
There’s a searing pleasure in his abdomen that’s almost painful now, and his cock aches something fierce—like he needs to release again, like he’s edged himself for an hour. But he hasn’t. He’s spilled more times than he can count, but the pent-up need is making him nauseous with desire. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and his skin feels too hot against his flesh.
He swallows thickly as he plugs your pussy full of his seed. His cock twitches and, much to his horror, he feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. “I can’t… I need…”
“I know,” you whimper.
The change in his tone, in his demeanour, is a slap across the face. It’s abrupt and unexpected. You almost feel sorry for him—sorry for the man he’s become as he slowly rolls his hips, his cock barely moving inside of you—but you don’t. He’s done this to himself.
“One more,” he whispers, pulling out until only his flared head rests inside you.
“One more,” you repeat after him.
He groans, pushing back in once he’s caught his breath. You moan quietly, body pliant and spent beneath him now. There’s a prickle of overstimulation in your belly, but you don’t complain. His cock knocks right back up against that perfect spongy spot inside you and you shut your mind up with a string of whimpers.
The prince builds his pace again. His cheeks are pink with the effort, and strands of his white hair cling to his forehead as he ruts into you. A thin white ring builds at the base of his cock as he thrusts, his seed drooling through your folds as he bends and fucks you. It’s wet and loud, and paired with the little whimpers you’re trying to hide, it’s better than any sex he’s ever bought. And he didn’t spend a single coin on you.
“No one else took me like this,” he utters as thoughts of you, you, you clatter around his skull. You’re a witch. You’ve poisoned him. He grunts, almost mad at himself. “You take me like you were made for it.”
“Aerion,” you whisper, eyes drooping, another orgasm encroaching on you. This one is even heavier than before. You can feel it in your bones, seeping into your marrow as he fucks you and rambles all the while.
“Made for me,” he continues. “Made for the dragon.”
His thrusts are loosening, and he chases his release with his cock barely leaving you. He rolls his hips, sliding against you as he huffs and bends. To your surprise, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades, teeth tugging briefly at the laces of your dress before he pulls back. He rocks and rocks, a thick moan fighting its way out of his throat as the counter trembles. A glass vial topples with the force, rolling off and onto the floor. It shatters, but neither you or Aerion flinch, too consumed in your pleasure to pay it any mind.
“Ah, fuck, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl—” Aerion rambles, and then he’s spilling again.
He moans loudly as he ruts himself through it, cock shuddering inside you as he comes in more thick spurts. Back dipping, you feel him fill you even more than before, and you feel the heat of it seep like honey into your womb. It makes you dizzy, and it makes your own orgasm reveal itself from the ashes of the first.
You come with his name on your tongue again, holding onto the counter as you stiffen up. He groans when your pussy tightens around him, fluttering as the tension releases like blood pouring from an open wound. He falls over you as you tremble, sweat-slick chest finding your back as his cock gives one last jerk while your orgasm tapers off, slipping back into the shadows. He pants behind you, hands still on your hips, cock still inside you—but it’s softening.
The prince moans in relief as his cock slowly softens, his seed leaking from your spread pussy as he slowly, slowly pulls himself from you. A quiet moment passes before he exhales, presses one last almost imperceptible kiss to the covered space between your shoulder blades, then rights himself.
“I trust you have something to deal with… this,” Aerion mutters, and you feel two thick fingers drag through your folds before pressing inside you. Despite his words, obviously slightly concerned with the fact you’re filled with him, he plugs you, knuckles against your core.
You release a shaky breath. “Yes, my prince.”
“Good,” he huffs, still catching his breath.
You’re still bent over the counter. And his fingers are still inside you. He sighs, more to himself than to you.
“Thank you,” he whispers, sounding the most unlike himself of the entire night.
That’s all he says, and you know he doesn’t want a reply.
—✿—
Three days—and several cups of moon tea and other fast-acting contraceptives—later, you’re restocking the shelf behind your counter when the door opens. You cast a glance over your shoulder, finding Ser Donnel entering, white armour gleaming as his mass fills the doorway. You turn and greet him properly.
“Ser Donnel,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “How is your horse?”
Ser Donnel smiles. “Fine. You fixed her right up.”
You smile back, busying your idle fingers by stuffing a small pouch with crushed willow bark. “That’s great to hear. What can I do for you?”
The knight clears his throat, looking around the empty shop for a moment before speaking. “He requires your presence. At the Keep.”
“I beg your pardon?” You cock your head. “Who?”
“The prince,” he says pointedly.
You frown, tying a knot around the little pouch and placing it to the side. Nerves spike in your chest as you wait for Ser Donnel to continue. He does.
“He’s earned himself a nasty gash—” Ser Donnel gestures to his own bicep for specification. “—during training. And he’s, uh, refusing the help of his maesters. He wants you.”
You gape. “But I’m not a maester—”
“But you can help him, can you not?” Ser Donnel interrupts you before you spiral. “You’re a smart wee thing. You can fix anything.”
You bite your lip, nervous. “Ser Donnel, I don’t think—”
“Unfortunately, it wasn’t a request,” he says as gently as possible. “He won’t be taking no for an answer. I’m here to escort you.”
“Right…” You sigh, turning back to the shelf and gathering some supplies.
You shouldn’t have expected anything less from Aerion Targaryen.
Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen was anything but inexperienced when it came to women. So imagine your surprise when the simple act of kissing left him a stiff awkward mess under your fingers.
a/n - i was gonna write a little backstory for this but while i was writing I was really stuck and didn’t know if i should set this in a modern au or the original world so i kinda left it up to your interpretation. so you could imagine it as their wedding night or a one night stand after a party or whatever you like.
“Was that your first kiss?” A hint of shock in your voice.
He was quiet.
You stared, mouth slightly agape.
Violet eyes that usually glared into yours were darting around the dimly lit room around you, trying to focus on something, look at anything but you.
He looked like a frightened animal.
Shaky breath, stiff posture, clenched fists. He had not expected you to kiss him. He had expected it to be fast, not slow. Cold, not warm. Hard, not soft. Practical. Like it usually was.
Of course you were shocked, how could you not be?
He was no virgin, that was one of the few things you knew about him, so why was he reacting like this?
A soft laugh left you, though it was closer to a sound of shock directed at his current state. This was the same person that people usually held their breath around, anxious that any slight movement would set him off.
His eyes shot to yours, finally looking at you after that sound left your lips.
That laugh.
You had laughed.
At him.
Anger flashed his face, or maybe embarrassment. Both, you thought.
“I will have your tongue for laughing at me.”
He looked humiliated as he spoke.
You grinned.
“You want my tongue as you clearly do not know how to use your own?”
His fists clenched harder until his knuckles turned white.
Who were you to talk to him like that?
“I could have you killed.” He spat.
Usually this would have scared you, usually. Maybe it would have, if his voice didn’t waver as he said it.
Your lips pressed together.
Then your hands raised to cover them slightly.
Another laugh.
His jaw visibly clenched. and he narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t be stupid.”
A small smile reached your lips.
If he was anything, he was prideful, even if he didn’t mean what he was saying he would act as though he did. Anything to protect and uphold his image in the eyes of others.
Slowly, you stepped forward, the gap between you closing, enough so that the small act of breathing made your chests touch.
Silence filled the room as you stood close to him, only briefly touching when he let out those deep breaths laced with anger. Then, your hand reached his face, cupping his cheek, it was warm and slightly rosy. He was flushed. You weren’t sure if it was because he was irked at your words and actions, or if it was because he was unsettled and self conscious at your discovery.
His hand immediately gripped your wrist, harshly, pulling your hand away and you winced at his strength.
“You have no right to touch me, whore.” He gritted out.
You were quiet for a moment and you watched how his eyes scanned over you, eager for you to say something back, your silence clearly unsettling him.
He waited for a clever remark, something that would only fuel his anger.
What he didn’t expect was an offer.
“I shall teach you,” a gentle voice, a kind smile, a contrast to his bruising grip still placed on your wrist.
However your soft words made that grip loosen slightly, allowing your hand to reach his flushed cheek once again. His eyes flickered from yours to your hand on his face then back to you.
“Would you like that?”
You felt his breath hitch slightly, his eyes flashing with surprise, then he spoke, in an attempt to embarrass you instead.
“Ah, so you wish to kiss me that badly, is that it? No surprise really.” Aerion wanted you to get defensive, to flip this on you, but you didn’t react.
“Maybe.”
He stilled for a second at your words.
Then looked away, beginning to find your eyes difficult to look into, the way they did not falter and stared straight back. It was something he was not used to.
“Kissing is completely insignificant, I do not care for it, I never have.” A quieter voice than he had hoped, which made it obvious to you he did not really mean those words.
Maybe before you kissed him he would have meant them, but the feeling of your soft lips on his was something he’d never felt before. Even if it was just for a second. Even if you had only pressed your lips to his so gently it was as if you hadn’t at all. Even if as soon as you had kissed him his entire body froze, and his mind went completely blank, leaving him still, hopeless.
So, you leaned forward, your lips just a whisper away from his. Aerion's grip on your wrist tightened once more however this time it did not pull your hand away, it just held you there. A grip so tight you were sure he’d die right there and then if he let go.
But you leaned forward no more, hovering just out of reach from his gently parted lips, a soft smug smile embracing your own.
“Oh, well that is a shame.” You whispered.
The soft movements of your mouth causing your lips to graze his own. His breath stilled. His fingers twitched against your wrist. His eyes dart from yours to your lips, once, then twice. It was impossible not to notice the way his body leaned in so slightly.
But you refused.
Gentle fingertips grazed down his cheek as you pulled your hand away, taking a short step backwards.
His gaze never left your lips as you moved.
Then they did, and finally looked into your eyes again.
Gods.
His brows furrowed upwards in anticipation. Eyes slightly wider than usual.
He looked needy.
God he looked pathetic.
He did not care to kiss you? As he looked at you like that?
Fists now clenched at his side, jaw tight, those violet eyes full of hunger?
Aerion raised his chin in a desperate attempt to make himself look more intimidating.
“I do not need teaching from the likes of you, especially in something so, so, so pointless.” He stammered and it wasn’t clear if he was trying to convince you or himself.
You hummed.
“Of course not.” You replied, sweetly smiling.
Swallowing nervously, he bit his lip, clearly wanting to take you up on your offer, but his pride wouldn’t let him.
So prideful.
So pitiful.
But he was breaking. Slowly. You could see it. A few more pushes at him and he would crack.
“So if I don't need to teach you, then perhaps… practice?”
Before he could let out any more feeble excuses to protect his ego, you stepped in front of him again, gripping onto his shoulders.
“Hm?” Another sweet smile.
His breathing was heavier now.
So you decided to push his pride again.
Pressing harder onto his shoulders, he was forced to sit down on the edge of the bed. A position he did not like. He was not fond of any position that made him look up to someone like this.
So when you straddled his lap, and pressed a thumb to his lips, he bit down, hard.
A sharp gasp, and you withdrew your hand.
He made no effort to push you off however, and instead he just gripped your hips tightly.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
You batted your eyelashes innocently.
“Practising.” A simple reply.
“This is not-”
Two fingers shoved into his mouth and fuck he shouldn’t of liked it as much as he did. Your other hand that was still rested on his shoulder slowly moved up to the side of his jaw, holding his face. With your fingers in his mouth and your body pressed so close to his, there was no room between you for his pride anymore.
“Relax your mouth, Brightflame.”
He scowled.
Then he relaxed, eyes still narrowed at you.
“Follow my fingers.”
He was still.
Then he did.
“Softly.”
Then he was.
For a moment you just sat there, guiding his tongue, controlling his movements, softening his eyes, hardening his cock.
His hands on your waist squeezed, so your hand on his shoulder squeezed back. Actions that were almost sweet.
Then you rolled your hips, and he couldn’t help but groan around your fingers, his tongue stilling for a second as his eyes fluttered close.
“Tsk, I told you to relax, Aerion.”
Your fingers retreated from his wet mouth with a pop, and he noticed how empty his mouth now felt.
He noticed how he hated it.
He hated how he was sucking on your fingers like some newborn.
He hated how he liked it.
“You cannot tell me what to do.” He breathed out, closer to a plea than a command.
His bright eyes then turned into ones of confusion as you reached both hands to cup his face.
You leaned in.
Once again, you stopped just before his lips. And despite his harsh words he wanted you to close the gap between you. He was getting impatient, which was made known to the both of you when a small whimper escaped his throat at the lack of contact.
You smiled at that.
Before he could say a word you tugged his hair slightly.
“Slowly.”
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“Yes.” He managed to choke out.
“And gentle.”
A frantic nod, and you smiled wide at his growing impatience.
Aerion Brightflame would kill anyone who saw him right now.
Eyebrows upturned with glossy needy eyes, staring up at you, unsteady breathing that sounds closer to whining.
Then finally, after rubbing your thumbs softly for a moment against his cheeks, you leaned in. Your soft lips pressed against his own in a simple peck and yet his body felt impossibly hot. Hotter than it had ever been.
Pulling back slowly and resting your forehead on his, his needy eyes were met with a desperate pair of your own. It started off as teasing, but as his hands gripped harder on your hips and yours gripped tighter on his shoulders, gripping his shirt, you realised you might have enjoyed that soft kiss more than you thought you would’ve.
So you leaned in again, this time firmer, less restrained, beginning a steady rhythm of rolling your hips against his cock. Perhaps that was the reason why he was more relaxed now, his tongue flowing more freely, moving less stiffly than before.
Touches became more frantic.
Arms wrapped around waists and necks.
Hands sliding down chests and thighs.
Fingers intertwined in hair and clothes.
Hips pressed impossibly close.
Tearing away from the heated kiss, you whispered against his lips,
“Good, you’re doing good.”
He breathed heavily out of slightly swollen lips.
You giggled.
“But don’t forget to breathe through your nose, Aerion.”
He glared, but there was a slight smile on his lips, and before he leaned in again, your hands gripped the back of his own, guiding them.
You moved one hand to wrap around your throat, then the other to wrap around your waist, his arm fitting perfectly around you.
“Here”, you breathed, “I like it here.”
Squeezing his hands in a signal for him to grip harder, something flashed in his eyes, so he did. He gripped your throat tight. Tight enough your eyes began to flutter, as he kissed you again.
It felt good.
So good you bit down hard on his lip instinctively trying to deepen the kiss, if that was even possible. Then it was warm, warmer than before as you felt something trickle down your chin.
Blood.
“Shit, sorr-”
His arm on your waist pulled you closer as his lips found yours once more. You expected him to lash out, get angry, call you even more names, but he didn’t.
Instead of hearing foul names come from his throat, you heard the sound of soft swallowing. The sound of him swallowing blood and spit as he continued to kiss you.
It was warm.
And wet.
And good.
He began to feel your throat bobbing softly under his grip as you began to swallow some of the metallic liquid as well. He wanted to lick and bite and kiss your neck. To leave a mark on the soft skin of your throat as you left one on his lips.
So he did.
Well, tried.
He pulled his hand away from your throat to place it alongside his other one, around your waist, then his mouth was on you.
It was all teeth really, then harsh sucking, a laughable attempt.
Another giggle.
“Never left a hickey either?”
He glared up at you and you couldn’t help but smile at him.
His narrow eyes displayed an expression of anger, but also one of curiosity, desperation, a look so eager you simply could not deny him.
So, you took your hands from his shoulders and brought them to the hand newly wrapped around you, gripping his wrist softly, bringing it to your mouth. He just watched you, waiting.
A soft kiss.
The simplest thing.
Gentle, warm.
And unbearable.
Abruptly, he stood up from the bed, holding you firmly against him and before you could realise what he was doing, your back was flush against the sheets, Aerion looming over you. Hands on either side of your head, hips between your thighs, which were spread embarrassingly wide around him.
“You said you would teach me.”
“I did.”
He stared down at you, searching your eyes. You brought a hand up to his wrist and rubbed your thumb against it slowly.
“I am.” A whisper.
He grunted in response.
“Hurry.”
“You shouldn’t rush your lessons, Aerion.”
A sound you could only describe as a whimper left his throat as he moved one hand to your lips.
“Show me.” A deeper voice now.
So you held his hand again and took the soft flesh of his wrist into your mouth, and you kissed him, then licked, then sucked, then a soft bite. A bloom of pink and red and darker reds bloomed against the pale skin. His cheeks resembled the same pink.
He was flushed.
And hot.
And hard.
And yet all you had done was kiss each other.
Clothes were still on. Buttons still undone.
And yet here he was.
Trembling above you as he watched your lips move against him. His wrist was tingling where you had kissed him, unbearably so.
He kissed you again roughly, earning a gasp from you, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. In return he pressed his hips to yours grinding softly through your clothes, your legs instinctively tangling around his hips.
This was new to him.
Sex had never been this warm and soft before. Nor did it take this long to actually start fucking.
But he did not seem to mind.
He kissed down the line of your jaw, then he reached the warm flesh of your throat, placing firmer kisses, then he licked, then sucked, then a bite. It was aggressive, but not like before with deep teeth marks and nothing more. It was more tongue. More kisses. Sweeter even.
As soft gasps and moans began to fill the air, he continued to kiss your neck and grind his hips.
“Like that.” A breathy plea.
“Just like that Aerion.”
Your encouragement hit him harder than he would’ve liked.
Aerion lifted his head slightly to look down at you, red and purple marks decorated your neck, accented with faint teeth marks.
The sight of it made him dizzy.
He pressed his lips together, a shaky exhale through his nose.
And of course you had to look up at him with those glossy eyes, shaking and flushed in your cheeks.
“Don’t,” you whined, “Why are you stopping?”
He leaned down instantly, planting a needy kiss on your lips, only pulling away after a moment to whisper against your lips.
“Teach me more.”
a/n - I was thinking of making a part 2 for this cus I really enjoyed writing it but I’ve never written smut before so it might take me a while if I do🙏
Pairing: Prince Valarr x Witch!Reader (She/Her, "You" referred )
Summary:
A wounded Targaryen prince stumbles half-dead into a witch’s cottage in the middle of a storm, and by the time the rain lets up, they are already far too deep in each other to come away cleanly.
He leaves her his ring, a promise to return, and every soft part of himself.
She lets him go with all of it and keeps his blood.
The rain had gone from a storm to a siege.
For two days and nights, it had battered the hills without mercy, running down the slopes in silver streams, turning the paths to slick brown mire and the woods beyond your cottage into a blur of wet branches and mist. The roof drummed with it. The shutters whispered with it. Even the little brook below the rise had swollen, loud and mean, churning over the stones like a thing angered by the sky.
Only Truffle was louder.
Your pig had taken the weather as a personal insult.
She squealed from beneath the lean-to beside the garden, affronted by mud, wind, damp straw, and perhaps existence itself. You stood in the doorway with your fur-lined shawl pulled close around your shoulders and stared at her with no small amount of judgment.
“You are pink, fat, warm, and fed,” you told her. “You have no cause for tragedy.”
Truffle answered by snorting directly into the rainwater and flinging a spray of muck against your hem.
You took one step toward her, ready to deliver a lecture on ingratitude, when another sound reached you through the rain.
Hoofbeats.
You froze.
The sound was slow, uneven, and wrong.
The horse came stumbling through the curtain of rain like some ghost of war, dark with water and foam at the mouth, its head low with exhaustion. The rider atop it was scarcely more upright than a corpse lashed to a saddle. He leaned forward over the horse’s neck, one hand slack on the reins, the other pressed hard to his side. Blood had dried there and half-washed away again, leaving dark rust-colored streaks over wet leather and wool.
He would have ridden straight past your gate if the horse had not decided otherwise.
The beast halted of its own accord, trembling.
The man swayed in the saddle.
Then tipped.
You were through the gate before you had decided whether or not you ought to be.
He was heavy. Gods, he was heavy. All long limbs and broad shoulders and soaked noble cloth dragged down with rain. Your hands caught at his arm and chest as he slid, and for one terrible moment you thought the both of you would go sprawling into the mud. Instead you managed to take enough of his weight to guide him down ugly and graceless, his boots splashing hard into the yard before his knees gave out beneath him.
His head lifted just enough for you to see his face.
Rain-dark hair clung to his brow and temples, a rich brown deepened nearly black by the storm. But at one side, beginning just behind his ear and trailing downward toward the nape of his neck, ran a streak of white so stark it seemed to catch what little light remained. Not the silver of age, but something sharper. Something memorable. His features were too fine for any common rider, though blood loss had leeched the warmth from them. And when one eye cracked open to look at you, you startled despite yourself.
One was blue.
The other was brown.
Heterochromia looked strange on other men. On him, it looked like something out of story.
And at his hand, half-curled in the mud, was a ring of red gold set with the three-headed dragon.
You stared.
“Well,” you murmured. “That is interesting.”
Even half-dead, there was something in that look. Pride, perhaps. Or the stubborn habit of command. Those mismatched eyes caught on your face, lingered, and narrowed faintly.
“Where,” he said, voice rough as torn silk, “are my men?”
“You haven’t any,” you replied. “Only a horse, a great deal of blood, and a very poor sense of direction.”
That seemed to displease him. His brow furrowed, then the motion clearly hurt, because his mouth tightened.
He tried to straighten. Failed.
“Did I ride into a witch’s wood?” he muttered.
You glanced at the ring once more. Then at the rain still pouring off the eaves. Then at the wound darkening his side.
“Yes,” you said. “Unluckily for you, she is in a charitable mood.”
He might have answered, but his eyes closed again.
You sighed.
Then you dragged a prince through your front door.
The cottage seemed smaller with him in it.
Perhaps it was not true, not truly, but it felt so. He took up your bed as though he had been built to inconvenience humble rooms. You had to cut away more of his clothes than you liked to reach the worst of the wounds. Rain-soaked fabric clung stubbornly to blood and skin. Leather straps had to be undone. Linen peeled back. A prince, broad and bruised and half-conscious, reduced to wet hair, fever heat, and the helpless honesty of torn flesh.
You kept your hands steady.
That had been your first gift, long before the others. Steady hands. A clean stitch. A sharp eye for where flesh would heal best and where it would pull ugly if left unattended.
The wound at his side was the worst of it. Another at the shoulder. Bruising darkening at the jaw. A cut along the ribs. He smelled of rainwater, horse, iron, and the sharp salt of blood.
You heated water. Burned thread clean in the fire. Crushed herbs beneath the heel of your palm. And when ordinary skill could only do so much, you pressed your hand over the worst of the bleeding and reached for the older thing in your blood.
Not bright magic. Not the sort sung of in halls.
Yours was quieter.
Bone-deep. Flesh-deep. The kind that coaxed blood to clot, fever to lower, pain to dull enough that the body remembered how to mend itself.
Warmth moved through your palm and into him.
He stirred once, brow furrowing.
Then settled.
By the time you had finished and bound him in fresh linen, the rain was still falling, Truffle was still offended by life itself, and a prince of House Targaryen lay half-naked and alive in your bed.
You sat back on your heels and looked at him a long moment.
“Well,” you said softly to the unconscious man. “You had better be worth the trouble.”
Truffle squealed from outside, as if offering an opinion.
“You are not helping,” you called toward the door.
He woke to firelight.
Not bright firelight, but the low, amber kind that made shadows long and skin warm and strange. It flickered over the beams of your cottage, over the bunches of drying herbs near the hearth, over the rough wool blanket drawn over his hips, and over you, sitting in the chair beside the bed with a bowl in your lap and your sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He did not move at first.
Men who had nearly died often woke in stages. Breath before thought. Pain before memory.
Then his gaze dropped.
His chest was bare.
Not entirely bare. Clean linen had been wound about his ribs and shoulder, and someone had seen fit to preserve a shred of decency by leaving the blanket where it was. Still, enough was missing that his suspicion arrived all at once, sharp as a knife.
His hand moved instinctively, first toward his ring, then to his throat, then to where a blade ought to have been.
Nothing.
His eyes snapped to yours.
You watched that understanding strike him in real time. Strange cottage. Unknown woman. Half-naked state. No weapon in sight.
He tried to sit up too quickly.
Pain caught him at once. He hissed through his teeth and braced a hand against the mattress, one broad palm whitening with the effort.
You did not rise.
“You should not do that,” you said mildly.
“Where are my things?”
His voice was hoarse, but the command in it was plain enough. The sort of tone that had likely made squires, guards, and courtiers jump since he was old enough to string words together.
It did not have nearly the desired effect on you.
Instead you looked him over, truly looked him over, before letting your gaze drift back to his face with slow, deliberate consideration.
“You are quite handsome enough to be sold into the slave trade,” you said thoughtfully. “Though I think trying to barter your gear for coin would bring me more questions than profit. A woman alone in the hills turning up with velvet, silver buckles, princely boots, a dragon-work cloak and a ring fit for a royal hand?” You tilted your head. “No. People would stare.”
For one absurd moment, he only stared at you.
Then one corner of his mouth threatened, however faintly, to turn.
Not a smile. Not yet. But close enough to unsettle you.
It was the eyes, perhaps. One blue, one brown, both fixed on you now with growing clarity, as if he had woken not merely to pain and suspicion, but to the unsettling fact of you.
A strange woman. A low fire. A cottage that smelled of rosemary, smoke, and rain. His life preserved by hands he did not know.
And still he looked at you as though you were the thing that had most confused him.
You should have liked that less.
“You jest,” he said.
“Of course I jest.”
He stared a heartbeat longer, as though trying to decide whether you were foolish, insolent, or mad.
Then, very carefully, he said, “My cloak.”
You set the bowl aside and rose.
By the hearth, drying on a chair near the fire, lay the things you had stripped from him when the rain-soaked cloth had clung too hard to his wounds to leave on. His cloak, black as wet midnight, now drying in soft folds. The dragon embroidered over one shoulder in red thread so rich it gleamed even in low light. His sword-belt. His shield set propped against the wall. His lance laid neatly in the corner. And on the shelf above them, where it would not be knocked loose or forgotten, the signet ring.
When you took them up and brought them back one by one, his gaze followed your hands.
You gave him the ring first.
His fingers closed around it at once.
Something in his face changed then. Not softening, not quite, but some final hard edge of suspicion gave way. He slid the ring back onto his hand and looked up at you with new attention, as though only now realizing that if you had wished him harmed, you need not have bothered keeping him alive at all.
“The cloak,” you said, holding it up lightly by its edge, “is worth more than everything in this cottage together, I think.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“That embroidery was done in King’s Landing.”
“So I guessed.”
“You guessed?”
“It is too fine for anywhere else.”
That drew a real look from him.
Not dismissive. Not wary. Curious.
Rain sang against the shutters. The fire popped softly between you.
You crossed to the chair at his bedside and folded the cloak over the arm instead of handing it over. Then his shield after. Then the lance, which made the room feel smaller by several feet.
At last you sat once more.
“There,” you said. “Your dignity is restored.”
“My dignity,” he repeated, “was not what troubled me.”
“No?”
“No.” His gaze slid, pointedly, over his own bare chest and back to you. “Though I note you were thorough.”
That made you smile.
“I had to be. You were bleeding on everything.”
His eyes lingered on your mouth then, just for a heartbeat, long enough to make heat stir low and annoying in your belly.
“Do not look so alarmed, my prince. I saw nothing worth swooning over.”
He stared at you as though the fever had returned full force. “Nothing of note?”
You lifted one shoulder. “I was rather occupied with keeping you from bleeding to death.”
“A cruel answer.”
“An honest one.”
“I begin to recover only to be wounded afresh.”
At that, your mouth twitched. “Then recover faster, and perhaps you may defend your pride properly.”
Fuck me.
The thought struck him so suddenly he nearly looked about the room as though someone else might have spoken it. She was undoing him. Not with softness, not with shy glances or practiced charm, but with that maddening wit and that infuriating little twitch of her mouth, as though princes could be stitched, mocked, and set aside in the same breath. He had known beautiful women. He had known clever ones too. But this was worse. This was a woman who looked at him half-undressed, wounded, stripped of sword and title, and still found the composure to tease him as though she held his pride in one hand and the needle in the other. Gods, he was getting hooked on her.
You broke the look first and reached for the bowl again.
“Sit still,” you said. “You have a fever yet, though less than before. At least the bleeding has stopped.”
“What is that?”
“Willow bark, honey, a little crushed mint, and two things I shall not name, because men grow difficult when they think herbs too mysterious.”
His brow lifted faintly. “And do I strike you as difficult?”
You glanced at the weapons. The ring. The rich cloak. The one blue eye and the one brown eye currently fixed on you with grave offense because a woman in the woods had seen him half-undressed and not bowed.
“Yes,” you said.
To your private delight, he laughed.
It hurt him at once. The sound broke off into a wince, and his hand pressed lightly to his side.
You leaned forward before you thought better of it.
“Do not be vain and wounded both,” you murmured. “It is too much trouble.”
His eyes met yours.
Too close, suddenly.
Near enough that you could see the dark lashes, the faint exhaustion still bruising the skin beneath his eyes, the way pain had sharpened rather than dimmed the beauty of him. He looked less like a prince now than something half-made by storm and story.
“You speak very freely,” he said quietly.
“You came bleeding to my door.”
“And that permits insolence?”
“It obliges it.”
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then, slowly, he let you bring the bowl to his lips.
He drank because he had not the strength to argue properly, but he made a face halfway through and said, “That tastes vile.”
“And yet,” you said, “you continue to live.”
He watched you after that.
Not boldly, not in the manner of men who wished to be noticed doing it. It was quieter than that, which somehow made it worse. You would feel it before you saw it, a warmth between your shoulder blades when you crossed from the hearth to the table, a curious stillness in the room when you bent to lift a kettle or wring out a cloth, as if the air itself had gone attentive. As if some part of him had woken before the rest and fixed on you first.
Once, when you thought him half-asleep, you moved to change the bandage at his shoulder and found his gaze already on you.
Not startled. Not embarrassed.
Simply there.
You should have looked away at once. Instead you lingered for one foolish heartbeat, taking him in by firelight. The heavy fall of brown hair over his brow. The white streak behind his ear. The roughness of healing at his jaw. The broad, warm line of his bare chest beneath the blanket, far too much of him for so small a bed, far too princely for so humble a room.
“What?” you asked at last, softer than you meant to.
His eyes did not leave your face.
“You make a great deal of noise for someone who moves so lightly.”
You blinked at him. “That is not a compliment.”
“It was not meant as one.”
You narrowed your eyes and reached for the fresh linen with perhaps more force than necessary. “And yet I am the one keeping you alive.”
“That,” he said, and there was the ghost of laughter under it, “is why I am tolerating your nature.”
You made an offended little sound and leaned in to tie the bandage more snugly than kindness strictly required.
He hissed.
Then, after a pause, quieter now, “Gentler, if you please.”
Your fingers stilled.
The words themselves were simple enough, but there was something in the way he said them, low and close, with that roughening of his voice that only seemed to appear when the room had gone too quiet. You became suddenly, absurdly aware of how near you were. Of the heat of his skin. Of the clean scent of herbs, rain-damp wool, and something warmer underneath that was only him.
You looked up, meaning to say something clever.
Instead you found him looking at your mouth.
For one sharp, suspended second neither of you moved.
Then Truffle gave a violent, offended squeal outside, as if outraged by whatever strange silence had fallen over the house.
You jerked back first.
Valarr shut his eyes briefly and gave a low exhale through his nose that might almost have been a laugh.
“Your pig,” he said, “has a talent for timing.”
“She is protective of me.”
“She is a menace.”
“She can be both.”
At that, he opened his eyes again, and this time when he smiled, it was small and unwilling and unfairly beautiful.
You hated how quickly your heart began to wait for it.
He told you his name on the second morning.
By then the rain had eased from a siege to a relentless curtain. The world outside remained grey and washed-out, the hills all mist and dripping stone. Truffle had forgiven the weather enough to root happily in the corner by the woodpile, grunting as though the whole world existed for her convenience.
You were kneeling by the hearth when he said, “Valarr.”
You turned.
He was awake and propped awkwardly against the wall of your bed, one arm loose across the blanket, the other still bandaged. The fire cast copper and gold over him, and the brown of his hair had dried now into soft disorder, the white streak near his ear stark against it. One blue eye and one brown rested on you as if that had become their favored place.
He looked terribly princely for a man sitting shirtless in a stranger’s cottage with a pig outside and a healer-witch scolding her kettle.
“Only Valarr?” you asked.
One corner of his mouth moved.
“Would the rest impress you?”
“No,” you said. “But it might explain the ring.”
That earned you a quieter smile.
“Valarr Targaryen.”
You let the name sit a moment.
A prince, then. Not merely born noble. Not merely rich enough to wear dragon-thread and carry king-made steel. A real prince, with all the danger that entailed.
And yet he had nearly died in your yard like any other man.
“Well,” you said at last, stirring the pot again. “That is a mouthful. I shall keep calling you Valarr.”
“I thank you for the mercy.”
“Do not. I do it for my own convenience.”
He watched you after that.
Not the way men in market towns watched. Not the way frightened men watched after seeing you come back from the woods in the shape of a fox or a hawk or once, to the horror of a passing shepherd, a great black hound. Valarr watched as though piecing together a puzzle he found more and more compelling.
You felt it when his eyes were on you.
At the table while you cut roots and dried herbs. At the washbasin when you wrung bloody cloth clean. At the door when you returned from checking on Truffle with rain in your hair and wet on your lashes.
And when you looked up, there he would be.
Watching.
Not like a prince surveying a curiosity. Not like a wounded man guarding himself.
Like someone trying to learn the shape of a thing already dear to him.
That was the part that frightened you.
Not his blood. Not his name. Not even the ring.
Only this. That some soft and treacherous part of you had begun, already, to wait for his eyes.
And worse still, he did not seem to fare any better.
You saw it in the way he quieted when you touched him. In the way his gaze followed your hands as though your fingers had become the measure by which he understood safety. In the way he listened when you spoke, even when you were only muttering at Truffle or scolding the kettle or cursing the weather under your breath.
As though nothing you said was too small to matter.
As though he had begun, without meaning to, to belong to the sound of your voice.
On the third day he caught you shifting.
Only the hand this time. Only the fingers. You had been coaxing a timid wren with a damaged wing onto your wrist, and when she panicked and fluttered, you had reached for her too quickly, skin shimmering for an instant into fine dark feathers before returning to itself.
He saw.
You knew he saw because the room went still.
When you looked up, he was watching you with that same strange, steady focus.
“Well,” you said after a moment. “There goes my mystery.”
Instead of recoiling, he leaned back against the pillows and studied you harder.
“Can you become any creature?”
“Not any.”
“Which ones?”
“The clever ones. The graceful ones. The useful ones.” You paused. “And once, disastrously, a badger.”
That startled a laugh out of him.
“A badger?”
“I was younger.”
“And less wise?”
“Considerably.”
The laughter faded, but the warmth of it did not.
Rain ran down the shutters in silver threads.
His gaze moved over your face, then your hands, then back again. “You are not at all what I expected to find at the edge of death.”
“Oh?”
“I expected mud. Perhaps a cave. A hermit with no teeth.”
“And instead?”
His eyes held yours.
“A woman who keeps dragons’ sons alive and makes fun of them while doing it.”
That was, you thought, entirely too good an answer.
So you looked away first and reached for his bandages.
“Let me see the wound,” you said.
He obeyed.
He obeyed more easily now, which was almost more dangerous than the princely command had been. The blanket slipped low enough for you to unwrap the linen at his ribs. He sucked in a breath when your fingers brushed his skin, but not only from pain. You knew the difference. You were not so innocent as all that.
Nor, apparently, was he.
You should have been used to touching him by now.
That was the lie you told yourself.
You had cleaned the blood from his skin. Stitched him. Bound him. Pressed cool cloths to fevered brow and bruised ribs, guided bitter tinctures to his mouth, braced his shoulders when pain took him too sharply. You had touched him more in four days than propriety would forgive in four years.
And still, every time, it surprised you.
The warmth of him. The weight of him. The way he went still beneath your hands, not from discomfort, but from that dangerous, attentive quiet he seemed to fall into whenever you drew too near.
You unwound the linen at his ribs carefully.
He watched you the entire time.
Not your face. Not at first.
Your hands.
The room was small enough that you could hear every change in his breathing. The rain whispering against the shutters. The soft crackle of the hearth. Truffle snorting in her sleep beneath the table. And underneath it all, the slow, steady beat of your own pulse, loud as a drum in your ears.
“This part,” you murmured, touching lightly just beneath the angry line of the cut, “will pull if you move like an idiot.”
He looked down at you, one brown eye, one blue, both darker now in the low firelight.
“And if I move wisely?”
Your fingers stilled.
You should have laughed. Should have called him vain again, or insufferable, or both. Instead your hand remained against his side, palm spread just enough to feel the warmth of his skin and the slow expansion of breath beneath it.
“That,” you said after a beat, and your voice came out more quietly than intended, “would be a welcome change.”
He smiled then, but only with his mouth. His eyes stayed fixed on you with a softness that made something low in your chest draw tight.
“You dislike me,” he said.
“I dislike princes.”
“That is not what I asked.”
No, it was not.
You tied the bandage, more slowly this time.
When you finished, he caught your wrist.
Not hard. Barely at all. Just enough to stop you from pulling away too quickly and pretending there had been nothing in the air between you.
His hand was warm around the bones of your wrist. Careful, though he was a man built for careless strength.
“Why do you live out here alone?” he asked.
You met his eyes.
There were a hundred answers. Too many. None you wished to give him.
So you said, “Because the woods ask fewer questions than people do.”
Something shifted in his face at that. Not pity. Never that. Something quieter. Recognition, perhaps. As if loneliness, in one shape or another, was a language he knew.
His thumb moved once against the inside of your wrist before he let you go.
That brief touch lingered long after his hand had fallen away.
And you knew, then, that whatever this was becoming, it was no longer yours alone.
Then Truffle shrieked outside for no earthly reason at all.
You shut your eyes once, briefly.
Valarr laughed low in his chest.
“Saved by the pig,” he said.
“Do not mock her. She is my dearest companion.”
“She is a tyrant.”
“She is sensitive.”
“She bit my boot yesterday.”
“You deserved it.”
He laughed again, and this time you smiled despite yourself, tying the bandage back into place with gentler hands than you meant to use.
That night the rain softened to a patient murmur.
Not the furious battering of the first two nights, but a steady, silver hush that wrapped the cottage close and turned the dark beyond the shutters into something secret and far away. The fire had burned low. Truffle had wedged herself against the side of the hearth like a spoiled child determined to die warm. The horse shifted once in the lean shelter outside, then settled again.
You ought to have been asleep.
Instead you lay awake on your pallet, staring at the rafters, listening to the small sounds of the room and to the far more dangerous sound of Valarr breathing only a few feet away.
Then, into the dark, he said, “Are you always awake at this hour?”
You turned your head toward the bed. “Are you?”
A pause.
“No.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Then perhaps this is a special occasion.”
“For what?”
“For finding yourself half-dead in a witch’s cottage.”
“I had imagined it differently.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” His voice was low and roughened by sleep. “There was less scolding in the version I pictured.”
You let out a small laugh before you could stop it.
The sound seemed to please him more than it ought.
After a moment, he said, “Do you ever tire of being alone?”
You did not answer at once.
Outside, rain whispered over the roof. Somewhere in the walls, old wood settled with a soft creak.
“Yes,” you said at last.
He was quiet for so long you thought perhaps he had drifted back to sleep.
Then, very softly, “So do I.”
The simplicity of it nearly undid you.
No title in it. No grandeur. No prince. Only a man in the dark, speaking into the hush between you as if the truth had slipped free before pride could catch it.
You turned onto your side, facing the outline of him.
“Surely that cannot be true,” you murmured, trying to rescue yourself with teasing. “I had thought princes were never left in peace long enough to feel lonely.”
He gave a soft sound that might have been a laugh. “You mistake being surrounded for being known.”
That silenced you.
There was a tenderness in those words that felt too large for the small room, too honest for the hour.
You swallowed.
“In that case,” you said, and hated how gentle you sounded, “you may stay lonely one more night. I am not moving from this floor.”
A rustle of blanket.
Then, “Come here.”
Your breath caught.
“Valarr.”
“You are cold.”
“I am not.”
“You lie poorly.”
You could hear the smile in his voice now. Infuriating man.
“And you command too much.”
“Only because I am often obeyed.”
That made you snort softly.
Still, after a moment, you rose.
The bed was too small. It had been too small for one of him, let alone two, and yet he shifted with surprising care, making room as best he could. When you lay beside him there was scarcely an inch to spare. The warmth of him wrapped around you at once, inescapable and immediate.
Neither of you spoke.
His arm did not go around you, not at first. It only rested behind you, close enough that the heat of it soaked through your sleeve.
Then Truffle snored like an old man choking to death, and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh under your breath.
His hand found your shoulder in the dark.
He touched you as if asking for something he had no right to ask for, and trusting you to understand it anyway.
Not possessive. Not urgent.
Just there.
You lay awake for far too long after that, listening to the rain and to his breathing and to the treacherous beat of your own heart. Every so often, he would shift just enough that his chest brushed your back or his breath warmed the nape of your neck, and each time it sent a fresh wave of impossible awareness through you.
You had lived alone long enough to forget what it felt like to be wanted gently.
That was the most dangerous part.
Not desire, sudden and bright.
But tenderness. The quiet sort. The kind that made room for itself before you realized it was there.
At some point, when he thought you asleep, his fingers brushed once along your arm, light as a question.
Then he drew a slow breath and whispered, so softly you might almost have imagined it, “I do not want to leave you.”
Your eyes burned unexpectedly in the dark.
You did not answer.
But when sleep finally took you, it came with the terrible, creeping knowledge that you had already begun to love him in all the places sense could no longer reach.
By the fourth day the downpour weakened.
Not gone, no, but gentled. The sky broke in places. The world beyond the cottage glimmered wet and green and silver under the pale wash of afternoon light. The horse had regained some strength in your little lean shelter. Truffle had returned to being merely ill-tempered instead of apocalyptic.
Valarr stood for the first time without swaying.
He was near the doorway, one hand braced against the wood, his dark trousers belted back into place, his cloak hanging loose around his shoulders though he had not fastened it. He looked more himself now, more like the man who had once commanded horses and steel and men at his back.
Because it meant he would leave.
He saw the thought on your face before you could school it away.
“Do you regret dragging me in from the rain?” he asked.
You folded your arms. “Sometimes.”
“That is honest.”
“I pride myself on it.”
He came one step closer.
Only one. But in a cottage as small as yours, one step changed everything.
“You saved my life,” he said.
“I stitched you. The rest was your own stubbornness.”
“No.” His voice had gone quieter now. Softer. “You saved my life.”
You tried to make light of it and found, to your annoyance, that the words would not come.
So you said instead, “What happened at the crossing?”
Something old and hard moved behind his eyes then.
“Bandits,” he said. “Or men calling themselves bandits. There is a difference, sometimes.”
“A dangerous one.”
“Yes.”
“Will they come this way?”
“If they have sense, no. If they do not…” His gaze flicked meaningfully toward the woods beyond your door. “I begin to think your hills would swallow them before you ever had to.”
You smiled at that.
“Perhaps.”
He reached up then, slowly enough for you to turn away if you wished.
His fingers caught a damp strand of hair near your temple and tucked it back.
The touch was absurdly light for such a large man. Careful. Almost reverent.
Your pulse stumbled.
“You are very calm,” he said.
“I am not calm at all.”
That made something warm spark in his expression. “No?”
“No.” You swallowed. “I have simply had practice pretending.”
His thumb brushed once, softly, along the line of your cheekbone before his hand fell away.
You did not know whether to kiss him or flee into the forest as a hawk.
Fortunately, the choice was taken from you by distant sound.
Hoofbeats.
More than one.
Valarr heard them too.
The whole of him changed at once. Straightened. Sharpened. Became prince again from the bone outward.
You hated that more.
“They’ve found me,” he said.
“Yes.”
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then he fastened the cloak at his throat, and the red dragon on black fell into place over his shoulders like the world remembering what he was.
When his men finally arrived, soaked through, road-weary, and visibly relieved to find him alive, they were wise enough to keep their questions behind their teeth. Their gaze moved over the cottage, the drying herbs, the narrow bed, the woman standing near the hearth with her sleeves rolled and her chin tipped just slightly upward, and the pig lingering in the doorway like some unlikely little guardian of the place. Then their attention shifted to their prince, to the bandage at his side and to the look in his eyes, a softness there that no wound, no battlefield, and no victory had ever managed to carve into him before.
Two white cloaks dismounted at once and started forward, but Valarr stopped them with nothing more than a raised hand. He had already learned the shape of your caution, the way you stiffened at sudden closeness, the way you preferred space before trust, and he would not have that peace broken now, not for ceremony, not for duty, not even for men sworn to lay down their lives for him. In that moment, your ease mattered more.
That, too, they saw.
They understood enough.
One of them stepped forward at last, leading his horse.
Valarr did not take it at once. He came to you instead.
The room felt very small then. Smaller than ever.
You knew, then, with a terrible and useless certainty, that if he touched you gently you would be lost.
“I owe you more than thanks,” he said.
“You owe me a blanket,” you answered, because otherwise your voice might have betrayed you.
His mouth curved.
“I owe you that too.”
He looked at you for a long moment after that. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Simply looking, as though he meant to remember every part of your face should the world try to keep him from it later.
Then he said, quietly enough that only you could hear, “When I woke, I thought I had been robbed.”
You lifted a brow. “And now?”
“Now I think I left with less armor than I arrived in.”
Heat rushed straight through you.
“Dangerous thing for a prince,” you managed.
“Dangerous thing for anyone.”
His hand came up to your jaw.
He kissed you before you could answer.
It was not hurried. That was the worst of it. Or perhaps the best.
There was nothing stolen in it, nothing clumsy or uncertain. He kissed you like a man who had denied himself too long in too small a space, who had lain awake listening to your breathing across the room, who had watched your hands mend what steel had torn open and learned, too late, how dangerous tenderness could be.
His thumb curved along your jaw, then settled warm beneath your ear, as if he could not bear the thought of letting your face go untended even now. His other hand, careful of his healing wound, came to your waist and drew you nearer by the barest degree, enough that the front of his cloak brushed your skirts and your breath caught before the kiss deepened.
Warm. Slow. Ruinous.
His mouth moved over yours with impossible care, as if he were discovering something precious and trying, in the same breath, not to frighten it away. Yet hunger lived beneath that gentleness, quiet and tightly leashed, and all the more devastating for the restraint of it. He kissed you like he knew exactly how badly he wanted more and meant, somehow, to be kind about it.
The taste of him lingered at once, rain-cool air, bitter herbs, and something wholly his own that made your head go light. Your fingers caught in the front of his cloak before you even understood you had reached for him. You clung because there was nothing else to do. Because standing upright through it had become suddenly impossible without proof that he was real.
When his lips parted against yours, when he breathed in and drew your next breath half from your own mouth, the world seemed to narrow to the warmth of him and the unbearable softness of being kissed as though you mattered already.
You felt it everywhere.
In the weakness that stole into your knees. In the flutter low and aching in your belly. In the tightness in your throat that had nothing to do with breath and everything to do with wanting, too quickly, too much. Your hand slipped upward to his shoulder, then into the damp-soft hair at his nape, and when your fingers caught there, he made a sound so quiet it nearly broke you.
Not quite a sigh.
Not quite your name.
Something more intimate for having no word at all.
He kissed you again after that, and the second kiss was worse.
Deeper now, though no less gentle. A little more certain. As if the first had been question enough and this was the answer. As if he had learned the shape of your mouth in a single touch and was already unwilling to forget it.
By the time he drew back, you were breathless. Not because he had taken the air from you, but because he had given it back changed.
His forehead rested against yours.
For one suspended, terrible, perfect moment, neither of you moved.
Had he asked then, you might have followed him anywhere and called it your own idea.
That was the true danger of it.
Not the prince.
Not the blood.
Not the promise.
Only this. The quiet, impossible sweetness of being kissed like something to be cherished.
“I do not want to leave,” he said at last, and this time the words came rough, honest, with none of a prince’s polish left in them. Only a man. “Gods, I do not want to leave you here and ride away as if this can be borne.”
Something in your face must have changed, because his mismatched eyes softened all at once.
One blue. One brown. Both full of you.
His hand slid from your jaw to close around yours.
“But I will come back to you,” he said, more firmly now, as if making a vow before gods and earth alike. “I swear it. I will come back to you.”
You should have said something clever. Something teasing. Something that would leave him smiling all the way down the hill.
Instead you looked at him and, hating how much you meant it already, only shook your head a little and whispered, “I hope so.”
His eyes changed at that.
Something softer. Deeper. The sort of look women ruined their lives for in songs.
Then he smiled, small, private, devastating.
Slowly, as if the act mattered, he pulled the signet ring from his finger and closed your hand around it.
The metal was still warm from his skin.
“I promise I will come back for you,” he said quietly. “Keep it safe, and know that my heart and mind will be on you until I do.”
For one fleeting moment, despite the blood and the danger and the prince’s men waiting only a few paces away, he looked boyish. Young, almost. Like a man giving away something precious because he could not bear to leave empty-handed.
Your fingers closed around the ring slowly, almost reverently, and when you looked back up at him there was something helpless in your chest, something soft and aching and far too close to hope.
Hope was a dangerous thing. Hope made women foolish, and patient, and faithful to things that had not yet earned it.
You had learned better.
Hadn’t you?
Still, your hand rose of its own accord and touched his cheek.
His skin was warm beneath your fingertips. His lashes lowered at the touch, not quite closing, as though he wanted to feel that small kindness fully and feared that if he did, he might not leave at all.
The thought struck you so sharply you nearly drew your hand away.
But he turned his face just slightly into your palm.
The gesture was small, which only made it worse.
You stilled your heart by force.
Or tried to.
Then he turned at last and went out into the washed-bright afternoon with his men behind him and the dragon on his cloak dark against the light, and it felt a little as though the cottage exhaled him reluctantly.
You stood in the doorway long after the sound of hooves had faded.
Truffle came to press her damp snout against your calf, demanding to be acknowledged in your hour of romantic suffering.
You looked down at her.
“Oh, be quiet,” you murmured, though she had not made a sound.
For a long while you stood there holding the ring so tightly that the edges pressed crescents into your skin.
The yard still smelled of wet earth and trampled grass and horse, of rain drying slowly under the weak afternoon sun. The world felt changed and not changed at all. The same trees. The same leaning fence. The same little cottage with smoke curling thinly from the chimney. Truffle rooting near the woodpile as if princes had not just come and gone from your life like the passing of some bright and dangerous star.
And yet nothing was the same.
You could still feel his mouth on yours.
That was the worst part.
Not merely remembering it, but carrying it. Like warmth left in cloth after someone had risen from bed. Like the afterglow of a fire that had not wholly gone out. You touched your own lips once, lightly, then stopped as if caught in something shamefully tender.
“I hope so,” you whispered, though he was long gone and the hills gave no answer.
Truffle nudged your leg.
You looked down at her, and because there was no one else to see, you let yourself smile the small, wrecked smile of a woman who had already begun to miss someone she had no right to miss at all.
Then the shadow moved behind you.
And the world, which had softened for one dangerous moment, sharpened again.
When the prince’s party had passed beyond the hill and vanished into the pale horizon, a shadow materialized into a man behind you.
Truffle squealed and startled, then quieted at once, recognizing the shape that slipped from the trees.
Your brother stepped out from beneath the dripping boughs as though the forest itself had spat him up. Rain darkened his cloak. A knife hung easy at his hip. His face, lean and sharp and too handsome for the sort of work he did, was arranged in that same familiar look of dry contempt he reserved for nearly everyone alive.
A fellow magic-user, though his gifts had curdled in a different direction than yours. Where you coaxed flesh closed and borrowed the shapes of beasts, he dealt in blood. In opened veins, old bargains, whispered bindings. These days he lent those talents to pettier things, theft, quiet murders, ugly little contracts bought with uglier coin.
His gaze drifted toward the road Valarr had taken.
“You should’ve killed him when you had the chance.”
You smiled gently.
Then, without haste, you drew a small vial from the pocket sewn cleverly into your skirt.
It was no taller than your hand, stoppered tight with wax and twine. Inside, dark against the glass, rested the prince’s blood. Only a little. Enough gathered from water basins, bandages, and cloth. Enough to matter.
Your brother’s expression sharpened.
“I have something better,” you said.
The vial gleamed in the wet grey light.
In the hands of a witch such as yourself, blood was no small thing. Blood could beckon. Blood could bind. Blood could sicken, weaken, turn a man’s own body against him, or drag him to heel from half a kingdom away if the spell were cruel enough and the will behind it crueler still.
Your fingers tightened around the glass.
In your other hand, hidden in the fold of your palm, his ring was still warm.
That was the worst part.
Not the contract. Not the blood. Not even the promise.
Only this. That he had kissed you like something precious, and gone away believing you might become it.
Truffle nudged her snout against your calf, soft and pleading.
You looked down at her and gave a little, unhappy pout.
“I know, sweetheart,” you murmured. “I liked him as well.”
Your brother gave a short, humorless laugh.
You lifted the vial and watched the dark red cling slowly to the glass.
Then you closed your fingers tighter around the ring.
summary: you grew up between them and you knew, long before you admitted it, that neither of them would ever let you go. valarr loved you the way you always wanted to be loved. aerion wanted you in ways you were not supposed to want back. you were going to marry one of them. the other was not going to allow that to mean anything. (8k+)
pairings: valarr targaryen x f!reader / aerion targaryen x f!reader
content: canon divergent, obsessive!valarr, obsessive!aerion, two very different kinds of dangerous, reader who grew up knowing better and did it anyway, lannister!reader, angst. cw: dubcon, noncon elements, possessive and controlling behaviour, manipulation, aerion being exactly who he is, violence, reader in an impossible situation, smut 18+ (MDNI). don't like the tags don't read, any type of hate comments will be deleted and blocked! it also isn’t proofread so please message me any mistakes you see!
You had grown up in the halls of the Red Keep long enough to stop seeing them clearly, which was probably why it took you so long to see what was right in front of you.
Valarr had always been easy to love. That was simply the truth of him, warm and open in a way that made people feel chosen just for being near him, and you had grown up at his side close enough that the warmth of it had just become the air you breathed. You had never questioned it. Why would you? He was your favourite person and you were his and that had always been enough.
He was the kind of person who remembered things. The name of your favourite horse back home, the flower you had pointed at once in the gardens and said you liked, the way you took your wine– and he remembered them not because he was trying to impress you but because he simply paid attention, because you mattered to him in the easy uncomplicated way that came naturally to people who had never had to fight for anything they wanted.
You had loved him since you were children and you had never once had to decide to. It was just there.
Aerion was something else entirely. He had never been that simple.
He was cruel in the way that certain people were cruel, not out of anger or impulse but out of something colder than that, one that enjoyed itself. You had watched him your whole life and you understood him well enough to know that the cruelty was not the point. The point was always the control, the cruelty was just what happened when something resisted– a horse that wouldn't settle, a servant who answered too slowly, a situation that wasn't going the way he had decided it should go. You had seen it enough times to know the look that preceded it, the way his expression would go very still and very pleasant in the moment before something happened that you wished you hadn't witnessed.
He had never been cruel to you. That was the thing you turned over sometimes when you couldn't sleep. In all the years you had known him, with all the things you had watched him do, he had never once directed any of it at you, and you did not know whether that was a comfort or the most frightening thing about him.
You were always paying attention. You had learned that you needed to be, with him especially.
Your father had served the king since they were young men together, long before crowns and councils, and that friendship had bought your family something most houses spent generations trying to earn. Proximity. You had grown up inside these walls, known these corridors before you knew your own home, eaten at their table and walked these gardens and fallen asleep to the sounds of this city your whole life. The king's grandsons had simply always been part of that. Woven into everything. You could not have separated them from your childhood if you had tried, and for a long time you had not tried, because why would you.
Valarr had claimed you as his friend before you were old enough to understand what that would cost you.
Aerion had simply watched, waited, and decided something you were never consulted on.
You had understood for a long time that they were both obsessed with you in different ways and for entirely different reasons, and you had spent an equally long time pretending you hadn't, because understanding it meant having to do something with it, and there was nothing to be done. They were who they were and you were who you were and this was the world you lived in.
Valarr's obsession was the easier one to carry. It looked like love, felt like love, probably was love in the way that Valarr did everything– openly, without strategy, without a single layer of calculation underneath it. He wanted to be near you. He sought you out in every room. He remembered the small things and brought you the things you liked and looked at you across tables with an expression that he had never once bothered to hide, and the court had noticed and smiled and found it charming, because Valarr was charming, because everything about him invited warmth in return. His obsession had no teeth in it. That was what made it safe to love him back.
Aerion's was different. Aerion's had nothing but teeth.
Aerion's obsession was not something he announced. It lived in the details, the ones you had to be watching closely to catch, and you had been watching closely for years.
The way he always knew where you were in a room without looking for you, the way his gaze settled on you the moment you walked in like it had been waiting. The way he would find reasons to be wherever you were, not obviously, not in the way that announced itself, but consistently enough that you had stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago. You had once counted three days in a row where he appeared in whatever part of the keep you had chosen that morning, the gardens, the library, the corridor outside your father's solar, and each time he had looked at you like he had simply happened to be there, like it was nothing, like you were imagining it.
You had not been imagining it.
He did not like other men near you. That was something you had understood slowly and then all at once. He never said anything, never made a scene, but there was a quality to his stillness when it happened that you had learned to read, the slight tightening around his eyes, the way he went very quiet, the way whatever he said next to the man in question was always perfectly pleasant and always landed like a warning. Men tended to find reasons to be elsewhere after those conversations. You had never heard him threaten anyone. You had watched three men decide on their own that your company was not worth whatever they had seen in Aerion's face.
So you loved Valarr openly and you watched Aerion carefully and you told yourself that was enough, that knowing the shape of a thing meant you could manage it.
Though you were terribly wrong about that.
Dinner had always been pleasant with the Targaryen family. Conversation was easy, the food was good, and your father, as usual, sat beside the king with the comfortable ease of two men who had known each other long enough to run out of things to perform for one another. You had grown up at this table. It had never once felt dangerous.
Today was different.
Your seat was beside Valarr instead of across from him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched when he leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of him without meaning to. You didn't know who had arranged it and you hadn't asked. You had simply sat down and looked at your plate and made a decision not to look at Aerion, who today was seated across from you.
You heard his fork hit the plate harder than necessary. Once, then again. A small sound that no one else at the table seemed to notice, or if they did, said nothing about.
The table moved around you, everyone lost in their own small talk, your father's voice carrying down from the king's end of the table and the low hum of conversation filling the spaces between.
You kept your eyes on your plate mostly, pushing your food around more than eating it, acutely aware of the weight of a gaze from across the table that had not moved from you since you sat down. You did not look up. You had gotten very good at not looking up.
"You've barely touched anything," Valarr said quietly beside you.
"I'm not very hungry."
"You said that at breakfast too." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so it was just for you. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Just tired," you said, meeting his gaze with a small smile. "I stayed up last night longer than I meant to."
"Doing what?"
"Reading."
"What were you reading?"
"Something dull," you said. "Which is why I couldn't sleep."
He laughed at that, low and quiet, and you felt the warmth of it settle somewhere in your chest, and for a moment the table and the noise and everything else fell away and it was just this, just him, just easy.
And then from across the table came the sound of a goblet being lifted, and your eyes moved there before you could stop them.
Aerion's hand was around the stem of his cup, long fingers wrapped loosely around it, completely unhurried. He brought it to his lips slowly, tipping it back, and you watched the line of his throat move as he swallowed, watched him lower the cup just as slowly, and then his tongue touched his lower lip, just once, just briefly, catching the last trace of wine like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have looked away.
His fingers began tracing the rim of the cup instead, slow idle circles, round and round, and something about the patience of it, the complete unhurried certainty of those fingers moving like that, sent heat moving through you that had absolutely no business being at a dinner table and you pressed your thighs together under your dress and looked down at your plate and picked up your fork and stared at your food like it had personally offended you.
You were losing your mind. That was the only explanation.
You looked up.
Aerion was already looking at you. Of course he was. His fingers had stilled on the rim of the cup and his eyes were on yours and the expression on his face was the worst possible thing it could have been– not anger, not hunger, just the faint curl of a smile at the corner of his mouth, slow and knowing and unbearably smug, the expression of a man who had just been handed something he had not even had to reach for.
Your face was warm. You looked back at your plate.
Beside you Valarr said your name, something light in his voice, and you answered him, and smiled, and felt Aerion's gaze sitting on the side of your face like heat from a fire you had made the mistake of standing too close to.
Baelor cleared his throat from where he sat, and the conversations around the table died down one by one, the way they always did when he spoke, that particular quality of his presence that made rooms go quiet without him having to ask.
Valarr stopped mid-sentence beside you and turned to look at his father. You turned too, because there was nothing else to do, and felt your heart doing something it had no business doing at a dinner table.
Baelor's smile was warm, unhurried, the smile of a man who had already decided something and was simply bringing the room up to speed. "As we all know," he began, his gaze moving between you and your father, "Lord Stafford Lannister and his family have been dear friends to this house for many years. A friendship that goes back further than most at this table can remember." He glanced at the king briefly, and the king inclined his head, and Baelor looked back at you both with that same warm smile. "The small council, his grace, Lord Stafford and I have come to an agreement."
You did not look at Valarr. You did not look at Aerion.
You looked at your father, who was not looking at Baelor at all. He was looking at you, with an expression that was careful and fond and slightly apologetic all at once, the expression of a man who had made a decision he believed was right and was watching his daughter find out about it.
"To bond our houses further," Baelor continued, "through the betrothal of my eldest son Valarr, to Lord Stafford's daughter."
The table erupted warmly around you and you sat very still in the middle of it, you slowly turned your gaze away from everyone, and looked at the table.
The congratulations came from every direction and you heard none of them, your ears blurring the noise into something distant and shapeless while you sat very still and looked at nothing in particular.
You did not know what you felt. That was the honest answer and it sat uncomfortably in your chest. You loved Valarr, had always loved Valarr, but love and wanting to be someone's wife were not the same thing and you had never let yourself think too hard about the difference until this moment, with the whole table raising their cups to your future and your father watching you from down the table with that careful expression of his.
He had promised you. Years ago, when you were young enough that promises felt like solid things, he had told you that when the time came it would be your choice. That he would not do what other fathers did. You had believed him because he had never given you reason not to, and you had carried that promise around like something precious, and now you were sitting at this table with congratulations ringing in your ears and understanding, slowly and then all at once, what it was worth.
You reached for your goblet and took a long sip and set it back down and kept your face very still.
Your jaw was tight. You could feel it, the particular ache of holding your face in place when it wanted to do something else entirely.
Valarr leaned in close beside you, his voice low enough that only you could hear it. "Are you alright?"
"You've asked me that twice today," you said, and your voice came out even, which cost you something.
"You've given me reason to twice today." His eyes were on your face, warm and searching. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say." You kept your gaze forward, fingers tight around the stem of your goblet. "It's wonderful news."
"You don't look like someone who's received wonderful news."
Your mouth pressed into something that was supposed to be a smile and wasn't quite. "I look perfectly fine."
"You look like you're about to bolt," he said, gently and completely certain, the voice of someone who knew your face better than you wanted anyone to. "I know when something is wrong with you."
You looked at him then, at those open honest eyes, and felt something move through your chest that you couldn't name cleanly, and you swallowed and looked back at your plate. "I just need a moment," you said quietly. "That's all."
He held your gaze for a beat, and then nodded, and sat back, and said nothing more, because that was Valarr– knowing when to push and when to let something be.
You sat with it for another few minutes, the noise of the table washing over you, your expression carefully blank in the way that took effort to maintain, the way that left a dull ache somewhere behind your eyes. You glanced at him sideways without meaning to, and found that he was not looking at you. He was looking at Aerion, and whatever was on his face you could not read it properly, only that his smile had shifted into something different, something with an edge to it you had never seen on him before. Almost smug. Like a man who had just won something.
You made the mistake of looking at Aerion.
Your face did something before you could stop it, something small and involuntary, your brows drawing together slightly, your lips parting, and you looked away immediately but it was already too late and you knew it.
"If you'll excuse me," you said, and pushed your chair back and stood, and your face was not pleasant, was not the face of a happy girl who had just received good news, was simply the face of someone who needed to be somewhere that was not here.
"Sit down," your father said, not unkindly, from down the table.
"I just need some air, father."
"You can have air after dinner."
"Stafford," the king said mildly, and your father looked at him, and something passed between them, and your father looked back at you with that expression, the one that carried the guilt of a man who had broken a promise and knew it, and you looked back at him with something that was not anger yet and not quite hurt yet but was moving in both directions at once.
You walked out anyway.
His voice followed you into the corridor, your name in it, softer now, and you kept walking and did not turn back, and the cool stone of the corridor was quiet around you and you stood in it and breathed and pressed your hand flat against the wall and felt your face finally do what it had been wanting to do for the past ten minutes– the jaw unclenching, the eyes going slightly wet, the particular exhausted expression of a woman who had been holding something together at the table and was now alone enough to stop.
You stood there for a long moment.
Somewhere behind you in that room, you were certain without having to look, Aerion Targaryen was watching the door you had just walked through.
When wasn't he looking anyways.
You heard him before you saw him, his footsteps quick and purposeful behind you on the garden path, and you walked faster.
"Would you just stop walking—"
You did not stop walking.
It had been nearly a moon since the betrothal was announced at dinner, and in the days that followed you had made it your business to be wherever Valarr was not. It had seemed, in those first few days, like the only thing you could do– if you could just create enough distance, enough cold space between the two of you, perhaps someone with enough sense would notice and reconsider. The small council, your father, anyone.
You had been wrong about that. Nobody had reconsidered anything. The betrothal stood and the days kept passing and Valarr kept looking for you the way he always looked for you, warm and patient and entirely unbothered by the fact that you were doing everything in your power to disappear.
"Your prince demands you stop walking."
His voice had gone serious, louder than before, with the particular edge of a man who had run out of patience and was done pretending otherwise.
You stopped.
You stood there for a moment with your back to him, and then you turned around slowly and looked at him with an expression that was not kind.
"Demands," you said flatly. "That's a new word from you."
"You've left me with very few options." He was breathing slightly harder from having half-chased you across the garden, his mismatched eyes on you with an intensity he usually kept better hidden. "You've been avoiding me for a month."
"I've been busy."
"You walked out of a room yesterday the moment I walked in."
"I had somewhere to be."
"You told my squire you weren't receiving visitors when I came to your chambers."
"I wasn't feeling well."
"You were seen in the gardens an hour later perfectly fine." His jaw tightened. "Do you want to keep going or are we done pretending?"
You looked at him and said nothing.
"Why are you acting like a child who didn't get her way–"
"I have every right." The words came out sharp and you let them, your finger pointing at him briefly before you dropped it. "I have every right and you know it."
"I know no such thing–"
"Days after that feast," you said, cutting him off, "I find out it was you. Not the council. Not our fathers sitting down together and coming to a reasonable agreement. You. You went to your father and put the idea in his head and then sat at that table and smiled at me like you hadn't just decided my future without bothering to ask me about it."
"I decided nothing that wasn't already–"
"Don't." Your voice went quiet in the way that meant you were more serious than when you were shouting, and he heard it, you saw him hear it. "Don't tell me it was inevitable. Don't tell me it would have happened anyway. Because maybe it would have and maybe it wouldn't have and I will never know now, will I, because you took that from me."
He looked at you, something moving across his face. "I didn't think of it that way."
"No," you said. "You thought of what you wanted and you went and got it. Which is very you, Valarr, it has always been very you, and I have always loved that about you and right now I find it very difficult to."
Something in his expression flinched at that. "That's not fair."
"My father made me a promise," you said. "Years ago. He told me that when it came to my marriage it would be my choice. Not the council's, not his, mine. And I believed him. I believed him for years and I carried that and it meant something to me, and he broke it, and he broke it because of you."
"I didn't know about any promise–"
"Would it have changed anything?" you asked, and your voice was very even, very direct, giving him nowhere to go.
He was quiet for a moment. "I don't know," he said finally.
"Right," you said.
"That's not– I'm not trying to–" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated in the way he got frustrated, openly and without pretense. "You think this was easy for me? Watching you every day for years and saying nothing, doing nothing, because the timing was never right or the situation was never right or you seemed happy enough without–" He stopped, then looked at you. "I was tired of waiting."
"So you stopped asking and started deciding."
"That's not what I did."
"Then what did you do, Valarr, because from where I'm standing–"
"I love you." He said it plainly, the way he did everything, without strategy or performance, just the words dropped into the space between you like he had been holding them for a long time and had simply run out of reasons to keep holding them. "I have loved you since we were children and I have watched you your whole life and I know you, I know you better than most people you would trust with that knowledge, I knew that if I asked you directly you would have found a reason to say not yet, or maybe, or I need more time, and I would have waited and you would have kept waiting and nothing would have happened and I could not–" He stopped. His jaw was tight. "I could not watch you end up with someone else."
The garden was very quiet.
You looked at him, at the openness of his face, at the frustration and the honesty and the love in it that he had never once tried to disguise, and felt something in your chest do something complicated that you were not ready to deal with.
"That still wasn't your choice to make," you said, but your voice had lost some of its edge.
"I know," he said. "I know that. And I'm sorry for how it happened. I'm sorry your father broke his promise and I'm sorry you found out the way you did, I'm sorry I didn't come to you first." He held your gaze. "But I am not sorry that you're going to be my wife. I will never be sorry for that."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"This isn't—"
You didn't finish the sentence.
Valarr closed the distance between you in one step and his hands were on your face before you understood what was happening, and then he kissed you, and all the words you had been building dissolved completely.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was the kiss of someone who had been waiting too long and had finally stopped caring about waiting, deep and certain. Your eyes were wide for one moment, your hands caught somewhere between pushing him away and not, and then he deepened it and something in you gave way and your eyes closed and your hands found his chest and you stopped thinking about being angry.
He kissed you like he had been wanting to for years, which he had, which you had known somewhere you had been refusing to look, and you felt it in your chest and lower and pressed your lips back against his before you had decided to, and he made a low sound against your mouth and pulled you closer, one hand sliding from your jaw into your hair, and you forgot entirely what you had been saying.
When he finally pulled back you were both breathing unevenly and his forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes closed, his hands still in your hair, and for a moment the garden was just that– quiet and warm and the two of you breathing the same air.
Then something caught your eye over his shoulder.
You stepped back, and Valarr let you go slowly, opening his eyes to look at you with that expression, soft and warm and entirely unguarded, and you were not looking at him. You were looking past him, at the far end of the garden path, at the retreating figure you would have known anywhere.
The pale platinum hair. The particular way he walked, unhurried and deliberate, like a man who had nowhere to be and had simply chosen to be elsewhere.
Aerion.
He did not look back. He just walked, steady and calm, and turned the corner and was gone, and you stood there with Valarr's warmth still on your mouth and your heart doing something entirely different now, something that had nothing to do with the kiss and everything to do with the cold certainty settling in your stomach.
He had seen you. All of it. Valarr's hands in your hair and your eyes closed and you pressing back into the kiss like you had forgotten every reason you had to be angry.
"Hey." Valarr's voice was gentle, his hand coming to your jaw, turning your face back to his. "Where did you go?"
"Nowhere," you said, and made yourself look at him, at those warm mismatched eyes that had nothing in them but you. "I'm here."
He looked at you for a moment like he wasn't entirely sure he believed that, and then he pressed his lips to your forehead, slow and certain, and you closed your eyes and let him, and tried not to think about what Aerion's face had looked like in the moment before he turned away.
You hadn't seen it. You had been too far away, the light too low.
But you knew him. You had spent years learning the shape of him from a careful distance, and you knew, with the particular instinct you had developed for him specifically, that whatever had been on his face at that moment was not nothing.
You were going to pay for this. You didn't know how yet.
But you knew you would.
You hadn't expected anyone to be in your chambers, but the absence of your guards outside the door should have told you something. You noticed it only after you had already closed the door behind you, hand still on the handle, and found Aerion in the corner of your room with your wine.
He had helped himself to your best goblet. Of course he had.
"What are you doing in my chambers," you said.
He turned to face you, unhurried, and the expression on his face was the pleasant one, the one that meant nothing good. "Congratulating you," he said. "I couldn't very well do it at the feast, could I. Not after you made such a graceful exit." He tilted his head, studying you the way he studied things he found mildly interesting. "I'm not sure I've ever seen someone look quite so thrilled at their own betrothal announcement."
"Get out."
"In a moment." He took a slow sip of the wine and looked at the goblet appraisingly, like he was deciding whether your taste was worth commenting on.
"Valarr is lucky. He always has been, hasn't he. Things simply fall into his lap." His eyes came back to you. "Or in this case, are arranged to fall into his lap."
"I said get out, Aerion."
"You did," he agreed. "You also look like you mean it slightly less than you'd like to." He set the goblet down and crossed his arms, leaning back against the table with no intention of going anywhere. "Does it bother you, I wonder. That he went to his father rather than to you. That everyone in that room knew before you did." He paused. "That your own father broke a promise to make it happen."
The fact that he knew about the promise landed somewhere in your chest with a specific unpleasant weight.
"No one needed to tell me anything." His voice was pleasant. "I've known you your whole life. I know what your face does when something has been decided without you." He looked at you steadily. "I saw it at the table. And I saw it in the gardens earlier."
You said nothing.
"You kissed him back," he said simply, and his voice was completely without judgment, which was worse somehow than if it had been cruel.
"I know what I saw." He pushed off the table and took a few steps toward you, stopping at a distance that was closer than comfortable and carefully not close enough to object to.
"The interesting thing is that you kissed him back and you still don't look like a happy girl." He tilted his head slightly. "Why is that, do you think."
"You don't know anything about how I feel."
"I know more than you'd like me to," he said. "I've been watching you for years. Did you think I hadn't noticed? That I simply sit across from you at dinner and look at the food?" Something shifted in his expression, something underneath the pleasantness that was harder to read.
"Valarr is warm. Valarr is kind. Valarr will be a devoted husband and the court will find it charming and you will smile and say the right things and spend the rest of your life being precisely as restless as you are right now."
“Get out–”
“No. I’m quite happy here princess.”
He walks even closer to you, eyes on you as he reaches for a piece of your hair to tuck it behind your ear. You almost moved away from the action, though he kissed his teeth at that, as if that action itself annoyed him so.
“Valarr is many things,” he said lightly, studying your face as though you were a puzzle he had already solved. “Dutiful. Earnest. Admirable in the way old men like to use the word.”
His fingers lingered at the strand of hair he had tucked behind your ear.
“But he is dull,” Aerion continued, his voice lowering slightly. “Dull in conversation. Dull in temper. Dull in appetite.”
You stiffened and he noticed.
“Oh, don’t pretend you haven’t thought of it.” His mouth curved faintly. “He speaks to you like you’re porcelain. Like you might shatter if he breathes too hard.”
“That’s called respect,” you snapped.
“It’s called fear,” Aerion corrected calmly. “He worships you. And men who worship rarely dare to touch what they worship properly.”
Your jaw tightened.
Aerion leaned closer, not enough to trap you, but enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
“Tell me,” he murmured, eyes flicking down your face with deliberate slowness, “when he kissed you in the gardens… did it feel like something claimed you? Or did it feel like he was asking permission to exist?”
Your breath caught despite yourself.
He smiled faintly at that.
“Valarr will give you sons and soft words and a lifetime of predictable nights,” Aerion continued. “He will lie beside you as though he’s afraid of disturbing the air between you. He will thank you afterward.”
“That is enough,” you said sharply.
“For some women,” he agreed, as he continued on with his words. “For women who want to be admired from a polite distance. For women who enjoy being handled like glass.”
His gaze darkened, something sharper threading beneath the pleasant tone.
“You are not glass.”
You tried to step back. He followed half a step, closing the distance you had created.
“You burn,” he said quietly. “You’ve always burned. And he will spend his life trying to tame it into something courtly.”
His thumb brushed lightly against your jaw— not tender, not cruel, just assessing.
“You’ll lie there beside him,” he went on, voice dropping further, “and you’ll wonder why you still feel restless. Why something in you is still waiting… is still wanting.”
You swallowed.
“And when his love making does not quite reach you,” Aerion added, a crude edge sliding into his tone now, deliberate and unapologetic, “when he’s finished and satisfied and you are not, you will think of this conversation, you will think of me.”
You rolled your eyes, heat rising in your face. He laughed softly at that, genuinely amused.
“It offends you because it’s true,” he said. “You do not want warmth. You want to be consumed.”
“That’s enough, Aerion.”
“No,” he said calmly. “It isn’t.”
His gaze held yours
“Valarr will cherish you. He will be grateful for you. He will treat your body like a sacred relic bestowed upon him.”
His voice dipped, rougher now.
“I would not.”
Silence settled heavy between you.
“I would not ask,” he continued. “I would not thank you. And you would not mistake what you were to me.”
The arrogance in it was staggering.
“You’re vile,” you said quietly.
His smile returned– slow, satisfied.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you are still standing here.”
He stepped back then, finally, reclaiming his goblet as though the conversation had been nothing more than idle courtly gossip.
“Think on it,” he said softly, as though he were offering thoughtful advice rather than an insult. “Marry your dutiful prince. Smile for the court. Bear him heirs.”
The words should have felt like dismissal. A neat ending to a conversation he believed he had already won.
He turned slightly, confident enough to expose his back to you.
You did not move toward him.
You stood exactly where you were, anger and humiliation warring in your chest, the door solid at your spine.
“Aerion,” you said, your voice tight, “leave.”
He did not answer at once. Instead, he set the goblet down with exaggerated care, the faint click of metal against wood sounding far too loud in the room. When he turned back to you, something had shifted. The pleasant amusement had thinned into something colder, something edged.
“No,” he replied.
He crossed the distance between you without haste, though each step felt deliberate, predatory. You did not step forward. You did not invite him closer. Still, he advanced until there was scarcely any space left to claim.
“You speak as though you have a choice in how this will unfold,” he said quietly.
“I do,” you shot back, lifting your chin despite the tremor in your pulse.
His mouth curved faintly. “Do you?”
He reached for you without warning.
One moment there was air between you, and the next his hand was at your arm, fingers biting into fabric and flesh as he forced you back against the door. The impact jarred through you, sharp, your shoulder striking the wood hard enough to sting.
“Aerion, stop,” you demanded, shoving at his chest.
He did not.
His other hand came up to brace against the door beside your head, caging you in. You pushed harder, your palm striking his shoulder, then his jaw. The slap cracked in the quiet room, sharp and unmistakable.
For a fraction of a second, there was stillness.
Then his eyes darkened.
Not surprised. Not ashamed.
Angered.
“You dare,” he said, his voice dropping to something far more dangerous than before.
You tried to twist away, but his hand caught your wrist again, harder now, and he closed the distance without permission. The kiss was not persuasion. It was force. His mouth crushed against yours, claiming and unyielding, swallowing your protest as though it were nothing more than inconvenience.
You struggled, pushing against him, turning your face aside, but he followed, relentless. The more you resisted, the tighter his grip became, as though your defiance only sharpened his resolve.
When you struck him again, he broke the kiss long enough to seize both your wrists in one hand. The movement was swift and unforgiving.
“You think I will be dismissed like him,” he muttered, breathing unevenly now, his composure fraying. “You think I will stand at a distance and ask.”
Before you could react, he dragged you away from the door. The shift was sudden enough to disorient you, your balance faltering as he propelled you backward toward the bed.
You barely had time to brace yourself before the backs of your knees hit the edge of it and you fell onto the mattress. The force was not enough to injure, but it stole your breath all the same.
He followed immediately, looming over you, one knee sinking into the bedding to keep you from scrambling away.
“Aerion,” you warned, fury and fear mingling in your voice.
He looked down at you, chest rising and falling faster now, whatever restraint he had clung to finally stripped away.
“You will not treat me as though I am an afterthought,” he said, the words low and trembling with anger. “Not you.”
The composure he wore like armor at court was gone now. There was no pleasantness, no amusement in it. Only something stripped raw and furious.
“I was meant to stand beside you,” he continued, his voice unsteady not with weakness but with rage barely leashed. “Not him. It was always him for you, wasn’t it? Even when you pretended not to see it.”
His grip tightened at your shoulders.
“You think I did not see you in that garden.” His jaw flexed. “You think I did not watch you close your eyes for him.”
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
“You let him take your first kiss,” Aerion said, and there was something almost disbelieving in it, like the insult still had not settled properly in his mind. “You let him touch you as though he had earned it.”
“You have no right—”
“No right?” he snapped, the words cutting through you. “I have watched you since we were children. I have measured every man who stood too close. I have endured your father parading you through halls as though you were a prize to be admired.” His mouth twisted. “And he walks into a garden and takes what I have waited years for.”
“You waited for nothing,” you shot back, struggling against him. “I was never yours.”
Something in his expression fractured.
“I was the one they would have given you to,” he said, voice dropping again, but this time it was worse. Quieter. “If he had not interfered. If he had not rushed to his father like a boy afraid of losing a toy.”
“I am not a thing to be handed between you two,” you said, anger flaring hot enough to momentarily overpower fear.
He leaned closer, eyes dark and bright in equal measure.
“No,” he said. “You are not.”
His hand slid from your shoulder to your jaw, forcing your face toward his.
“You are something he does not understand how to hold.”
“I will not be replaced,” he said, breath uneven now. “Not by him. Not by anyone.”
“You are insane,” you hissed, struggling beneath him.
“And you are blind,” he shot back.
His face hovered inches from yours, his anger no longer refined into something subtle. It was raw. Almost desperate.
“You think this ends with a kiss in a garden,” he said. “You think you can walk into marriage and forget I exist.”
His grip tightened when you tried to pull free.
“I saw you,” he continued, voice thick now, not just angry but wounded in a way that made him more dangerous. “I saw the way you answered him. The way you melted into it.”
Your silence enraged him further.
“You want warmth,” he said bitterly. “You want gentleness. You want to be cherished.”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“And I would have given you something real.”
There was nothing romantic in the way he said it.
Only possession.
“You do not get to decide what I want,” you said, breath shaking but voice steady, tears kissing your eyes.
For a moment, something uncertain flickered in him, then it hardened again.
His hand fisted suddenly in your hair.
The force of it dragged you upward before you could brace yourself, your breath catching as his mouth crashed against yours. There was nothing careful in it, nothing resembling affection. His teeth caught your lower lip and bit down until you tasted copper, until the sting bloomed bright and immediate.
You made a sound despite yourself, half pain, half protest, and tried to twist away.
He did not let you.
He deepened the kiss instead, as though your resistance only fed the fury driving him. When he finally pulled back it was not far, his forehead nearly touching yours, his grip still unyielding.
“Must you always be so cold to me,” he said, but there was no pleading in it. Only accusation.
Before you could answer, his mouth moved again, not to your lips this time but down along the line of your jaw, to the sensitive curve beneath your ear. His teeth grazed there too, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you flinch.
“Every look,” he murmured against your throat, voice rougher now, less controlled. “Every word you give him so easily.”
His hand slid from your hair, only to settle at your waist, fingers pressing firmly into the structured fabric of your bodice. He worked at the laces with impatient precision, tugging until they loosened beneath his touch. The careful arrangement of your dress began to slacken under his hands.
You pushed at his shoulders again, anger rising through the haze of shock.
“Stop,” you demanded, your voice unsteady but not weak.
He paused only long enough to look at you.
There was heat in his expression, yes, but something else threaded through it now. Frustration. Obsession. The bruised pride of a man who could not endure being denied.
“You shut me out,” he said, his thumb pressing against the base of your throat as though he could feel your pulse racing there. “As if I am a stranger. As if I have not stood at your side for years.”
His grip tightened just enough to remind you how easily he could overpower you, though he did not close his hand fully.
“And yet you melt for him.”
The words were quiet, almost hoarse.
His mouth returned to your neck, slower this time, less frantic but no less intense, as if he were trying to prove something rather than simply take it. His hands continued their restless work at your dress, loosening what had been carefully secured, his movements deliberate and possessive.
“Look at you,” he muttered, not tenderly. “Still fighting me.”
With a final tug, the last barrier of your dress fell away, and he let it slip from your body entirely. He stepped back slightly, taking a long, appraising look at you, eyes gleaming with a strange mixture of admiration and something darker. “He does not deserve this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “He would not know what to do with someone like you.”
Then, as if daring you to react, he lowered his mouth toward you, his movements slow and torturous, each kiss a deliberate claim. His lips traced a path down your body with painstaking precision, lingering at every sensitive curve, every line of your skin, as though memorizing it.
By the time he reached the hollow beneath your belly, the faint trace of your blood from his earlier bite still on his lips, you felt the shift inside you, impossible to resist. What had begun as violation and force had turned, unbearably, into something you craved.
You wanted him in ways that shocked you. Wanted the weight of his hands on your skin, the rough press of his fingers digging into you, the sharp tug of hair between his grasp. You wanted the heat of him against your throat, the low, commanding pressure that had left your pulse racing from the start.
Your own need rose up suddenly, urgent and undeniable. The breath caught in your chest, the trembling in your hands and thighs betraying the want that you could no longer deny. You wanted him, not as before, not as a threat– but as the fire that consumed you, as the storm you had spent years watching from a careful distance.
You instinctively arched your hips as his head dipped lower, pressed firmly between your thighs. Heat pooled sharply, spreading through you with a tension that had nothing to do with patience or reason. He had removed your small cloth with hurry and determination.
A shiver ran along your spine as his tongue suddenly brushed against you, deliberate, unhurried, dragging sensations that left you gasping and trembling. You threw your head back, hands latching into his hair instinctively, needing to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure.
Every movement, every press of his lips and the teasing of him against your sensitive bud, pulled something raw and urgent from deep inside you.
Your chest heaved, your knees quivering, your body betraying every attempt at composure.
His tongue moved with deliberate precision, teasing and drawing, tasting you in a way that left no room for hesitation or denial. Every flick, every press of his lips, sent shocks of need through your body that made your nails dig deeper into his hair. You gasped, hips bucking instinctively, trying to find a rhythm, any rhythm, against the insistence of him.
“You feel like this,” he murmured, voice low, rough with satisfaction, “like you’ve been waiting for me without knowing it. Every inch of you wants it, and yet you fight me still.” His hands braced against your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you to the bed with a deliberate weight that left no escape.
Your back arched, a soft cry escaping as his tongue pressed harder, teasing, coaxing, dragging you closer to a point you had only dared imagine. The sound of your own need, raw and uncontrolled, filled the room, mingling with the quiet, possessive hums from him. He didn’t rush, not yet, savoring the control as much as the taste, the power of holding you on the brink.
Your hands roamed, clutching at him, at his shoulders, anything you could grasp, desperate for some way to touch back. Every movement of his mouth drew more from you, more groans, more shivers, more of the burning heat that made your head spin. You were caught, entirely, and you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You want it,” he said, almost accusingly, lips brushing against your clit as he spoke, “you crave me, even when you try not to. Even when you pretend otherwise.” His words were punctuated by the deliberate drag of his tongue, the teasing press that made your thighs shake, your nails leaving crescent marks in his skin.
And then, as if sensing the breaking point, he pushed slightly harder, pressing you fully against him, and your body shuddered, a gasp ripped from you, your back arching further as the first wave of pure, overwhelming release coursed through you.
His lips didn’t relent, didn’t ease the pressure, and the next wave hit before the first could fade, leaving you trembling and raw beneath him, utterly undone.
Even in your surrender, in your cries and shudders, he looked at you with that same calm, assessing gaze, the one that always made you feel like you were exactly where he wanted you– and nowhere else could compare.
And so, in the days that followed, as you were wed to Valarr with all the ceremony and dutiful smiles the court demanded, Aerion lingered in the shadows, watching. Every polite bow, every whispered congratulations, every careful touch between you and your husband only stoked the dark fire in him.
It wasn’t jealousy, it was triumph.
Because Valarr may have claimed your kiss first, but Aerion had claimed far more.
He had taken what was his, in the quiet, unspoken ways that no courtly display could touch. Your body remembered him in ways your heart could not yet name, and in that knowledge, he exulted.
Triumph and possession twisted together in his chest, the satisfaction of a predator who had waited and watched and finally taken what had long been within his grasp, leaving nothing for anyone else to claim.
And he will continue claiming what was deemed his. One way or another.
Summary: Fueled by the betrayal of your betrothed, you tumble into bed with the worst person you can think of- Aerion of House Targaryen. Whilst you may see it as a one time mistake, Aerion Brightflame does not.
Warnings: 18+, cheating (not by Aerion), vaginal fingering, Aerion calls reader a whore, biting with blood, slightly oc Aerion?, blood play, canon divergence, obsessive behaviour, slight dub-con, loss of virginity, hunting, canon typical violence, vaginal sex, no protection, unedited
Word Count: 10k+
targaryen masterlist
The air in the corridor was cooler than usual. With a shiver, you tucked your hands under your armpits after checking that you were quite alone, and began to make your way to the hall for dinner.
Ashford Meadows was different to your home. Grayer, colder, busier. It seemed an unusual time to hold a tourney until you had found out it was Lady Gwin Ashford’s birthday. Lord Ashford himself had invited your family down to join in on the celebrations and your elder brother, Leon, had been eager to join the lists.
It was rare you got to spend time with your family. Your elder brother Edwyn was the heir to your father’s title and, as such, the pair of them spent a great deal of time overseeing the land and renters. Leo, as a second son, was antsy and often busied himself on adventures that you could only dream of. Your sister Marian had been married some six months ago and you missed her dearly. When you had heard than she and her lord husband would also be in Ashford, you had been more than content to brave the long ride down just to see her.
And then there was the matter of your betrothal to Lord Frey’s son, Owen.
You hummed to yourself as you navigated the dark corridors, slippers padding along the stone floor. The only sign of life you could hear was from yourself. There was a good chance that you had gotten yourself turned around so you stopped and began to retrace your steps.
The pair of you had met at your sister’s wedding and both Lord Frey and your own father had been delighted at the way you seemed to draw together. Owen Frey was handsome enough, and not unkind, and he knew all the right things to say. When your father had told you of the potential for an arrangement, you had agreed without really thinking about it.
Owen Frey seemed a sensible enough man, and you certainly tried to be a sensible woman. Lord Frey was said to be an honorable and loyal man, and he and his wife genuinely seemed to care for one another. You hoped that with them as an example, Owen would also come to care for you as a husband should.
You paused, huffing a breath as you scanned your environment. It all looked the same. You were just about to turn on your heel again when you heard something ahead. Some kind of scuffling, and a laugh.
Pressing your lips together, you debated turning around. But by now you were likely already late for dinner and your father would not be pleased. Not when the Ashfords were such accommodating hosts – and not when the Targaryens were also staying.
With a nervous breath, you made your way forward and peeked around the corner. Immediately you sucked in a breath, clapping your hand over your mouth as you registered what was before you.
At first you saw only two lovers entwined. Hands beneath shifts and unbuttoned trousers and choked gasps. Then you recognised the clothes on the woman – a household servant of the Ashfords. You cringed at the way she scratched down the male’s back, moaning into his neck as his hands did something down the front of her dress.
You were not ignorant to the ways of man and woman. Well, not entirely, anyway. But you knew enough to know that it was incredibly bold of the pair to be so intimate so out in the open. You stifled a laugh and turned to dip away – and then you heard it.
“Oh, Owen, please!”
You stalled, mouth popping open with a silent ‘oh’. Shaking, you peered round the wall once more, just to confirm. Neither of the pair had spotted you. This time you saw what you had been previously blind to. The sword at the man’s hip, the Frey sigil on the pommel. The hair, an unassuming shade of brown, that only now you recognised. The man’s hand moved to grip the girl’s hip and you saw the rings adorning his fingers.
You stayed for only a moment longer, a headache forming between your brows. You did not confront them. Instead, you raced away, as quietly as you could, turning blindly down corridors until you bumped into a maid who was, by chance, looking for you.
You trailed after her until she reached the dining room, slipping by her as she held the door open for you. Your father stood to greet you and you heard yourself explaining that you had been lost. So silly of you! Your father laughed boisterously and made some joke about you being distracted due to your engagement.
“For a moment, daughter, we thought you had snuck away with Owen,” he chuckled, “Lord Frey told us the boy is ill.”
Baelor Targaryen offered you a polite smile as he responded to your father. Distracted once more, your father sat down and began conversing with the heir. Feeling that all attention was once again off of you, you made your way to the table and found yourself a seat.
You sat down at your brother’s side without looking up. It was only after your brother had pushed a steaming plate in front of you that you glanced about. You found yourself squeezing at your utensils, something hot and uncomfortable brewing in your stomach as you picked at your beef.
After a particularly vicious stab, you set your cutlery down. Tucking your hands beneath the table, you squeezed at your thighs until you were sure you drew blood. Your eyes stayed dry. You searched yourself for despair, for sadness, and instead found red hot fucking fury.
A shiver wracked through you and finally you looked up. Aerion Targaryen met your gaze. He did not blink as he stabbed a hunk of beef and brought it to his mouth. He chewed it nicely but his eyes were anything but.
You knew about Brightflame. About his propensity for anger and cruelty. You had made a game of avoiding him all week, despite the fact your family took meals with his almost daily. And now, with him sitting across from you, this was the closest you had ever been.
It must be exhausting, you thought, to be so angry all the time. You could feel your own righteous rage swirling in your chest, taking violent swipes at your heart every time you attempted to push what you had seen from your mind.
Aerion stopped chewing and stared openly. You blinked as you realised your lips had curled in something like a snarl. Your anger burned hotter than you knew what to do with. You slouched back in your chair, ignoring the way your brother coughed at your ill manners, and stared right back.
It was stupid. You knew that but you did not look away. Let him be cruel, you thought, let him spit and curse at you for your disrespect. You discovered that you anger enough to return the fire. It needed to go somewhere, did it not?
Your brother stilled, hand finding yours beneath the table and squeezing in warning. And still, you did not move. To your surprise, it was Aerion that moved.
He cleared his throat and set his fork down. He leaned forward and you readied yourself for the fall out of your disrespect.
“Woman,” he said slowly, “what is your name?”
Your brother nudged you to answer. Distantly, you wondered if Owen remembered your name. If you thought about you at all as he fumbled with the maid girl in the corridor, where anyone could come across them. Did he feel guilt as he humiliated you? As he made you look like a foolish, sheltered girl?
“You do not recall my name,” you said slowly, “despite the fact that our families have dined together all week?”
Your brother choked on his wine. Aerion’s eyes widened, something chaotic and wild fluttering in his pupils. It looked like fire.
“I do not,” he answered just as slowly, chin dipping as he waited for your response.
You should tread carefully. You should apologise. You should lower your gaze and speak only when spoken to. You should pretend you never saw Owen and the girl and marry him anyway, settle for a life long of betrayal and disappointment.
“Then I do not wish to tell you,” you hissed, slamming your palms to the table as you shot up out of your chair. All eyes landed on you. “Father, I am unwell. I wish to retire.”
Aerion’s eyes made your skin burn. They drilled into the side of your face as you stoutly ignored him, dipping your head as your father stammered out an excuse and the host bid you well.
You walked quickly from the table, wrenching open the door before the guard could do it for you. Once alone in the corridor, the cool air brushing at your heated cheeks, a hysterical laugh bubbled in your throat. To Aerion and Leon, it probably looked as though you were running. But it was not fear that had driven you from that hall.
Alone in your room, you waited for the tears to come. When the hours dripped on, and the tears still did not come, you resorted to pinching your thighs until bruises welled beneath your nails. Your eyes remained dry.
The anger would not leave. Seething, you threw yourself across the bed, tempted to tear at the sheets like some wild animal. You did not feel like the lady you had been raised to be. But where had that gotten you? Reeling and thoroughly humiliated, you felt lost.
What Owen had done was not out of the ordinary. You were sure that even your father had fathered a bastard or two in the village. But it was not what you wanted for yourself, and as a fourth daughter, you had more choice than most.
Owen had seemed like the safe choice. The sensible choice. You were vexed at your own naivety, annoyed at your own surprise and subsequent disgust. You had been willing to settle for the first man that seemed reasonable and now you were stuck. Did a right choice even exist?
There would be no wedding. You were sure that you could get your father to agree once you told him of what you had witnessed. Your father would not take kindly to his daughter being embarrassed in such a way. The Freys were going to benefit from the wedding more than your family so it would be no great loss.
You sighed. So much had changed in so little time. The tourney was over tomorrow and you would be making your way back home by mid-afternoon. Once on the road, away from the Freys, you could tell your father what you had seen. He would send word of the cancelled arrangement to the Freys, all without you having to set eyes on Owen ever again.
As the sky began to darken further, a maid came in to light your candles and the fire in the grate. Idly you wondered if she was the one you had seen with Owen earlier. Once she had left, you sat up and went to the window, peering out with boredom.
Anger still kindled in your stomach. You rested a hand over your lowed belly, half expecting to feel heat.
The castle was quiet. The gardens below were quiet, too. Your father would kill you for walking around in the dark without a guard but the room was beginning to feel stifling.
When you were young, you had been an unruly child. Eager to escape your finishing lessons and play with your brothers or roam the grounds alone. Your father had assumed you had grown out of it and maybe you had.
Now, though, all you wanted was to leave the suffocating grip of the castle. Owen was under the same roof as you, somewhere, sleeping soundly or perhaps not alone. If he was going to flout the rules so blatantly, then so would you.
Like earlier, you got turned around several times before you eventually found your way outside. The ground was slightly damp from the earlier rain. You would have to clean your slippers before dawn.
You wound your way around bushes and flower beds until you found your way to a hidden alcove. The moon was bright enough to guide your path and you kept carefully out of sight of the castle. The wall was slanted enough for you to rest against it, almost sitting.
The air was soothing against your harried flesh. You closed your eyes and imagined it cooling further, eager to shake the weight of emotion from your chest.
The garden was enclosed in high walls. Beyond them you could hear raucous laughter and singing. The final night of the tourney was just as loud as the first. What would it be like to be among the smallfolk? To laugh, to dance and to drink as they did? As men did?
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
The word was so crass that you open your eyes and looked around, half expecting your father to appear and scold you for the mere thought. Satisfied that you were indeed alone, you settled back and closed your eyes once more.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when you heard it. Your name, cutting through the careful silence you had cultivated, drawing a shocked yelp from your lips.
Aerion Brightflame stood five feet in front of you, hand on the pommel of his sword. The gesture was not threatening – or maybe it was. It was difficult to tell when everything about him was threatening.
Aerion silver hair was tousled, as though he’d been running his hands through it. His clothes appeared hastily thrown on, as though he had gotten ready for bed and then changed his mind. Perhaps the night air cooled his temper, too.
He repeated your name again, and you realised that someone else must have told him it. He looked smug and you wanted to smack him clean across the face for thinking he had won whatever stupid game it was that he thought you were playing.
“Do you make a habit of sneaking about alone?” he asked, stepping closer.
You squinted at him and did not reply. Was this the same man you had been avoiding all week? Whatever fear you had previously felt had been eaten away by fire and now fatigue as you slumped back against the wall.
Aerion’s lip curled at your silence; displeasure dotted in the creases of his face. You tilted your head a little. He was not unpleasant to look at, even when he scowled. He was handsome, you admitted, as all Targaryens tended to be.
“Answer me, woman,” he finally snarled, “or I’ll drag you before your father.”
Aerion had stepped closer. If you reached out a hand, you would be able to lay it on his chest.
What would it be like to fuck as they did?
It was a terrible idea. Downright stupid. When was the last time you had been stupid? Been anything other than the lady you were supposed to be?
You reached out and laid your hand on the dragon’s chest.
Aerion stilled. You met his eyes steadily, attempting to gauge interest. He did not stop you when you stepped closer, tilting your head until your eyes landed on his lips. They looked red and bitten already.
Aerion did not stop you when your hand slid up his chest and into the short hair at the base of the back of his neck. His lips parted and his breath puffed out when you tugged a little, curious. Owen had tugged that woman’s hair. It seemed like something that was done.
“Woman,” Aerion finally said, “are you stupid?”
“No,” you murmured, “but I think I’d like to be. Just for tonight.”
You were not sure who moved first; only that, one second you were thinking how similar a shade Aerion’s hair was to the moon, and the next you were pressed up tight in the alcove.
Aerion used his body to pin you there. At first, the kiss was clumsy and unpracticed. It was your first, after all. But you had always been a quick learner.
Aerion’s mouth was firm and unforgiving. Your lips parted under his like they had done so a thousand times, tongue reaching out to brush silkily along Aerion’s and earning a surprised groan. His hand came up to squeeze your face, holding you still as he had you how he liked.
It felt good. The kissing and the rebellion of it all. Throughout it all, your hands remained in his hair, tugging hard whenever he did something you particularly liked. He nipped at your lips, pulling sweet gasps and moans from them as he went. That push and pull of his tongue in your mouth, smoothing softly over yours – was that what fucking was like?
Aerion pulled away and you almost hissed. His hair looked messier than previously, the front of his clothes ruffled from where you had been pressed together. His lips were red and wet from the kiss and you watched as his tongue darted out and smoothed over them.
The anger had given away to something impossibly hotter. Something molten and desperate was welling in your core. It was nothing you had ever felt or even considered feeling when it came to Owen. You tilted your head back against the stone wall and waited for the prince to make a move.
“Foolish girl,” he finally said, dragging his eyes from where your breasts heaved against the ribbon of your dress. “Is that what you wanted? To act like a whore for the night? Are you satisfied, then?”
You laughed quietly, the sound ringing through the garden. “I think whores do a great deal more than kiss, my Prince.”
Before you could think too much, you reached down to rest your hand over the hard outline of Aerion’s manhood. He made a choked sound and jolted forward, no doubt surprised at your boldness. Instead of laughing at the shock on his face, you pressed your nose to his chest, seeking out the sliver of bared skin you had seen then.
And then you bit down. Hard.
Aerion groaned long and loud, hand coming up to grip the back of your head as he allowed you to sink your teeth into his flesh. It felt powerful. You did not relent until blood welled beneath your teeth, copper leaking onto your tongue as you laved it over his wounded flesh.
You kept your hand firmly on his cock, rubbing the heel of your palm over where you assumed the head was. Aerion’s grip grew tight before he let you go, chest heaving, staring down at you with blow pupils.
He said your name again, quietly this time, and with no mocking. His hands had fallen to grip your wrists but he let go of one, reaching up the place his palm over the spot you had bitten.
“And yet,” you sighed, “I still do not feel like a whore.”
You kept your mind switched off as your hands dropped and began tugging at the strings on his trousers. Your own core throbbed with every little move. It was different from the lazy self-exploration of yourself you had previously indulged in. Was this feeling normal or was it to do with the dragon before you?
“Fuck,” Aerion swore as you popped his cock from his trousers, the heated flesh pulsing in the cooler air.
It looked big – but that did not matter. You had no intention of taking it inside of yourself. Instead, you smoothed your palm over the head, collecting the wetness that had gathered there. You squeezed experimentally and smiled at the sound it produced from Aerion.
Aerion cursed again and then his hands were on you. You yelped as he held you firmly against the stone wall, damp rock pressing into your back, and began to ruck up your dress until it was fluffed around your waist. He kicked your legs apart and shoved his hand down the front of your garments until his fingers met the soft curls at the apex of your thighs.
This was not the plan. Not that there had been one in the first place – but this definitely was not it.
Aerion’s fingers met the soft, pillowy flesh on your cunt with little ceremony. His eyes were glued to your face, chest rising and falling swiftly as he parted you with his fingers and ran his index over the tight flesh of your hole.
“Even whores do not get this wet,” he growled, cupping your tender flesh. “Put your hand back on my cock. Now.”
You resented the bite in his voice but your mind was surprising gentle exploration of his fingers. Instead of sliding inside, they ventured up, up, until they met the soft ball of flesh that would surely make you lose your fucking mind.
Aerion buried his face in your neck, tongue licking over the exposed flesh as your hand found his cock and began to move. When he stopped, you stopped. You would not let him come away from having had more than you. You were determined to satisfy your earlier curiosity.
His fingers rubbed tight circles over your swollen flesh, faster and then slower. He rutted into your palm with hard thrusts, breath hissing in your ear as he approached his peak.
He was not the only one. You could feel your own fast approaching. For the first time, clarity began to clear your mind. You understood why Owen, why that girl, had gotten so caught up. Initially you had wanted to do this to experience what you felt you were missing out on, to be reckless as they had been. Now you felt the urge for control. The urge to prove that you were better than them.
Still you allowed Aerion’s fingers to rub you. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. His hips bumped yours as he fucked your hand, orgasm tearing through him in a way that made you dizzy and thirsty for your own.
You yelped when Aerion’s head bent down, nuzzling into the pillowy tops of your breasts before he bit down. Hard enough that you were sure he immediately drew blood. You whimpered and yanked at his hair, teetering on the edge of your own orgasm.
If I go over the edge, you thought, I do not know if I can come back.
With surprising strength, you shoved Aerion away. Your dress came tumbling back down and the whisper of fabric over your skin was enough to almost have you orgasming anyway. Unprepared, Aerion staggered before righting his stance.
His still hard cock was still peeking out of his breeches and you tore your eyes away before you abandoned all common sense. You could feel his seed on your hand, warm and sticky. There was blood smeared all over his mouth and when he snarled at you, you could see it in his teeth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked. “You are not done here – we are not done here.”
You breathed heavily and swayed a little on your feet. You could see your own arousal on Aerion’s fingers, glittering in the moonlight. It looked rather pretty.
Aerion took a step forward and it shook you out of your reverie. Before he could say anything else (or use his fingers and command you to stay) you tore past him and ran inside. In some miracle, perhaps as reward for your restraint, you found your way back to your room in a matter of minutes. If Aerion called your name, you did not hear it.
The next morning was nothing memorable. You were beyond tired and still mildly irritated, but glad to be rid of the place. You had stayed up late cleaning your shoes and the conspicuous wet spot the prince had left on your dress. If the maids noticed anything as they packed your trunks, they did not say.
Your father was in a good mood. It was a good thing to spent time with the heir to the kingdom; it reflected well on the house. You smiled blandly as he and your brother Leon recounted their days, commenting on who had done well and the favourites.
The Targaryens had supposed to have been leaving early, but as you and your family made their way down, you discovered that they had not. You kept your gaze averted and curtsied when necessary, thanking Lord Ashford for his hospitality and Balor and his family for their company.
When you reached Aerion, you curtsied as before. Aerion surprised you by lifting your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your inner wrist. You felt his tongue on your skin and bit your lip, praying that your father would not notice.
Aerion pulled back and smiled. Your mouth dropped open. Your blood was still smeared across his lips and teeth.
Within days of arriving home, your father had contacted Lord Frey and told him the engagement was off. He was horrified by what you had reported. His poor darling girl, witness to such depravity!
As he had ranted and raved, you had subtly tugged at the high collar of your dress. You had taken to wearing such high collars and avoiding help from the maids since arriving home. The mark that Aerion had left on you was shocking. Blue and purple tinged with red. It was still sore and throbbed when touched firmly, which you did often.
You had managed to muster tears in your eyes and a tremble in your voice as you recounted the events of that evening. Perhaps you exaggerated a little. It did not matter; your father was thoroughly on your side.
Some days later, after some back and forth with Lord Frey, your father told you that Owen had left The Twins and was no doubted headed here, to your home. Your father had almost had an aneurysm at the sheer assumption of hospitality.
“Do not worry, father,” you had patted his hand, “perhaps he will come to apologise. I will hear him out, but I have no intentions of marrying him.”
“You are kind, daughter,” he nodded, “and wise. You deserve more than foolish young boys.”
Wise. You had nearly laughed. A week ago, you had been the stupidest person in the entire seven kingdoms. Stupider now, perhaps, since you did not regret it.
A week and a half after the tournament, you were sitting in the library when you heard the sound of a party arriving. You set your book down and straightened your spine before marching from the library and heading for the hall.
You paused outside, sharing a look with your ladies’ maid when you heard your father’s laughter from within. That was certainly not the reception you had envisioned for Owen Frey. Confused, you opened the door and stepped within, ready for an explanation.
Your father was stood there, arm in arm, with Maekar Targaryen. And to the left of him, tall and polished, was his son, Aerion.
You froze. For a moment you debated edging your way back out of the room but then your father caught sight of you.
“Ah!” he threw up his arms and came to grab your arm, pulling you further into the dragon’s nest. “My Princes, you remember my youngest daughter?”
“Certainly,” Aerion interjected before his father could speak. He dipped his head, mocking. “My Lady.”
You assumed you responded appropriately. You could not be sure. Maekar nodded stiffly, something like curiosity in his eyes as he looked you up and down. How much had Aerion told his father? Was he, in turn, going to tell your father?
“Why are you here?” you asked bluntly.
Your father said your name, surprised. “You did not know? I invited them here whilst we were all at the tourney.”
“Yes,” Aerion smiled, “I am here to hunt.”
The ground felt like it was dropping out from beneath you. Even the air felt thin. Whilst you swayed on your feet, vehemently regretting that night, your father chattered on to Maekar.
He had no fucking idea what he had agreed to. And, truthfully, neither did you.
Unwilling to leave your father and the princes alone, you found yourself getting ready for a hunt. You yanked on your riding dress and, once your front was covered, turned to allow your maid to lace up the back.
You did not know what Aerion had told Maekar, nor what his plans were with you father. You were worried that, at the first chance he had, Aerion would tell him of your indulgent and careless behaviour. Why else would he come all this way?
It seemed insane that he would do all this just to torment you. Or perhaps it would, if he were anyone else. Out of all the boys to fool around with. . .
You descend from your room and head for the stables. Yanking on your riding gloves, you find the stall of your horse, Silver. She was a precious thing and fickle with anyone other than you. You smoothed your hand over her mane and waited for the stable boy to arrive.
Aerion arrived first.
You scowled at the flash of silver hair you saw from the corner of your eye and did not bother greeting him. It was not him you feared; it was what he might tell you father. You should probably consider attempting to butter him up. Your lips thinned at the idea and you continued to ignore him.
Heat was radiating from his body as he stepped up bedside you, bumping your arm with his. Without asking, he reached out to pet Silver. You hoped she would bite him. Instead, she huffed and leaned down to nose at his palm. You frowned.
Distracted, you did not notice Aerion’s other hand creeping up toward the collar of your dress. You squeaked when you felt his fingers on the hem, yanking it down until the ugly spot he had left on your upper breast came into view.
The flesh was still unhealed. Whenever you looked closely in the mirror, you could still see the outline of Aerion’s teeth.
“Good,” he hummed, “yours has not healed either.”
He did not let go of your clothing, instead leaning closer as though he might bite again. Outraged, you slapped the prince across his face. Aerion let go at once, hand coming to rest on the quickly darkening flesh of his cheek.
Your chest was heaving, eyes wide and blinking furiously. You wanted to shout, to slap him again, to demand the real reason as to why he had come. You had finally been getting back to normalcy when he and his father had shown up.
You snarled still as Aerion reached out again, raising your hand as though you might strike him once more. This time he did not try to tear at your clothes. He tugged them back into the rightful position, brushing the wrinkles from your bosom as though his fingers were not leaving trails of fire behind as they went.
“I knew you had fire in you,” he finally said, brushing his fingers over your bared collarbones.
Before you could respond, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat. You whirled around, horrified to see Maekar waiting by the stable doors. Aerion did not seem alarmed. He met his fathers gaze and inclined his head before going to his own horse.
Maekar did not say anything. His gaze bounced from his son and then back to you, as though he was putting something together. He did not speak and seemed surprised. Had he seen you slap his son? It was nothing he had not deserve.
Markar must have agreed because he offered you a soft nod and then turned his attention to Aerion. You went back to Silver and pretended that neither of them were there. The two of them were having some kind of hushed conversation and you could not make out what they were saying.
Eventually your father and the stable boy arrived, and the hunt began.
Your father and Maekar rode ahead, crossbows hanging by their sides. It was the most serious you had seen your father. Neither of the men spoke, which you preferred.
Aerion rode at your side, which you did not prefer. He had his own crossbow but seemed to have little interest in it. His gaze was firmly fixed on the side of your head. Occasionally he would come close and kick softly at your calves, or reach out to pull your hair when he knew neither of your fathers were looking.
One particularly hard pull had you swearing and slapping at his hands. Aerion laughed quietly so as not to draw the attention of your fathers. Yours was particularly oblivious. Maekar, on the other hand, kept glancing over his shoulder, eyes sliding from Aerion to you. He seemed bewildered. Perhaps you were not the only one who did not know what Aerion was up to.
After several hours with no sign of game, you began to wish you had remained home. Let Aerion say what he would. It was not worth you distress.
Suddenly everyone seemed to still. You shivered at the sudden change. Even Aerion was silent. You peered out into the dense forest, trying to see whatever it was that had captured everyone’s attention. The only sign that anything was there was a slight rustling in the bush, and then a dull ‘thunk’ as Aerion fired from his crossbow quicker than you thought possible. Then a thud, as whatever it was hit the ground.
Aerion dismounted and disappeared into the brush, returning with an impressively large stag. Your brows raised at the clean shot. It was something even your brothers would have struggled with. Aerion held it up by the antlers and stared in your direction. You smoothed your expression and looked away as though you were bored. You did not want to encourage further ridiculousness.
You stayed on Silver as the men tied the poor creature between their horses and began to head home. Bloodlust satiated, Aerion mostly left you alone, and for that you were thankful.
At dinner, Aerion had the honor of the first serving. It had been divided into manageable chunks, cooked and seasoned in the preferred way of your guests. The scent of venison was thick on the air and you were hungry after the ride.
Your eldest brother Edwyn joined you at dinner. His lady wife was unwell and remained abed. If he was surprised by the royal visitors, he did not show it. He settled into pleasant conversation with your father and Maekar. To his credit, he attempted to include Aerion but the prince seemed determined to make him uncomfortable.
Rather than take the first cut for himself, Aerion slid it your way. All the men at the table went silent. Aware of the gaze of your father and brother, you smiled sweetly and acted surprised.
“For the lady,” Aerion said, smirking at your obvious discomfort.
The meat was rare and bloody. Not your favourite but you would manage. Aerion tucked in to his own with little fanfare, blatantly ignoring his fathers’ eyes. Greasy blood dripped over his lips and he chased the flavour with his tongue, never breaking eye contact with you.
Conversation resumed and you ate your own food whilst wishing for the ground to open up beneath you. Did Aerion even have to say anything? One look at him and your father would surely learn of your behaviour that night. Aerion was hardly subtle.
For the first time since they had arrived, you wondered about Owen. He had been on his way here, had he not? You cringed inwardly at the thought of Owen and Aerion interacting. Not that Aerion would care about Owen, but during the Ashford tournament, Owen had been practically tripping over himself trying to impress the Targaryen guests. You dreaded to think of enduring that behaviour within your own home.
Aerion chose that moment to kick you under the table. Your knee bounced against the underside, drawing the attention of everyone once more. You laughed uneasily and apologised, waving away your father’s concerns.
You waited until all attention was back on the food, and then you kicked Aerion right back.
The next few days went by in a similar fashion. Maekar continued to hunt with your father, returning empty handed most days, and Aerion remained at the castle with you.
Everywhere you went, he was there. More often than not, the pair of you ended up alone. The servants were scared of him and you could not blame them. You overheard him barking at them on several occasions, and he had even thrown something at one of the maids who had come to wake him one morning.
Miraculously, none of these incidents seemed to make their way back to either of your fathers. If the staff trembled when they refilled Aerion’s cup, they did not notice. Neither did Aerion, for his attention was usually fixated on you.
You kept waiting for that temper to turn on you but it never did. So, you continued to bite back, though not literally, and convinced yourself you were doing it on behalf of all the servants.
After several days, you realised that the only thing that seemed to genuinely irritate him was you ignoring him. So, naturally, that was exactly what you did.
No longer did you glance up when he entered the room. At mealtimes, you arranged yourself carefully in your chair so that his legs could not reach you. You had your ladies’ maid, Silena, wind your hair into intricate braids so that there was nothing he could easily pull.
Aerion’s fury built. You pretended not to notice when he sniped at the servants and scowled at your father. Maekar, eager to soothe over any tensions caused by his wild son, was always quick to distract your father with conversation.
One day, Aerion went out hunting with Maekar and your father. Once again, he presented you with the first cut of meat that he had caught. You thanked him politely and nibbled at it as though dissatisfied. Aerion jerked about in his chair as though he might jump up and start shouting.
Would that be enough to get your father to send him away? Probably not. You were beginning to understand that Targaryen princes got away with everything.
Four days trickled past, and there was still no sign of Owen. Not that you thought of him often. A raven had arrived from Lord Frey, asking if his son had arrived. It was odd and you had felt sorry for the man, worried for his son. No doubt he would turn up soon, but not so soon that you had to bear with him and Aerion under the same roof.
On the fifth day, you were thoroughly exhausted. You had begun to avoid Aerion as much as possible – and it mostly wasn’t. The man seemed to have eyes on you at all time.
He had spent most of the day with you in the library. When he wasn’t thumbing through books, he was digging his dagger into the table that had been in your family for generations. His blatant disrespect was unsurprising and you had snuggled further in your chair and tried to pretend like you were actually reading the words on the pages.
After an hour or two of the stifling silence, Aerion had got to his feet and torn the book from your hands. He had torn into it, throwing pages over you like confetti. You had been furious and ready to deliver another swift smack to his cheek. A servant had entered that time, saving you from breaking your silence, and you had both gone down for lunch.
Your father was not the most observant man, but even he could see that you were beyond taxed by the end of the day.
Rather than indulging in evening drinking and games, he suggested that you retire early and have a bath drawn by the staff. You were more than happy to do just that.
You lounged on your bed with a book you did not read as the servants prepared your tub. The water was steaming hot and inviting. Once it was full, they scattered petals into the water and added drops of some scented oil that had you relaxing almost instantly.
Your ladies’ maid waited to help you undress but, as you had every day since returning, you waved her off.
“I’d like some time to myself, Silena,” you smiled softly, “I’ll call for you once I am finished.”
You waited until the door was shut, and then several minutes more for good measure, before undressing. You tried to avoid looking at the bruise on the swell of your breast. Your eyes were drawn there automatically.
Pressing a hand over it, you hissed at the memory of pain and ignored the sparks it sent between your legs. Piling your hair on your head, you arranged it until you were satisfied it would not get wet. Once you were completely bare, you stepped into the tub and settled down, letting your head fall back against the high edge.
The water was verging on boiling, as you liked it. It was milky from the oils and soap. You grabbed a washcloth from the edge of the tub and began to run it over your shoulders and behind your ears.
You let your mind go blank as you cleansed yourself several times over until all you could smell was lavender and something almost smoky. Once more you sat back, content to relax until the water turned cold.
The sound of the door opening had you sighing and dipping lower into the water to hide your bruise. “Silena, I have no need of you yet –“
“But I have need of you.”
You shot up straight, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. Aerion let the door fall shut, reaching behind himself to click the lock into place. His eyes were dark as the fixed on you in the tub and you shivered, cold despite the hot water.
“I’ll scream,” you warned him.
“I’ll tell your father what we did together,” he countered.
He toed off his shoes as though these were his rooms and began to make his way towards you. You had no weapon, nothing with which you might fight him off with, and he seemed to know it.
You dared not take your eyes off of him. When he settled on his knees next to the tub, you became painfully aware of your naked state. It was strange; he had had his fingers on you, almost inside of you, and yet he had not seen you. Not really.
Aerion seemed to be thinking the same thing. He seemed displeased at the milky state of the water. It concealed you from him. You drew your knees up to your chest and waited for him to speak.
Aerion dipped his fingers into the water and hissed. “Hot.”
“I like it that way,” you defended. Then you shut your lips tightly, wishing you had not spoken at all.
Aerion smiled and touched your bare knee beneath the water. You tried to jerk away but he gripped you tight, nails biting into your softened flesh. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I am not here to entertain you, prince.”
“I thought that, too, at the tournament,” he said, “but then you were so wonderfully entertaining in the garden that night. I want more. Have wanted more, since then, and yet you deny what was once so freely given. Why?”
Your mouth felt dry. “I am a lady.”
“And yet,” he repeated, “you betrayed your betrothed that night, with me, didn’t you?”
You stilled, barely registering his words before they hit you full force. “He betrayed me first!” you snarled, sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.
Aerion squeezed your knee tighter, ignoring the water creeping its way up his sleeve. It soaked into the golden embroidery that was pattered there, darkening the fabric until it looked like it had been flecked with blood.
“Betrayed you?” Aerion repeated. “Vengeful little thing.”
“He is no longer my betrothed,” you added weakly. “I told my father about what he did.”
“But he was coming here to see you regardless,” Aerion said, mostly to himself.
“How do you know about that?” you asked, finally tearing his hand from your knee. Blood welled from the indents he had left in your flesh with his nails. You shivered at the sting as the warm water washed over them.
Aerion’s eyes dropped low, searching for that mark he had left on your skin over two weeks ago. Then they dipped lower still, fixing on the tips of your breasts that were barely visible beneath the water.
He let out a muted groan, dragging his eyes upward until they were once again on your face. “I believe I said that we were not finished.”
It took you a moment to remember what he was talking about. “Aerion, no.”
“You think you know what you want,” he murmured, “and maybe you did, all those weeks ago. But your mind has become clouded. Allow me to clear it for you.”
You gasped when Aerion leaned over the tub, hands grasping your shoulders as he pulled you forward and arranged you to his liking. He had you with your back to him, against the tub, allowing him to peer over your shoulders and down your body.
You tried to move forward but he would not allow it. You stopped moving when you felt his teeth at your neck. If he left a mark there, it would be visible to everyone, including your father.
“Good girl,” he praised. “Let me finish what we started.”
Beneath the water, Aerion cupped your breasts with a firmness that had you whimpering. You could feel his warm breath puffing over the shell of your ear and you squirmed, searching yourself for your earlier reluctance. It was not there.
When Aerion rubbed his thumbs over your nipples, you nearly dissolved into the bath water. He kneaded them gentle, rolling the tips between his fingers in a way that had you gripping at his arms and shoving your face against his shoulder.
One hand abandoned your breast, instead snaking down and over the swell of your stomach, searching for the wetness between your legs. You let your thighs fall open without a second thought, eager for that feeling from those weeks ago.
Aerion sucked in a breath. “Sweet girl.”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek at the same time as his fingers made contact with your aching clit. This was dangerous, you tried to remind yourself, for this you might do anything.
Like before, Aerion’s fingers began to propel you toward orgasm quicker than you typically could alone. Your clit seemed more than eager for whatever he wanted to give and each touch felt devastatingly soft, as though he was punishing you for not allowing him to give you this back in the garden.
Distantly, you wondered if he was trying to prove something. You could not find it in you to care, so long as he kept doing whatever it was that he was doing.
You almost didn’t notice when his fingers began to slide lower until one was nudging at your entrance. It was not something you typically did alone. You were always too worried of spilling your own blood. You opened your mouth to protest but, before you could, Aerion had you spread apart on his fingers as he gently fucked you with his hand.
You choked on your breath. “Aerion, please – you can’t –“
“Shhh,” he whispered, surprisingly tender as he took you apart. “Do not worry. Just feel.”
All it took was one swipe of his thumb over your clit. You had to plaster your hands over your mouth to mask the sound that was spilling from your lips. Aerion did not stop and instead continued to stroke you through your orgasm, to the point of painful sensitivity. He did not stop until you physically pulled his hands from you, and even then he seemed reluctant.
You sagged against the tub, entirely breathless and shaken. Aerion grabbed your face with one hand, turning you this way and that, as though he were admiring his own work. You waited for some snarky comment.
Aerion hummed to himself, letting his hand drop until it was hovering over the bite mark. His bite mark. He did not touch it, instead he pulled back and got to his feet, stepping somewhat unsteadily away from the tub.
“I shall see you tomorrow,” he said. “Never ignore me again.”
With that, he unlocked the door and slipped out as though he was never there. The only sign that he had been was a churning in your stomach and an ache between your thighs.
Once you were sure he was gone, you dunked your head under the water and did not come up until your lungs were screaming for air.
Despite his words, you did not see Aerion the next day. Nor the one after that. You father, brother and Maekar also seemed to have disappeared. Uneasy, you assumed they had some official business that needed seeing to. Maybe the princes had even left.
No, you knew they hadn’t. It felt silly to say but you could feel Aerion, still lurking in your home, despite staying out of sight. Fire seemed to burn hotter with him in the building.
At night you found yourself sweaty and cross, abandoning your blankets and tossing and turning until you were able to pass out. You never slept for long.
On the second day, after hiding in the library and dining alone, you felt unusually anxious. All your clothes felt tight and ill fitting. Had Aerion told your father about the bath? It was all you could think about all day. You picked at your food and didn’t read a thing until it was time for bed, at which time you went up alone and dismissed Selina in favour of dressing yourself.
You tugged on a sleep gown, relishing the soft loose fabric in comparison to your day clothes. The fire in the grate was out and you felt too warm to fetch Silena so you left it alone, allowing the candles lit to guide the way to your bed.
You shoved all the sheets down until they were not touching you. Then you positioned yourself like an X, trying to cool down and banish the day’s anxieties from your brain. You had to stay in control. It would not do to let your guard down when Aerion was around.
Sleep would not come. Even when you trained yourself to stay perfectly still, taking even and deep breathes, it seemed to taunt you from the darkest corners of your room. Eventually the candles went out, leaving you in almost complete darkness.
The moon still shone in through your window. It allowed you to see vague shapes and the outline of your own body. You squeezed your eyes shut and begged the seven for sleep.
Just when you were ready to jump up and begin lighting candles, there was a noise. For a moment you did not recognise it for what it was. Your heart shot into your throat as you realised it was the sound of your door opening and shutting, then the lock falling into place.
You remained still, tense and silent as you peered into the darkness, heart hammering in your chest. It was not until the moonlight glinted off of something silver that you relaxed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” you breathed, sitting up as Aerion approached your bed. “You can’t be in here.”
“Scared?” he asked, settling himself on the edge of your bed.
“This is highly improper,” you warned, eyes bulging from your head as Aerion began to shed his clothes as though the room were his own.
He did not respond. He continued shucking his clothes until only his braies remained, the outline of his cock already half hard between his legs. You swallowed and commanded yourself not to stare. Eventually he shed those too.
“You can’t be in here,” you repeated weakly.
Aerion’s hand found your ankle in the darkness. You yelped as he yanked you, your back hitting the mattress as he dragged you further down the bed. You were near winded as he climbed on top of you, knees on either side of your hips as he rested his weight softly on your stomach.
It wasn’t until he began to snatch at your wrists that you remembered yourself and began to struggle. With a yell, you set your teeth to the first line of flesh you saw.
Your teeth sank into his bicep much like they had sank into his chest all those weeks ago. Blood trickled into your mouth and you bit harder.
Aerion’s hand came to cradle the back of your hand. “That’s it, just like that.”
Immediately you let go, hissing up at him with bloodied teeth. “There is nothing sweet about this. Now get off.”
Aerion leaned down and licked the blood from your mouth, moaning every time you nipped at him with already bloodied teeth. It was insanity, madness, and it was making you unbearably fucking wet.
“My turn,” Aerion said, and then his teeth were burying into your neck so deeply that you faintly wondered if you would scar.
Your hips bucked upward, driving his cock into your stomach as he sucked at your neck, teeth pinching and tongue soothing as he went. You were done. There was no way you could cover whatever mark he had left this time. Had this been his plan all along?
When Aerion pulled away, there was blood smeared across his face just like before. More of it, even. He ran his fingers over the mark you had left and hissed, fisting his cock with his other hand.
“Enough with waiting,” he muttered, “I have been a patient man.”
You did not protest as Aerion shoved your night dress up until it was bunched under your armpits. You nearly moaned when he parted your thighs, baring you to him fully for the first time.
He pressed his fingers to your entrance and groaned. “So fucking hot. Are you sure you are not blood of the dragon?”
He ran his fingers through your arousal and brought them to his lips, letting your slick mingle with the blood before licking his fingers clean. Your cunt throbbed with each pass of his tongue over his fingers and it took you a moment to realise you were whimpering aloud.
“No matter,” he said, “you’ll have a dragon inside you, one way or another.”
Placing one hand on your stomach, Aerion used his other to notch his cock at your entrance. The heat coming off him was intense. Sweat beaded on your hairline as you tried to focus on the consequence, on why you should not be doing this, but your mind refused to focus on anything but the thick feel of Aerion sliding into you.
There was a flash of pain as he nudged up against something inside you. He gave you no time to adjust, instead thrusting forward and taking your maidenhead with little compassion. You winced at the bite of pain.
Aerion kept your thighs pinned wide to accommodate him. His eyes darted from your face to the obscene sight between your legs. His hips began to shift as he thrust in earnest. All thoughts of pain fell away as you became accustomed to the thickness of him.
Aerion Brightflame was fucking you and you were letting him.
Everyt ime your eyes fell shut he would stop until you were focused back on him. The wet sound of your union had your ears burning as you mewled beneath him, greedily chasing every little feeling he was introducing you to.
You could feel yourself twitching around his length as his nails dug into the meat of your thighs. The scent of sweat and sex was a heady thing, heavy on your tongue as Aerion fucked you steadily with deep thrusts of his cock.
Your jaw dropped open when his hand dipped between your legs, collecting blood there and bringing it to his chest, smearing it there as he gazed darkly down at you.
You watched as he smeared the blood in a line over his lips, and then as he reached down and made the same motion over yours. You could taste the copper and sweat and felt almost dizzy with the arousal that hit you.
Aerion was not finished. His hand went down again, this time with his thumb finding your clit. He wasted no time. He began rubbing in the way he had learned that you liked, driving you toward orgasm faster than you could keep up with.
Your thighs clenched around his hips, trying to slow him down, but he was relentless. Between the quick passes of his thumb and the way he was fucking you, you were helpless. Your orgasm splintered through you like physical thing, wiping your mind blank until all that tied you to earth was the cock breaking you open and the hands gripping your face.
“Yes, yes,” Aerion chanted, hips driving into yours with vigor. “Come around me, wife.”
His words made no sense and yet – your orgasm washed over you, stronger than ever, until you were left writhing beneath him on the bed. You recognised your own voice, begging for a break as Aerion wrang every drop of relief from you.
It was only then that his hips began to lose rhythm. He leaned down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, tongue chasing the combination of blood, sweat and arousal that coated both your lips. You felt him moan into your mouth, felt his hips stutter as he emptied himself inside you.
You were still aware enough to know that it was a bad thing. Visions of yourself, unwed and with child, threatened to break the bliss. You tried to push Aerion off but he was having none of it.
“Be still,” he grumbled, arranging you in his arms until he had you pinned to his chest, cock still inside you. He pinched your ass when you would not stop moving.
“Aerion,” you cried, pushing at his chest. “You – you have ruined me! I could be with child –“
“Good,” he yawned, fingers pinching, “it will reflect well on me when you are with child in less than a year after the wedding.”
You paused, remembering his earlier words. “Wedding? I am not getting married, Aerion.”
“Oh, but you are,” he grinned, all sharp and poision, fitting his teeth to the mark he had already made on your neck. “You are to be a dragon’s bride. My bride.”
“My father would not allow it,” you said weakly, disbelieving.
“He already has,” Aerion bit down, “he will tell you of your good fortune tomorrow morning.”
“My father would not make me –“
“Make you?” Aerion repeated, pulling back slightly so that he could see your face. The movement reminded you that his cock was still very much inside you. “Who is he to refuse a dragon?”
“Besides,” he continued, “you are well suited to me, wife.”
“Wife,” you said numbly, shivering when Aerion tilted his hips and rubbed his cock against a particularly inviting place inside you.
“What do you think I came all this way for?” he smiled wolfishly. “Look how you blossom beneath me. My wife. Call me husband. I demand it.”
a/n - when the cookie is so good he stalks you across Westeros and his father is so tired of him that he goes along with it
I worked so hard on this 😭 please let me know if you enjoyed it! Every like, reblog and comment is deeply appreciated
