The bathroom door clicked shut, the sound of the shower turning on muffled by the heavy wood of the bedroom door. You were just looking for a hoodie, something to lounge in while you waited for him to get ready. But when you opened the top drawer of his nightstand—a habit you knew was dangerous but couldn't seem to break—your breath hitched.
It wasn't a hoodie. It was a handgun, cold and heavy, resting against the velvet lining of the drawer.
You didn't have time to process it before the shower cut off. You barely had time to shove the drawer shut, your heart hammering against your ribs, when the bathroom door swung open. Aerion walked out, his hair dripping onto his shoulders. He stopped, his gaze sharpening the moment he saw your pale face and the way your hand was still lingering near the nightstand.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low, deceptively casual.
"Aerion," your voice wavered, betraying you instantly. "What— why do you have that in here?"
He didn't even look guilty. He just walked over, his damp skin cool against the air, and pulled the drawer open. He picked up the weapon with a practiced ease that made you feel sick.
"Curious, aren't you?" he hummed, turning toward you.
"Put it away," you whispered, backing up until your legs hit the edge of the bed. "Aerion, seriously. That’s not a joke."
"Who said I was joking?" He took a step closer, the metal catching the light. He didn't point it at you—not yet—but the way he held it, the way his eyes tracked your every movement, sent a shiver of pure terror down your spine. "It's just a tool, baby. Don't look at me like I’m going to use it."
"Then put it back," you pleaded, your hands shaking at your sides. "I don't like it. Get rid of it."
He smirked, a dark, jagged thing that didn't reach his eyes. He shifted, his grip tightening on the handle, and slowly raised it toward you. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat as the barrel hovered just inches from your chest.
"Aerion, stop," you gasped, your voice cracking. "Please. Stop it."
"Why?" he teased, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate whisper. "You're shaking."
"I'm scared," you sobbed, the tears spilling over before you could stop them. You slumped back onto the mattress, curling in on yourself, your hands coming up to cover your face. "Please, just put it down. I don't want you to have it. Please."
He watched you for a long moment, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating. He seemed to relish the sound of your whimpers, the way you were falling apart at his feet. Finally, with a sigh that sounded almost bored, he lowered the gun and tossed it onto the bed next to you.
"Found it in my dad's office," he said, shrugging as if he’d just admitted to stealing a pen. "Thought it might come in handy."
You clutched your chest, the metal inches from your leg, and looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. "I don't want you to keep it. I mean it, Aerion. It’s not— it’s not right. Just get rid of it."
He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was cold, possessive. "We'll see," he murmured, his eyes unreadable. "But you need to stop digging through my things, yeah? You don't like what you find."
“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”
You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.
“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”
The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.
“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”
You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.
The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.
You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”
You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.
Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”
He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”
You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.
“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”
You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.
“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”
You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.
Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.
Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.
Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.
There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.
“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”
“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.
You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.
“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”
You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.
Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’
A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”
“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”
“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”
The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.
They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.
They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.
You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.
“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”
“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”
You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.
The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.
Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.
You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer
It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.
The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.
New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.
The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.
“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”
“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”
You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.
Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.
“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.
“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”
“Does he know any of the knights?”
“A few.”
“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”
“Never heard the name in my life.”
Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.
“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.
You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.
“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.
A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.
“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”
Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”
She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”
The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.
You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”
She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”
A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”
“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”
“He does not seem like a liar to me.”
You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”
Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.
A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”
“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”
“The Dorish tent?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”
“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”
That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.
But something else gnawed at you.
You knew what she was.
No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.
The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.
“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”
“How do you think?”
You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”
A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”
Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.
“I apologize. It is not my place-”
“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”
You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.
Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.
She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”
“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”
“Mhm.”
“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”
You do not need to leave your name. He will know.
She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”
As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.
Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.
“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.
“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”
You feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.
You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.
Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.
“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”
One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”
“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”
“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”
Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.
“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”
Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.
Who didn’t?
They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.
It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.
You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.
It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working
She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”
You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.
But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”
“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.
“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”
You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”
“He is having you paint a shield for him?”
She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”
“How much are you charging him?”
She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”
“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”
“…You do?”
“What is the price?”
She tells you what she is charging him.
You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”
She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”
“He is a friend of mine.”
Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”
You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”
“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”
Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?
“I am no princess.”
She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”
You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.
You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.
She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”
“Do you know what?”
“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”
Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.
The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”
Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.
Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.
“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”
You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.
She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.
Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.
The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.
Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.
You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.
“I hope you like it-”
“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”
Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”
“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”
“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”
“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”
She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”
“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”
“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”
*****
You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.
You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.
If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.
A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.
‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’
Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.
You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.
You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.
“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”
“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”
“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”
You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.
Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.
“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”
You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.
Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.
You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”
“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.
The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”
“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”
Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.
“You will not bother my husband with such things.”
“I certainly will.”
You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”
“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”
In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.
You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.
“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”
You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.
“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”
“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”
“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”
You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.
You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.
Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”
You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”
Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.
Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”
She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.
You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.
Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.
Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.
Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.
“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.
You despise him.
Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.
Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.
His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.
Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”
You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.
Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”
“I poured a cup,” you tell him.
He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”
You lie, “I liked it-”
“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”
Your heart drops.
Aerion pauses.
Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.
Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”
“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”
His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”
A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”
Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”
He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.
“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.
“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”
He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”
You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”
He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”
“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”
“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”
“They are...interesting.”
“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”
He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?
“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”
He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”
Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”
He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”
“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”
You stand straighter.
“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”
Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.
He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”
He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.
“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.
To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”
A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”
You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.
“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”
You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”
He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”
You truly do not understand him.
Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?
You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.
You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.
The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.
“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”
You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.
It is an eight seat table.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.
Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.
“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”
Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.
“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”
“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.
Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.
“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”
“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”
Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”
“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.
“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”
“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”
Your blood runs cold.
Another week?
Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?
The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.
“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”
“Every rightful knight.”
“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”
“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”
“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”
The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.
“Regardless, he is entered.”
“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”
Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”
“Ser Thenty, is it not?”
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.
“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”
Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”
A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”
“No. Serve the food now.”
“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”
Maekar slams his hand on the table.
Valarr falls silent.
The whole room falls silent.
It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.
“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.
Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.
Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.
Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.
Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.
Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”
You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.
Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”
He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.
“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”
You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.
Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”
You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.
You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”
All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”
You have pleased him with the comment.
Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.
When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.
“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”
The reward he gives you is his mercy.
He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.
He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.
His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.
When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.
Aerion kisses you. And when he kisses you, you are able to flutter your eyes closed, and you pretend he is another man.
my favorite picture of him every time I write fanfiction, I always think of this version of him. look at his adorably messy hair! I really want to kiss his forehead ( ͡¬᎑ ͡¬)✩
summary: You wanted a headline. You ambush Maekar Targaryen during his morning jog, determined to expose his corrupt empire. But you don't corner a man who owns the city. Within hours, Maekar retaliates with terrifying speed— turning your life upside down.
cw: 18+ (mdni), strong language, manipulation, power imbalance, stalking/surveillance
wc: 1.9k
The park smells like freshly mowed luxury. No discarded cans, no graffiti— only the steady, rhythmic crunch of your sinfully expensive running shoes on the softly yielding gravel. You’ve been maintaining this pace for exactly two kilometers now. Not because it’s your natural rhythm, but because it’s his.
A few meters ahead of you moves the broad back of Maekar Targaryen. His tailored running shirt absorbs sweat perfectly, and his posture is just as arrogant as his bank account. He has no idea that the woman with the ponytail trailing behind him isn't a wealthy resident out for a morning jog. You are here to squeeze answers out of him.
Suddenly, he slows down. Your heart leaps. He heads toward a wooden scenic bench, raises his left arm, and taps the display of his smartwatch. His breathing rate drops. This is your chance. You simply alter your course slightly, steering straight toward him, and come to a halt right in front of him— close enough to be rude. Way too close for a stranger.
You step so near that he is forced to lift his head. "Mr. Targaryen," you say, your voice far too loud and cutting for this peaceful morning. "How does it actually feel to know that the foundation of your new holding company is built on the ruin of three hundred families?"
He takes a step back, his brow furrowing deeply. His expression shifts from athletic exhaustion to sheer disbelief. He doesn't answer. He presses his lips together, glaring at you with that typical, affluent condescension. Who is this person? Who does she think she is? But you don't back down a single millimeter.
"This is a private area," he finally forces out. His voice is raspy from the run, but it carries that commanding undertone.
You laugh. It isn't a cool sound, but a short, almost hysterical noise. The adrenaline makes your knees shake beneath your athletic leggings, but you stand your ground.
"Private?" you echo, taking a step toward him so aggressive that he instinctively shifts his weight backward. "You had this park fenced off using funds that were originally earmarked for renovating kindergartens. But hey, as long as high society doesn't have to look at the lower class while jogging, right?"
His eyes narrow into slits. The defensive, arrogant smirk he usually reserves for the press vanishes entirely. His jaw muscles clenched so tightly you can practically hear the grind. His hand twitches toward his smartwatch as if to summon his bodyguards, but you close the distance, crowding his space like a persistent fly that refuses to be swatted away. You can smell the expensive, sharp aftershave on his heated skin.
"Leave it," you say, your voice nearly cracking with nervous energy.
He tries to push past you. His shoulder hitches forward to brush you aside— the instinctive movement of a man accustomed to the world stepping out of his way.
But you quickly step to the left, blocking him again. It's a borderline ridiculous moment, but you remain stubbornly in his way.
"Don't dodge me," you press on, firing your questions like machine-gun volleys, leaving him no room to breathe. "How do you even sleep in your ten-million-dollar villa, knowing the foundation is built on the blood of others? Do you pop pills, or are you truly the sociopathic textbook specimen everyone says you are? Come on, your holding company's press release was a joke— nobody believes a word of it!"
Now, you haven't just struck a nerve— you are getting entirely under his skin. His eyes flash with raw, unchecked fury. In this moment, he isn't thinking about damage control or PR.
"I don't know what gutter you crawled out of," he says, his voice suddenly dropping to a temperature that freezes the air. He lowers his head slightly, locking onto you with a gaze that usually ends careers. "But you have no idea who you are messing with. Get away. Right now. Before I make sure you never write another word."
The open threat makes you swallow hard. Your heart thumps against your ribs, and a part of you wants nothing more than to turn and run. But you force yourself to stay. You cross your arms over your chest to hide your trembling hands, defying him like a stubborn child refusing to budge.
"I'm not going anywhere," you say, and though your voice shakes slightly, you don't break eye contact. "Not until you give me an answer. So? What did you do with the money, Maekar?" You spit his name like venom.
Maekar’s lips tighten into a thin, pale line. The furious spark in his eyes gives way to an icy, calculating stillness. He has noticed your smartphone, half-concealed in your hand and half-hidden in the pocket of your running jacket. He isn’t an idiot. He knows that any further words out of his mouth will end up on a recording— one wrong sentence, and tomorrow’s headline is set.
Instead of granting you the satisfaction of a response, he simply glares at you with pure, silent contempt.
Then, he demonstratively raises his arm with the smartwatch, taps the screen twice, and brings it to his mouth. "North gate. Now," he says curtly. His voice is entirely level, and that sudden calm is what actually terrifies you. No more threats, no more outbursts. Just cold logistics.
He drops his arm, crosses his chest, and looks right past you as if you had suddenly turned into thin air. He is waiting. And you know exactly what he is waiting for. His bodyguards are less than three minutes away.
Rational thought hits your brain with the force of a physical blow. The adrenaline that was fueling you moments ago plummets, leaving a hollow, sick feeling in your stomach. If those giants in black suits pin you to the ground, the story is over. Your phone will be confiscated, your career ruined, and you'll end up in the back of a squad car for harassment and trespassing. Getting arrested? No, it isn't worth it.
You take a step back. Maekar doesn't move— he doesn't even look at you. He just stands there like an unshakeable monument of wealth and arrogance.
You turn on your heel and run.
At first, your strides are uncoordinated, almost stumbling because your legs stiffened up from standing mid-sprint. But you quickly find your rhythm. You jog away, breaking sharply to the left toward the thick underbrush, off the main path. Your heart hammers against your ribs in pure panic that security might appear around the very next bend. You run for your life, shoving the phone deeper into your pocket. You didn't get any answers, but you sent his heart rate through the roof. For today, that will have to do.
·༻𐫱༺·
You sit in your cramped apartment, the blinds drawn halfway. On your laptop, the audio recording from the park plays on a loop. You try to piece an article together from it, but it’s nothing— he didn't say anything.
Suddenly, your phone vibrates. An unknown number. When you answer, it isn’t a familiar voice, but a calm, professional tone— "good day. Mr. Targaryen would like to know if you always run your laps in the park at seven in the morning."
You hang up, your heart racing. You peer through the window. Down on the street sits a black SUV with tinted windows. He didn't report you. He didn't have you arrested. He is simply letting you know that he now knows where you sleep.
·༻𐫱༺·
An icy shiver runs down your spine as you walk into your magazine's editorial office. Your hands shake as you grip your coffee mug, but you tell yourself it’s worth it. You might not have an audio recording of him talking, but you smelled his fear. You have a story. You just need to convince your editor-in-chief.
You head to your desk, type your password into the keyboard, and stare at the screen in disbelief. Access denied. Account deactivated.
"In my office. Now."
Your boss's voice cuts through the room. He doesn't even wait for you to turn around. The moment you step into his office, he slams the door shut so hard the glass pane rattles. He doesn't just look angry— he looks unhinged. There is no stack of papers on his desk. Instead, your employment contract lies there, torn to shreds.
"What's going on? My account—" you begin, but he roars over you.
"Shut up!" he screams, the veins in his neck bulging. "What the hell were you thinking? Who gave you permission to stalk Maekar Targaryen in the park like some deranged lunatic and threaten him?"
"I was doing investigative research! He’s running shady deals with the city administration, I have the proof—"
"You have nothing!" he barks, sweeping a coffee mug off his desk. It shatters loudly on the floor, the hot liquid spreading across the carpet like a dark stain. "You ruined us! At six this morning, they pulled every single advertising contract with our publisher. That is a forty percent loss in revenue. Forty! The publisher called me an hour ago. If I don't fire you on the spot, I’m out of a job too!"
You stare at him, the air catching in your throat. "He can't do that... that's an attack on the freedom of the press!"
"This is reality!" he hisses, his voice cracking with rage. He steps so close you can feel his breath on your face. "He didn't just pull the ads. His lawyers filed a lawsuit for defamation and coercion that will bankrupt this publisher if we print a single word. You are terminated, effective immediately. Pack your things. If you are still here in ten minutes, I’ll have security throw you out onto the street."
He shoves a brown cardboard box into your hands. Your fingers are so numb you can barely hold it.
"And one more thing," his voice suddenly drops to an eerie whisper. "Maekar’s lawyer sent me a transcript of your little chat in the park. He wanted me to pass along that no editorial board in this country will ever hire you again. He had you blacklisted. You're done. You won't even be writing horoscopes in this industry anymore."
Ten minutes later, you are standing on the sidewalk outside the building, clutching the box of your personal belongings. Your phone is in your pocket, the anonymous number now blocked.
You have no job. No career. And your rent is due in two weeks. Maekar didn't just kill your story— he obliterated your entire life with a single phone call.
You look down the street. And there, at the end of the intersection in the half-shadows of the trees, sits the black SUV. A silent greeting from him. He has you exactly where he wants you— all the way at the bottom.
a/n: this came up to my mind while watching industry
unrealistic but i just wanna tell our girl to run away, find a new life, someone who’ll cherish you. 😭😭 but in all seriousness, i’m loving this series, thanks for taking the time and sharing!! 🫶🏻
Ahhh, thank you 🤭 wouldn’t have continued without your guys support 💓
honestly, I think she’s kinda cursed. Aerion made so many false promises, which led to her falling in love with him and now he’s behaving like a complete asshole. Some part of her is probably telling her to run away and the other part is convinced that he will change.
Sooo what would happen if the former bethrothed of wife!reader who is now a widow because his lady wife died, visited her in summerhall and at first Aerion wasn’t even aware that there was a guest because he is just too busy with lyra but when the servants starts to whispers of this same handsome lord courting her and suggesting her an annulment, and he sees how she is smiling and she looks so pretty again what would he do? Because I think the situation would stress him even more because she seems to not care anymore about him, and each time they interact he is crueler than before and his father is not against letting her go through with the annulment… 😝
I love the way your brain works, ahhhhh
but let’s make it more interesting and have her old betrothed propose the annulment behind her back— just for the plot
husband!Aerion x wife!Reader
summary: For days now, your old betrothed has been walking the halls of Summerhall— and you seem to be blooming again, truly enjoying his presence. But it doesn't last long, because your husband quickly steps in to ruin it. Eventually, you let your lust take over you.
cw: 18+ (mdni), dark!Aerion, strong language, power imbalance, cheating, abusive relationship, manhandling, fingering(f!receiving), graphic violence, voyeurism & exhibitionism, dub-con, mentions of grief/childbirth loss(not the main characters/reader)
wc: 4k
For the past few days, Gerold Lannister has been a constant presence in the hallways of Summerhall, brightening the gloomy rooms with his warm, easy charm. More than anything, you are overjoyed to have a familiar face nearby—someone completely untainted by the suffocating, toxic atmosphere of the castle. It is a breath of fresh air.
A few weeks ago, you received word that his wife had tragically passed away in childbirth, taking their newborn babe with her. Unable to fathom the depths of such grief, you began writing to him. What started as a simple letter of condolence quickly blossomed into a meaningful correspondence, eventually prompting the man to pay a visit to Summerhall. Officially, of course, his journey is a diplomatic one—an opportunity to strengthen political ties and get to know Prince Maekar a little better.
In reality, he has spent far more time with you over the last few days than he has with the Prince. Your mornings have settled into a comforting routine: a quiet stroll through the gardens followed by hours spent talking on a secluded bench, as if neither of you carried the heavy burden of royal expectations. For the first time in years, you are actually happy. Usually, the people around you are either bound to you by duty or choose to ignore your existence entirely.
Your sudden happiness hasn't gone unnoticed. You are blooming; your hair has regained its luster, you’ve begun wearing your finest silks and jewelry again, and the hollow expression on your face has been replaced by a frequent, genuine smile.
At first, Aerion paid no attention to the change—ignoring how you sat at your vanity for hours while your ladies-in-waiting dressed you, how you rose at dawn just to walk before breakfast, or how you suddenly took an interest in buying vibrant new fabrics from the market.
He only realized something was wrong when he caught sight of you sitting alone on a bench with the Lannister heir. He watched from afar as your bodies leaned in close, noting how you shyly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear—a nervous habit you used to have around Aerion when you were freshly in love. He used to call that your "tell"; it was how he always knew he had won your affection.
It is no surprise that you are drawn to Gerold. He was, after all, your former betrothed—before Aerion decided to tear the match apart before it could even begin. Years ago, Aerion had called off your engagement faster than you could blink, ensnaring you instead with empty promises and a hollow affection that drew you helplessly under his spell. Even now, the memory of the absolute chaos you two caused—and how furious your parents were over those reckless, impulsive choices—lingers in the air.
But all Aerion sees now is you slipping through his fingers, craving another man's warmth. A sickening, sharp pang of jealousy flares in his chest. He wants nothing more than to punish you for looking at someone else with such passion. He forces himself to stay in control, knowing that reacting too violently would expose his weakness, but God only knows how utterly unhinged he feels in this exact moment.
Stepping out from the shadows, he casually slides onto the bench right beside you, draping a heavy arm over your shoulder with a practiced, hollow smile. "Good morning, wife. Aren't you going to introduce me?" he asks cheerfully, his voice entirely devoid of the malice burning inside him.
The easy atmosphere vanishes instantly, and your posture stiffens under his touch. "Husband," you murmur politely, "this is Gerold Lannister—"
"—perhaps you remember me from before you intervened, back when I still intended to make your wife my bride," Gerold cuts in, his tone sharp. The corner of Aerion's mouth twitches, his fake smile dropping instantly to reveal his usual cold, hardened expression. His grip tightens painfully against your shoulder. Yet, despite the tension, you can't help but look down, a small, subtle smile playing on your lips.
"Ah, yes. I heard your wife passed recently. You have my condolences," Aerion replies, though his words drip with a cruel, mocking sarcasm rather than genuine sympathy. Gerold flinches slightly at the jab. For the rest of the morning, you are trapped between two men locked in a silent war of egos. Aerion sits beside you with an aggressive, dominant stance, his leg deliberately brushing against yours at every opportunity.
When a maid finally approaches to call you away, you practically leap from the bench. Following her toward the dining hall, you feel the suffocating weight lift from your chest with every step of distance you put between yourself and your husband.
For the days that follow, Aerion becomes crueler than ever before. If once you believed his neglect to be the worst punishment he could inflict, you soon discover how mistaken you are. Indifference is a mercy compared to obsession— now his eyes never leave you. Where once he treated you as though you were invisible, he now watches your every movement with unnerving attention. Wherever you go, he is there. If you walk through the halls, his presence lingers somewhere behind you. If you dine, his gaze finds you across the table. If you ride, he appears nearby beneath one excuse or another— it is as though a shadow has attached itself to your heels. The constant scrutiny becomes unbearable.
At least the nights remain your own. Aerion still spends them in the chambers of his beloved, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the silence of your rooms. There is something almost laughable in the arrangement when viewed from afar. The mornings belong to you, the nights to her— neither woman receives the whole of him, and yet somehow both are burdened by his presence. Worse still, Gerold becomes increasingly difficult to see. Since the incident, opportunities for private conversation have nearly vanished. Every corridor seems watched. Every gathering feels observed.
One night, unable to endure it any longer, you make a decision. If Aerion is elsewhere, then you intend to make use of his absence. Sleep refuses to come regardless— for hours you toss restlessly beneath your blankets, staring into darkness while thoughts churn endlessly within your mind. At last, with a quiet sigh of frustration, you rise from your bed. A light mantle is thrown over your nightdress, concealing it from curious eyes.
Then you slip from your chambers. The guard stationed outside your door immediately straightens, “my lady?”, “I need a breath of fresh air,” you reply. The man takes a step forward, clearly intending to accompany you— you stop, “alone.” The single word leaves little room for argument. Reluctantly, he bows his head.
You move through the sleeping castle with careful steps, your heart beating faster than it should. Moonlight spills through narrow windows, painting silver paths across the stone floors. Finding Gerold’s chambers proves easier than expected. Soon enough you stand before a familiar door. Fortune favors you tonight. No guards stand watch outside. For several moments you simply stare. Then you raise your hand and knock.
Only once.
The sound feels impossibly loud. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your mantle as you wait. Seconds later, the door opens. And there he is— the very man your thoughts have sought countless times these past weeks.
His hair is tousled from sleep, dark strands falling carelessly across his brow. His chest is bare, illuminated by the warm glow of candlelight spilling from the room behind him. The sight catches you off guard. “I am sorry,” you say quickly, lowering your gaze. “I did not mean to wake you.” You focus desperately on anything but the exposed skin before you— the floor, the wall, the doorway— anywhere else.
“No, no,” he replies with a warm smile. “Come inside. I was simply unprepared for visitors”, his voice remains rough with sleep, deeper than usual. Stepping aside, he gestures for you to enter. Once the door closes behind you, he retrieves a shirt and pulls it over himself, sparing you further embarrassment. The room falls quiet.For a moment neither of you knows what to say— then you gather your courage.
“I feel alone,” you admit softly. “More alone than I have in a very long time.” Your fingers twist together before you. “Until you returned to my life.” He says nothing— you continue. “I am grateful for all the kindness you have shown me these past weeks. Truly grateful.” Silence settles between you— not an uncomfortable silence. A gentle one. The kind that exists only between people who understand one another.
Gerold studies you carefully. For him, the moment feels almost unreal. Like the fulfillment of a dream long abandoned. A smile appears upon his face before he can stop it. “I confess,” he says quietly, “I have cherished our time together as well” his gaze softens. “You have helped me forget many things I would rather not remember.” Slowly, he steps closer.
Then another.
And another.
The distance between you diminishes until his presence surrounds you completely. There is an intimacy in that simple closeness unlike anything you have felt from Aerion in recent memory. Soon only inches remain. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Close enough that your pulse begins to race. Gerold lifts a hand— slowly, carefully. His fingertips brush the side of your neck. The touch is impossibly gentle. A shiver races across your skin— goosebumps rises along your arms. Your breathing grows heavier.
Your heart pounds against your ribs with such force that you fear he might hear it. Without a word, he reaches for the mantle draped around your shoulders. Slowly he draws it away. The garment slips downward, no longer shielding the delicate nightdress beneath. Your breath catches, “we should not do this,” you whisper. The protest sounds weak even to your own ears.
“Hush now, Princess. I would grant you a kindness in return for all the comfort you have shown me these past weeks,” the man says softly. As he speaks, his hand drifts ever lower, gliding from the swell of your breast, over the curve of your belly, and at last between your thighs. He draws aside the delicate garment that shields your modesty, though little distance remains between the two of you now. His brow rests near your neck, and he scatters tender kisses along your throat— kisses gentler by far than any Aerion has ever bestowed.
Slowly, yet with unwavering purpose, his fingers find the small, sensitive pearl hidden between your legs. They move in careful circles, coaxing pleasure from your body until your breath grows unsteady. One of your arms slips around his neck, drawing him closer as you press yourself against him. Gerold lifts you with surprising ease and settles you upon the table behind you. All the while, his lips continue their pilgrimage across your throat, and his hands work their quiet sorcery, never ceasing, never faltering.
Before long, you feel him ease himself from your embrace. He lowers himself to his knees before you and gently parts your legs with both hands. His lips begin to wander across the soft flesh of your inner thighs, placing reverent kisses there as though worshipping at a sacred altar.
“Do you trust me?” he asks between those kisses, his voice rich with temptation. All you can offer in reply is a desperate nod. You feel his mouth drawing ever nearer to your most intimate flesh. Your head falls back. Your breathing trembles, caught between nervousness and longing. Somewhere within, you know what passes between you is wrong— yet you have hungered for the touch of a man for so long that you cannot bring yourself to ask him to stop.
Then his mouth finds you. You feel him suck gently at your most sensitive place while his tongue labors to draw more pleasure from you. Two fingers move within you, slow and steady, sliding in and out with maddening precision. Your hands seem to belong to someone else. Again and again, they find his hair, tugging at it— whether you wish to push him away or pull him closer, even you cannot say. Your lips part into a silent circle. A moan swells within your throat, too much to remain hidden.
It has been so long since you have felt this desired. So long since you have felt worthy of devotion and attention. Strange that such feelings come only through the hands of another man. A heat begins to gather deep within your belly. It grows stronger with every passing moment until it bends your back and tears a helpless cry from your lips. You press his head closer still, drunk upon desire as though it were the strongest wine ever poured.
So intoxicated are you that you fail to notice the figure standing in the doorway.
Your husband.
Aerion watches in utter silence— his face is carved from stone. Your heart stumbles within your chest. Your first instinct is to shove the man away— yet the aching need for release has wrapped its claws around you and will not let go. Instead, you find yourself looking directly into Aerion’s eyes while another man’s tongue and fingers continue their work upon your body.
He is testing you. He wishes to see whether you will cast the man aside— or continue. Aerion stands motionless, as though frozen in place. His eyes cling to the sight before him with a terrible fascination. His irises appear nearly black, swallowed by pupils widened despite the bright chamber— they have widened from desire, a desire he struggles with all his strength to suppress.
He stares at you— perhaps he wishes to tear you apart. Perhaps he wishes to throw the man from the nearest tower. Perhaps both. The muscles of his face are drawn so tightly that it seems the vein upon his brow might burst. His jaw is locked. His brows are pulled together in furious restraint.
Your own breathing becomes ragged. Your chest rises and falls with hurried gasps. Against all reason, the knowledge that Aerion watches and does nothing only deepens your arousal. In your thoughts, it is not Gerold upon his knees. It is Aerion.
You imagine his tongue upon you. You imagine his hand gripping your thigh, fingers digging firmly into your flesh to keep you still. You imagine his lips wandering across every inch of your body, warm and demanding.
Then it comes— your body erupts with bliss. A loud moan escapes you. The sensation is overwhelming, a flood of pleasure so fierce that it steals the strength from your limbs and tears a hoarse cry from your throat. You cling to the man before you, fearing that if you let go, reality itself will come crashing down around you.
Aerion watches every detail. He sees your trembling legs attempting to close. He sees your eyes roll back. He sees your nails buried in the man’s hair. He notices the sheen of sweat upon your upper lip and every sound that escapes your mouth. He notices everything— so much so that even he can no longer deny the effect the sight has upon him.
At last, the man withdraws his fingers and gazes up at you in admiration. To him, you are a masterpiece. His eyes linger upon his glistening hand, slick with evidence of your pleasure. A faint smile touches his lips. Slowly, he raises those fingers and smears their moisture across your mouth like paint upon a canvas— You part your lips and he slides his fingers inside. And you clean them with your tongue while never once breaking eye contact— the chamber falls silent.
Then Aerion speaks, “I see you have been enjoying the company of my wife, Gerold.” The words strike like a hammer. The man jerks upright and turns. You hastily wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your gown and tug your garments back into place. “My Prince—” “Shhh.”, Aerion is suddenly beside him. One finger rests against the man’s lips, “say nothing.” His voice is calm— far too calm. The courage that filled you only moments ago vanishes like mist before the sun.
“You know,” Aerion says, pacing slowly across the chamber, “I believed my wife capable of many things. Yet a whore…” a dark laugh interrupts his own sentence. The sight of him moving back and forth only deepens the dread gathering in your stomach. Then he stops and raises a finger. “Though perhaps the fault lies with me. I have neglected her of late. Yes. Neglected. That seems the proper word.”
His gaze never leaves Gerold. “And she believes herself entitled to share her bed with another man. Is that not so, Wife?” The final word is spoken like an insult— the air in the room grows heavy. You attempt to hold his gaze, but anger forces you to look away.
Aerion studies the man before him. He sees the fear hidden beneath the bravado. At length, he exhales a quiet laugh. “With which hand did you touch her?“, “My Prince—”, “Which hand?”
The question cracks through the room like a whip. Aerion takes a step forward. “Or was it both?” The whisper carries the weight of a threat. “The right, my Prince.” Aerion nods—nothing more. Then he steps back. “Ser Harys. Enter.” The guardsman immediately obeys.
Suddenly, realization crashes over you like icy water— “No,” you whisper. No one hears. The guard waits for his command.
“Remove the boy’s right hand,” Aerion says. “He has laid hands upon a member of the royal family.” The words are spoken without emotion— the room darkens around you. “Ser Harys, you cannot— Prince Maekar would never permit such a thing—” you try to protest. “Do not listen to her,” Aerion snaps. “I am your prince.”
The guard hesitates only a moment. Then duty prevails— steel flashes. The man struggles to maintain his pride until the final instant, but when the blade bites through flesh and bone, a scream bursts from him. A terrible scream. One that seems to tear straight through your heart— you cry out as well.
The sight is unbearable. Blood spills across the table. The severed hand tumbles to the floor. The man collapses, begging for help. And all of it feels like your fault. You leap forward, desperate to reach him, desperate to ease his suffering— however, Aerion catches your arm. He drags you back so sharply that you stumble against his chest. “Fetch the maesters!” you cry. “Help him!” The guard rushes to obey.
“Look well, Wife,” Aerion murmurs into your ear. He stands so close that his breath brushes your skin. “This is what becomes of men who draw too near to you.” A chill races through your body. “You should think carefully before repeating such mistakes,” he continues. “Perhaps five times carefully. That is how many fingers he has lost today, is it not?” You can scarcely breathe.
Blood stains the chamber. The wounded man whimpers in agony. His severed hand lies abandoned upon the stones. You turn your head away. At last, Aerion releases you— the moment freedom is granted, you flee. You rush from the chamber and nearly collide with a maester hurrying inside. “Forgive me,” you manage to say.
Behind you, Aerion remains where he stands. And deep within him some dark and pathological hunger has— for the moment, been satisfied.
·༻𐫱༺·
“Have you lost what little wits the gods granted you, boy?!” Maekar’s voice crashes through the chamber like thunder. At the far end of the table sits Aerion, silent and unmoving, while his father paces before him like a caged beast. For what feels like an eternity, the older man has stalked the length of the room without rest, turning sharply at every corner— his boots striking the stone floor with enough force to shake the very air.
The sight would almost be comical were it not for the fury written across his face. “As though it were not enough that you shame this family with your endless scandals,” Maekar continues, his voice no softer despite the minutes that have already passed, “you have now commanded a royal guard to sever the hand of a nobleman!” His words echo from the walls— Aerion says nothing.
For nearly a quarter of an hour the tirade has continued uninterrupted. Complaint after complaint pours from Maekar’s lips while Aerion remains seated, listening in grim silence. Whether it is patience or stubbornness that keeps him rooted to that chair, even he may not know. “How is it possible,” Maekar demands, throwing his hands into the air, “that a man of your age can still behave with such astonishing foolishness? Did I not raise you with my own hands? Did I not teach you better than this?”
The prince finally halts his pacing. With long strides he approaches the table until he stands directly before his son. “Do you possess the slightest understanding of what this may cost us?” he asks. “Do you understand what sort of scandal you have unleashed upon this house?” Aerion merely shakes his head— “No. He laid hands upon my wife. He crossed a boundary no man should cross. Now he suffers the consequences of his actions.”
A sharp crack resounds through the chamber as Maekar slams his palm against the table. “Your wife?” he roars. “You speak of your wife as though you have shown her any honor! You stained that marriage from its very beginning!” The words strike true and Aerion’s jaw tightens. The muscles along his neck draw taut, yet he offers no answer.
“Lord Lannister will demand justice,” Maekar continues. “The man will demand your hand in payment for the one his son has lost—“ “Then perhaps his son should tell him precisely what he was doing,” Aerion replies coldly. “Perhaps then the Lannister boy would cease questioning the honor of House Targaryen.”
The older man stares at him in disbelief. For a long moment, only silence remains between them. At last Maekar exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his face. “Boy,” he says, the fire in his voice giving way to weary resignation, “you should pray that young Lannister does not seek vengeance for this. Pray harder than you have ever prayed in your life.”
The strength seems to leave him all at once. He sinks into the nearest chair as though carrying the weight of the realm upon his shoulders. For several moments neither man speaks.
Then Maekar leans back and studies his son. “There is something else you should know.“ Aerion finally lifts his gaze. “Several days ago, he came to me seeking an annulment“ the words hang in the air. “He spoke of ending this marriage entirely. In fact, he offered the suggestion gladly enough— the boy proposed binding you instead to that little whore you have been keeping company with and allowing her to go free.”
Aerion’s expression darkens, Maekar notices. He continues nonetheless, “as compensation, he offered to persuade his father to provide substantial payment to the Crown. Enough to smooth over the matter and preserve appearances“ a bitter laugh escapes him. “And I very nearly agreed“ the confession causes Aerion’s eyes to narrow. “Of course,” Maekar adds, “I would have spoken with you first. Yet somehow I knew you would never accept such an arrangement.”
His gaze drifts toward the window. “Not because of honor. Not because of duty.” His eyes return to his son, “but because you cannot bear to be without her.” Aerion remains silent. The accusation lands harder than any shout. “You forget,” Maekar says quietly, “who begged for this marriage”, his voice is calm now, stripped of all anger. “You were the one who came to me. You were the one who pleaded with me to arrange the match despite her betrothal to the Lannister heir.”
The room grows still, “so do not stand before me now and pretend she means nothing to you.” For a long moment, Maekar simply looks at him— Gods above, where had he failed? What mistake had he made that this man sat before him as his son? The thought alone exhausts him. At last he shakes his head, “I am ashamed of you,” the words are not shouted— they are spoken softly. Yet they cut deeper than every accusation that came before.
Aerion rises so suddenly that his chair scrapes violently across the floor. For the first time that evening, genuine emotion flashes across his face— not anger, not arrogance, something far more wounded. Without another word, he turns and strides from the chamber, the doors slam shut behind him. Maekar is left alone with the echo.
a/n: just so you guys know, this is what happens when another man touches what’s his… so let’s rethink about her cheating again
