synopsis. You are married into the Targaryen dynasty, and soon enough, its princes begin dying like flies—leaving you and your husband as the last people anyone disastrously trusts with the Iron Throne. THE GREAT!AU
pairing. aerion targaryen x lyseni&fem!reader
word count. 8,437
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authors note. mind you, it can get a little annoying at first since the reader genuinely lives in a fantasy of sunshine and happy endings 😭 but i tried to follow the plot/tone of the great so… yeah. she will become a baddie as the story progresses. also, i’m not planning to follow the canon events after the ashford tourney which means we are absolutely getting king aerion 🤍 and yes, i shamelessly stole some dialogue from the show because they were simply too funny not to include <3 likes n comments are very much appreciated! lemme know if u enjoyed it!!
warnings. violence, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex, eventual smut, reader is from lys and from house rogare (also described to have brunette hair and green eyes for the plot!), death/killing, arguing, profanity, attempted suicide, toxic relationship (VERY), misogyny, cheating, aerion being a bitch as always (let me know if I missed smth).
✴︎ 209 AC
THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.
You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.
But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.
“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.
“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”
You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”
She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”
“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”
“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”
You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.
The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.
Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”
You smiled wider. “Yes.”
“The Targaryen prince?”
“Yes.”
“From Westeros.”
“Yes, from Westeros.”
The color slowly drained from her face.
“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”
“No,” she answered at once.
“Yes, it does.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”
“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”
“From whom?”
“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”
You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”
“They say he’s cruel.”
“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”
She looked unconvinced.
You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.
“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”
She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.
“You cannot hatch a dragon.”
“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.
“Because dragons are dead.”
You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”
For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.
“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”
Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.
He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.
Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.
A marriage.
No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason.
A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable.
It was not sentiment. It was sense.
His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.
He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong.
And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.
You walked into the hall looking pleased with life.
No!
Absolutely not!
Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him.
Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.
Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both.
You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.
Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.
“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet.
“Oh.”
Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”
Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”
You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.
“I see.”
“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.”
“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.
The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.
“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”
“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”
You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.
“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.
But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig.
You held it out to him with both hands.
“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!
“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”
Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him.
“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly.
Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”
The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”
“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.
Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.
“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”
The man frowned immediately. “My what?”
“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”
Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.”
“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive.
“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”
Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.
“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.
Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly.
The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this.
A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.
The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.
It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.
And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.
He still did not look at you.
One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.
Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.
“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.
The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”
You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.
Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.
“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.
A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.
Aerion barely paused.
“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”
Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.
Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.
The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.
“He seems lovely,” you said softly.
Meriel glanced at you.
“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”
You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”
Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.
—
The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.
You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.
The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.
“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”
You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.
“It is a—”
“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”
A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”
Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.
Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.
“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”
The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.
The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.
Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.
“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”
You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”
“No,” Aerion answered honestly.
The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.
You thought it was wonderful.
—
By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.
Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.
“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”
Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.
“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”
You looked around vaguely.
“An excellent question.”
Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.
“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”
Meriel’s expression softened slightly.
“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”
“You may.”
Meriel hesitated.
“You do know what to expect tonight?”
You looked up at once, mildly offended.
“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”
“She explained it to you?”
“My mother explained everything.”
Meriel looked unconvinced already.
You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.
You spoke with complete sincerity.
“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”
Meriel blinked once.
“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”
Meriel blinked twice.
“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”
Meriel stared at you in silence.
“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”
Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.
“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”
A long silence followed.
Meriel nodded slowly.
“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”
You smiled, reassured.
Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.
You waited.
And waited.
Aerion never came.
Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.
You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.
The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.
You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.
These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.
He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”
The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.
You considered poisoning him on the third.
At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.
“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.”
Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”
You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply.
And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.
Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.
At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame.
So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time.
You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.
Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.
And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.
And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met.
A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced.
“Oh,” he said.
You stared at him.
The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window.
Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.
“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”
You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.
Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.
You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.
Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.
Escape, however—
Escape remained an option.
You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.
“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.
Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”
“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”
Meriel lowered her eyes.
“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”
Understanding settled over her face slowly.
“You mean to flee.”
“I mean to survive.”
For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.
“I shall arrange it.”
But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.
She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.
“How is she?” he asked lazily.
Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”
“Hmm.”
“She wants to leave.”
That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”
Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.
“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”
Aerion tilted his head slightly.
“You want your status restored.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.
“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”
—
The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.
Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard.
Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.
But then the carriage stopped.
And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.
“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”
The trunk sank lower.
Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.
Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.
Then silence.
For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.
That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.
Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.
The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.
And then suddenly—
Aerion laughed.
“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”
The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”
Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.
You spilled out with it.
Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.
Above you stood Aerion.
Dry and perfectly composed.
One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.
Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.
“Come along.”
The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.
Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.
Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.
The realization hollowed something inside you completely.
That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.
Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”
You let out a humorless laugh.
“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”
“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”
You looked down at the knife again.
“I am resolved.”
Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.
“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”
The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”
“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”
“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”
“God forbid.”
You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.
“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”
Meriel was silent for a moment.
Then softly:
“Why did he make you a woman, then?”
You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.
“For comedy, I suppose.”
And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.
You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.
Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.
He stabbed violently at a pear.
“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”
You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.
“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”
Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.
“Tragic.”
You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”
“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”
You ignored him with dignity.
Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.
“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”
“Then tell them I died.”
“That would create paperwork.”
Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.
He glanced toward your stomach.
“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”
Silence.
You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”
He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.
“Annoying.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
Annoying?
Annoying?
Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.
“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.
“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”
Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.
“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”
You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?”
“Yes.” Aerion blinked.
“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”
“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”
“A joke.”
“Yes.”
“You sealed me inside the trunk.”
“You survived.”
“You watched me drown.”
Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”
You stared at him.
“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”
You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.
Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second.
Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.
Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.
“Later.”
The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.
“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.
Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.
Aerion hosted them constantly.
The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.
They clung to Aerion all the same.
Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.
Even when it wasn’t funny.
Especially when it wasn’t funny.
While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.
The library.
It became yours almost by instinct.
Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.
Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.
You had always loved reading.
Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.
You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.
Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.
You wanted to do something that mattered.
And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.
You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.
And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.
It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion.
“You’re coming?” he asked.
“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.
He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.
“Fine.”
The hunt itself was chaos.
Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.
So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.
“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.
Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”
“It is not—”
“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.
You hesitated.
Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”
“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“That’s it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”
A pause.
Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.
Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.
And just like that, it was done.
No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.
You began preparing soon after.
The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.
Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.
It almost felt possible.
Until it didn’t.
You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.
The cottage.
Burned.
Not damaged. But burned.
Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.
You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.
It did not.
By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.
Only ash.
—
The palace was loud.
Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.
You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.
He did not look up when you entered.
You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.
“You burned it,” you said.
Aerion blinked once.
Then, slowly: “Oh.”
He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.
“You didn’t say it was for girls.”
“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”
Your hands tightened at your sides.
“That is not—”
“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.
“Women are for seeding, not reading.”
Laughter rolled through the hall.
You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.
“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.
“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.
“And you burned it down.”
“I did,” he confirmed.
No hesitation.
You exhaled sharply through your nose.
“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“You are disgusting,” you hissed.
“You do not lie to me again.”
The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.
Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”
You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.
The next day there was another feast.
Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.
Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t.
You mostly ignored all of it.
Instead, you found the bear.
It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.
You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.
“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”
The bear shifted slightly under your hand.
For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you.
And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.
The arrow struck clean.
Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.
You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.
Across the courtyard, laughter broke out. “Good shot,” someone called.
Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard.
The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.
—
The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything.
It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.
You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.
You did not expect him to follow you.
Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.
“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.
You did not answer.
Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.
“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”
A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.
“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”
You looked up sharply at that.
He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.
“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”
And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”
That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.
“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”
“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.
You froze.
“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.
“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”
“Just let me go home, please.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”
Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”
“She died,” you said immediately.
Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”
He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”
“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.
Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.
“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”
“Well—”
“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.
Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.
The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.
Aerion watched you bend forward.
“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”
You straightened slowly, shaking.
“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”
He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.
You were still staring at him, unblinking.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”
Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.
“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”
“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.
“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”
His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.
“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.
“And you will never win.”
I hope he loses.
Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him.
I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.
Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.
Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.
He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.
Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.
You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.
You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.
Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.
Then he left.
And the gates closed behind him.
—
Days passed slowly after that.
The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.
You filled the time carefully.
The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.
Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.
Time passed in a strange, suspended way.
Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.
“He died!”
The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.
“The prince died!”
For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.
Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.
A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.
But then—
A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.
Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—
No.
Not yet.
Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.
Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.
She stopped in front of you.
And spoke clearly.
“Prince Baelor died.”
Silence.
Oh.
You felt it land slowly.
Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.
Someone else. Someone entirely different.
Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.
And for a long moment, all you could think was:
Oh.
savant - a person of profound and exceptional knowledge. i figured people in lys probably wouldn’t use the word “maesters” the way they do in westeros, so i went down an internet rabbit hole looking for similar terms
updates may be slow since i’m starting summer classes at uni tomorrow, but trust that i will see this fic through to the very end 😈
SUMMARY: … for you cannot change the future, only suffer knowing it before it comes. OR, Daeron dreams of your death, and he knows in his heart that there is nothing he can do to stop it, but how is he not supposed to try?
WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader is from Braavos. Daeron-typical alcoholism. reader & Daeron have children who are mentioned in passing. hurt/comfort. angsty I suppose but it's tame for me LOL. no character death but it's implied that it may happen in the future bc of Daeron's dreams but who knows, it might not play out the way he thinks (; LOL. I think that's all I didn't really re-read to check.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I have been so disgustingly Daeron-pilled lately, he is just so lonely and lovely, I love men who are miserable. This will def not be the last fic for him, and I think I def want to explore more of this reader because I have a whole background/story for her that I think you guys would like. Very different from Volantene!reader, if any of you are following my Aerion series, and I get to delve into Braavos which is genuinely my favorite of the Free Cities, despite my recent fixation on Volantis LOL. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy! Ignore any errors because I didn't edit. Comments and reblogs v appreciated!!
Daeron does not know you’re awake yet.
In truth, you woke up the moment the door to your chambers creaked open. You aren't sure what time it is, or where your husband has been, but you're only relieved that he returned. He woke up this morning a frantic mess—startled you awake at the crack of dawn when he scrambled out of bed, pulling the sheets right off of you with spluttering, half-comprehensible apologies, ignoring your confused calls of his name.
It’s not as though you’re not used to Daeron’s… more peculiar behaviors. You’ve been married to him for three years now—you have three children with him—so you’re very accustomed to being woken up at odd hours to him spiraling over whatever had haunted him through the night.
But this morning was—it was different.
The fear in his eyes when he looked back at you before he fled the room has left you inordinately anxious all day. You spent the whole day looking for him with an unsettling feeling creeping through you the longer you couldn’t find him.
You roped the young ones into looking for you, easily swayed with the promise of extra desserts once Maekar retreated to his study after dinner, and you even got Aerion involved with the search after an hour of bargaining with him over old Valyrian texts that are supposedly held by the Reyaan family. It will be a pain negotiating with them for the texts when you go back home to Braavos at the end of the moon, but you needed all hands on deck searching for Daeron, because something was terribly wrong, and the longer you went without knowing what, the more unsettled you became.
But no matter how hard you looked and how many people you had looking with you, Daeron had vanished. You hadn't been sure if he was going to come home at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he disappeared for days on end—in the early days of your marriage, he did not wish to trouble you with all of this. He would prefer you think him a drunk and whore than for you to know the truth of what plagued him.
It took months of you whittling down his walls for him to finally confide in you, and you could tell he was waiting for you to laugh at him or scoff at him or whatever he is typically met with when he tells people about his dreams.
And if you're being honest, you're not sure how much you believe it, but it doesn't matter, because you know how it affects him. Whether his dreams are true prophecy or just a cruel, overworked imagination, they are still driving him half-mad, and that is enough for you to believe him, if not them.
So, over the last two years, he has become more fond of burying himself in your arms than fleeing to run down pubs and sleeping in ditches after particularly rough nights.
It became easier for him over time, with someone to rely on, someone who believed him instead of brushing him off as drunk or mad or both. He never stopped drinking because alcohol was the only thing that could keep the dreams at bay, even if they did return tenfold when he sobered, but he drinks less than he once did. He comes back to bed more often, and he lets you hold him through the worst of it instead of disappearing into the streets until he forgets his own name.
There are nights now when he sleeps with his face buried against your throat and does not wake once screaming. Nights where he laughs too loud at dinner and steals food from your plate and kisses your knuckles absentmindedly while rambling through some half-drunken thought. Nights where he looks at you like he can finally breathe.
That is why today has terrified you.
You expected him to come to bed when you heard the door creaking open, already planning your approach to get him to tell you what he dreamed of, and why it scared him so much. But Daeron doesn't come to bed; he shuffles across the floor to sit on the chair near the fireplace, pouring himself another glass of wine, on top of the countless he has likely had since he vanished this morning.
He does not say anything for a long while, and you cannot see his face from where you’re curled in bed, only the back of his shoulders.
They shake quietly, tremors subtle enough that you can almost convince yourself that you’re imagining it. When you realize that you’re not, you think he is cold at first, and that’s why he’s sitting in front of the fire—it is a chilly night, after all, and he likely only just got in from wherever he had hidden out for the day.
Then, you hear the choked inhale, and the way he must press his hand against his mouth to muffle a sob, and your throat goes tight.
You push yourself upright slowly, blankets pooling around your waist, eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the fire. Daeron is hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, one hand curled tight around his goblet while the other presses against his mouth hard enough that you can see the tension in his arm from across the room. His shoulders shake harder now, desperately trying not to make a sound.
Your chest aches so terribly that it steals your breath for a moment.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and step out quietly, the stone floor cool against your bare feet. You’re careful not to make much noise as you make your way over to him, a lump in your throat when you see how hard he’s trying not to wake you up, shoulders shaking violently, tears spilling over his cheeks, breath ragged around the fist he’s shoved into his mouth.
He flinches hard when he feels your hand slide against his shoulders, violet eyes wide as his gaze cuts up to where you’re standing behind the chair. He blinks twice, as though processing that you’re standing there next to him—you can smell the alcohol on him already.
“I—” he starts to say, voice half-slurred, breaking over the word. “I apologize. I did not mean to wake you.”
Stupid man, you think to yourself, desperately and fondly and furiously. You shift so that you can stand in front of where he’s sitting, and then you lower yourself to your knees in front of him, resting your forearms on his thighs, and propping your chin up on them to look up at him.
Daeron looks entirely devastated as he looks down at you, throat bobbing, jaw tightening as he fights another ragged sob. He lifts one trembling hand to brush his knuckle beneath your eye, as though he’s scared to even touch you.
“You are a fool, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, one hand sneaking up to grab his wrist, unfurling his fist so that you can press his palm against your cheek. You lean your face into the familiar warmth of his hand, letting out a soft sigh as his breath hitches, and his thumb instinctively moves to stroke your skin. “You should have woken me up right away.”
A wet, broken laugh escapes him at that, cracking halfway through.
“It is easy to say now,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You might not have been so amenable if I actually had.”
His thumb keeps moving against your cheek in slow, absent strokes, like he cannot stop himself now that you’re here in front of him. His other hand, still shaking, puts the goblet down on the table next to him so he can cradle your face between both hands. His eyes are bloodshot—heavy-lidded, tired and terrified all at once.
“Do you truly think so poorly of me?” you counter instead with a frown, letting him outline the shape of your lips. “Have I ever spurned you, or made you feel guilty for waking me up when you needed me?”
“No,” he admits quietly, voice little over a breath, “but it does not mean I do not feel that way anyway.”
You exhale softly through your nose, rising to your feet just enough so that you can slip onto his lap instead. Daeron’s arms immediately encircle your waist, pulling your body flush to his, face dropping into the crook of your neck. You lift your hand to stroke his soft, sandy hair, nails raking gently against his scalp.
“There,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple. “That’s much better, isn’t it? Much more preferable to crying alone.”
Daeron makes a noise high in his throat, an agreement, but says nothing more.
You can feel the way he’s holding himself together by threads alone. He presses closer after a moment, one hand flattening against the small of your back while the other curls into the fabric of your nightclothes near your hip, clutching like he’s afraid someone might tear you away from him if he loosens his grip even slightly.
His breathing is still uneven against your throat, and your neck is wet with his tears. You rake your fingers gently through his hair again, untangling soft strands from where he’s likely dragged his hands through it all evening.
“How much did you drink?” you ask quietly after a few moments.
Daeron huffs a faint laugh against your throat, humorless and exhausted. “Enough that I thought it might shut my mind up for a few hours.”
“And did it?”
“No.”
His nose brushes absently against your skin as he shifts closer still, if such a thing is even possible now. You can feel the damp warmth of tears soaking slowly through the collar of your sleep clothes. He kisses you once—the crook of your neck—a second time at your pulse, and then he rests his forehead back against your shoulder.
“You vanished all day,” you murmur after a long silence. “I was worried.”
“I know.” His voice cracks instantly around the words. “I am sorry.”
“You frightened me.”
Another tremor wracks through him.
“I know,” he repeats, sounding miserable.
You tilt your head slightly, pressing another kiss into his hairline, exhaling lightly as you finally ask the dreaded question. “Tell me what happened.”
Daeron tenses instantly, nails pressing crescents into your skin through your thin night gown.
You feel the exact moment he considers lying to you—not maliciously, but you know your husband well enough to recognize that instinctive desire to flee. The way he curls inward around his pain like a wounded animal, convinced that if he can just push it down deep enough, no one will have to suffer alongside him.
You slide your hand to cup the back of his neck, thumb rubbing gentle circles on the warm skin there. You say quietly, “Please.”
“I do not—” he starts to say, swallowing hard. “I do not know how to say it.”
“Try anyway,” you tell him, pressing your lips to his temple once before pulling back to look him in the eye.
They are glassy and red-rimmed as they focus on you—devastated in a way he so rarely looks when he has you to lean on. You slide your hands to cradle his cheeks, tucking his hair behind his ear. He tilts his face into your touch to kiss both of your palms, lashes fluttering as he takes in one ragged breath to prepare himself for whatever it is he’s about to say.
“You cannot go home at the end of the moon,” he finally says. You raise your eyebrows slightly. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at you, jaw tight as though bracing himself for your reaction. “You cannot. I know you have been planning it for months, but—”
“Daeron—”
“And I know you are excited to see your brothers and your nephew again, but you cannot go,” he interrupts, rushing out the words before you can shut him down. “I—you must promise me that you will not go.”
“I cannot—” you start to say, eyes sliding shut as you shake your head, only barely processing what he’s saying.
You are not just going to see your family—you’re going because his father and grandfather asked you to go, because the Blackfyres are gaining support in the Free Cities, and they need to ensure they have the Iron Bank’s backing should the other cities declare for them. You are the bridge between the Targaryens and the keyholders. It is not up to you, Daeron knows this, so why—
“You must!” Daeron interrupts, voice rising suddenly until he sees the way you draw back. An apology flickers across his face as he shrinks backward, shoulders hunching to make himself smaller, lashes fluttering. Quieter, voice breaking, “You must promise me. Please. I cannot bear to lose you—I will not survive it.”
You exhale through your nose as you realize exactly what Daeron is implying, lifting one hand to tilt his face up so that his eyes meet yours. You wipe away a tear that rolls over his cheek.
“Tell me what you dreamed, Daeron,” you say quietly. “Perhaps it is not what you think.”
Daeron scoffs bitterly, trying to look away, but you do not let him, holding his chin firmly.
“Tell me.”
His throat bobs as his gaze lowers, the fight draining from him rapidly.
“A black dragon shadowed Braavos,” he says so quietly that even in his lap, you have to shift closer to make out the words. “Your family’s palace—it was burning, and you—” His voice breaks, eyes glassy again as they meet yours. He shakes his head as though he cannot even bear to speak the words out loud, and your stomach drops. He repeats, “I cannot lose you.”
You smooth your thumb beneath his eye again, catching another tear before it can fall. He lets out a ragged, trembling breath, seeking out your touch, so you hold the side of his face, letting him press his nose and mouth into your palm.
“You do not know if this wasn’t just a dream,” you tell him quietly after a moment. His gaze snaps up toward you, suddenly alight with a fire that makes you tense. You misspoke—you realize it right away. You press on before he can snap. “Daeron, all I mean to say is that you have been anxious about me leaving for Braavos alone since your father and grandfather decided I would months ago. Your mind has never been kind to you; it could only just be fear—”
Daeron recoils as though you’ve struck him, away from your touch, shrinking back into the chair. Something awful—pained and twisted, betrayed, and it makes your heart break—crosses his face.
“You think I cannot tell the difference,” he says quietly.
Regret begins to weigh in your stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. “That is not what I meant.”
“It is.” He laughs—it is brittle and exhausted, but not surprised. You think you hate that most: that your doubt was always expected, no matter how much you assured him that you believed him. “Everyone always says it eventually.”
“Daeron, please—”
“It is always just wine, or grief, or fear, or madness.” His voice roughens around the last word. “Always some simpler explanation.”
He finally pulls his face away from your palm, and you hate how empty the loss of contact feels instantly.
“You believed me before.”
“I do believe you,” you insist, trying to get him to look at you again, but he will not. “Daeron—”
“No.” He shakes his head once. “You believe that I believe it.”
The devastation in his voice hurts worse than if he had shouted. You open your mouth to protest, but he keeps speaking before you can.
“I know what ordinary dreams feel like.” His fingers tighten painfully against your waist. “I know what fear feels like. This was not fear.”
“I believe you, Daeron,” you tell him, because you do. You believe him—it doesn’t matter what you think of the dreams themselves. His grip loosens, eyes searching yours as he tries to figure out if you’re lying or not. You lift your hands to his face to cradle his cheeks, and you repeat, “I believe you.”
“Then promise me,” he says, ragged with desperation, pleading as he holds you closer. “Promise me that you will not go. You will stay with me here. Promise me.”
“It is not up to me, Daeron,” you say, voice thin. “It is your father and your grandfather—I cannot refuse them without explanation. If I suddenly refuse to board a ship because my husband dreamt of a dragon, they will think—”
“They already think that I am mad,” Daeron cuts in bitterly. “I do not care what they say. I—”
“Daeron,” you interrupt, resigned, fingers absently stroking his face. “I cannot refuse your father and grandfather without an explanation.”
“Then I will give them one.”
The words come out immediately—sharp enough that you blink. Daeron is already pulling away from you enough to sit upright properly, frantic energy beginning to creep beneath his skin again now that he has something to cling to besides helpless grief. He almost moves you off of him to rise to his feet, but your hands tighten at his shoulders, signaling for him to say seated. His hands shake where they hold your waist, eyes glassy and bloodshot and terribly awake despite all the wine he has consumed.
“I will speak to them,” he says quickly, like he is piecing together the thought as he says it aloud. “Tomorrow. No—now. I can wake my father now.”
“Daeron—”
“I will tell him what I saw.”
You reach for him instinctively, palms sliding against his cheeks again. “Love, slow down.”
But Daeron is spiraling now in a different direction entirely—panic and grief set aside for a type of frantic determination that unsettles you more than the other two did.
“He will listen if I make him listen,” he insists, though even he sounds unconvinced by his own words. “And if he does not, then my grandfather will. Or—” His breath catches. “Or I will go with you.”
Your brows knit together. “What?”
“I will not let you sail to Braavos alone after this.” His grip tightens again. “If they insist you must go, then I am going too.”
“You know your father will never allow that.”
At that, pain flickers across Daeron’s face—because he does know.
Prince Maekar loves him—you know he does, somewhere beneath all the frustration and grief and disappointment—but Daeron’s dreams have always been a point of misery between them. Too many years of drunken warnings. Too many prophecies no one wanted to hear. Too many occasions where Daeron was right, but not enough for anyone to truly trust him with it.
“He thinks I am sick,” Daeron says quietly, confirming your thoughts. “They all do.” He laughs weakly then, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Gods, maybe I am.”
“Do not say that.”
“But I saw you die.” His voice breaks again immediately. “How am I supposed to sit here and say nothing after that?”
You cannot answer that because you do not know how to.
Daeron presses suddenly into your touch again, all the frantic resolve collapsing back into fear as quickly as it came. He buries his face against your shoulder once more, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
“I will beg them if I must,” he whispers hoarsely, breath hot and shaky against your skin. “I do not care anymore. I will kneel to my father. To my grandfather, too. I do not care if the court laughs at me afterward. I do not care if my father locks me in my rooms again like he did when I was younger.” His arms tighten convulsively around you. “I cannot let you go there if there is even a chance this is real.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“Daeron…”
His breathing shudders.
“He will not believe me,” he admits at last, voice small and devastated all over again. “He never believes me until it is too late.”
You close your eyes briefly and pull him closer, cradling the back of his head against you as he trembles in your arms.
For a moment, neither of you speaks; your breath shudders as you press your face into the top of his head, eyes sliding shut as you drown in the familiar scent of him. His arms are trembling around you, fingers pressing hard into your sides, as though he’s scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little. He presses his face into your chest and inhales shakily, and the two of you stay like that for a long while, basking in the familiar warmth of each other’s arms.
You do not know how long you sit there with him.
Long enough that the fire burns lower in the hearth. Long enough that the worst of his shaking subsides into smaller tremors. Long enough that Daeron’s breathing begins to even out against you, though not enough for you to think he is calm, only exhausted by the intensity of his own fear.
You keep one hand buried in his hair and the other curved around the back of his neck, thumb stroking absently over the knob of his spine. He has always gone so terribly soft beneath your hands, even at his worst. As though touch is the only language he can believe without suspicion.
“We will speak to your father in the morning,” you say quietly at last, pulling his face back slightly so that you can press your lips to his forehead. You lean back again so you can meet his eyes. “Okay?”
He stares at you for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes as his gaze searches yours. His voice is small as he asks, “We?”
Your lips curve up into a small smile. “That is what I said, didn’t I?”
Daeron is not so amused, throat bobbing unsurely. “You would—you would stand beside me?”
Your smile fades. The question hurts more than it ought to—it’s not an accusation, and it’s not meant to be cruel, but it’s the disbelief, the wavering hope that drives home the pain. You hate that he has learned not to expect anyone to stand beside him once he starts speaking of dreams and death and doom. You hate that even after three years of marriage, you have not been able to convince him that you’ll always stand by his side.
“You are a fool, husband,” you tell him, smiling lightly. “Of course, I will stand beside you.”
“I am the luckiest fool in all of the kingdoms, then,” Daeron breathes, eyes shining again as he looks up at you, violets pretty and broken and glassy in a way that makes your heart ache. “Gods, I love you.”
“And I, you,” you say quietly, leaning in to brush your lips against his. He tastes of wine and salt, and his breath wavers as he moves his lips against yours, kissing you chastely. You part your lips and rest your forehead against his after a moment. “I would love you significantly more if you would bring me back to bed.”
Daeron laughs at that—a pretty, boyish thing that has your lips curling up into a soft smile. He leans in to steal a second kiss, then a third and a fourth, before his hands slide down to your thighs to hold you as he pushes himself to his feet.
You yelp, arms circling his shoulders tighter, legs wrapping around his waist. He buries his face into your neck, kissing up the skin there obnoxiously as he carries you over to the bed, and you find yourself laughing with him, breathless as he drops the two of you down on the plush mattress, hovering above you with breathless smile.
He leans in again to kiss you, longer this time, deeper. You sigh into his mouth as one hand cradles the side of your face, tongue easing open your lips so that he can trace the inside of your mouth.
There is desperation in it still, seeping through the softness—something aching and terrified beneath the slow drag of his mouth against yours. His hand cups your jaw carefully, thumb brushing along your cheek as though reassuring himself you are still here beneath him, still warm and breathing and real, that you are not on the cusp of death as his dreams taunt.
You melt beneath him with a quiet sigh, fingers slipping into the soft strands of his hair. He shudders when you tug gently, mouth parting against yours as he deepens the kiss instinctively, slow and languid now instead of frantic.
Daeron makes another low sound into your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair, the noise half swallowed by the kiss, and your breath hitches as his hand slides down your jaw to your throat.
He pauses when his thumb accidentally brushes over your pulse point, as though the erratic thrumming of it beneath his touch has reminded him of what has been haunting him all day. You feel the warmth and levity drain from him immediately; his shoulders tense, and his lips falter against yours.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours, sharing the same sliver of air. His breath catches, and his eyes stay shut, long lashes trembling faintly against his cheeks.
You card your fingers through his hair absently, waiting.
“I am afraid to sleep,” he admits finally, voice small.
You say simply, “Then we will not sleep yet.”
“You need rest.”
“So do you.”
“I will only dream again.”
“Then we will stay awake until the sun comes up, if we must.”
He pulls back enough to look at you, brows drawn together. “You would do that?”
You arch a brow at him. “I have spent three years married to you, Daeron. This would not be the first night of sleep you have stolen from me.”
A faint laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It is small and ruined and wet, but it is a laugh, nonetheless, so you take it as a victory.
“I hate it,” he whispers after a few moments, nosing into your cheek. Your eyes slide shut as he kisses you there, too, lips lingering.
Your voice softens. “I know, love.”
“I hate seeing things. I hate knowing just enough to be terrified and never enough to change anything.” He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I hate that when I am wrong, I am mad, and when I am right, I am still mad, only too late.”
Your throat tightens again. “Daeron.”
“No,” he says, almost pleading now. “Tell me how I am supposed to make him believe me. Tell me what words I am meant to use. I will say anything. I will stand straight and sober and calm. I will not shout or weep. I will not sound like—like this. I will tell him exactly what I saw, and he will still look at me with that face—”
He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. Your eyes slide shut as you fight a sigh. You know the face he means.
You have seen it often enough. Maekar’s stern mouth, the deep crease between his brows, the disappointment that settles over him whenever Daeron stumbles too loudly or laughs too bitterly or speaks of things no one wants to hear. Not cruelty in the traditional way—something more complicated and worse for it. Love mixed with frustration until it begins to feel like contempt.
Daeron’s voice thins. “He will think I am trying to keep you here because I am afraid to be without you.”
You do not answer quickly enough. His eyes flick to yours.
“And maybe I am,” he admits, shame twisting his expression. “Maybe that is part of it. I am afraid every time you leave a room for too long. I am afraid every time I wake, and you are not there. I am afraid one day you’re going to realize what everyone else already knows about me. I have loved very few things in my life that did not get taken from me, and I do not know how to act reasonably about you.”
Your breath catches.
“But that does not make the dream false,” he says fiercely, as though begging you to understand the distinction. “It does not. I know the difference between wanting you near me and seeing you die. I know if you go there, you will not return to me. I know it.”
The silence stretches heavily between the two of you. Daeron is worked up again, staring at you like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way beneath him. His breath is uneven, shoulders taut beneath your hands, violet eyes shining with fear. You cradle his face again, pulling it down slightly so you can press your lips to his forehead, and then you pull him down, letting him bury his face into your chest.
“We will figure it out, Daeron,” you tell him quietly, hands smoothing over his tense shoulders, rubbing them gently until the tension slowly eases from them and his body melts into yours. “I promise.”
“What if we cannot?” he asks, voice small. “My father never listens to me. I cannot bear to lose you. And what of little Vaegon and Vaemon? They are still young—what am I supposed to say when they ask where you've gone? They'll never understand. And Dyanna, she is still only an infant. I am a shit father—I am not cut out for it, not without you. I—”
“Gods, Daeron,” you interrupt with a humorless laugh. “You speak as though I’m already gone.”
“I’m sorry,” he says into your skin, words breaking over a ragged breath. You can feel wetness against your chest—he’s crying again. “I am sorry. I am. I do not mean to—”
“I know,” you tell him quietly, stroking his hair again as he settles against you, “but Daeron, listen to me.” He makes a noise as though to say he is. “No, I mean it. Listen to me.”
He lifts his head up just enough for his eyes to meet yours, heavy with a type of sorrow you thought you’d become used to seeing in him, but it hits you harder than it ever has right now. You caress the side of his face, watching as he leans the weight of his head into your palm.
“I will come back to you,” you say, and when he starts to shake his head, you squeeze his cheeks hard to stop him. “I will. If your father does not listen, and in the worst-case scenario, I have to go. I will return to you.”
Because you will have to go. You know it. He knows it. There is no world where you do not sail to Braavos at the end of the moon, because the Blackfyres refuse to remain a distant threat across the Narrow Sea. Coin is worth more than swords in this war, and the Iron Bank matters more than any army. Your family name opens doors in Braavos that no raven or envoy, no silver-haired prince or three-headed dragon could ever open as easily. It can only be you.
Duty is a chain. You both know that better than most.
His jaw tightens, spasming as he fights more tears, eyes terribly glossy. “You cannot promise that.”
“I can,” you insist. “I can, and I will. Rest assured, there is nothing in this world that can stop me from coming home to you and our children.”
Daeron lets out a watery laugh. “You should not be the one saying things like that,” he whispers hoarsely. “Gods, I am so—”
“Hm?”
“It should be me. You are promising to come back to me. You are reassuring me. It should be the other way around,” he says, frustrated, eyes red-rimmed and expression twisted into something helpless and guilty all at once. “You are meant to be able to rely on me. You are meant to hear your husband tell you everything will be alright, that he will protect you, that he will come home to you no matter what. Instead, I am lying in your arms crying, and you are the one reassuring me.”
“Daeron,” you start to say.
“You deserve better than this. I am trying so hard not to be the sort of man who ruins everything he touches anymore, but I just—I cannot seem to help myself,” he says miserably. “I am sorry that you were saddled with me, and not one of my cousins. Valarr or Matarys, they would have—”
“Enough,” you tell him before he can finish the sentence. “You know I do not like to hear you speak about yourself that way.”
“But—”
You slide your hands into his hair, holding him there between your palms. “There is no but, Daeron. I adore you. I love you. There is no one I would rather be with.”
“That seems like terribly poor judgment on your part,” he says with a laugh that breaks halfway through, but he has settled down, resting his head back down on your chest. You brush your fingers through his hair absently. He tells you quietly, “I love you. You and the children are the only things that have ever made me want to survive my own mind.”
You exhale softly through your nose, leaning down to kiss the top of his head again. He lets out a long, shaky sigh.
“Gods,” he whispers, pressing his face into your skin so that his voice is muffled. “It is infuriating how difficult you make it to remain miserable.”
“That is because you are not meant to remain miserable, dear husband.”
“Says who? I think the gods have been quite persistent in ensuring it.”
“Says me.”
Daeron laughs at that, smiling into your skin. “Well, who cares what the gods have to think when my wife says otherwise.”
“As all good men ought believe,” you agree solemnly, earning another laugh from him, this one softer and more genuine.
The silence is not quite so tense now. Daeron remains sprawled half atop you, listening to your heartbeat as though reassuring himself it is still there every few moments. Eventually, his breathing begins to slow enough that you think he may finally be drifting toward sleep despite his earlier fear of it.
Then, he says softly, “I am still afraid.”
Your hand stills briefly in his hair before resuming its slow strokes. “I know.”
“I do not want to close my eyes and see it again.”
You glance down at him. Daeron keeps his face tucked against you, but you can hear the exhaustion in his voice now beneath the lingering fear. He sounds wrung out completely, and you do not know what to say that will comfort him, so you resign to holding him.
Then, very softly, “Will you wake me if I start to dream?”
Your expression softens immediately. “Of course.”
“I love you,” he says again, kissing your collarbone. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
“You will never have to know,” you assure him quietly. “I promise.”
oml i love the things we do not name. lowkey i think i’m leaning team valarr right now? i just wanted to ask, does reader ever stress about court finding out about her and aerion? because at this point several servants have definitely seen things lol and it feels like only a matter of time. wouldn’t she be worried about her reputation or valarr eventually finding out?
oh yeah she definitely stresses about it, i have mentioned it a few times throughout the story when servants see them together. reader knows how bad it would be if anyone at court found out and aerion is a prince, so he can afford scandal in a way she can’t. at first it is secret enough and servants have definitely seen or suspected things, but most of them are afraid of aerion, which helps. but obviously as time goes on they do get sloppier at hiding it. i feel like when it comes to toxic “situationships” it’s easy to ignore logic, and i wanted to kind of capture that with reader like she knows how bad it could be but like is so down bad for him initially that she just keeps doing it. i touch more on this in upcoming chapters.
as for valarr, bit of a spoiler but he absolutely does find out.
love valarr and usually i am team valarr when it comes to stories that include both but…. it’s just the way u write aerion that actually, unfortunately, has me on team aerion…. hes just so intoxicating 😔😔😔
i am such a sucker for a love triangle trope and what i love about the dynamic in The Things We Do Not Name is that they both fulfill something different inside of reader emotionally. aerion fulfills the part of her that wants to feel wanted, especially considering they met during a time she was new and lonely to court. reader is also lowkey freaked out and who better matches that freak than aerion? but what makes it more complicated is that their relationship stopped being just physical a long time ago, even if aerion refuses to admit it, there is real intimacy there underneath it and thats what makes it so hard for reader to just be like well screw this guy.
and with valarr its the opposite, reader is not waiting around for scraps of affection or trying to guess what mood he is in. and their relationship is not secret or shameful and he is genuinely rlly kind (though he is still a targaryen and we will see more of that side later on ;)). Reader can actually see a happy future with him and that is something she has always wanted.
so i think i have created a feeling wanted vs feeling valued situation that makes it difficult to chose one of the other because one moment its like well aerion is better for her but then your like well actually valarr and its meant to make you feel like you are truly in this complicated love triangle being pulled in both directions and i hope i have captured that feeling right lol. anyways thank u for listening to my ted talk.
Summary: You are a Tyrell sent to court to be a companion to the Queen. You have found yourself entangled with the complicated and moody Prince Aerion. However when his much kinder cousin Prince Valarr begins to notice you, it threatens to alter everything you had desired before. At least you have the Princess Rhae’s nameday tourney to look forward to, right?
summary: Aerion begins to unravel at the thought of you and his cousin. He makes a desperate attempt of winning back your affections for good.
pairing: aerion targaryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryn
cw: aerion pov so that says enough, violent thoughts and behavior, aerion being an asshole, mentions of virginity loss and references to sex but no actual smut, arguing, toxic relationship, reader is a tyrell but no physical description or use of y/n
word count: 4.4k
Aerion remembered the first night he had seen you.
You had only just arrived at court then. All green silk and hands that fidgeted constantly at your sleeves and rings. You trailed faithfully at Queen Myriah’s side like some pet afraid of its own shadow.
You were pretty, of course. That was the first thing he noticed. But the court overflowed with pretty girls. Sweet little highborn things dressed up and waiting to be married off like broodmares to whatever lord best pleased their fathers, he had seen plenty of it.
What had caught his attention was the way you looked at him. Again and again across the feast hall, and he had caught your eyes darting away quickly.
Later, when he found you alone beyond the hall, he had cornered you simply because he could. He had always enjoyed making nervous little ladies squirm, and you had looked ripe for it.
A fresh flower newly brought to court for some lord or prince to pluck apart. He decided it would be him, that rightfully, it should be him.
He remembered the wine on his tongue and the way you looked at him when he stepped into your path. But he could not remember all that he had said to you.
You smelled of fresh flowers. He would come to associate it so wholly with you afterwards that even now, passing the gardens could sour his mood unexpectedly.
Your back had pressed against the stone wall when he crowded nearer, and he remembered liking that far too much. The sight of you trapped there between him and the window
Pretty little thing. He had thought.
He kissed you because he wanted to see what you would do. And you had kissed him back with a hunger he had not expected from some timid little Reach maid.
Your hands had found him almost desperately, and he remembered the sharp twist of want that had gone through him then. He wondered briefly if you were truly a maiden at all.
Yet later, when the blood had stained his sheets he found that you were. That pleased him in some possessive way he did not care to examine too closely, even now.
At first, you were a mere distraction and something lovely to occupy him at night. He lured you into dark corridors, cornered you in stairwells, and would drag you laughing and breathless into his chambers with impatient hands already upon you before the door had even fully shut behind him.
You did not bore him. Instead, you had matched his depravity equally. When he kissed too hard and split your lip against his teeth, you did not weep as other girls might have. You would swipe the blood away with your thumb before looking up at him again with cheeks flushed and your eyes shining strangely.
Then you would bite him back. He cursed you for it. Insolent little thing. He would think, but then he would find himself urging you on rougher than before. You brought something ugly out in him quickly, and yet you seemed to like it.
At first, you’d slip out quietly after. He liked that arrangement just fine. That you did not linger where you were not wanted. You would dress yourself silently and vanish before servants stirred awake enough to gossip. He thought it was convenient at the time.
Then he got bored of that. Why were you in such a hurry to leave? He began noticing it every time. The speed with which you gathered your scattered clothes and the way your fingers hurried through tangles in your hair before scurrying off. It was as though leaving him came naturally to you, and he found he hated that.
So he changed the pattern of things.
He gave you wine and fucked you properly, and when he saw you gathering your gown to dress and leave, he poured you another cup. He enjoyed a bitter red, supplied to the crown from Lord Redwyne. You grimaced when it touched your lips at first, yet you drank it anyway.
And after a time, you seemed to grow accustomed to the bitterness of it much as you had grown accustomed to him.
The wine loosened your tongue, he learned quickly enough. You would sit curled beside the hearth or on the edge of his bed with his cup between your hands whilst he sprawled across the chaise half-drunk himself.
He would listen to you speak of useless things. Highgarden mostly at first, and court gossip not worth the breath. He had found it irritating at first. Gods, you could talk. He had mocked you for it often enough.
Yet somehow he always found himself refilling your cup before it emptied. And he would watch you over the rim of his own. And somehow, in turn, he had begun speaking more himself.
Before long, you had stopped sitting apart from him entirely. You would lie against him as though the place had always belonged to you. Your cheek pressed against his bare chest, and your fingers would wonder in idle patterns against his skin or in his hair as he spoke.
He enjoyed the touch of your fingers so much that he had nearly snapped at you to stop. You dare touch a prince of the blood so casually? Like some favored hound? He would think. Worse still, he began wanting it when you did not do it.
Some nights, he would return already foul with temper only to find you waiting for him, and the sight alone eased whatever had twisted in his chest.
On those nights, you seemed to understand when silence suited him better. You would simply settle beside him, quieter than before, with your head resting against his shoulder, and neither of you would speak for hours.
Soon enough, it became a habit between you two, or rather, you became a habit.
And he knew you loved him, or something close to it.
At first, the devotion pleased him. Why should it not? He was vain enough to enjoy the sight of you looking at him as though he hung the moon, and he liked the want in your eyes. Worst of all, he liked that he could hurt you and still feel your hands reaching for him after.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like vanity and became something fouler.
He had never lied to you. Not truly. He had never whispered sweet vows or empty promises. If anything, he had warned you often enough what sort of man he was.
Yet you still looked at him with that softness in your eyes. As though you loved him anyway, and he hated you for it.
Some nights, he found himself speaking to you more than he spoke to his own blood, and it was humiliating. He hated himself every time he realized he had said too much, but he hated you more for bringing it out of him without even trying.
Every time he felt himself growing too accustomed to your presence, something inside him recoiled from it viciously.
You lingered like a weed in his chambers and in his thoughts.
The scent of flowers clung to his sheets no matter how often they were changed. Most mornings, he would roll over to the pillow where you had lain and breathe in the scent of you deep enough to feel himself harden with desire and something close to longing.
And the thoughts that came after proved worse.
He could recall the worst of them clearly.
It came first when he had woken once with you still asleep beside him, your hair spilled across his arm, and your face was softened by sleep. For one brief half-waking instant, he had looked at you and thought—
Wife.
It felt as though someone had thrown cold water in his face. He had slipped from the bed soon after with disgust curling in his ribs. He was angry with you for inspiring it, angry enough that he could wrap his hands around your throat and put an end to it.
It was awfully infuriating. And the weak rotting part of him had wanted it so badly.
His mind betrayed him often these days, and he would find himself imagining impossible things. You draped over his arm and silver-haired children with your eyes.
He would sooner carve his own heart from his chest than place it willingly into another person’s hands. Even yours—Especially yours.
He never misunderstood what you were.
You were not some whore to warm his bed nor some witless maid with no prospects. You were a highborn lady of a great house. Beautiful and with the queen’s favor draped over your shoulders. You were desirable whether you knew it or not. It both pleased and irritated him that you did not know how much power you truly had.
He had always known one day you would marry. Strangely, the thought had never troubled him much before. Because you were his. You had said so yourself often enough, ruined and breathless against his mouth.
Yours, Aerion. I am yours.
The words had rooted themselves somewhere deep inside him, and now you had the gall to say you did not mean them. He should cut your lying tongue from between your teeth.
Some stupid lord might place a cloak around your shoulders before the gods; it did not matter. He found he cared little for that in the abstract. Men wed every day for alliances and heirs. Such things meant nothing in comparison to what existed between the two of you.
You would return to him all the same, and that was what he knew, you loved him too deeply not to come back when he called and he would call.
Yet beneath all your softness and foolish devotion, there remained something inside you he had never managed to spoil entirely. Perhaps if you were to speak vows, you would try to honor them.
And that knowledge sat bitter in his throat. Was it because it meant one day another man might truly take you from him? No, he did not care. Or atleast that is what he had told himself plenty of times over.
But now Valarr had begun looking at you. Of all men, it had to be Valarr.
Perfect fucking Valarr
He had loved him once, as young boys did, he supposed. He hated him now. No—that was not the truth if it. Perhaps it was something worse than hatred that he felt there.
He has spent a life watching Valarr collect affection without effort. Even his own father looked upon Valarr more warmly than he ever looked upon his own sons. And now he was turning that attention toward you. Toward what belonged to him, and it was gnawing at his insides.
Yours, Aerion. I am yours.
Valarr thought he could simply step near and take you for himself with his fucking gallantry. He could smash his cousin’s perfect teeth down his throat for it.
Valarr was a fool who could only see a pretty, sweet girl. Only he knew the truth of you, only he knew. You were his. So why did it feel so aggravating to see you near him?
Perhaps that is why he took the stupid fucking flower from you. The sight of it beside the bed where he had fucked you scarcely an hour before made him feel near murderous.
You would not even notice it was gone, a stupid, pathetic thing. He had thought.
He stood there now, alone in his room, crushing the pink blooms in his palm. Stupid thing. He thought again, even now.
There was a moment when he considered returning it to you, but then you had to run to Valarr, and now he hated you, and this was the only way he could think to punish you.
He tossed it into the fire without thinking twice and watched until nothing remained but ash.
He hated you for having turned him into this pathetic, brooding man. Pathetic, pathetic. He was a prince for fucks sake and he could have anything—anyone he wanted.
And for once in his entire life, he was so…uncertain. Now you had left him with no choice. He must carve that uncertainty out quickly before it festered.
-
You were surprised to find Aerion standing before you.
After the ugliness between you the day before, you had expected the usual pattern. He would normally vanish for a time. A few days, sometimes longer if his pride had been cut deep enough.
Then he would return without apology, as though no cruel thing had ever passed between you. You had hated those silences, and even more, you hated how you longed for him through them.
This time, you had almost hoped for peace. A few days, at least. A little quiet in which to gather the scattered pieces of yourself and decide what must be done with them.
Of course, Aerion would not grant you that.
You had scarcely made it halfway down the corridor outside the queen’s solar when his voice sounded behind you.
“You look pleased with yourself.”
You stopped and turned slowly. He came toward you and looked you over once.
“I have done nothing,” you said.
“Have you not?”
His tongue darted briefly across his lower lip. His gaze moved over you, lingering just long enough to make heat and irritation rise together beneath your skin.
A knight passed then, bowing his head as he went. Aerion’s eyes cut toward him and remained there until the man turned the corner and vanished from sight.
Only then did Aerion move.
His hand found the small of your back and guided you toward the shadowed space behind one of the great stone pillars. You had no time to protest before your back met cold stone and his arm came up beside your head, caging you in.
“Aerion,” you said, your breath catching despite yourself. “We should not—”
His mouth was already on yours.
The kiss was rough, and his hand tightened against your waist whilst his lips moved against yours. For one weak moment, you let yourself fall into it. Your hands lifted before you thought better of them, and your lips parted beneath.
Then your senses returned, and you pushed at his chest hard enough to break the kiss.
Aerion drew back with a scowl. His lip twitched, “What is your problem?” he asked.
“You insult me, and now you think I will kiss you merely because you dragged me here?”
Aerion huffed a laugh. “I think you will do more than kiss me.”
He leaned in again, but this time you turned your face away. Aerion drew back just enough to look at you. His eyes had narrowed, his arm still braced against the stone beside your head. “You are determined to be angry with me then?”
You stared at him for a moment. You could hear the footsteps and murmured voices passing through the halls. Any one of them might turn their head and see you there, caged beneath the prince’s arm.
You swallowed hard. “I am not angry,” you muttered, at least you were trying not to be.
Then you gathered your skirts and turned away from him. You heard his boots strike against the stone behind you. “Do not walk away from me.”
You did not stop until his hand closed around your wrist and pulled you back to face him. “I said—”
“I heard you.”
His lip twitched. The grip upon your wrist tightened slightly. “Stop behaving like a child,” he said through his teeth.
You became aware then of passing eyes. A servant slowed as they walked past, and two ladies at the far end of the hall glanced over their shoulders. Heat rose in your face, and you yanked your hand free of him.
“A child?” you asked, almost laughing from disbelief.
“Yes,” Aerion said. “You are being difficult.”
You took a slow breath before answering, “You all but called me a whore, and I am the one being difficult?”
“I did not say whore.”
You scoffed. “Oh. My apologies. How gracious of you.” You turned again, but Aerion stepped after you.
For the first time, he looked as though he were struggling to find the words. His jaw worked once, his eyes fixed upon your face, as if he blamed you for the difficulty of speaking to them.
“You provoked me,” he said at last.
For a moment, you could only stare at him. “You do it once again,” you said quietly before you walked away.
“What?” he demanded behind you.
You did not answer. His steps quickened. A moment later, he was before you, blocking your path with his body. “Do what?”
You looked up at him. “Every cruel thing that comes from your mouth somehow becomes my fault afterward.”
“It is your fault.”
“I do not force you to insult me time and time again!” you said, louder than you meant to. The words echoed down the corridor, and several heads turned.
You felt them all at once. Aerion noticed too, and his face darkened. “You are causing a scene,” he said lowly.
“Then I will go.”
You moved to step past him, but his hand caught your upper arm before you could escape. His fingers closed firmly through the fabric of your sleeve.
“Aerion—”
He did not answer and drew you sharply toward the open archway nearby and shoved you out onto the balcony overlooking the Blackwater Bay and away from prying eyes before you could protest further.
The sun was beginning to set, and the last light of evening bled red and gold across the water. Under different circumstances, it might have been beautiful. You think.
You tore your arm free from his grasp and stumbled back a step. “What is the matter with you?”
Aerion’s mouth was hard. “You do not command me, and you do not walk away from me.”
He came toward you as he said it, and you moved for the door, but he was there before you, blocking the way. “You have been pleased enough to ignore me before.”
“That is what this is about?” he asked. “Your wounded pride?”
“No.”
“It is Valarr then.” His cousin's name slipped from him, and afterward his jaw clenched hard, as though he had not meant to say it aloud at all.
“What are you talking about?”
Aerion took another step toward you, and despite yourself, you moved back. The stone rail met the edge of your hand. His eyes were on you in a way that made you nervous, fixed so intently upon you that for one heartbeat you thought he might throw you from the balcony and be done with it.
“You heard me.”
When you did not answer, his lips curled. A humorless laugh slipped from him. “Ah,” he said. “So it is.”
“You do not know what you are talking about.”
“He smiles at you, and now you think yourself above me?” His brow lifted. “Or perhaps you are only desperate for attention—“
The crack of your palm against his cheek sounded sharp, and his head snapped to the side. Your hand stung; the pain bloomed hot through your fingers. You stared at your own hand in horror for half a moment before your eyes lifted back toward him.
Aerion turned back slowly to look at you. He might actually kill you. You think.
His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek where you had struck him. He stared at you, breathing slow and hard through his nose.
You had not known this feeling before. Anger, perhaps. True anger. It felt as if every cruel word he had ever thrown at you had risen inside you at once and spilled over before you could swallow it down. You had not meant to hit him.
“You forget yourself,” he said at last. His voice had gone strangely calm.
You cradled your stinging hand against the other and realized suddenly how hard your heart hammered against your ribs. An apology rose to your lips. You almost begged his forgiveness for the blow.
But the apology did not come. “I remember myself quite well.”
His jaw flexed. “You have grown too bold and tiresome.”
“You are right.” You saw his eyes narrow at that. “I have grown tiresome.”
“Stop speaking in fucking riddles.”
“I am tired of you,” you snapped.
Aerion scoffed. “You do not mean that.”
“You insult me. You seek me out only when it pleases you. You are mean and vile and—”
“Valarr—”
“This is not about Valarr!” You practically shouted loud enough that it seemed to knock him silent.
You dragged a hand over your face and drew in a breath, trying to calm the heat boiling beneath your skin. Then you looked at him again. Really looked at him and suddenly it dawned on you.
“Are you jealous?”
Aerion looked as though you had struck him a second time. “Quiet.”
Something about the look on his face almost made you laugh, though there was nothing funny in it.
“You are,” you said, looking him over once. The angry set of his shoulders and the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides.
“Do not.” His voice was low now. He shook his head slightly, eyes fixed on you, daring you to go on.
You laughed once beneath your breath. “You cannot bear that someone else might actually want me—”
You did not finish. One moment, you stood before him with anger hot in your throat, and the next, your back struck the wall hard enough to drive the breath from you. You felt Aerion’s hands on your shoulders, gripping tight enough to bruise.
“I told you to be quiet,” he hissed.
When you opened your eyes, there was something vile in his face. His expression was twisted and near feverish.
“I am not—” He stopped. His breath came sharp through his nose, and his mouth worked once as though the words themselves had turned bitter. “I hate you.”
Aerion did not relent. He was too close, close enough that you could feel his breath hot against your skin, “You are an unbearable, lying wench,” he said. “And I hate you.”
Tears gathered before you could stop them, and that only seemed to enrage him further.
“I fucking hate you.” His voice cracked sharp enough to make you flinch. “Do you hear me? I hate you.”
At last, his hands left your shoulders. He turned away from you with a restless movement and paced once across the balcony and back again.
“You crawl into my bed,” he spat, “spread your legs for me willingly, and now you stand there as though I owe you something?”
“I have never asked you for anything,” you said quietly.
Aerion scoffed. “You ask for everything.”
You opened your mouth, but he rounded on you before a word could leave it. “No!” he barked. “No, you will stand there and listen for once.”
He stepped toward you again. The mark of your hand is still red upon his cheek. The sight of it should have satisfied you. But it did not.
“You ruin everything,” he said. “Gods, you ruin everything, and then you stand there weeping as though I am the one who has made a mess of it all. Look at you.” His lip curled. “Pathetic.”
“Please stop.” You whispered.
“You want and want and want!” he shouted. “Nothing is ever enough for you.”
“That is not true—”
“You think yourself better than me now?” he snapped over you. “Is that it?”
“Stop—“
“You want more, fine!” He dragged both hands through his hair violently. “I will marry you then!”
You had gone still.
Aerion stood breathing hard before you, chest rising and falling from the force of his own rage. He looked as bewildered as you felt.
Then his face hardened. “You want it so badly,” he said. “Fine. You shall have it. I will marry you if that is what it takes to finally shut you up.”
You could only stare at him.
The wind moved cold across the balcony. Below, the sea had darkened beneath the last red smear of sunset, but the world had narrowed to Aerion’s face, to the ugly triumph and panic warring there.
He swallowed once, hard, and shifted as though suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. When you still said nothing, his expression twisted.
“What?” he snapped. He flung his arms outward once, then let them fall to his sides. “Is this not what you wanted?”
Your tears did not cease. For so long, you had wanted those words from him, wanted them so badly it had shamed you. You had wanted him to love you as plainly and foolishly as you had loved him, wanted proof that there had been something beneath all of it after all. Yet now that the words had finally come, you did not feel relieved by them.
“Have you suddenly forgotten how to speak?” Aerion snapped, stepping closer again.
“I cannot marry you.” Your words scarcely above a whisper.
Aerion stared at you. He looked more irritated than angry. “What is that supposed to mean?”
You wiped beneath your eyes with the heel of your hand. “It would not fix anything.”
“Yes, it would,” he said. “Gods, this is exactly what you wanted. We marry and all this…” He gestured sharply between the two of you. “We can end all this pointless bickering.”
“No.” You shook your head harder. “You do not understand.”
His jaw tightened. “What do I not understand?”
You saw the exact moment when something inside him began to realize this was not going the way he thought it would. “What?” he asked again.
“Valarr already asked for my hand.” You swallowed hard enough to hurt. “I accepted.”
The silence that followed was worse than his shouting, and you wished he would rage again.
“Ah,” he said finally. “No, that is…” He stopped himself. His voice uncomfortably calm.
His hands flexed once again at his sides, and he turned away from you altogether and looked out across the bay. “That makes sense.” He muttered.
“Aerion—”
“Go.”
You stood there a moment longer, unable to move. Then his head snapped back toward you, and the rage was there again behind something else you could not name, “I said, leave.”
He did not look at you again. Not even when you paused at the balcony doors and turned back one last time before leaving him there alone.
character death, hurt/no comfort, established relationship, spring sickness, angst
word count: 1.3k
Author note: angsty ass drabble i wrote at work bc i’ve been sad so i wanted to write something sad, not rlly proof read
You sat on the cold floor with your knees drawn up beneath your chin and back pressed against the bed. The stone had gone through your nightgown and into your bones, but you had stopped feeling it some time ago. There was no warmth left in the chamber save for the fever.
Behind you, the mattress shifted, and a hand found your hair, weakly. His fingers pushed through it and brushed the bare skin at the nape of your neck.
“My love?”
You cranked your neck to look at him. Valarr was looking down at you through half-lidded eyes. He looked paler, all the color having been leeched from him. Sweat beaded on his brow and clung to his hair, darkening the strands against his temples. You could hear his shallow breathing he had to drag from his throat.
“Hush.” You whispered softly. “Sleep.”
His eyes stayed on you. “What are you doing down there?”
You rose onto your knees beside the bed and took his hand carefully between your own before he could let it fall and laid it gently upon the coverlet. His skin burned beneath your fingers. It frightened you how much heat one body could hold.
“I am afraid,” you whispered.
The words broke in the middle, and you felt humiliatingly small.
You had tried to be brave. Gods knew you had tried. You had held your face still when everybody seemed to look at you with nothing but pity these days. You had not screamed, begged, nor fallen apart. For him.
It seemed as if the Stranger has descended upon the realm and has every intention of claiming it entirely.
They called it the spring sickness, as if a gentle name could make it gentle. There was nothing of spring in this. It had swept through King’s Landing like wildfire and took men, women, babes, lords, and beggars all the same. The servants whispered of corpses stacked in the streets. The Red Keep had not been spared. No castle wall was high enough to keep death out, you have learned.
Valarr watched you for a long moment. Then smiled weakly. “Do not be afraid,” he said. His hand rose with effort and touched your cheek. “I am beginning to feel better.”
It was a sweet, cruel lie, and you knew it.
His thumb stroked beneath your eye, where the skin was tender from weeping and want of sleep. Then his smile faded. His eyes squeezed shut, and his chest hitched before the cough tore out of him.
It was a wet, ugly sound from somewhere deep inside his chest. You drew back despite yourself, hating your own body for the flinch. When it passed, he was gasping, his throat working as though he might choke on the air itself.
Your eyes moved to the dark droplets of blood against the coverlet. You did not speak of it.
You rose quickly, almost stumbling as you went to the basin by the hearth. The cloth inside had gone lukewarm, but it was cooler than him, so you wrung it out with shaking hands and returned to the bed. You sat on the edge beside him and dabbed at his skin. Valarr grimaced at the touch, but he was too weak to fight you truly. Still, he caught your sleeve between two fingers.
“You should not be here,” he rasped. “You could catch it—“
“I do not care.”
It was true. You did not care. Let this sickness catch in your throat and seep into your lungs and burn under your skin. Let it take you down beside him. There would be mercy in that, perhaps. You both could wither away—together.
You set the cloth aside and smoothed his damp hair back from his brow.
“How is Matarys?” he asked suddenly.
Your hand stilled for only a heartbeat before you continued. Though your mouth twitched, “He is…fine.”
That was another lie. Matarys had died two nights ago.
You had been there when they told Valarr, or tried to. He had been deep in fever then, to the point of delirium. The maester had spoken the words gently, but Valarr had not understood, and now it seems he had forgotten them entirely.
This was the clearest he had been in days, and you could not bear to ruin it with grief.
Valarr’s lips curved faintly. “Good,” he murmured. “Good. He is strong.”
You forced a smile and a nod, but your mouth trembled, and then your cheeks were wet again. You tried to wipe the tears away before he saw, but he saw.
His eyes narrowed, struggling to focus in the candlelight. “Come here.”
He tried to push himself higher against the pillows, and the effort cost him. Another cough seized him, rough and choking, dragging through his chest until even you winced. Your hand went to the vial of poppy milk beside the bed.
Valarr caught your wrist with little strength, and you frowned. “No.” His voice was hoarse. “Please, I do not wish to be clouded.”
“You are in pain.”
His fingers slid from your wrist into your hair, threading weakly through the strands at your temple. “I want to remember this,” he whispered. “You.”
Perhaps that is what broke you because a sound left your throat before you could stop it. You tried to swallow it down, but another followed, and then another. You hated yourself for it. You should have been soothing him. You should have been stronger than this. He was the one suffering while you remained well. Your husband. Your sweet, gentle, dying husband.
Valarr tugged at you until your head rested against his chest. You curled beside him and wept into his nightshirt. It smelled of sweat and him. Still, even beneath the fever and healing herbs.
His hand settled on your head. “Do not be sad, my love.”
His chest rose beneath your cheek, ragged and uneven. The crackle in his lungs was wet and terrible; it reminded you of damp wood that refused to catch fire.
After a while, when your tears had dried on your cheeks, you whispered, “We should go somewhere when you are well. Only for a little while.”
Valarr’s fingers moved faintly in your hair. “Where would we go?”
You shut your eyes. You had not thought past the wanting. You just knew you wanted to be away, away from all of this.
“Essos,” you said, thinking of where people often wanted to go. “Lys, perhaps. Or Pentos.”
“At night,” he murmured, “the water in Lys glow blue beneath the moon. Or so I was told.”
“Then Lys.” Your voice shook. “That is where we will go.”
His lips brushed your temple. “And what shall we do in Lys?”
“We will sit by the sea,” you said, “We will drink sweet wine and sleep late into the morning.”
He gave a faint laugh, but it broke halfway into a cough. You held yourself very still until it passed. “I should like to see you in silks,” he whispered after.
Your lips curled faintly, and for a moment, you tried to see it. Lys and its glowing blue sea, the two of you would stand barefoot in the water, and his skin would burn from the sun instead of fever. You could almost see it, but then his breath hitched and the dream blurred.
Valarr’s breathing slowed. His head rested heavily against the pillows, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks. You thought he had slipped back into sleep until his lips parted once more.
“Avy jorrāelan.” he breathed. I love you.
You clutched his hand hard enough that it should have hurt him. “I love you most.”
His fingers curled around yours.
You counted his breaths. One and then another and so forth until your eyes grew heavy and grief and exhaustion dragged you down despite every part of you that wished to stay awake. You slept with your hand in his, your cheek against his chest, listening to the broken sound of him.
When you woke, dawn had crept through the curtains. The candles had burned themselves out hours ago and the room felt colder now. And beneath your cheek, there was no rise and fall at all.
next part of the fic is actually partially in aerions pov LOL i am so excited for it because rn aerion is just this arrogant asshole but like internally?? he is so twisted and struggles so much i cannot wait to show this whole other side of him and his relationship with reader
summary: As Princess Rhae’s nameday tourney draws closer, Valarr grows bolder in his affections. However you find Aerion difficult to ignore.
pairing: aerion targryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryen
cw: Queen Myriah being the biggest reader x valarr shipper, aerion being an asshole, mainly wholesome valarr and plot driven, reader is a tyrell but no physical description or use of y/n
word count: 6k
“Have you seen it?”
“Seen what, my lady?”
You turned to your handmaiden, Clara, and frowned. You gestured towards the empty nightstand. “My flower.” You said. “ It was here, I left it here. I know I did.”
Clara hesitated for a moment. “I have not seen it, my lady.”
You looked again anyway, as though it might have appeared while you were looking away. It did not. You have already searched the chamber twice over–table, floor, beneath the bed. You decided to look there once more, so you dropped to your knees and pushed the coverlet aside. You peered into the dim space to reveal nothing more than dust.
You sat back on your heels and frowned again. It was a foolish thing to trouble over. You think. Though the small sting of it would not be soothed.
A knock came at the door, and Clara crossed the room to answer it. You heard low murmurs before she turned back to you. “The queen is calling on you, my lady.”
You glanced up from where you sat on the floor, resting one arm on the mattress. You pushed yourself up to brush your hands lightly against your skirt and blew away the loose strand of hair that had fallen into your face. “Could you fix my hair?” You asked.
“Of course, my lady.”
The servant escorted you to the queen's solar. Queen Myriah sat with her ladies gathered about her in easy company. Lady Laerra lounged along one side of the settee with Lady Edeline at her side. They all turned the moment you stepped inside.
You dipped into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Ah, come, come. Sit here.” The queen said, her hand lifted, and beckoned you closer.
You took the place indicated beside her, and a servant stepped forward before you had even settled and placed a hoop of embroidery in your hands with the needle and thread already set.
You looked down at it and then back up again with a questioning look, but the queen only waved her hand. “Hush, busy yourself, dear.” She said,
You blinked and opened your mouth to speak. “Hush,” she repeated as though you were being unreasonable.
You did not know what was required of you, but you set the needle where the thread had been left and began.
Across from you, Lady Laerra made a small sound that might have been laughter. Lady Edeline pressed her lips together, though her eyes betrayed her. You frowned, but did not look at them long. Your gaze fell again to the hoop, and your hand settled into the motion of it.
You had only set a few stitches before the door opened. When you glanced up, Prince Valarr had stepped inside, the tailor at his back burdened with folded lengths of heavy cloth.
Valarr bowed his head, “Your grace.” His gaze found you for the briefest moment, and there was the faintest turn at the corner of his mouth before he looked on. “Ladies,” he added.
“Valarr, dear,” the queen said, rising to meet him. She set her hands upon his shoulders as though to keep him in place. “We have been waiting on you.”
That was news to you.
“So it would seem,” he said. “I had thought to be left to my own devices.
The queen gave a small huff. “Thank the gods I have thought better of it.” She took a square of cloth from the tailor’s burden and held it to the light, turning it this way and that. “The crown has an image to maintain. I will not have you boys undoing it with poor choices.”
You lowered your gaze at once, though a faint smile tugged at your lips.
“A pity,” Valarr said. “I had grown fond of my poor choices.”
A few of the ladies laughed behind their hands, and the queen only shook her head. The tailor came forward then and laid out lengths of cloth upon the table—deep reds and darker shades. He stepped back to look at Valarr to measure him with his eye, then began to drape the fabrics over his shoulders one by one. You looked up only once or twice.
The queen had set herself to fussing over him. She turned him slightly, then smoothed the cloth, discarding one piece for another with little patience. You bent your head again to your work, though your attention did not wholly remain there.
“Stand still.” The queen instructed.
“I am standing still,” Valarr muttered, though he shifted even as he spoke.
“You are fidgeting, Valarr.” She said and shook her head at the tailor who held up a color she did not like.
“Grandmother, I can hardly help it,” he said, a touch lower now. “You do make a spectacle of me before your ladies.”
A ripple of soft laughter stirred through the room. You did not join it.
“Nonsense,” the queen said. Valarr shifted again, then seemed to catch himself and went rigid. “There,” he said. “I am not moving.”
The queen sighed, long-suffering. “Now you are too stiff.”
He let out a quiet breath, something between defeat and amusement, but did not move again.
The exchange went on a moment longer, small corrections and small refusals, the sort of thing that might have been familiar if not for the room full of watching eyes. You kept your own lowered, though you felt the faint absurdity of it.
“Lady Tyrell.”
You looked up at once, the needle stilled between your fingers. “Your Grace?”
“What do you make of this?” the queen asked, gesturing lightly to the cloth laid across Valarr’s shoulders. “The color, I mean.”
You swallowed, though there had been no need for it, and raised your gaze.
He stood where they had set him. His hands hung at his sides, not quite still, as though he had forgotten what to do with them. There was a faint awkwardness in him that made you believe he was enduring the worst humiliation.
You meant to look at the cloth, and you did at first. The color was rich and dark where the light did not touch it, brighter where it did. It suited him—more than suited him. You think. It did something to him, or else to how you saw him.
Your gaze lifted, and his eyes met yours, and for a moment it was as though you had both been caught in the same small foolishness and would not speak of it.
You dropped your gaze at last, and the heat rose quick to your cheeks. “It suits the prince well,” you said, too fast.
Lady Laerra gave a soft laugh. “It does more than suit him. The young ladies will be clawing at one another for a place beside the prince.”
Valarr let out a quiet breath. “They need not trouble themselves.”
“No?” the queen said, her brows lifting. “Not even one fortunate lady has caught your interest?”
Valarr shifted again, “I did not say that,” he said.
Lady Edeline’s smile widened at once. “Oh,” she said, turning to Lady Laerra, “he did not say that.”
A murmur of amusement stirred through the room. The queen laughed and shook her head. “Enough. I have tormented my grandson quite enough for one morning.”
She began to return the lengths of cloth to the tailor’s waiting arms. “You may all go.”
There was a soft rustle of skirts as the ladies rose, and you set your needle and stood with them.
“Not you, dear.”
You stilled. The queen’s hand lifted, indicating the hoop still in your grasp. “You have not yet finished.”
“It is near enough, Your Grace—”
“Sit.” She said once, and that was enough for you.
The room grew quieter once the others had gone. Only the queen’s low voice remained, as she spoke with the tailor in measured tones.
You bent your head to your work, and after a moment, you became aware of him. He stood beside you, not speaking at first. “That is very fine work,” Valarr said at last.
You looked up at him. “It is only stitching,” you said. “But thank you.”
Before you could say more, he had taken the seat at your side. Close enough that you felt the warmth of him and the faint brush of his sleeve against your own.
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
You hesitated, your gaze flickered once toward the queen, who had not yet turned back to you. You shook your head slightly. “Not much.” A small, knowing smile touched your mouth.
A laugh escaped him.“It seems difficult enough,” he said.
“It is not,” you answered. “Quite simple once you know the way of it.”
He leaned a little closer then, and his attention settled upon the hoop in your hands. “I do not know the way of it,” he said plainly.
You glanced at him. “Would you like to try?” you asked, and then felt immediately foolish for it.
He shook his head at once, a faint laugh following. “I think not.”
“It is no great undertaking,” you said.
“Very well,” he said and cleared his throat. When you placed it in his hands, he held it as though it might break.
“The needle goes here,” you said, and reached to guide him before you had thought better of it. Your fingers closed lightly over his and adjusted the angle.
He tried, though not with much confidence. “No,” you said, shaking your head, “You will only tangle it.”
He tried again, and the thread caught immediately. You watched him struggle with it a moment; his brow drew faintly as he attempted to set it right without help. When it worsened instead, you leaned in to free it. Your fingers brushed his as you drew the needle loose.
He frowned at that. “You said it was simple.”
“It is,” you said. “You are making it otherwise, my prince.” There was no hiding the note of amusement in your voice.
He huffed softly, and when you leaned in a little more to see the thread properly, he turned his head toward you. You had not realized how close the two of you had drifted until that moment.
His face was inches from your own. Near enough that you felt the warmth of his breath against your cheek and near enough to see the pale flecks of gold in the dark of his eye where the sunlight touched it.
His gaze caught yours first. Then, slowly, it fell lower to your lips.
The room seemed to narrow around you. The queen’s voice faded to a dull murmur somewhere beyond the two of you. You became suddenly aware of everything at once—the warmth of his thigh against yours and the way your hand still rested lightly over his. Then—
“Ow.” He flinched suddenly, which caused you to draw back at once, your breath caught as the moment broke apart, and you looked down to find a bead of red welling at the tip of his finger where the needle had caught him.
For a heartbeat, he only stared at it, faintly perplexed. Then, without thought, he brought the finger to his mouth. You could not help but watch the slow press of his lips against it and the way his thumb rested there as he drew the blood away.
Your gaze lingered far too long. You felt a coil of heat, low and sudden in your stomach. You swallow hard and hope he did not notice.
You did not even realize the queen had made her way over. “You are bleeding.’ She said as though he had not noticed, her brows pulled together in worry.
“It is nothing, grandmother,” Valarr said.
“I will fetch the maester–”
Valarr shook his head. “It is nothing.” He repeated.
“I will not have you losing fingers because you wished to play at embroidery.” The queen said.
“Grandmother—”
But she was already crossing the room, skirts sweeping after her. “Do not bleed on anything,” she called over her shoulder. The door shut behind her.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, taking the embroidery hoop gently from his hands.
Valarr let out a breath that broke into a quiet laugh. “My grandmother worries too much.” He held up his finger between you. “It is only a prick.”
“It could fester,” you said.
He shook his head. “I begin to see why my grandmother is fond of you. You are alike in your taste for dramatics.”
That drew a laugh from you. “Soon your finger will blacken and fall clean off.” You said solemnly.
Valarr grinned at that, “I had not taken you for the morbid sort, Lady Tyrell.”
You lowered your gaze and feigned interest in the embroidery once more. A small crimson stain had bloomed against the pale cloth where his blood had touched it. “The queen only cares for you,” you said.
“She cares too much for everything,” Valarr replied.
You glanced up at him and lifted one brow slightly. “How so?”
“The tournament,” he said. “The flowers and the fabrics we are made to wear.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door through which the queen had gone. “If she were able, she would arrange the whole realm to her liking.”
You considered that as you turned the hoop lightly in your hands. “She arranges things well enough,” you said at last.
“The queen is bored,” he said plainly.
The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You looked away, but not before you saw the way his gaze lingered on you in a manner that made warmth creep once more beneath your skin.
You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware again of how close he sat beside you. And so, to break the feeling, you spoke quickly. “Will you ride in the tournament?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?” You looked at him in surprise. “I had thought you would.”
Valarr leaned back into the cushions slightly, “For a nameday tourney?” he said. “I would spare myself the trouble.”
“The princess will require champions,” you pointed out.
“She shall have them,” Valarr said. “Her brothers, and others. Though Daeron may fall from the saddle before the melee is half done.” A note of quiet amusement entered his voice.
You smiled despite yourself. “And Aerion?” you asked before you had thought better of it. The name seemed to linger strangely in the air between you.
Valarr did not seem to notice. “Aerion will ride fiercely enough,” he said. “My cousin has never cared much for losing.”
No, you thought. He did not. Your gaze dropped to the embroidery in your lap, though you no longer saw it.
For a moment, you could picture him plain as day— Aerion on his horse riding beneath the banners with that crooked smile upon his mouth that so often bordered arrogance and infuriated most men but stirred something else entirely in you.
The doors opened then, and the queen returned with Maester Rylon close behind her. “Here,” she said at once, drawing him forward with an impatient wave. “He has cut himself.”
Valarr let out a soft sigh but held up his hand obediently all the same. Maester Rylon took it in both hands as one might examine a mortal wound. The old maester peered closely at the tiny mark upon Valarr’s finger whilst the queen watched on with deep displeasure.
You lowered your head and hoped neither of them would see the smile threatening at your mouth.
Maester Rylon gave a small nod. “A prick only, Your Grace. Nothing more.”
Valarr huffed a laugh at that.
“It will heal cleanly,” Maester Rylon assured and released the prince’s hand at last. The queen seemed only partly satisfied, though she inclined her head all the same.
Valarr rose from the settee then. “Good,” he said. “I had hoped to survive the ordeal.”
He bent to press a kiss against his grandmother’s cheek, and some of the irritation left her face for it.
“You will be more careful,” she told him.
Valarr nodded, then turned toward you. “I hope to see you again soon, Lady Tyrell.” He smiled, and his gaze held yours a moment longer before he bowed his head lightly and made for the door.
Only once the doors had closed behind him did you become aware of the queen’s gaze upon you, and you looked back to find her smiling.
Your brows drew together. “What is it?”
“Nothing at all,” Queen Myriah said.
-
The corridors had filled since morning. Voices echoed off the stone, and servants hurried past with lowered heads. You had been in no great hurry. Not until you turned the corner and found him there, and you both stopped with only a handful of paces between you.
Aerion stood as he always did. As though you had invaded his space. One hand rested near the hilt at his hip, and the other was loose at his side. The light from the narrow windows caught in his pale hair, and his eyes found yours at once.
His brows drew together, faintly, and you saw the way his mouth had shifted as though he would speak but then thought better of it.
Your lips parted, and his name pressed itself against the back of your teeth before you could stop it. You stood there too long, staring at him as though you had forgotten how to move. You look like a fool. You think.
You swallowed hard, and the words died in your throat.
Then you moved. You gathered your skirts in one hand and stepped past him. Close enough that the silk of your sleeve whispered near his hand. Close enough that he could reach out and grab you, and for a heartbeat, you hoped thought he might.
You could feel the sudden catch of his hand around your wrist, rough enough to bruise. He would pull you hard into the shadow of the wall and press your back against the cold stone. His mouth against yours with no sense to stop.
But he did not reach for you, nor did he move aside.
You did not turn back.
-
You had not thought much about the encounter after—or you had tried not to. When night came, and you reached for the candle beside your bed, the door opened without warning.
Aerion stepped inside. Why should he knock? You think bitterly. He shut it behind him with a soft thud.
You frowned faintly. “Aerion—”
“Are you ignoring me?” He asked sharply.
You blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He crossed the room as he spoke, slow and certain, not waiting for leave nor invitation.
“Why would I—”
“Never mind it,” he said, cutting the words from you.
He dropped onto the edge of your bed with careless ease. One of his boots knocked against the floor as he kicked it off. A moment later, the other followed, kicked free, and set aside.
You stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back upon his hands as he said it, and stretched his legs out before him,
You let out a soft sigh and climbed onto the opposite side of the bed, drawing your legs beneath you. The mattress dipped faintly beneath his weight.
“It does not appear like nothing,” you said.
“It is.” His gaze wandered the chamber rather than settling on you. “I was passing by.”
“And thought to sit upon my bed?”
“I thought to sit.” His mouth twitched faintly. “The bed happened to be here.” At last, he glanced back toward you, “Do you object?” he asked.
You pressed your lips together and shook your head. “No.”
Aerion nodded and looked back. “Good.”
Silence settled between you two for a moment before you slid closer and settled beside him. “I heard you will ride in your sister’s nameday tourney.” You said a touch quieter.
Aerion's gaze flickered to you, narrowed slightly. “Who told you that?”
“I heard it mentioned.” You lied.
He studied you for a moment and then hummed softly. “Of course I will.”
He straightened a little where he sat. “I will give those piss-poor knights a proper show of it.” His mouth curved then. “Remind them what it means to ride against a dragon.”
For a moment, you could see the bravado falter slightly when his eyes met yours. “You will be there.” He said.
You could not tell whether it was meant as a question or a command.
“I will.” You answered regardless.
His jaw tightened once before easing again. He nodded faintly, though his eyes never left your face. He moved closer then, as if he had grown tired of the distance between you.
His knee knocked against yours, and his hand caught your sleeve. He smoothed out a crease that did not seem to exist. You glanced down at his hand and at the silver ring he wore, then back to his face.
“I will win, you will see.” He said softly, lowering his voice slightly. For all of the arrogance in it, you could hear something else, almost boyish. You think.
-
You woke without knowing when you had fallen asleep. For a moment, you lay still beneath the warmth of the blankets until the weight beside you made itself known. Aerion lay half-turned toward you, one arm cast careless across the coverlet. He had not yet woken.
A knock came at the door. Aerion stirred at that, though he did wake fully. He only shifted with a quiet sound of annoyance.
Before the second knock could come, you snatched at the blankets and threw them over him in a hurried disarray. Aerion made a displeased noise at that, something like a scoff, but he did not rise.
Clara stood in the doorway with a small folded letter in hand. “My lady.” She said and paused only a moment once her gaze flicked toward the bed and the shifting shape beneath the blankets. If she thought anything of it, she had the good sense not to show it.
You took the letter, recognizing the familiar red wax seal with three heads. You dismissed her quickly.
Once the door closed, the blankets shifted violently. Aerion threw them aside with a sharp breath and pushed himself upright with irritation. “Seven hells was that for?”
One hand dragged over his face before his gaze caught on the letter in your hands. The annoyance in him dulled slightly then, replaced by something sharper. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” you said too fast and already began folding the parchment closed when Aerion rose from the bed and crossed the room in three strides.
“Aerion—”
He plucked the letter from your hands before you could stop him. You reached for it, but he shifted away from your grasp with ease, not even looking at you.
“He sends for you now, does he?”
You reached for the letter again, but Aerion held it just beyond your grasp between two careless fingers.
“Aerion—”
“A morning ride.” His mouth twisted faintly. “How tender.”
“Give it back,” you said.
The parchment crumpled slightly in his hand. “You mean to go?” he asked.
When you did not answer quickly enough, something changed in his face. His gaze moved over you slowly and lingered in a manner that made your skin prickle. You had seen that look before and never liked what followed after it.
“Do you warm my cousin’s bed now, too?” he asked softly.
You recoiled as though he had laid hands upon you. “I am not yours to question.” You spat.
“Mm.” The sound was low in his throat. “You have told me otherwise often enough.” He reminded you with that arrogant smirk you could kiss.
You snatched the letter from his hand then. “Perhaps we both say things we do not mean.”
For a moment, he did not move. This hand fell away slowly to his side, and he stepped closer until you had to tilt your head back to keep his gaze.
His mouth curved again, though there was little mirth in it now. A short laugh escaped him, and his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth before he spoke.
“Strange,” he said. “You sounded quite certain before.”
He brushed past you then, and his shoulder struck yours hard enough to stagger you half a step. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the candles.
-
The stables smelled of hay and leather with another scent beneath it all that no lady should name aloud.
Your riding boots sank lightly into the packed dirt as you stepped inside and watched stableboys hurry past with saddles and feed.
You tried to not think of Aerion or the look in his eyes, nor the cruel shape of his mouth around his words. You do not care what he thinks, you told yourself. But you knew it was a lie.
You found Valarr beside an open stall, with a stable hand nearby. He had bent his head whilst the man spoke, one gloved hand resting easily against the horse’s neck. He looked less arranged with his sleeves pushed back untidily past his forearms and riding leathers darkened with wear.
His attention had been wholly upon the animal until he noticed you. Then he smiled.
“My lady,” he said as he came toward you. “I am glad you could make it.”
“I thank you for the invitation.” Your fingers busied themselves with the leather of your gloves.
Valarr noticed, and his eyes lingered on your hands a moment before lifting once more to your face. “Come, I would have you meet him.”
Valarr led you to the stall, his hand came to rest against the wood as the horse turned its head toward him. It was a fine animal—dark as soot.
“He’s a good mount,” Valarr said, quieter now.
You stepped nearer, careful in your movements, your gaze moving over the horse slowly. “What is his name?”
Valarr did not answer at once.
His mouth tightened faintly. “You will laugh,” he warned.
“I will not.”
After a moment he relented. “Balerion.
One brow lifted before you could stop it. “Like the Black Dread?”
Valarr gave you a look at once. “You said you would not laugh.”
“I have not laughed.” You rebutted.
There was a faint color in his cheeks now. “I was one and ten when I named him,” he said quickly, as if eager to defend himself. “At the time, I had wanted a dragon. A great one.”
You smiled at that. “It is a good name.”
Valarr gave a quiet motion to one of the stable boys, who hurried forward at once to ready Balerion for the ride.
“You should ride with me,” Valarr said as he took the reins into his hands. “It will be simpler that way.”
You looked at the horse, then back to him. “Are you certain?”
He nodded, and in one smooth motion, he mounted and settled into the saddle with the ease of long practice. He turned then, looking down at you and held out his hand.
Your fingers slipped into his. His grip closed firm around your hand as he drew you upward. For one brief and mortifying instant, your footing slipped against the stirrup, and your breath caught—Then you were there. Seated in front of him.
The reins fell to either side of you. Valarr's arms came forward to take them, caging you in, closer than you had expected. His chest was at your back, the warmth of him sudden and unavoidable, and you could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing
The horse shifted beneath you, and on instinct, you drew back slightly, only to meet him instead.
“It is alright,” he said, his voice low, just behind your ear. You swallowed, and your hands settled at the front of the saddle.
The noise of the stables fell behind you, and soon stone gave way to earth. The walls of the keep dropped behind you, and cool morning air moved through the trees. The scent of fresh grass and less crowded air hit you at once. You welcomed it.
Valarr said little. His hands remained light upon the reins as Balerion moved at an easy pace beneath you, the horse knowing the path well enough without much urging. The wood thickened gradually as you rode farther from the keep, tall elms and dark pines gathered close on either side of the narrow trail, and sunlight broke through the branches.
You found yourself enjoying this more than you had thought. It was like that for a while until Valarr slowed by a stream. He dismounted first, then turned to you. His hands found your waist as he helped you down. You felt them linger there a moment longer than needed once your boots touched the ground.
Then he stepped back. The horse dipped its head to drink, the water ran soft over stone, the sound of it against the morning quiet.
You turned toward the horse quickly, grateful for somewhere else to place your attention. Your gloved hand settled along the dark line of Balerion’s neck, smoothing gently over the sleek coat as he drank.
“There is… something,” Valarr said behind you.
You glanced back over your shoulder. He had not moved far from where he stood near the stream. One hand had gone to his belt only to fall away again a moment later. There was an uncertainty to him now.
“I had wished to ask you something.” You watched him draw a slow breath. “I thought it might be easier in private.”
Then, as if just now hearing himself, he froze. “Though that sounds…” A flush rose visibly on his cheeks. “Not as I intended.”
You lifted one brow. “Are you here to murder me, my prince?”
His head snapped toward you, his eyes widening. “What? No.”
The answer came so quickly that you nearly laughed. “I jest.”
For a heartbeat, he only stared at you. Then a breath escaped him, and he appeared to ease a bit. He looked down briefly, shaking his head once as though embarrassed by himself. “I do not speak well around you,” he admitted.
“Around me?” you asked.
His eyes lifted again. “I find myself… faltering.” A faint huff of breath followed. “And perhaps nervous.”
That more than anything softened you. The prince and heir after the Hand, nervous before you like some green boy.
“If anything,” you said lightly, “I should be the one nervous.”
Valarr’s brows drew together slightly.
You toyed idly with a strand of Balerion’s dark mane, the corner of your mouth curved. “You may yet murder me.”
This time, the laugh came freely from him, and he stepped closer. Your hand stilled against Balerion’s neck. You turned your head slightly toward Valarr, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The sound of the stream filled the silence between you. Then your gaze drifted past him and towards the sky.
What little sky could be seen through the trees had darkened whilst you were not looking. The wind stirred faintly through the branches overhead.
“I think it may rain,” you said.
Valarr glanced upward. “It will not—”
Thunder cracked across the sky as if on cue. The first drops struck the leaves above, then the rain came. Light at first, then heavy.
Valarr moved. He caught Balerion by the reins and pulled the horse from the stream; his other hand found your waist. Before you could properly gather your skirts, he had lifted you back into the saddle, and you scarcely had time to settle before he mounted behind you.
The rain came harder then, and drops hit your face. The rain had soaked through your sleeves and hair within moments. You felt a heavy weight settle on your shoulders before you realized it was his cloak. You pulled the dark wool over your head against the rain.
Trees blurred past on either side as the horse thundered through the wood. Water ran from your brow to your neck in streams, and your skirts clung, damp and heavy, to your legs.
You should have been miserable in this moment, but instead, you heard your own laughter escape you. You clapped a hand over your mouth far too late to stop it. And for the first time in longer than you cared to admit, your world did not feel so terribly small.
Behind you, Valarr laughed too, quieter than you had, but you could feel the vibration in his chest against your back.
The gates of the keep rose ahead through the rain, and by the time you rode through them, the storm had worsened. Rain came down in sheets across the yard and turned packed earth to mud.
Balerion slowed at last, and a stable boy came running through the downpour. Valarr was off the horse before it had fully stopped moving. He turned immediately toward you, reaching upward as rain streamed from his hair and brow.
His hands closed firmly at your waist as he lifted you down, and your boots sank slightly into the mud. The cloak clung damp and heavy about your shoulders, dragged low enough over your head that you had to blink rainwater from your eyes to see him clearly.
“We should get inside,” Valarr said.
Rain hammered against the yard around you, though you did not move. “Wait.”
He turned back. His hair fell loosely, and it clung to his temple. He had to squint against the rain. “What is it?”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the soaked folds of his cloak. “What did you mean to ask me?”
For a moment, he only looked at you through the rain.
Then he shook his head once. “Another time,” he said. “I had thought…” His mouth tightened faintly. “I had thought it might be better said than this.”
You stepped toward him before you had fully decided to do so and grabbed his hand. Cold and wet, your fingers closed around his.
“Say it now,” you said.
His gaze dropped, not to your hand, but to you. Perhaps to the way the rain had undone you. You released his hand at once, sudden heat bloomed in your chest.
Then he stepped closer. One hand rose carefully to your brow, his palm turned just so to shield your eyes from the rain. The other gathered the cloak more tightly about your shoulders, drawing it close and in doing so drawing you close as well.
The rain ran down his arm and gathered at his wrist. It fell in drops from his fingers where they hovered at your brow.
“I would have your leave,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the storm. “To court you.”
Your breath caught somewhere between one heartbeat and the next. “Court me?” you repeated as though you did not hear him the first time.
“I have the king’s blessing,” he went on. “I could write to your father. Ask it done as it ought to be.” As it ought to be. You think.
You had suspected he favored you. Gods, any woman with eyes might have seen it plain enough in the way he sought your company and in the way he looked at you. But this was no longer a passing fancy. It was earnest.
The world seemed suddenly unsteady beneath your feet, though you had not moved at all. Perhaps he saw some trace of it on your face because his mouth tightened.
“Seven hells,” he muttered beneath his breath. Rain dripped from his lashes as he gave a short, nervous laugh. “I have made a poor showing of this.”
“No—”
“I had thought…” He shook his head once. “No matter what I had thought.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully then. Your silence had wounded him somehow, though you had not meant it. It was only that your throat had gone tight, and no words would come.
His hand remained against your brow all the while. “You are beautiful,” he said quietly. “Any man can see that.”
You felt heat bloom across your cheeks and hated yourself a little for it, like some foolish maid hearing sweet words for the first time.
“I have found I enjoy your company,” he went on, his voice softer now.
“Valarr—”
“I must finish now,” he said quickly, “Before I lose what little courage I’ve managed to find.” A breath of nervous laughter escaped him.
“You are kind,” he said. “And clever, and you make me laugh.”
His eyes held yours so steadily then that you forgot the rain entirely.
PART 3 OF THINGS WE DO NOT NAME AERION PLSSS I BEG YOU😭😢🤞
I am hoping to have it out today!! I need to read it over and fix a few things. Tomorrow at the latest! <3 next chapter is pretty valarr centered though, my boy needs time to shine.
summary: Valarr’s interest in you becomes obvious. Aerion would never call it jealousy, but he will remind you who you belong to.
pairing: aerion targaryen x tyrell reader x valarr targaryen
cw: 18+ mdni, fingering, rough sex, p in v, aerion being toxic as usual, manipulative & possessive behavior, gaslighting, reader is kind of a pushover (she gets better i promise!), valarr is so sweet i love him, reader is a tyrell but no physical description or use of y/n
word count: 3.7k
The fire had burned down to embers and left the room dim and still. The only warmth came from him. Aerion was half draped over you, one arm thrown loosely across your waist and his head resting against your shoulder. His breath was slow and steady.
You were not sure when you’d woken, only that you had, and he hadn’t. And now you were stuck there, pinned beneath him. When you shifted slightly, you felt his arm on your waist tighten. You should leave, you think.
A quiet breath left him, something between a sigh and a hum, and then he stirred. His eyes opened, unfocused for a moment before settling on you. “You are still here?” he said.
You blinked at him. “You told me to stay.
He frowned slightly, “Did I?”
“Yes.”
He shifted again, dragging a hand over his face. “I don’t remember that,” he muttered. “Must’ve had too much wine.”
You scoffed softly, pushing lightly against him. You started to move, trying to slip out from under him. “Fine. I will go—”
His arm tightened again before you could get far. “I did not say that,” he said.
You glanced at him, frowning. “You just did.”
He looked at you then, more awake now. “I did not tell you to leave,” he corrected. “Do not make things up.”
Gods, you hated him.
He shifted above you, propped up on one elbow, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. “You are an idiot.” He said. You frowned, caught off guard. “What?”
“You are,” he repeated, like it was obvious. His other hand moved to slip into your hair. His fingers grabbed a loose strand and toyed with it idly.
“I do not remember asking for your insults,” you said, shaking your head slightly as you pushed to get up from under him. His hand moved to your chest and he pushed you back down. His lips curled and met your neck. He kissed your skin softly and buried his head in the crook of your neck. You hated how good he made you feel.
“A Tyrell.” He muttered against your skin. “In my bed like a common whore.” Your breath caught, and you placed your hands on his bare chest to push him away, again. “I am not a whore.”
Aerion breathed a small laugh before prying your hands from his chest, moving to press his lips against your collarbone. He slipped your nightgown from your shoulder and then lower past your breast. He moved to take it in his mouth. You gasped softly, feeling his tongue circle your nipple and then sucking hard. His hand moved, from your waist to under your nightgown and in between your thighs in one motion.
“You get wet for me, like a whore.” He said, you could feel his smirk on your skin.
“Aerion—“
Before you could finish, he dove a finger into your already slick folds, and a broken moan escaped your throat. He added another, pumping in and out of you. Your head fell back onto the pillow as his mouth bruised your flesh from breast to collarbone. Your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “I fuck you like a whore.” He said.
“Aerion, please.” You moaned.
His thumb found your clit and rubbed in soft circles. He worked his fingers faster, pressing his lips to your jaw. Your hand slid up his arm, and your nails dug into his flesh. He shifted until he hovered over you completely. His fingers curled slightly inside of you, enough to bring a sound of pleasure from your throat.
A knock at the door broke you from the moment. Your eyes widened, and you pressed your hand against his chest. Aerion kept moving unbothered, adjusting himself between your legs, his mouth still on your neck as if he did not hear it at all. It came again.
“Aerion—“ You said. “Shut up.” He muttered.
Then, when it came a third time, he groaned and pulled his fingers from your cunt. He turned towards the door. “What?” He snapped. The door creaked open slightly, and you moved farther beneath him. Hoping to disappear into the mattress. A servant girl appeared in the small gap. She kept her eyes on the floor. “The queen is requesting Lady Tyrell; the servants have been searching everywhere for her.” She said softly.
A small irritated huff escaped his lips. “You interrupt me for this?” The girl only swallowed hard. “I am sorry my—“
Her apology was cut short when Aerion grabbed the half-full goblet beside the bed and threw it. It shattered against the wall beside her head, and she flinched. You flinched as well, peering over his arm to see the red liquid run down the stone. “Get out!” He ordered.
The girl nodded and disappeared quickly, the door shut behind her. He did not hesitate before moving his hand to your thigh, pushing your legs further apart for him. Aerion was quick to anger. You learned that early, not long after you first fell into his bed. It came fast, and it did not always make sense—his violet eyes would burn with something frightening. It was never turned on you. You liked to think that meant something.
“Aerion, stop.” You said quietly. He looked down at you, his expression more annoyed than confused. “My cock is still hard.” He said.
You pushed yourself upwards, and he groaned, rolling off you and onto his back and drug a hand over his face like the whole thing was an inconvenience. “What could my grandmother possibly need?” He muttered, his arm fell onto the mattress as he turned to look at you.
You were already dressing. “I do not know.” You said. “But it is bad enough your servants know I am here.”
He made a quiet sound at that, “They will not say anything, I will have their tongues if they do.”
You turned to look at him. “Do not say that.”
He scoffed, “I say what I please. Come here.”
You walked to the edge of the bed. “Turn around.” He said. “Aerion—“
“Turn around.”
You turned, and you heard him shift from the mattress. His hands found the back of your gown without warning, fingers catching the loosened laces and he yanked you back slightly.
“These are a mess,” he said.
“I was fixing it,” you muttered.
“Hardly,” he replied, already pulling them tighter. He tugged the laces into place, tightening them more than you would have, his fingers brushed your back. “There.” He muttered.
“Thank you.” You said, turning to face him.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on.”
-
You turned the corner too quickly and walked straight into him. You would have fallen if it weren’t for the hand that caught your elbow and steadied you.
“I—“ you began to speak, looking up at the poor wayfarer in your wake. Your face turned an awful shade of red when you had realized it was Prince Valarr who stood before you, and your throat went dry. You do not know why he makes you blush so terribly. You tell yourself you are just embarrassed.
His hand was still on your elbow. “My lady.” He said, his lips tugging upwards.
You swallowed. “My prince—I did not see you.”
“So it would appear.” A small laugh escaped him. “We must stop meeting like this.”
You glanced away, already trying to move past him. “I’m sorry, I’m just—”
“In a hurry?” he asked.
You nodded. “The queen is expecting me.”
“Ah.” His hand dropped from your elbow, and he took a step back.“I will walk with you.”
Gods, that is the last thing you wanted.
You looked at him, your mouth parted slightly to find the right words, the polite words to refuse a prince. “That is not necessary,” you said.
“I know,” he replied but still fell to walk beside you. You stared at him for a moment before moving.
-
“There you are,” Queen Myriah said once you entered the solar. Her gaze moved to Valarr just behind you, and her eyes flickered between the two of you for a moment. “Ah—Valarr.”
“Grandmother,” he said, inclining his head slightly.
“Where have you been, dear?” The queen asked, turning her attention back to you.
You felt your stomach tighten. “I—overslept.”
“The servants said you were not in your chambers.” She pointed out. “I overslept and then went to the sept.” You corrected.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, looking at you for a moment too long before breaking her gaze away. “Never mind it, I need your assistance.” She said, slowly taking a seat.
“How can I be of service, your grace?” You asked.
“There is something I’ve been meaning to see to,” she said, waving her hand in front of her. “Princess Rhae’s name day is approaching, and the floral arrangements have yet to be settled.”
She looked between you and Valarr once more. “What better person to assist me than a Tyrell?” She smiled.
Your smile faltered a bit. You inclined your head. “Of course, Your Grace.” You said.
“I would have you speak with the gardeners,” she continued. “See what can be done for the tourney feast. I want it done properly.” She paused, her fingers tapped the table in thought for a moment. “Valarr could accompany you.”
You were about to decline, but Valarr stepped forward slightly. “I would like that.” He said.
You clenched your jaw slightly and turned to face him with a forced smile. “Very well, let us go.”
In the gardens, you moved ahead without thinking of Valarr. You spoke to the gardeners as they showed you several arrangements. It did not take you long to see where they had gone wrong.
One of the men nodded and stepped forward. “And the center arrangements?” You glanced toward the beds of flowers, considering. “No, not those,” you said and shook your head “They will wilt before midday. Use the deeper reds.”
“They’re not as full, my lady,” one of them said.
“They do not need to be,” you replied. “But they need to last the day.”
You moved further down the row, your fingers brushing lightly over a bloom, checking it without thinking. “Cut these earlier,” you added. “If you wait, they will open to soon and wilt before the tourney.” Gods, no wonder the red keeps garden was a disaster. You think.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And do not place them so high on the tables,” you went on, glancing back at them. “It blocks the view. Keep them lower.”
They adjusted them immediately.
You watched a moment longer, then gave a small nod. “That will do.”
They bowed and dispersed and only then did you remember the prince was still lingering behind you.
Valarr stepped forward, his shoulder brushed yours. You looked at him. He was more put together than when you’d seen him previously—his tunic fastened high at the collar, threaded through with deep red that caught the light when he moved. A black cloak rested at his shoulders, clasped with a small dragon in red enamel. He looked very princely. You think.
He laughed softly. “You have impeccable taste, my lady.” He said.
You blushed and looked away. His compliment made your chest feel tighter. “Thank you, my prince.”
“Valarr is quite fine.” He said.
“Thank you…Valarr.” You corrected, testing his name on your tongue. He smiled at that. A moment of silence lingered between you two so you decided to speak again.
“I was raised in Highgarden. We have the best gardeners in the realm. I have learned much from them.” You began to walk, Valarr followed. Your fingers toyed with each other as you spoke, a habit you hadn’t quite shaken. “Flowers are very pretty to look at.” You said, glancing up at him. “But they can tell a story if you place them correctly.”
“Then I suppose roses tell a poor one?” He asked.
You looked down and your cheeks burned red. You remembered quickly how he had seen you brutalize an innocent rose bush a few nights prior. “They are…fine.” You said.
Valarr was not wrong. Roses did tell a story, they were supposed to tell your story. Your house, your sigil, your words. Now you could not look at them without thinking of him. He had gotten into it somehow. Not just your time, or your thoughts—but this too, your story and you hated him for that.
Valarr slowed, stopping before another bush. “What are these ones?” he asked. His fingers brushed over the flowers that had seemed to catch his attention.
You glanced over. Your shoulders eased, just slightly. “Peonies.”
He looked down at them. “Do these tell a good story?”
You moved beside him and tilted your head slightly to examine the pink blooms. “I suppose. They are pretty,” you said. “And they last long.”
“Hm.” Valarr hummed. He reached down, fingers closing around one, and pulled it free with an easy motion. He turned it once in his hand, then held it out to you. “For you.”
You blinked at him. “I could not accept.”
“You could.” He smiled. “If it would please you.”
Your fingers brushed his when you took the flower from his hand. Your breath caught slightly, and heat rushed to your face. Suddenly, you had the sinking realization that the prince may fancy you.
“I thought you were a prince,” a voice spoke from behind you, “not a meek gardener.”
You and Valarr both turned. Aerion stepped into view. His gaze went to Valarr first, looking at him with something more intense than usual. His eyes moved to you, then to the pink flower in your hand.
“Do you not have better things to do, cousin?” Valarr said.
Aerion huffed softly, his tongue pressed briefly against his teeth before he looked back up. His eyes settle on yours. “I have far better things to do.”
Valarr exhaled, unimpressed. “This is Lady Tyrell.” He said.
“Yes, I know,” Aerion said. You could drop dead in this very moment. You think. The way Aerion's eyes hadn’t left yours made your stomach curl with something close to dread. “We have met,” Aerion added.
Valarr's expression shifted, his mismatched eyes moving between you two. “You have?” He asked.
“Mhm.” Aerion hummed. “Briefly.”
“Yes.” You said, turning back to Valarr. “Briefly.” You repeated.
Aerion's jaw tightened slightly, barely noticeable. Then he looked away from you, back to Valarr. His lips curled into something that almost passed for a smile. “You must have done well, cousin,” he said to Valarr, almost absent. “Our Lady looks quite pleased in your company.”
Valarr nodded and extended his arm to you. “Excuse us, cousin.”
Aerion didn’t move at first. His brows lifted slightly, his mouth parting for a second before his tongue pressed against his lip. His fingers drummed once against the pommel of his sword. Then he smiled and stepped aside.
Valarr began to walk, your arm settling into his. As you passed, your shoulder brushed lightly against Aerion’s. You looked up without meaning to, and his eyes were already on you. You looked away first.
-
The knock hit your door hard. The brush in your hands clattered to the floor. You turned toward it. Your face tightening and brows pulling together in confusion. The hour was late, and you were not expecting anyone.
You stood and reached for your shawl, pulling it tighter around your shoulders as you crossed the room. You opened the door just enough to see Aerion. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His expression was easy in a way that did not match the way he had knocked.
You stared at him for a moment. “Are you going to let me in?” He asked.
You opened your mouth to answer—But he did not wait. He scoffed and pushed past you, one hand brushing the door as he stepped through, already inside before you could say anything. You turned after him, still standing near the door, your grip tightened slightly on the edge of it.
“What are you doing here?” You asked.
Aerion did not answer right away; instead, he moved farther into your room. His gaze drifted over everything. Your bed, your vanity, your wardrobe. He had never been directly in your chambers before; you always followed him to his.
His attention turned towards you. His eyes flickered over you once. “Take your clothes off.” He said.
You stared at him for a moment. Closing the door, “Aerion, I have had a long day—“
He let out a humorless laugh. “Do not speak to me like that,” He hissed, taking a few steps towards you. Instinctively, you stepped back. You looked at him, and something in your gut sensed that something was off. The way he was looking at you now… it was different.
He was in front of you now. “Like what?” You asked.
He looked down at you. “Like I care how your day went. Like I want to hear it. Like you are my wife.” A pause. “You are not. And I do not care.”
His words hit you hard. You know that. You think. But there had been a time—you hated that there had been—when you thought he might ask it properly. That he might look at you in the daylight, speak to you in front of others, make something of it that wasn’t hidden behind closed doors. He had made it clear, quickly enough, that he would not.
And you had let him. You told yourself it did not matter. Told yourself you understood him better than the rest, and that was all you had wanted. That if you were patient enough, careful enough, he would want you in the same ways you wanted him. You knew him better now.
“I only meant that you are acting strange.” You said, quieter than you intended. His fingers caught your chin and he forced you to look at him.
His violet eyes scanned your face, “I want you to understand something.” He said, his thumb dragging softly against your jaw.
“This,” he said and gestured faintly between the two of you, “This is for me.” His hand moved from your chin to the nape of your neck. Intertwining his fingers with your hair. “You are for me,” his grip tightened.
“You do not dare tell me no.” He said. You winced slightly from his grip until he suddenly let go. “And do not look at me like that.” He muttered, turning away from you. You watched as he sat on the edge of your mattress as if it belonged to him.
You stayed unmoving. “Like what?” You asked.
“Like a heartbroken whore. Come here.”
Your feet moved, and you hated yourself for it. You stood now, between his legs. His hand moved, and you barely had time to react before he pulled you towards him. Your breath caught as you stumbled, and your hands instinctively braced against him. His lips met yours, and his hands found your waist. He gripped you firmly against him.
His lips moved against yours with an undeniable hunger. There was no softness to it. His tongue dragged against your bottom lip, demanding entry. You allowed it, parting your lips slightly to allow his tongue to ravish your mouth. He tasted like the bitter wine he likes, You thought. A soft moan escaped your throat, which only seemed to fuel him further because his fingers dug into your skin.
He took your bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. You pulled back slightly, moving your tongue to drag along your own lip. You tasted rust where he had bitten. He only watched you. Then you kissed him again, taking his own lip and biting hard enough to draw blood. You could feel his lips curl into a smirk against yours.
“That’s my girl.” He muttered.
His hands moved, sliding your nightgown from your shoulders until it fell past your hips and pooled at your feet. He leaned back slightly, his eyes moved over you slowly. He ran his tongue over his lip. You hated it when he looked at you like that. You hated that you never wanted him to ever stop.
You pulled his tunic up over his head and dropped it to the floor beside your feet. He stood, his bare chest to yours as he undid his belt buckle, kicking his pants off. When your lips met again, his hands found your waist, then dropped to the back of your thighs.
One sharp pull upward with a firm grip and he drew you against him. Your legs wrapped around his hips and your arms around his neck, deepening your kiss. He moved only a few steps before your back met the cold wall. He pulled back slightly; you could feel his length against your cunt, already slick with arousal. He thrusted into you with one deep stroke, burying himself completely. You cry out against his shoulder, and it comes out muffled against his skin.
When he started to move, his rhythm was demanding. Your mouth moved against his neck. You felt him lean forward slightly, burying his face in your hair. You could feel him draw in a slow breath against it, and for a moment, you think he is quite literally sniffing your hair. But then you realize that would be absurd.
His hips snap forward again, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur. He swallowed your whimper with another kiss. His grip on your thighs was bound to leave bruises as he lifted you up and back down on his cock. “Say you are mine.” You hear him mutter against your ear.
When you open your mouth to speak, the words are lost when he thrusts into you harder. “Say it.” He hissed.
“Yours.” That was all you could muster. Your head lolled back against the wall. “Mm, mine.” He hummed. The moment you came undone onto him, your chest rose and fell heavily. Aerion worked you through it, continuing to fuck you until tears pricked your eyes, and it all became too much. It did not last long before he let out a pleasurable groan, and his head went slack against your shoulder.
-
You were half asleep when you felt him move. His warmth left you first, then you felt the mattress shifted from his weight. A part of you had hoped he might stay. You should go back to sleep. You thought. But you opened your eyes anyway.
He sat there, shoulders shifting as he pulled his tunic into place, the fabric dark against pale skin. The candlelight lingered in his silver hair, bright where the flames touched it. He dragged a hand back through his hair. He sat there for a moment and then,—“Do not think yourself special.”
You frowned. “What?” You felt like you never really had a clue what he was talking about half the time.
He glanced back at you. “Valarr.”
You didn’t answer.
“He is used to being given things,” he said. “His father is heir to the throne, and he is a prince of the blood.” He paused and glanced back at you. “And you—what are you?”
You pushed yourself up slightly, the sheets pulling with you. Gods, you hated him. You wanted to argue, to tell him you were a Tyrell, to tell him that Valarr has been nothing but kind and that he was far more respectful than he was. “I did not—”
“If he wants you,” he cut in, “it is because you are easy to have. Not because he truly cares for you.”
You did not answer. Then, he turned back toward you, his hand pressed into the mattress beside you as he leaned in, his other hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face. His thumb dragged once along your cheek. “Do not be stupid.” He muttered, his eyes flickered over your face one last time before he pulled away. He did not glance back again before he left.
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