"The last time any human touched Ryland Grace was an act of horrific violence"
Well... Yes and no.
The last time Ryland Grace was CONSCIOUS of any human touch was when he was knocked out. Absolutely true.
But the last human contact he would have had was Yao and Ilyukhina. Who were told that he was scared about panicking during launch and asked to be sedated. Who did all the pre flight checks before the Hail Mary launched. Who would have carefully, gently carried Grace to his bed in the dormitory, made sure he was secure, and initiated his coma procedure.
There would have been love there. Remember Ilyukhina throwing her hands high and saying "welcome to crew!" Remember Yao saying how he hoped Grace would say yes. Remember how much the crew trusted Grace, Stratt's First Officer, the guy who helped them so much, and was so kind to them, and was the one who they entrusted their preferred methods of suicide to. Who thought they were wonderful and brave.
They would have tucked him in. Maybe brushed his hair out of his face. Maybe said something kind to him before initiating their own coma procedures.
Ryland Grace doesn't remember, of course he wouldn't. But the last human touch he ever had was full of love.
Took me years to understand that boredom is not the enemy of writing. It is the raw material. Every good idea i have ever had arrived during a walk with no podcast, a train with no phone, a shower where i just stood there. The moment i fill every silence with content i stop generating anything of my own. I am just processing other people's thoughts instead of having mine. The empty space is where the work comes from. Protecting the empty space is the actual job.
Writers say "i'm not writing right now" like that means anything. You are always writing. You are writing at dinner. You are writing while someone talks to you about their holiday. You are writing in the queue at the post office.
Not writing it down is not the same as not writing. The writing happens first. The document is just where it lands eventually if you're lucky.
A non-writer asked me "but where do you get your ideas" and i genuinely did not know how to explain that it's not a place. it's not a website. it's not a folder. it's that i was on the bus and a woman was holding a paper bag very carefully and something about the way she held it made me need to know what was inside and then i needed to know why she was sad about it and then there was a whole person and then there was a whole story and the bus had already stopped and i missed my stop. that's where.
for as long as you could remember, you and the bright prince have always been bitter enemies... but when duty calls and you are married off to each other, how will you survive this marriage?
genre/warnings:
lots of crack, hardcore childhood enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarrels & usage of "wench" (he is aerion and he's emotionally constipated), assault and injury (not by aerion), forced proximity, mentions of blood (aka aerion going ballistic on your former betrothed), fluff, lannister!reader
notes:
aerion here is the same aerion from this valarr fic but this can def be read as standalone. i actually had so much fun writing this bc this trope is my fav trope to write! i hope you all enjoy it <3
The fool in Red Keep said… the animosity between you and Aerion began when you were nothing more than babes in cradle.
He claimed that with the supposed cruelty of infancy, you had pushed him from his cradle and sent him flying to the floor. Thus, he had despised you ever since.
On the contrary, the fool in Casterly Rock said… it was the Bright Prince who started it. He was an unruly babe who yanked your hair so harshly it made you wail, and it was no wonder you came to loathe him.
Whether any tale held any truth, you could not say. You had no memory of ever laying a hand on him, or otherwise. Only that the hatred had always been there, as old as time.
You two have always been the bitterest of enemies. So when the news of your betrothal came, it felt like a cruel jest of the highest order.
But of course, House Lannister accepted the proposal gladly. Your father even went as far as breaking your previous betrothal to House Reyne. No matter how wretched Aerion was, he was still a prince of House Targaryen—blood of the dragon, and your house had never been one to shy away from greed.
And so when your new, blasted betrothed, with his silver hair and evil violet eyes, let out a derisive snort and told you right in your face that:
“The proud Lady Lannister has fallen to my feet at last… How sad.”
Gods knew you had never lacked for sharp words—but for once, nothing came, because this was exactly what your house had thrust you into.
And nor were you comforted when you would-be goodbrother, Daeron, came to you in his drunken stupor, saying:
“At this point, he’s a lost cause. I doubt marriage could fix him… but you could at least fuck him, yeah?”
Your life would be an utter disaster, you were sure of it. Why? Why must it be Aerion fucking Targaryen? You could understand politically beneficial marriage, but still, there were other Targaryen princes besides Aerion!
There were Daeron (though he might rope you into his drinking habit), Matarys (who might be too young for you), Aerys (who was said to have little interest in women, and way too old for you besides), and even Maekar?
No, no. The thought of being Aerion’s stepmother just filled you with more grief.
Valarr would be the perfect choice. The Young Prince was everything a bride could want in a husband… alas, his princess consort was already living that fairy tale with him.
As the only daughter of House Lannister, you were the perfect piece to be played in this game of thrones—such was your fate.
And whether you liked it or not... your wedding with your worst enemy was fast approaching.
Your wedding was a grand event in King’s Landing. Held in the Great Sept of Baelor, three days of feasts and a wedding tourney would follow—festivities befitting a royal union between a prince of the realm and a lady from a powerful house.
You stood at the altar, every inch the perfect bride. Beside you, Aerion was draped in Targaryen prince regalia, the very image of arrogance as he recited the vows—
“I’m hers… and she is mine.”
“I’m his… and he is mine.”
The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but when you glanced at him, you caught the triumphant glint in his violet eyes.
“From this day... to the end of my days...”
You almost looked away in disgust, but the weight of a hundred watching eyes held you in place.
The High Septon then bound your hands together, silk wrapped tight, sealing a union that neither of you had ever wanted— and after a very awkward kiss, you became the Aerion Brightfire’s wife, and he your husband.
A union of a dragon and a lion. To the realm, it was a pretty spectacle, but to you, it was a veiled disaster.
. . .
The wedding, by all appearances, had been a resounding triumph. The feasts had been lavish, the tourney lively, the realm thoroughly entertained.
However, the real trial began when doors to your marital chamber closed behind you with a thud, when both of you shed the amicable masks you had worn all day.
At least your new husband had the sense to refuse the bedding ceremony outright. For that alone, you might have been almost grateful.
“I suppose with this, you could consider this the height of your ambitions fulfilled,” Aerion drawled, both hands on his hips, his voice dripping with that same unbearable arrogance you had come to loathe.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “If this is the height, then I should like to return it.”
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation breaking through his cool. “How ungrateful. Most women would kill to stand where you are.”
“You flatter yourself. Most women would weep to be wed to you.”
“Careful, my lady wife. You shouldn’t offend me too deeply, or I will be inclined to have your tongue.”
“I should hope to offend you thoroughly then. Feel free to get my tongue out of me, if you could.”
That was how it had always been between you—venom clashing like blades. From childhood to now, nothing had changed.
“Gods, what a delightful marriage this will be!”
Aerion scoffed, throwing his hands up in exaggerated delight before turning away. He began shrugging off his coat, then bending to pull at his boots. Another silence fell—sharper this time, brittle at the edges.
Your gaze flicked, unwillingly, to the bed... and realizing that as a man and wife, you would be sharing a bed together. Something in you snapped at the very thought.
“Oh, bloody hell,” you cursed. “If you intend to share my bed, I suggest you don’t.”
He looked back at you, brow lifting slightly. “Your bed? This is Red Keep, you dullard.”
“I refuse to be anywhere near you!”
“As if I would want—”
“Then go and find one of your whores instead!”
Oh no, maybe you had gone to far, but all you could see before you was the little monster who had made your childhood a misery whenever you visited King’s Landing—one who stole your tarts, shoved you aside, and screamed at you without cause.
For a heartbeat, the air seemed to turn icy, something dark flickering in your new husband’s gaze, sharp enough that it nearly made you recoil.
“Just so you wait until we go back to Summerhall.” Aerion’s piercing violet bore through you. “You won’t be so eager to test me then.”
“I shall try regardless,” you replied, still lifting your chin in defiance.
He held your gaze a moment longer, something unreadable passing behind it—before turning on his heel.
“Enjoy your solitude, wench.”
And with that, he strode from the chamber, the door slamming shut behind him. At last you were alone, safe and free from him and the dreadful notion of the first night.
…then, suddenly, you burst into dry, crisp laughter. The sound escaping you as you sank into the chair before your vanity, your limbs heavy with the weight of it all.
There you had it... the first night of your marriage, and your husband really went to the whorehouse.
. . .
“Impudent little wretch…”
Aerion stalked down the corridor, the words slipping through clenched teeth. His temper burned hot, as though the very walls of the Red Keep offended him.
You. Gods, how he hated you. It was not merely the defiance—though that alone would have been enough. It was the way you met every barb he threw with one of your own since you were children of five. You did not shrink, did not simper, did not bend.
And worse, you had been radiant throughout the day, as much as it pained him to admit. The way your eyes widened just so, the softness of your lips, the slim of your waist—
Gods, what cruel jest was this, that his sworn enemy—now inconveniently, his wife—should be so offensively comely?
A bitter scoff left him.
“Impudent little wretch,” he spat, quieter this time, though the words held no less venom.
As astounding a fact as it was, Aerion was no habitual whoremonger nor witless adulterer. He didn’t even frequent the brothels that often!
Which only made this all the more infuriating… because now he found himself striding towards the Street of Silk, driven not by want, but by seething spite.
If that was what you thought of him, then so be it! He would give you a tale worth choking on—he would be tangled in silks and perfumed arms, and by the morning, you would be known as the wife spurned on her very first night.
His lips curled faintly at the thought, satisfaction flickering beneath his irritation.
Aerion slowed at the entrance of a particularly well-appointed establishment. Music drifted faintly from within, low laughter following after it. For a moment, he simply stood there.
Not out of hesitation, but because the absurdity of it all suddenly pressed sharply at his pride. He, a prince of the blood, reduced to staging a petty display all because his own wife had refused him on his wedding night!
Still, his hand lifted—
“Your Grace.”
The voice cut cleanly. Aerion’s expression darkened at once, already recognizing it. Sure enough, when he turned, two figures cloaked in pure white stood just behind him.
Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale. Of the Kingsguard.
“Explain yourselves,” Aerion demanded coldly, his gaze flicking between them.
Ser Roland inclined his head, far too calmly for his liking. “We are under orders, Your Grace.”
“From whom?”
“Prince Maekar,” Ser Donnel answered with a tone of finality. “To keep you… in order, my prince.”
For a heartbeat, Aerion simply stared at them, utterly incredulous. That his father had foreseen him marching to a brothel from his wedding feast, and thought it necessary to hatch a contingency plan— how and where did the old man get such a wisdom from?
He moved to brush past Ser Donnel, intent on entering the brothel regardless, but Ser Roland stepped neatly before him and blocked the entrance.
“You insolent—”
“Forgive me, my prince. Our duty is to Prince Maekar, and he has made it clear that you are not to incite any scandal on your wedding day.”
And so the night ended not in scandal, but with a very fuming prince walking back to Red Keep, under the watchful eye of the Kingsguard.
When the news reached you that your husband (of a day, mind you) was unceremoniously escorted back from Street of Silk, you burst not into polite titter or a restrained chuckle befitting a princess—
But a fit of hearty laughter that rang through your chamber.
Gods. The image of insufferable, pride-swollen Aerion halted by his own father’s guards was too priceless in your mind that you wished you had seen it firsthand. This marriage might prove to be entertaining after all!
While you were thoroughly amused, this matter proved rather less amusing for Prince Maekar and Aerion on the breakfast table.
“Father, I fail to see—”
“You fail to see quite a great many things, boy,” Prince Maekar spat, not even granting him the courtesy of finishing. You folded your hands on your lap, trying to be the very image of a docile wife, desperately trying not to break into a smile at Aerion’s peril.
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “I was merely—”
“—making a fucking fool of yourself,” Maekar hissed. “On the night of your wedding, no less.”
“It was not—!”
“Do not insult me with excuses.” His father’s voice dropped, colder now. “I know you, boy. I knew precisely where your temper would carry you, but you are not a strapping boy of seven— you are a prince of the realm!”
Aerion stiffened, pointing a hand at you, which made you look at him scandalously. “She—!”
“Enough!”
The single word struck like a lash that you flinched.
Maekar stepped closer, his gaze hard as iron. “You will not shame this house over wounded pride, Aerion. Not now. Not ever. You are wed. You will act like it.”
Aerion’s hands curled at his sides. “And if I will not—”
“You will,” Maekar said flatly, cutting him off once more. “Because I will not have whispers spreading that my son cannot even command his own household.”
Even your hands were getting clammy at your father-in-law's warning tone. Was this how Aerion was always disciplined? Now you were feeling a bit sorry for him.
Then, quieter, but no less final, Prince Maekar left him with:
“Play your part, Aerion. Or you are no son of mine.”
It was a bit strange to see how Aerion took everything in silence as his father strode away from the hall. That was quite harsh, but unlike the fiery man who you knew, he just sat there, jaw clenched tight.
A part of you felt guilty because in a way, you were the one who drove him out last night, and you were not interested in drawing your father-in-law’s ire anytime soon, so you cleared your throat, having arrived at a decision.
“For what it is worth—” you began, but before you could finish, his head snapped towards you at once, violet eyes narrowing spitefully.
“Spare me.”
You crossed your arms. “I have no desire to be dragged into your father’s displeasure, Aerion.”
His gaze lingered, studying your face. You met it, chin lifting just slightly.
“For the sake of our self-preservation… let’s call for a truce,” you continued, voice measured, “I will play my part. In public, at least.”
“Damn it, wench. Don’t pretend to be generous now,” Aerion snarled at you, spitting each word.
But for all his sharp words, there was something almost resembling an understanding between you for the first time since you swore your vows in the sept.
And so, albeit begrudgingly, both of you became the image of blissful newlyweds ever since.
You would walk beside Aerion with demure smile and composed grace, your hand resting lightly upon his arm. He, in turn, played the decent husband well enough—standing close, sometimes a hand on the small of your back, his expression schooled into calmness befitting a royal prince.
“I have heard the two of you were inseparable as children,” Myriah Martell, the Queen of Seven Kingdoms, said with a pleased smile when you were presented to her. “You suit each other beautifully.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace,” you replied, dipping your head with practiced elegance, your fingers tightening slightly against your husband’s sleeve.
Aerion’s lips curved—or more like, twitched—just enough. “We are… well matched.”
The queen seemed to take your responses as a good sign, because she smiled so widely at the two of you.
“Good, good... May the Seven bless you with many children, dears.”
You grimaced for the briefest moment. Aerion coughed.
Little did the court know of what had transpired in your marital chamber.
. . .
Asking a separate room would make servants talk, and it would reach Prince Maekar in due course. You couldn’t have that, so you came up with an idea and requested a dozen of pillows.
It took three maids to carry them all in. You scarcely spared them a glance, too occupied with your task as you arranged yet another cushion upon the bed with precision.
By the time you were finished, a veritable fortress stood—two layers of embroidered silk dividing the marital bed cleanly in two.
Aerion returned from his bath not long after, about to retire to bed… and he was rendered speechless by the sight before him. He kept staring at it, then at you, then back at the barricade.
“You cannot be serious—”
You turned your head, meeting his gaze with sweet, dangerous calm. “Cross it, and I will make certain you regret it.”
“Is that a threat?”
“An inevitability.”
A long, charged silence stretched between you. Then, with a scoff, Aerion threw himself onto his side of the bed, turning his back to you with pointed disdain.
“Ridiculous woman.”
“Detestable man.”
And so that was how you slept ever since— back to back, divided by a fortress of pillows the two of you swore to never breach.
. . .
At banquets, however, the performance continued and not a soul in court the wiser.
“My lady,” Aerion grounded out through clenched teeth, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”
You smiled, sweet as honey and false as it was flawless, placing your hand in his. “Of course, my lord husband.”
However, the moment you stepped onto the floor, both of you pressed your lips thin in unison. You were each a fair dancer—well-trained, as any highborn ought to be—and the steps of waltz were second nature. Yet, where other couples moved with effortless grace, you and Aerion were rigid, like two tin men forcing each step into place.
Aerion’s grip tightened ever so slightly at your waist. “Watch your step.”
“I always do,” you hissed. Then a thought, sharp and petty, slipped into your mind.
You drove your heel neatly onto his foot, and he sucked in a sharp breath in response.
“My apologies...” you said, all syrup and innocence, even as he shot you a scowl.
Moments later, his foot came down on yours—too deliberate to be an accident! You forced yourself to swallow the shriek in your throat, and glared up at him.
“A misstep,” he returned with a taunting smile. “My deepest apologies...”
To all, the newly married prince and lady shared a dance of perfect decorum. Only the two of you knew it for the battlefield it truly was.
Your lips were always soft. The curve of your cheek felt even softer beneath his palm, the quiet of your breath too... but it was the way you had looked at him that did it—not sharp, not cutting, but so unguarded and trusting.
Closing the distance, his hand caught your wrist, pulled you toward him with a force that startled even you. Your breath hitched, your body pressing against his as he leaned in—
And his lips crashed against yours.
Not gentle. That was never him. It was hot, fierce, claiming— like everything else about him. As though he meant to silence you, to steal the very breath from your lungs, to corrupt you—
. . .
. . .
. . .
And then, Aerion jerked awake.
His breath came sharp, his whole body tense as though he had truly been there—truly done that, and damnably, that one specific part of his groin felt hard. For a long moment, he simply stared into the dimness and the pillow wall next to him, disbelief settling over him, while hearing your soft snores.
“What the fuck?” he cursed under his breath.
A dream. Just a dream. But for the life of him, it had felt far too fucking real!
Your first official appearance as a royal couple came three moons after the wedding— a grand tourney at Storm’s End, held in celebration of Lord and Lady Baratheon’s tenth wedding anniversary.
By now, you had fully mastered the art of needling him. Aerion often had half a mind to slip sweetsleep into your tea, if only to spare himself your insufferable remarks—but, to his credit, his restraint had held… thus far.
He could not name precisely what it was about you that set him off. Perhaps it is your stupid hair, or your stupid eyes, or that stupid smile you so freely bestow upon squires, yet so rarely upon him. Sometimes, he just wanted to lock you away from prying eyes and silence that sharp tongue of yours himself... with his.
What...? The scenes from his dream last night filled his mind’s eye, and Aerion shook his head once sharply, as though he could rid himself of it.
The journey to Storm’s End from Summerhall was not long. You rode the carriage, while he remained outside upon his prized stallion. Through the veil of the window, he knew you could hear him swearing at his squire.
For this, there had been no question—Aerion would compete in the said tourney. He had always reveled in the bloodlust and the clash of steel, and took no small pride in winning, even if it meant employing tactics others might deem less than honorable.
When his ever-eager squire asked if he would ask for your favor and name you Queen of Love and Beauty should he win, he only scoffed, saying, “No need, and I would sooner put the crown on the elderly Lady Baratheon’s head myself.”
“H-huh? Not Lady Lannister…? Why—”
“No. And stop asking useless question, you witless fool.”
He did not know what he hoped—invoking some reaction, perhaps—but none came from the carriage. What, had he really thought you might rise to it and argue with him?
Aerion clicked his tongue, then drove his heel into his horse’s flank, urging it forward with a sharp kick.
. . .
By the time you arrived, Storm’s End was already alive with celebration. Many highborn lords and ladies gathered for this grand event, and you and Aerion slipped seamlessly into your harmonious facade until the first opportunity arose for you to part ways.
Conversing with ladies your age never held your interest, so you only spared them a few words before excusing yourself. Soon, you decided you had no appetite left for feasting or courtesy, and that the air outside would do you better.
Your husband was an imbecile. Of course you had heard the provoking remarks he’d made earlier, but you left him to his own devices. He was aggravating—so much so that, at times, you had the impulse to give him a good shake to rattle the madness out of him.
You exhaled, kicking the stones in your feet as if they drew your ire. Cool night air brushed against your cheeks and for a moment, you felt better.
“My, why is a fine lady such as yourself out here all alone?”
—so much so that you failed to notice the presence that had crept up behind you.
You went rigid at the sound, whirling around at once. And the instant you caught the sight of a crimson lion, dread coiled low in your stomach.
“Oh, what a surprise... if it isn’t the Lady Lannister.”
Your former betrothed, Rogar of House Reyne, stood before you, tall and imposing, a thin, venomous smile curling his lips.
There was no mistaking the resentment of a man once promised your hand, only to have it torn from him.
You straightened despite yourself, masking the unease clawing at your spine. “Lord Rogar.”
“Look at you now,” he drawled, the sharp stink of wine clinging to him. His gaze dragged over your black gown. “A princess of the dragon’s brood. Tell me, does your prince dote on you as sweetly as they claim?”
House Reyne was a proud and ancient line, long at odds with House Lannister in one way or another. Throughout history, there were many matches made to tie the two lion houses together, and you were considered for it... until your father broke it to bind you to Aerion.
You said nothing, clenching your skirts.
Rogar huffed a quiet laugh. “Ah, silent. How unlike you.” His head tilted, studying your face as though searching for something. “Do you remember, I wonder, how it was meant to be? You, at my side. Our houses bound, our banners flying as one.”
“My father never agreed to such a match,” you replied evenly.
“Strange. I seem to recall him swearing it so. Until a dragon came calling. Until your family decided a title was worth more than honor and handed you off to warm Aerion Brightflame’s bed like a common whore.”
You had always detested this man’s boundless greed. And now, you found one thought almost laughable—Aerion, for all his faults, was still far more tolerable.
Rogar Reyne’s lips twitched, though there was no warmth in it.
“Didn’t they say Lannisters always pay their debts? I’m afraid you owe me a great one, little princess.”
“And didn’t you hear that a Lannister lion does not concern itself with the opinions of sheep?” you returned coldly, lifting your chin. “Lord Rogar, I fear you are not even a sheep... but a roach.”
The crack of his hand against your face came so swift that you hadn’t even realized it. Pain burst across your cheek as you were sent sprawling to the ground, the world spinning for a heartbeat. You tasted blood.
“You bitch,” he spat. “You and your house dare to dishonor mine!”
It was the first time in your life a man had ever struck you. In that instant, your survival instincts took over—driving you to your feet and run.
Your breath came sharp and ragged as you fled through the darkened paths, your skirts gathered in your fists. Behind you, the heavy thud of his boots struck against stone, far too close.
“Stop running, you bitch!”
Something snagged at your leg—thorn or splinter, you didn’t know. The fabric of your dress tore, and pain flared hot along your calf, but you did not stop.
You caught sight of a narrow passage leading to an old door half-hidden in the stables. You lunged for it, fingers fumbling against the handle before wrenching it open and slipping inside. The moment you crossed the threshold, you shoved the door shut with all your strength and slammed the lock into place.
You staggered back a step, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth as you tried to steady yourself. Your cheek still burned, your pulse still raced—but you were safe. For now. Then—
A violent rattling at the door.
You flinched, a strangled gasp tearing from your throat as the handle jerked sharply, once, twice—then again, harder, as if someone meant to break it down.
“Go away, you bastard!” you screamed, holding the wooden door with your bare hands.
“Open the door!”
“I said go bloody hell—!”
“It’s me!”
You froze. For a moment, you could only stare at the door, your hands trembling where they pressed against it. Then, with a shaking breath, you lifted the latch.
And found your silver-haired husband standing outside.
A vexation wrapped in the flawless guise of a lady. Too sharp, too free, and far too composed for his liking. At times, you tried his patience so thoroughly Aerion thought he might truly strangle the fuck out of you.
And yet... here he was, breathless before you now, having chased you through the night like some fool led more by instinct than reason.
Aerion had not meant to follow you, but when he saw his wife fleeing into the night as though someone was hunting her, how could he leave her to it?
“What happened to you?” Aerion demanded, his violet irises blazing, taking in the sight.
You stood before him trembling from head to toe, your eyes wide with something dangerously close to terror. There was a smear of blood at the corner of your lips, and—
Aerion’s hand came up, firm as he caught your chin and tilted your face toward the dim light. The swelling along your cheek was already rising beneath his touch.
Someone has laid a hand on his wife.
“Whose bastard did this to you?”
“Aerion, it’s not—”
“Who?”
You did hesitate, but in the end, you told him of Rogar Reyne, the broken betrothal, and the wroth he had turned upon you.
By the time you finished, Aerion had gone very still. His expression darkened, something cold and vicious settling over his features—so much so that even you nearly recoiled from it.
“I will have his head!” he snarled then with righteous fury, to your shock. “This is high treason. I will demand a trial—!”
“No!” You clutched his arm, horrified. “Don’t!”
Trial by combat—or any form of trials, really—would spell disaster for the royal family and others alike. You wouldn’t let him, and he glared at you, anger still burning hot in his eyes.
“If you must answer this, then do it in the tourney,” you insisted, holding his fiery gaze. “Redeem my honor on the morrow. Slay him if you must, but do it in the melee.”
Still holding his arm, silence stretched between you. You found yourself looking at him—truly looking—as if you just saw him for the first time.
Aerion was ready to demand blood and call for judgment to see your attacker punished. His jawline was sharp, clenched as his beautiful violet eyes gazed at you in return, internally deciding what the best course of action was.
In the end, he listened to you somehow... but that was also when his gaze dropped. There, beneath the torn edge of your dress, blood had begun to seep down your calf.
“Seven hells.” The fury did not leave him, and now shifting to your sorry state. “You are fucking bleeding.”
“It’s nothing—” you dismissed it, but he ignored you entirely. Instead, Aerion forcefully led you down to sit on the wooden planks before he crouched before you, his hands lifted the torn fabric to see the wound.
With a sharp motion, to your shock (again), he tore a strip from the edge of his own doublet.
“What are you—”
“Hold still, wench. I’m trying to stop it.”
He bound the cloth firmly around your calf, his fingers deft despite the dim light, tightening it to staunch the bleeding.
You watched him, something unfamiliar fluttering in your chest. Throughout all the years you had known Aerion, tenderness had never been something you would attribute to him. But now, not only was he furious for your sake, he tended to you with such focus you would never have expected from a man so proud.
“…Where did you learn to do that?” you asked quietly.
Aerion huffed under his breath, not looking up as he secured the knot. “Daeron used to patch me up whenever I took a fall.” A pause followed. “It will have to do for now. Can you walk?”
You shifted, testing your weight. The sting along your calf answered for you as you grimaced. “…Not well.”
He let out of a long exhale, as if exasperated, and you thought you would force yourself to walk regardless rather than risking his ire, but—
Before you could protest, Aerion bent and swept you up into his arms.
A startled breath left you, your hands instinctively clutching at his neck. “Aerion—!”
“Spare me,” he hissed, already striding towards the way back. “You are not limping back to the castle.”
Your heart hammered traitorously against your ribs. It was ridiculous—utterly ridiculous!
His arm was firm at your back, the other braced beneath your knees, and you could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength he exuded in every step as though carrying you was the most natural thing in the world.
He did not set you down once—not even when the hall fell into a hush, nor when lords and ladies turned to stare, their gasps rippling softly in your wake.
A maester was summoned to tend to you the moment you returned. He worked in silence, cleaning and binding the cut in your calf far more thoroughly than Aerion’s efforts. By the time he finished, you were left sitting at the edge of the bed, exhaustion beginning to weigh on you.
You shared a chamber. That much could not be helped. And this was Storm’s End, where you couldn’t ask the maids for a heap of pillows, but the biggest concern was—
“It is a small bed,” you noted, casting him a sidelong glance.
Aerion gave a low snort, his gaze flicking to you. “You’ll survive.”
When you both finally lay down, it became more undeniable. There was scarcely any space between you. Your shoulder brushed his with the slightest movement, your legs threatening to tangle should either of you shift.
How were you supposed to rest like this...?
You let out a quiet breath, trying to lift the air. “If you so much as crush me in your sleep, I will see it counted as an assassination attempt.”
Aerion scowled beside you. “I would sooner have Rogar Reyne’s head before strangling my own wife in her sleep.”
“Must you sound so eager about it?”
“He dared to lay a hand on what is mine.” His voice sharpened, edged with a snarl. “If I had my way, his corpse would be hanging naked in the streets of King’s Landing. As it stands—he’ll beg for death before I’m through with him.”
His. You ignored the way your heart skipped a beat, and studied him in the dim light. “Why are you so upset about it, anyway?”
Aerion turned his head, fixing you with a look as though you had spoken pure nonsense. Why? Why indeed? Why had this searing anger taken hold of him the moment he realized some wretched cur had cornered you?
His indifferent, infuriating wife you might be, but still his all the same. That was enough reason.
“You are an enduring mystery,” you grumbled, saying this because you wasn’t aware of any of his thoughts, of course. “You told everyone and your squire you didn’t want my favor and all—”
The Bright Prince barked a quiet laugh. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”
“How—!”
“Because,” he snapped, “if I asked, you’d spend the night sewing like some overzealous seamstress just to meet the morning. Everyone knows your ribbons are the finest favor amongst the ladies.”
Your handmade favors had always been nothing more than a quiet pastime of yours. And yet, somehow, they had gained a reputation of their own because word got out that you always put so much care in the stitching.
“With your favor or not, I’ll beat the shit out of Reyne.” He shifted, settling in to his side and pressing his eyes shut. “Now stop prattling and go to sleep, wife. You ought to watch me on the morrow.”
You lay there for a moment, thoughts drifting. Aerion Brightflame who had become your husband— who made your life unbearable at times, and yet this same man whose touch had been careful, whose fury had flared at the sight of your injury, and who now swore vengeance upon who wronged you. You couldn’t fool yourself into feeling that you were not flattered in some strange, twisted way.
“Thank you,” you murmured almost shyly.
Aerion’s back remained to you, unmoving. Whether he had heard, you could not tell.
. . .
Aerion lay still, listening as your breathing gradually evened, growing slow and steady. When he finally turned his head, you were already asleep.
In sleep, you looked… different. All this time, that stupid pillow blockade had obstructed his view that it was the first time he saw you like this. The edge in your expression gone, your features eased into softness. Your lips were slightly chapped, and yet so bloody tempting to him he didn’t know why.
He still remembered the little lady with wide, doe-like eyes, clad in Lannister golden dress for her visits to the Red Keep. He remembered the way your face had pinched in irritation when he’d stolen your lemon tarts, clutching the empty plate as though it were a grave offense.
It had amused him then. It still did.
And no insolent fool dared to hurt you would be left alive.
Come the morrow, he would destroy the rat. But now, as he stared at you, his enemy-wife—
Aerion decided he would ride into the melee, crush every last opponent, and place the victor’s laurel in your hands after all.
The stands of Storm’s End were alive with color and noise, the roar of the crowd rolling like thunder beneath the gray skies as each knight lined in the arena.
Unlike most ladies, you did not shrink from bloodshed. You had always enjoyed tourneys—had cheered your brothers rather than fearing for them—and even now, with your husband among those in the field, you only felt a sense of calmness.
Or perhaps… you were simply distracted.
Your mind drifted back to this morning, and a flush of warmth rose to your cheeks.
Aerion’s face had been too close to yours when you woke, his arm draped loosely around your waist. His harsh features were nonexistent in sleep, and his expression almost… peaceful. With that silver-gold hair, he had looked less like terror and more like, you daresay, your protector.
“Good day, my lady.”
You blinked, dragging yourself back to the present as someone took the seat beside you. Prince Valarr’s smile was gentle, his mismatched gaze clear as he inclined his head in greeting.
“Your Grace,” you returned, offering a small smile.
He settled beside you, watching the field below. For a moment, the two of you simply observed the gathering knights.
“You are not competing today?” you asked, glancing at him.
“My lady wife is not fond of me in tourneys,” he replied, a note of fondness in his voice. “And she prefers the quiet of the castle with our son. I would have joined her, but I must stand in place of my father, you see.”
The tale of how besotted the Heir of Dragonstone was with his princess had all the makings of a storybook romance. At times, you found yourself envying them.
“Ah, and how does fatherhood treat you, Your Grace?”
His eyes softened then. “Better than any victory in the lists, I assure you.”
You smiled faintly at that, before your attention drifted once more to the field. It was a melee today—no tilting and just pure strength, steel and survival.
And there, striding into the fray in black and red armor, was Aerion of House Targaryen, the second son of the Prince of Summerhall, as the herald proclaimed.
With the shape of his helmet and spikes of his armor, he cut a menacing figure among the rest. Even at a distance, there was something in the way he held himself—like a blade drawn and waiting.
Valarr followed your gaze. “Are you excited, my lady? My cousin is a fine knight. I would not be surprised to see him emerge champion.”
Truthfully? Yes. You parted your lips to answer but the sharp blare of a trumpet split the air, signaling that the melee had begun.
Your husband drove his destrier forward with ruthless precision, scattering men before him. Steel rang, bodies fell, and in the chaos—he thrived. With that morningstar in hand, he was a force to be reckoned with.
At one point, he forced Lord Tully to the ground, looming over him like something out of a nightmare.
“Tell the Reyne bastard that Aerion Brightflame is after his head!”
Valarr’s lips twitched beside you. “Ah… so someone has offended him yet again. Poor him.”
You remembered an anecdote you had once heard, glancing at him. “I was told Aerion once asked for Her Grace’s favor, and you beat the shit out of him for it... is that true?”
From the meaningful smile he had on his face, it was clear there was more into the tale, but whatever it was, Valarr chose not to disclose it.
“To be honest, I have the Seven to thank for that. But fret not, my lady. Aerion will not lose this time.”
“And why are you so certain?”
The Young Prince’s gaze flicked to you, something knowing in his expression.
“Would you not be the one who knows best? He is the dragon. He ought never lose.”
If Valarr mirrored Prince Baelor’s impeccable duty and honor, then Aerion was the living image of Prince Maekar’s finest lance and fury—though sharper, fiercer, and far more unforgiving than his sire had ever been. His height might prove to be a challenge, but he more than compensated it with aggressive stances and lightning-fast strikes.
Below, as if to prove the point, the Bright Prince cut through another opponent with brutal efficiency, swinging his deadly mace mercilessly.
Soon enough, he cleared out all the combatants and found his target: Rogar Reyne.
Your former betrothed had barely time to react before Aerion’s destrier crashing forward with terrifying force. The swing of his morningstar came swift and brutal—striking so hard that sent Rogar flying from his saddle and into the dirt below.
The crowd roared, and Aerion did not stop. He had only just begun.
He dismounted in a breath, advancing like a man possessed. Lord Reyne scrambled to defend himself—but the Brightflame fought with something far worse than skill. Entitled fury.
The morningstar came down again and again, each blow denting armor, drawing blood. And when Rogar Reyne’s guard finally broke—
Aerion pulled out his sword. He drove the man back, slashing without mercy, carving through what little defense remained. Blood spilled freely, staining the ground, staining his hands— each strike was meant to answer for the wrong he did to you.
A gasp rippled through the stands. You also felt the shock and horror, but beyond that—
The sight of your husband, stained with blood of his own doing, and knowing that he did it because of you… it was not as repulsive as it ought to have been.
If anything, it felt gratifying.
Rogar was barely conscious when Aerion seized him by the collar, dragging him across the dirt like a carcass. The field fell into a stunned hush as he hauled him before the stands and forced him to his knees.
Your husband loomed over him, tearing off his skull-like helmet—his face unmarred by blood, yet no less fearsome. His presence overwhelming as his voice rang out across the arena:
“This cunt right here dared to dishonor my wife.”
A murmur swept through the crowd. You could feel the weight of eyes turning towards you but the crowd’s attention quickly snapped back to the broken man at Aerion’s feet.
“And now let it be known—”
His violet gaze burns anyone he laid eyes on—until it found yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought the corners of his lips curled ever so slightly.
“—any lowlife who dares the same will answer to me.”
With a single, vicious kick to his face, Aerion sent him sprawling into the dirt once more. The stands erupted at once, their roars rising for the champion they had found.
That day, Aerion Brightflame stood victorious… having claimed justice in the name of his wife.
Lord Corlys Velaryon once said that history remembers names. The fools of the Red Keep and Casterly Rock might argue over how it was that you and Aerion came to despise one another—but on this, both they and realm would agree:
When the Bright Prince dethroned Lady Baratheon to name you the queen of beauty in the grandest tourney in its time—
It was more than clear, that by then... the lion had tamed the dragon.
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