What about how Eric (House MD) acts when jealous over his S/O? I'm grateful that you write for him, not many people do. Thank you if you'll write this.☺️
⋆˚꩜｡ jealous foreman headcanons
includes: unestablished relationship, foreman and reader are very close friends, foreman doing the most (house parallels, foreman's slightly unhinged), corporate sabotage, and silly times!
notes: i miss you foreman i love you foreman !!! there are barely any fics for him, i should've done this weeks ago. i really do think he's one of the best characters in house md so it's such a shame he doesn't get as much love compared to other characters. i hope you enjoy !
𑣲⋆ foreman tries his best to be rational, he really does. at work, he strives to be the one people turn to when they need someone cool and levelheaded in every situation. and he's succeeded... to an extent. something that will get to him every time is his jealousy. despite the exterior, he can be a pretty jealous person! the calm and collected persona he tries to keep up is just something he does to stay sane and do his part at princeton plainsboro. in reality? he can be just as irrational and idiotic as his coworkers.
𑣲⋆ if it's someone from your past that you've been getting closer to recently, he manages. he trusts you, of course he does. he thinks that you two are close enough where, if someone was pursuing you, you'd tell him. and he'd live with that! if you don't want him, you don't want him. he has too much respect for you to push that. or if it's house and his odd way of sneaking into everyone's personal life, creating really weird, unnamable relationships with his coworkers? yeah, he even tries to move past that. house is a case study. you can't hold him to any standard. he tries to be patient, really, he does.
𑣲⋆ but there's one kind of person that gets to him, and that's people who think they're better than him. foreman's smart, capable, respected by many. even house holds him in high esteem (when he cares to admit it). so if a new guy comes sauntering into work, trying to shoot his shot, alarms go off. because yeah, he's got an ego. but how can he not? when he's one of house's most trusted, when he's ran a hospital and his own diagnostics team before? he watches the guy squirm for validation from you and he's sick of it. you deserve more than a freshly budded med student.
𑣲⋆ there's two ways he goes about his jealousy. the first is that he waits to act. he watches your conversations with him, you being too humble to assume the new guy has other intentions. people mention the guy's possible interest, but you smile and shake your head. foreman feigns agreement. meanwhile, he's taking notes: what the guy brags about, how he tries to bait you into hanging out outside of work. chase actually catches on later and thinks to tease foreman, but that's until he catches the glint in his eye. and this is when he's reminded of the familiarities between him and house. foreman's plotting. chase backs off (and is thoroughly invested). it takes weeks of data.
𑣲⋆ but soon the strike comes down, silent but deadly, and squishes any relevance this guy was cultivating. does he have a vacation home? foreman rekindles old connections and is suddenly entrusted with looking after a lake house during the owner's vacations. "yeah, it's no big deal," he says after mentioning it subtly. "but if you want a weekend away with your friends, just let me know." is the guy well read? foreman looks into the books you love, then catches you during lunch break and gets you into a riveting conversation. "i get why you like the book so much. no one's inherently right or wrong, and you can't be too mad about the ending. what did you think?" is the guy into cooking? foreman invites you to his home with a three-course meal of dishes you admitted to liking in passing through the span of months. "please, take some home too. i can't eat all this."
𑣲⋆ to no surprise, it works. you end up refusing the guy's offer for coffee and spend time with foreman in the park instead. walking around, you admit that he did seem a bit self-centered. foreman nods. "he did seem a bit all talk, didn't he?" but that's if foreman plays nice, disregarding the obsession. the second option is a lot dirtier. working in princeton plainsboro, he's more than used to ludicrous cases. many new hires aren't. so, he tricks the guy into humiliating himself. he'll get him to argue for typhoid fever when the patient hasn't left upstate NY in a year. he'll swap test tubes, so he gets impossible results. he'll even stay silent when the guy voices a new theory, then waits to call out medical inconsistencies until he's in front of the patient's family, pitching his idea. you're immediately unimpressed.
𑣲⋆ does the newbie get fired? likely. if he doesn't, cuddy just moves him to an entirely different floor, embarrassed that she approved a hire so inexperienced. you find foreman in the break room when the news comes out, baffled. foreman tries to hide his smile. "some people just aren't as ready as they think they are," he says. then, he gestures to the empty spot next to him on the couch and reveals two tickets to an exhibit that just opened at one of your favorite museums. you're elated and tackle him in a hug. foreman laughs and rubs your back. and in the back of his mind, he's oh so smug. it seems he's always two steps ahead.
The stigma of self-inserts is so harmful to the creative process. Relax. Admit it. Everything you make is derivative of yourself, always, no exceptions. You can turn the mirror into tinier and tinier shards or you can make it as big as you want to reflect as much as you want. At the end of the day it's always going to show you inside of it. Pretending otherwise is stupid.
It's about doing it in a way so that the reader doesn't know.
If I read the book and come to a moment where "oh, this is the author writing about themselves" my interest in the story drops by about 300%. Don't make it obvious and you'll be fine.
Nope. You're missing the point still. Stop acting like it's acceptable behavior for you to call the earnest creation of art "lame". Power fantasy characters are rad as fuck. Everybody loves seeing John Wick do that shit. You're not just being needlessly rude and harmful to others, you're also just flat out fuckin wrong.
hiiii i just read your protective john shelby hc and loved it so much 🤍 i was wondering if you could do the same thing but with michael gray you can ignore this request if you want 💕x
a/n: thank you very much♡ i hope you enjoy this one as well♡ apologies for the long wait🥺
Peaky Blinders Masterlist Masterlist
Michael Gray being protective💪
°•♡he notices danger before you do. Michael has always been observant - dangerously so. The kind of man who walks into a room and has measured every person in it before he’s even taken his coat off: who’s armed, who’s nervous, who’s watching too closely, who’s drunk enough to become stupid. It’s instinct at this point, sharpened by the Shelby world and the constant understanding that danger rarely announces itself before it arrives. And once you’re part of his life, that awareness sharpens around you tenfold. He notices the man staring too long before you ever feel it. Notices when somebody steps too close, when their tone shifts, when their intentions stop being innocent. And Michael does not wait for things to escalate - he acts at the first sign. And later, when you ask how he knew something was wrong, he’d barely look up from his cigarette and mutter, “because i was watching.” Like it’s obvious. Because to him, it is.
°•♡he always positions himself between you and everyone else. It’s instinctive: crowded rooms, busy streets, family meetings - it doesn’t matter. He places himself where he can see everything and where nothing can get to you without going through him first. A hand at your back guiding you through doors; his body shifting in front of yours when tension rises; his arm brushing yours like an anchor. All while his expression remains unchanged, almost calm, which somehow makes it more unsettling. He doesn’t make a show of it, but once you notice it, you realize he does it every time. Michael protects through positioning, through presence, through making himself the barrier before danger ever reaches you.
°•♡he’s protective in small, almost invisible ways no one else notices. It’s not always about life-or-death Shelby danger. It’s the way he drapes his coat over your shoulders the second the night air turns colder. The way he orders your drink or your food exactly how you like it before you even fully sit down, because he’s catalogued every preference. The way he keeps his body angled toward the door in restaurants or pubs, even during calm nights. It’s so seamless you almost miss it - until you realize he’s been quietly insulating you from discomfort since the moment you met.
°•♡he gets colder when he’s worried about you. He doesn’t wear worry well; if you’re late getting home, if you disappear longer than expected, if something feels off and he can’t reach you, he doesn’t unravel outwardly. He goes still. Quiet in that particular way that means his mind is running through every possibility, every outcome, every place you could be. And by the time you walk through the door, relief is already tangled up with irritation, because he hates the feeling of not knowing, hates the helplessness of waiting. Worry makes him restless, and restlessness makes him sharp. But the real tell would be afterward: how he lingers near you longer that night, how his hand stays on your waist or your knee like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here, safe, and in one piece.
°•♡he listens when you speak about people - and remembers. If you mention that someone made you uncomfortable, he doesn’t brush it off. He listens carefully, asks just enough to understand, and stores it away. Names, faces, places; he remembers all of it. And the unsettling part is that you never know when that information becomes relevant to him again. Because he treats discomfort as warning. If someone made you uneasy once, he watches them twice as hard the next time. He trusts your instincts, even if you think you’re overreacting.
°•♡he controls the situation before it can become dangerous. His protectiveness has never been about brute force; it’s about control. Prevention. So he manages things almost invisibly: if it’s late, he’s walking you home. And if he can’t, somebody else is. If you mention going somewhere he doesn’t trust, he’ll ask questions - not out of suspicion toward you, but because he’s already assessing the environment, the people, the risks. Michael’s mind works like that: constantly moving ahead of the moment. And if he doesn’t like what he sees? He changes it. Simple as that. Different route. Different company. Different plan; he’d never phrase it as concern either. Never "i’m worried about you". It would always come out colder, firmer. “You’re not going alone.” End of discussion. That's because he has seen how quickly things turn ugly, and if there’s a way to stop that before it reaches you, he will. You can be sure of that.
°•♡disrespect toward you becomes personal to him. He takes disrespect toward you as insult to himself; because if you’re under his protection, your dignity becomes part of his responsibility. If someone speaks over you, mocks you, dismisses you, he feels it as if it's directed at him. You see it in the way his face stills, the way his jaw tightens just once before he smooths it over. He wouldn’t interrupt right away. Michael likes to observe first, to understand exactly who he’s dealing with. But once he decides the line has been crossed, that’s it. He’d step in with a voice so calm it becomes eary, correcting them in a way that makes people understand they’ve made a mistake. And the worst part? He remembers. He never forgets who made you uncomfortable. Even if he smiles, even if he lets the moment pass, it stays filed away in his head. And he is the type of man who settles things later; when it’s quieter, cleaner, and out of your sight.
°•♡he teaches you how to protect yourself - then hates it. Michael will teach you practical things: how to hold a gun steady, how to spot someone following you, how to use a knife without hesitation. He wants you capable, not helpless. But every lesson leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his touch lingers a second longer than necessary after correcting your grip. He’s proud of how quickly you learn, yet it eats at him. Every new skill is a silent reminder that his world could still reach you when he’s not there.
°•♡he remembers the little things that scare you. You mentioned once that loud arguments make your stomach twist, or that a certain type of alley makes you anxious, or that you hate being grabbed suddenly - and he files it all away like ammunition. He will shut down shouting matches around you instantly. He’ll steer you away from certain streets without a second thought. If someone reaches for you too quickly, his hand is already there, blocking, redirecting. He never makes you explain yourself twice; your fears become his rules.
°•♡if you’re hurt, he becomes terrifyingly quiet. That’s when he is at his most dangerous - not when he’s angry, but when he’s calm. If you’re injured, frightened, bleeding, shaking, his entire body stills. No panic, no chaos - just focus. He’d be in front of you in seconds, hands steady, voice low, assessing everything with cold precision. Where are you hurt? Who did it? How bad? But even while he’s taking care of you, there’s another part of him already working through the second half of the problem: the person responsible. He can hold your face in his hands and ask if you’re alright while deciding what happens next to the man who touched you. And the colder his voice is, the worse it usually means it’ll be for them.
°•♡physical comfort as protection. When the world feels too heavy, he protects you by simply pulling you into him. No soft words, just his arms locked around you, chin resting on your head, one hand slowly stroking your back or threading through your hair; he holds you like he can physically keep the darkness away. In bed he often sleeps with an arm draped heavily over your waist or curled around your back - positioning that says even in unconsciousness, he’s between you and anything that might come through the door.
°•♡he would never let you face his world alone. Michael understands better than most that being connected to a Shelby means inheriting danger you never asked for. And that knowledge would weigh on him heavily, even if he never says it aloud. If there are meetings, family business, tense gatherings, men with bad tempers and worse intentions, he would never leave you alone in it. Not once. And if he had to leave, he’d make sure someone he trusted is near you. Because Michael knows his world shifts fast: violence can erupt from nothing, deals can turn, tempers can break. And the idea of you being caught in the middle of something he understands but you shouldn’t have to? It would eat at him. So if you’re in his world, he’s making sure his world doesn’t swallow you.
°•♡he will get angry when you put yourself at risk. This is where Michael gets complicated; if you do something reckless like walking somewhere dangerous alone, involving yourself in Shelby business, or stepping into a situation that could get you hurt, his first internal emotion would be fear. Real fear. But he rarely shows fear honestly; it comes out as anger instead: sharp words, a hard jaw, that cold, clipped voice that means he’s holding himself together by force. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?” And it would sound harsh, harsher than he means, because underneath it is the image of losing you. It would never really be about what you did. It would be about what almost happened, what he almost had to face. And later, when the anger fades, that’s when you’d feel the truth of it: his hands lingering on you longer than usual, checking you over as if convincing himself you’re still there. Michael’s protectiveness gets roughest when he’s been frightened, because fear, for him, always seeks something to control afterward.
°•♡he would never let you leave upset without fixing it first. He is not the kind of man who lets things fester - not when it comes to you. If you’re angry, hurt, or visibly shaken, he won’t let you walk away and sit in it alone. Even if you’re arguing with him, even if the tension is thick enough to choke on, he would stop you before you got too far. “Don’t walk away from me like this.” He hates unfinished things, unfinished conversations, unresolved tension, words hanging in the air. He needs to understand where the damage is before it gets worse. And if someone else upset you? That need doubles, because once he knows the source, he can do something about it. He is not good at comforting with words, but he’s good at staying. At keeping you close until the shaking stops, until the anger settles, until he knows you’re alright. He doesn’t fix pain delicately, but he refuses to leave it untouched.
°•♡he’ll choose you over the family if it comes down to it. This is the choice that terrifies him most. Loyalty to the Shelbys is carved into his bones, but if a situation ever forces his hand - your safety against a risky job, your comfort against one of Tommy’s orders - Michael will choose you. The decision would tear at him, and he might brood for hours afterward, chain-smoking in silence, jaw tight, eyes distant while he deals with the consequences alone. He won’t regret it, but it would change things. From that moment on, the way he moves within the family shifts: you become the line he refuses to let anyone cross, even his own blood.
°•♡if someone hurt you, his first instinct would be revenge. Before comfort, before logic, before anything else - revenge. That’s the Shelby in him, and Michael has more of it in him than he likes to admit. If someone put their hands on you, scared you, threatened you, left bruises where there shouldn’t be bruises, his mind would go straight to them. Who they are. Where they are. How close they still are to you. He’d take care of you first, of course: sit you down, clean the cuts, check the bruising, make sure nothing is worse than it looks. His hands would be steady, careful even. But there’d be a distance in him while doing it, a coldness settling behind his eyes. Because part of him is already gone, already thinking about what comes next. And Michael’s revenge is never impulsive. That’s what makes it worse. He wouldn’t storm off in anger. He’d finish taking care of you, make sure you are safe, make sure you aren't alone - and then he’d leave to handle it. He can tolerate pain aimed at him. But pain aimed at you? Oh boy, that's personal. And personal things never go unanswered.
°•♡he protects your peace from his own world. Michael knows the Shelby name brings noise, pressure, and blood. So he tries (in his own imperfect way) to give you pockets of normalcy. He’ll shut down business talk the second you enter the room. He’ll take you out of Birmingham when he can - quiet drives, weekends away - where no one knows you as “Michael Gray’s girl.” He hates the idea of his ambition or the family’s chaos staining you, so he builds small walls of calm wherever he’s able, even if it means lying about how bad things really are.
°•♡protectiveness makes him vulnerable. The only time the mask truly slips is after the danger has passed. Once he has you safe in his arms, tucked against his chest in the quiet of your room, the same man who was ice-cold and terrifyingly strategic just an hour ago, will let out a long, shaky breath and press his face into the crook of your neck. He doesn’t speak; he just holds you, breathing you in like he needs the proof that you’re real and unharmed. These moments are rare, but they reveal everything: all that iron control, every calculated move, is built on a raw, aching fear of losing you. In the silence, you feel just how deeply you affect him.
°•♡in the end, protecting you is the only peace he has. Michael Gray was born into chaos and raised in blood. He’s always understood the world as something sharp and unforgiving. But with you… protecting you becomes more than instinct or duty. It becomes the closest thing he has to control in a life that constantly threatens to spiral. Every calculated move, every cold decision, every quiet act of shielding you is his way of saying what he rarely puts into words: you are the one thing he refuses to lose. In a world that has taken so much from him, you are the single soft place he will burn everything down to protect. And as long as he’s breathing, no one - not even the devil himself - will take you from him.
Your feedback and criticism is greatly appreciated; feel free to leave a comment, it means more than you know♡
Thank you for stumbling onto my blog, enjoy reading 💫
"when the receiver awakens, they discover that the sender has been sleeping next to them, arms wrapped around one another for warmth, comfort, protection"
with reader as receiver and aerion as sender?👀 just need some possessive clingy aerion also in his sleep
{ aerion brightflame x you }
a/n: anon i need you to understand that this had me completely internally screaming and pacing circuits around my apartment. i had to set my phone down and walk this off, because oh my god.
wc: 1050
It had been a simple thing, when you woke.
A cool breeze brushing slow and languid along your skin. The reprieve was welcome, a balance to ease the heat of a shape next to you, that had not been there when you drifted off to sleep only a few hours before.
Upon realizing this, pushing the gossamer veil of sleep away from your senses, stubborn as it was – you shifted, covers pooling at your waist, an arm tightening almost immediately around you. Which, of course, limited your mobility even further. Especially once it was punctuated with a rough voice, still sharp in the hours of night, mumbling for you to ‘stop moving’. And ‘you're not leaving’.
No matter this was, of course, your bed, and your bedchamber.
On nights like these, Aerion always won, in the end. A dragon curled around you like a hoard of precious gemstones made flesh, given shape, gifted breath, the lingering tendrils of smoke tying you together even when apart.
It's why you mumble something half intelligible, but no less an unmistakable agreement as you shift enough to reach for him, too. Your dragon come to you, once more seeking out what calls to him while spitting in the face of propriety as he does it. A bonus, really, considering what's proper is always so terribly constricting as it is.
Much as he is around you, in this moment.
Though – maybe you don't mind this. Being something to someone who never hides who he is, who may whisper 'mine' in the quiet safety of moonlight spearing shadow like a claim – but never the kind that bleeds disrespect, leaving blood blooming along your nightclothes like some sort of night blooming garden. But the kind that means being seen wholeheartedly, completely, accepted, and chosen by someone just as sharp as you can be. The kind that means you're his to keep, not neglect. To protect, even when he knows you're perfectly capable all on your own.
And you let him. Let him sneak into your bed and nestle close as he does now, all warm and sleep-soft because this is the only time he lets you see him as anything other than polished. Held together by pride and an ever present ache that runs so deep, he does all he can to break it. Every day. Every moment. Every second.
Your hand slips idly through his hair, silver strands like silk and mussed through fingertips as you press closer into his embrace. Let yourself relax back into the familiarity of a moment, stolen, a new memory added to the list of nights exactly like these, joining golden hours spent off on some forgotten balcony in a wing of the castle largely left alone, because part of Aerion always, always, hopes someone will see you with him.
That you chose this. Chose him.
How he chose you.
The thought, half formed and hazy as it is, stokes a burning ember of something close to affection in your chest, at the same time a raw sound of pure satisfaction leaves Aerion with the feel of you near, the feel of you reaching for him, too, even in sleep. He shifts a leg over yours, knee tucked between your thighs only to pull you impossibly closer so he's all but draped over you, touching you in every possible way.
Like he can't bear to let you go, even for a moment. When he feels you reciprocate (of course you do – he's just as much yours as you are his), that restless legacy always burning him alive from the inside out settles. Quiets. The possessive part of him that has nothing to do with the Targaryen name, the part that is wholly, entirely, Aerion - it goes boneless. Preens, purrs, validates. But, you're here in his arms, still wanting to be as close to him as possible, even when you're most vulnerable.
That sort of trust is not lost on him, even now.
His head buries itself further into the crook of your neck, arms becoming an even heavier weight around your waist than the feel of a Targaryen Prince effectively crushing your shoulder. You, still half asleep and shifting closer – always closer, that push and pull, that inevitable give and take – you simply huff in whatever sleepy amusement you can gather, in the night.
"You wretched man – you're going to smother me in my sleep."
Aerion doesn't move.
Of course he doesn't.
But, after he catalogs your voice rough with dreams, how it's threaded with something suspiciously like laughter, he shifts. Finally moves.
But, not away. Never away.
Closer. Drags you almost completely under him like you mentioned leaving instead of I want to breathe properly. And, maybe, you preen a little bit with the gesture, too. And, maybe, your laugh is a touch more solid as your fingers slip gently through his hair, arm tucked under him to hold him just as tightly.
Another sound slips out of him – low and lazy and entirely too fucking pleased with himself. Like he won something, even though he knows you're just as starved for him, as he is for you. But, before he can mumble a reply into the soft underside of your jaw, you keep going.
"...don't leave."
The words he chose for a reply, die in his throat immediately.
You say it in that voice – the treacherous one that's all softness and painful honesty. The one that completely fucking undoes him, because this – this is the voice you only use when you're as you are now. More asleep than awake, lingering in the waking realm by a thread fraying with each passing second. Your mind wanders because of it, thoughts spilling freely into the exposed skin of his shoulder.
The one that means you're not awake enough to even know what you're saying.
He swallows, heartbeat slamming into your ribcage as he recalibrates, because he always has to reboot his fucking system when faced with moments like these.
And then?
Nothing. He doesn't say a word. Just stays wrapped around you like a guardian made of hidden scales and fire for blood. Your dragon tangled with you so seamlessly, Aerion isn't even sure where he ends, and you begin -
aftertaste of a favor
{ lyonel baratheon x you }
author's note : you guys wanted me to write lyonel baratheon, so im gonna give you lyonel baratheon!!!! we are absolutely not going to subscribe to the purity westerosi bullshit bc u cannot convince me people actually care, even as a noble lady, which - im not sure if this qualifies as gender neutral like usual? im...unsure how to make it work properly in a world that is way less fluid in acceptance of deviation from their two primary genders in terms of titles and roles? reader adheres to the female presenting roll of a Lady for the sake of the Event in this fic, but if anyone has notes on how to navigate this, id love to hear them!! i want to keep making these as inclusive as possible <3
sidenote: have fun u chaotic baddies, i see u. u can take him. and in this? YOU GIVE HIM A RUN FOR HIS MONEY, GO YOU. lovely divider by @uzmacchiato
word count : 2996 ( holy shit )
It started with a favor.
Night descended upon Ashford Meadow like the fist of a vengeful god, the anticipation thick and loud and bleeding out into the air between a tightly closed palm before the blow could even connect. It drifted all the way up to Lord Ashford's keep, winding it's way through stone halls clamoring with preparations and the celebration of Lady Gwin's nameday – of which you, of course, were in attendance whether you wished to be, or not.
Yet even you couldn't deny the thrill weaving around your bones as you settled into your place on the bench, the stands already filling up quickly with other nobles eager to see the first bloodshed of the tourney. Torch light burned hot and bright, chasing away the darkness with an almost cheerful warmth, illuminating the subtle flash of gold dragons already being exchanged in wagers. Lords and Ladies and their whispers were still heard clear as day over the rising cacophony of growing crowds bringing the familiar musings of idle gossip, like which of the knights had come to Ashford simply to find himself a lady wife.
You, of course, were not here for such things. Even if you were partial to a man who proved to be more than competent with a sword or mace in hand.
As soon as the thought crossed your mind, the volume around the field rose; the eight knights entering the lists for the opening tournament had begun to mount their horses, spurring them along the muddy field in a few spirited circuits along the lanes. Squires dashed around, trying valiantly to make absolutely certain that everything was in place, that armor was secured and horses readied, lances heaved into the waiting hands of men already astride horses growing restless with each passing moment. Your eyes scanned them all, along with everyone else – and that anticipation began to rear it's head once more, now that the first joust was already in sight.
It was difficult to miss him.
The impressive figure he cut was enough to draw more eyes than your own, almost immediately. Tall, imposing, vibrant not only from the adornment of bright Baratheon golds, but in the air of his vitality as well. Larger than life itself, Ser Lyonel Baratheon made chaos bow and fold and yield, the raging thunder of Storm’s End incarnate made flesh right before your very eyes, great stag helm balanced on the saddle before him.
You were suddenly all too aware of every tale you’ve heard surrounding Lyonel Baratheon, heir of Storm’s End. The revelry, the drink, the scandal, the warrior’s prowess and not a care for courtesy or etiquette in the slightest.
Then, almost without missing a single moment: roaring, unapologetic laughter cut right through the sound of the gathering masses. It sliced right through every single one of your thoughts like butter, as if on cue.
The Laughing Storm, indeed.
He’s intrigued you from the very beginning.
Because, this isn’t the first time you’ve seen him. There have been other tourneys, of course, but the Tourney of Ashford Meadow in honor of Lady Gwin’s thirteenth nameday is the first time you’ve wanted to meet him.
Truthfully, the constrictions of propriety had always suffocated you, as well. Perhaps, that is why the gods above chose to smile upon you in mercy. Or perhaps in warning. Either way, it did not stop the Laughing Storm himself, from lifting his eyes at that exact, godsforsaken moment, only to cease their sweep of the stands when far off blues locked with yours.
You would argue that it was you, his eyes caught, were it not for the fact that he and his squire lingered near the lane closest to you. Even from this height, he was magnetic, and you were almost sorry for it. You felt yourself still. So much so, perhaps, that breathing was no longer a priority, and so you simply stopped.
Ser Lyonel simply grinned.
All teeth. Steed stomping under him, impatient. He held the reigns steady, and beckoned to his squire for the lance. To your absolute delight, and an undeniable, abject horror, he spurred his horse forward. Unmistakably, in your direction.
That traitorous heart of yours stuttered, when his grin widened – sharp and easy and way too fucking pretty when contrasted with the mess of dark and silver curls falling over one eye, the closer he comes. The Ladies behind you immediately begin whispering about who Ser Lyonel is going to request a -
Your name carves a bold command, warm and smooth all at once, through the voices around you – still held in place by this shocking development. The armored horse halts before the stands, Ser Lyonel’s voice carrying effortlessly over the wooden rail to you, settled near the edge in the second row.
“I would humbly request the honor of receiving the favor of someone as radiant as my lady, to guide me to victory.”
It was smooth, in delivery; no doubt practiced and announced more times than you would ever correctly guess. Yet, he was still teasing you. Attempting to charm you. If you were naive, you wouldn’t have even noticed. But you are not naive. Every thread woven through his words that simply screamed challenge - tempting you in a dare, almost, was caught and cataloged almost immediately. Because here he was, highlighting you in front of the whole fucking meadow. Or, at least, anyone paying attention.
You’re beginning to think that his reputation precedes him already.
That, is when you make up your mind. Because you? You rarely back down. You eat men like Lyonel Baratheon for morning meal. Occasionally, literally.
He has no idea what he’s just rode into, does he? Poor man.
You were not about to let him devour you.
So, as per request of your pride, your eyes hold his for a long, silent moment. Then, a quirk of your lips, the flash of amusement taking refuge in your expression before the slight, polite incline of your head. Then, with all the languid grace you could summon, your actions spoke of the answer to his challenge if one knew how to read subtle body language. If one knew someone like you well enough to notice how you answered Ser Lyonel in kind, no words required. Simply the way you held yourself: assured. Steady. Unflinching. Spine straight as steel but with all the flowing calm of a bubbling stream.
The rake of his eyes do not leave you. Not as you rise. Not as you navigate your way through the stands. Not as you pretend not to notice your companions whispering in your wake about what you're going to do -
And they sure as all Seven Hells never leave you, once you appear right in front of him, stepping right up to the barrier with eyes looking down on him like you're keeping some sort of secret. As if spectacle were beneath you, a noble Lady who knows your place. He still doesn't hide how he looks at you – not with the firelight bathing you in soft warmth so at odds with the harsh darkness blanketing the lists with the hush of nightfall bleeding mystery and proclamations brought on by the high thrill of a fight on the horizon.
In this case, Lyonel begins to wonder if he’s about to engage in two tournaments this night. Because, if the way you're looking at him is any indication? If he hadn't known how people look at him, more often than not – he'd wager you were out for blood of your own.
"I believe the honor would be mine, Ser Lyonel," the lilt in your voice was his own teasing reflected back to him. Seamless. Immediate. The favor in your hands raised, an offering. A declaration. His grin widened as he angled the lance towards the stands for you to bless him with the all the luck everyone knew he never needed. "May it see you to a swift victory, indeed."
Your movements pause. Braided wreath of fragrant herbs and vibrant ribbon hovering an inch above the tip of his lance. Your head tilts. Polite smirk growing into something openly flirtatious, when your eyes slip to catch his once more. Words flow freely, after that. Voice low enough for only him to hear you over the rising tide of the crowd.
"Though, I do wonder – would it be remiss to assume you have a way show your thanks, should you become the victor?"
Lyonel, to his credit, only briefly pauses.
And then? He laughs.
It's loud, because he isn't ever anything else. Heads turn. Neither of you break eye contact. You pretend not to feel your heart beat a little quicker when the rumble settles over your skin in a way propriety demands you ignore.
Instead? You lean in.
Literally.
Hands close the distance to lower the wreath down the length of the lance angled towards you, body following the movement as far as your arms will reach. You let go, letting it slide down the rest of the way to settle against the guard – yet you do not straighten.
Lyonel never gives you the chance.
His other hand drops the reigns of his horse. Reaches above the rack of antlers spread out before him, lifting to the heavens in supplication for a looming victory he may not see. And then, the cold steel of gauntleted fingers catch your hand in a bold move too gentle for a man of his stature, of his nature. It's not subtle. It's not hidden. Neither is the way his mount eases forward enough for Ser Lyonel Baratheon to lean in and brush warm lips over your knuckles.
Slow. Steady. Lingering. Your breath catches, and you really wish it hadn't. But, he notices. Of course he does. Lyonel Baratheon wouldn't be himself, if he hadn't learned to read the subtle reactions he draws so effortlessly from anyone who crosses his path.
It tells you exactly how he would show his gratitude.
When he straightens, the fire in his eyes in unmistakable. He keeps you like this, and you let him.
People are starting to notice.
"Ah, the Lady doubts me and curses me all in one breath," it comes out a smooth rumble, careless of the attention the both of you are drawing. "No matter. I have a few tricks up my sleeve that could restore your faith in me, if you'd allow it."
His grin turns searing. The careful eye contact breaks, in favor of his eyes pointedly darting down to your lips. A brief moment that feels like eternity. It's enough for you to remember yourself, and you promptly pretend to ignore the flutter in your stomach of the implication. Match his grin, finally, with a barbed one of your own.
Then? You pull your hand back. Remain leaning over the rail, but curl your hands over the edge, entirely out of reach. Pretend, valiantly, like the path he traced with his warmth has not left a burning trail branded onto your skin.
"Aren't you worried about the delicate sensibilities of a lady?" A brief pause as you straighten to full height then, face tipped down to look upon him in the flicker of firelight, every inch the portrait of a scoundrel knight he does nothing to change. "In either case – is it truly a curse if a quick match makes for a sweet reward?"
This time, it's Lyonel's turn to feel something warm coursing through his veins. The fire burning in the braziers nearby have nothing to do with it, nor do the layers of armor coating his skin in the familiar weight of a memorable night to be had. His eyebrows rise – if only slightly, grin widening when your words settle. If you weren't watching him as closely as he is you, it would be easy to miss the flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes, before they gleam.
He's always been harried to find someone who matches him so seamlessly. It would be a shame if he let you slip away, wouldn't it?
The laugh that precedes his answer is rough – though this one is simply for you, alone.
"Is it truly sweet, if I did not bleed for it? Or does my Lady wish to send me off with nothing but a honeyed curse from her sharp tongue and sweet lips?”
Gods above, it was becoming a battle of your own to hold fast to your resolve.
The boldness is rewarded with a slight curve of your lips, ignoring once more, the feel of your heart suddenly pounding in time to the absolute, treacherous swoop of your stomach.
Except, Ser Lyonel doesn’t wait for your reply. Instead, he simply retracts the lance and holds it straight, leaning closer to you standing over him like some ancient goddess of old. Gods, he wanted to remark on your ‘delicate sensibilities’, because he knew for a fact that someone with whip-sharp wit like yours was never as fragile as they seemed.
“You are right though,” he starts, voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur. Even above the crowd and passing thunder of hoofbeats on the packed dirt of the field, you could hear it plain as day. The sardonic drawl that warmed your skin and settled in your chest like a burning, wicked little jolt. “It would be foolish of me, not to pay your good fortune back in kind.”
The implication is received with a blink, and the slightest catch of breath.
You pretend like you’re not in danger. Like perhaps, for the first time in a very long time, Lyonel Baratheon may be just a little more than you can chew.
But, by all the gods, you were not raised to be a fucking coward.
“You don’t strike me as a fool, Ser Lyonel.”
An eyebrow lifts, though his gaze doesn’t waver when his head shakes once, finding himself leaning closer – the stag helm balanced on the saddle before him, becoming just a little too close to catching on something like his dignity. He doesn’t pay it any mind – not when his smile sharpens, another laugh spilling out of him like this is what he breathes, instead of something as mundane as the spring breeze sliding throughout the meadow like a balm.
“Most would disagree with you, I’d wager.”
“Most are fools themselves, with no appreciation for the spirit of life.”
By now, there are whispers. Heads have turned, pretending not to watch from the corners of eyes, pretending not to hide behind their fans as they strain to hear what it is, exactly, that you and the Laughing Storm are speaking of for so long a time, when all he wanted was your favor. Because, what you aren’t quite aware of yet, is how the tension growing slow and steady like a white-hot brand between the two of you, so lost in your own battle of wills, is beginning to be felt.
Not just in the air crackling between you, but in the waves rippling out from the tell-tale signs of something beginning. A fire catching. A storm brewing off the coast of this new shore that the both of you have dragged yourselves towards, all breathless and shameless and churning waters spitting you out on the horizon of something exciting. The first page scrawled messy on the bark of a lightning struck tree, with only knife-sharp words to carve the prologue into existence.
Because, once Lyonel’s laugh has tapered into remnants of pure fucking joy, he simply cannot help himself.
“Oh, you have teeth. Tell me, if I ask nicely -”
A horn cleaves sharp and severe through the roar of the yard, severing the end of Lyonel’s sentence, drowning him out by the unmistakable signal of the starting match. His words have, effectively, gone unheard, and you do not ask for clarification.
Were he closer to the herald, Lyonel would no doubt have told him where to shove what, and where. He settles for a sharp exhale through his teeth, eyes rolling so fucking hard, they deserve to see the sight in front of them, once his attention is focused, once more, on you.
Like he has been, this whole entire time.
You, on the other hand, notice an opening, and strike.
The smile you allow, is smaller. A pale ghost haunting the halls of something more alive, an imitation of the enigmatic looks he’s been receiving – and, to his absolute fucking astonishment, growing to crave - over the duration of your. . . conversation. This, is the look of something encouraging.
The look of something on the horizon, bearing down on him with all the promise of a thousand rising suns, a whirlwind of heat soaked beams of light breaking apart the tedium of storm gray clouds with their bare fucking hands.
Then, a slight, polite incline of your head. A slight, imperceptible upright tug of your lips that has absolutely nothing to do with fucking etiquette.
Lyonel straightens, still annoyed from the interruption, still wondering if he’s about to fucking combust from you simply standing there looking at him like -
“Good luck, Ser Storm,” your eyes flick down to the wreath, before lifting. Slow. Playful. Bright. They settle on his once more, and he pretends not to notice how his heart fucking falters. Stumbles over itself, when it tries to beat again. The grin that began to resurface froze. Infamous laugh dying in his fucking throat at the play on his title when your eyes meet again. “Don’t inspire my regret upon gifting you my favor.”
And then? In a single breath, you back away from the railing. Turn on your heel and promptly fucking walk away from him.
For a moment, he simply stares after you.
Fuck a harmless night spent with a pretty face. Ser Lyonel Baratheon has never been more certain of anything else in life except this: he’s just met his fucking destiny.
Only gentle with you | soft, intimate Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader
There were very few people in the world Aerion Targaryen treated kindly.
It was not merely that he was proud though he was, terribly so. Nor was it only his temper, quick and bright as wildfire, or the cruel edge in him that made lesser men lower their eyes and wiser men hold their tongues. Aerion had been born with dragon’s blood and knew it. He wore arrogance like silk, as natural to him as breath, and he had little patience for those who disappointed him, which was nearly everyone.
Most people feared him.
Many had reason to.
Servants stiffened when he entered a room. Courtiers measured each word before speaking it. Men who laughed too loudly or looked too long found themselves skewered by one of his cold, beautiful smiles. Aerion was not a man given to softness. Not in public. Not in private. Not at all, if rumor was to be believed.
And yet every rumor about him became useless the moment his wife was brought into the picture.
Because with you, Aerion was another creature entirely.
No less dangerous, perhaps. No less proud. No less possessive. But where the rest of the world received his sharpness, you were met with a tenderness so private and so instinctive that it almost felt unnatural, as though a wolf had decided, for reasons known only to itself, to guard one small bird with perfect devotion.
No one understood it.
No one dared comment on it either.
Not after the first few times they had seen the prince’s face soften when you entered a room.
Not after noticing how his hand would settle at your waist before you even reached him, how he looked at no one while you were speaking, how the restless cruelty in him quieted not vanished, never that but quieted, as if your presence put a silk leash on something otherwise ungovernable.
Tonight was no different.
The feast had gone on too long.
Aerion had been in a black mood from the start, irritated by some lord’s unnecessary boasting, by the musicians missing notes, by the sheer noise of too many people desperate to impress one another. He had sat draped in black and red like a prince in a story meant to end badly, silver gold hair catching the firelight, pale eyes cool with boredom and disdain.
No one mistook the warning in his expression.
Not even you.
Especially not you.
Yet when the evening dragged on and weariness tugged at your bones, you had gone to him without asking leave, without hesitation, simply stepping between his knees where he sat and laying a hand on his shoulder.
Aerion had looked up at once.
The chill in his face had dissolved so quickly it almost seemed impossible.
“You’re tired, My Heart” he said quietly.
It was not a question.
You nodded, a little embarrassed by how plainly he always read you.
The hall was still loud, voices crashing over one another, goblets clattering, laughter rising too harshly in the smoky air. You had meant only to stand beside him for a moment. To rest your hand on him. To breathe.
Instead, Aerion’s fingers closed around your wrist not hard, never hard with you and with a practiced ease he drew you down onto his lap as if there were nowhere else in the world you ought to be.
A few eyes flicked your way and away just as quickly.
No one wished to witness too much of Prince Aerion’s private affections.
You settled against him sideways, your skirt spilling over his legs, your cheek finding the familiar line of his shoulder. His arm came around your waist at once, firm and enclosing. Not merely holding you.
Keeping you.
“You should have said sooner,” he murmured near your temple.
“That I was tired?”
“That you wanted to leave.”
A small smile touched your mouth. “I did not say I wanted to leave.”
“You are nearly asleep on me.”
“Not yet.”
Aerion’s hand spread over your side, thumb moving once in a slow stroke that sent warmth all through you. “Mm,” he said, unconvinced.
The prince beside whom men sat rigid with unease was now adjusting the fall of your skirts so they would not crease beneath you. He drew part of his cloak over your lap to shield you from the draft curling through the hall. He shifted his goblet aside with visible annoyance that it occupied one of his hands, then gave up on it entirely and rested both arms around you instead.
You heard the faintest scoff from somewhere nearby.
Aerion’s gaze lifted instantly.
The expression that crossed his face was enough to freeze blood.
Whoever had made the sound lowered their eyes at once.
Then his attention returned to you, and all that cold violence in him went smooth as still water.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
You might have laughed if you had not been so sleepy. “You ask that after trapping me?”
His mouth curved not the smile he gave others, all teeth and mockery, but the rare one that belonged only to you. Small. Real. Almost boyish, though there was nothing boyish in the possessive hold he had around you.
“If you wished to move,” he said, “you would have done so already.”
“That is terribly smug.”
“And true.”
You made a soft, half-hearted sound of protest and tucked yourself closer instead, proving him right in the worst way. Aerion, delightfully insufferable when he knew he had won, said nothing. He only tilted his head enough to rest his cheek lightly against your hair.
The firelight painted him in gold and shadow.
To anyone else, Aerion Targaryen was sharp angles and danger: elegant hands made for rings and reins and violence, beauty honed to something cutting, every glance carrying the threat of humiliation or worse. But from where you sat, folded against him, you could feel the quiet things no one else was permitted to know.
The way he loosened his grip if he thought it too tight.
The way his thumb kept tracing idle patterns at your waist, soothing you without thought.
The way he leaned his head slightly toward yours, as if your nearness satisfied some restless instinct in him.
You were not foolish. You knew the man he was.
You knew what others whispered.
You knew what they feared.
You knew there were parts of Aerion that would never be soft, never be safe.
But somehow, impossibly, he had made a sanctuary of himself for you alone.
Your eyelids drooped.
Aerion noticed at once.
“There it is,” he murmured.
You did laugh then, quietly. “There is what?”
“You are falling asleep.”
“I am listening.”
“To what?”
You paused. “You.”
He gave a soft hum that sounded suspiciously pleased. “Liar.”
You did not bother arguing. It took too much energy. Instead, you let your head slip more fully into the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of leather, smoke, and the faint clean sharpness that always clung to him. Beneath your cheek, his pulse beat steady.
His hand moved to the back of your head.
Not to control, not to tilt your face where he wanted it.
Only to cradle.
The gesture was so instinctively tender it made your chest ache.
Across the table, someone began speaking to Aerion some hedge lord’s son, eager or witless enough to seek his attention while he held you. You felt the subtle shift in him before he answered: the cooling of his body, the return of that princely disdain.
“What is it?” Aerion asked, voice flat.
The man stammered something forgettable.
Aerion replied with a remark so dry and precise that nearby listeners went silent at once, uncertain whether to laugh. The young man flushed crimson, muttered an apology, and retreated.
Against Aerion’s chest, you smiled faintly.
“Cruel,” you whispered, eyes still closed.
“For him?” he asked. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled loosely in the dark fabric at his shoulder. “He only wanted to speak with you.”
“Then he ought to have chosen a better time.”
“You could be kinder.”
His hand on your hair gentled further. “To you, I am.”
The words were simple.
Matter-of-fact.
As if this were explanation enough for all things.
To you, I am.
Your heart gave one slow, helpless pull.
There was no use pretending Aerion loved in a gentle way. He did nothing gently not his pride, not his anger, not his wanting. Even this tenderness had a fierce quality to it, a possessive intensity that wrapped around you as tightly as his arms. He was sweet with you, yes, but it was the sweetness of a dragon allowing one cherished thing to sleep beside its flame.
You tilted your face up just enough to look at him.
His pale eyes dropped immediately to meet yours.
In public, no less.
That alone was enough to make courtiers stare if they were foolish enough.
He watched you with that hidden softness he never spent on anyone else, his thumb brushing once beneath your ear. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Aerion narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “That is rarely true.”
You smiled, drowsy and fond. “I was only thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime.”
“For me?”
“For anyone.”
Your smile widened. “I was thinking you’re nicer when I’m sleepy.”
A huff of amusement escaped him. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps because when you are sleepy,” he murmured, “you cease arguing with me for stretches of several minutes.”
“I do not argue.”
He raised one pale brow.
Even half asleep, you recognized the look and felt the urge to protest solely on principle. But then his hand slid from your hair to your cheek, his knuckles brushing your skin so carefully that the objection dissolved before it could leave your lips.
“There,” he said softly, watching your eyes flutter. “Better.”
Your answer came slurred with drowsiness. “You sound pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased.”
“Why?”
His mouth bent near the corner in that secret almost-smile again. “Because you are where you belong.”
Heat bloomed low in your chest at the words, at the certainty in them. Aerion never questioned his right to you. Not in a way that felt careless, but in the way one might speak of the moon belonging to the night sky. To him, your place was obvious.
Here.
In his arms.
Trusted with the softness no one else received.
The noise of the feast blurred around the edges. The candles burned lower. Somewhere a harp was being plucked badly enough that Aerion would surely have mocked it on another night. Now he said nothing. He only let you sink further into him, one hand spread warm at your back, the other resting over your clasped fingers.
You drifted on the edge of sleep.
In that hazy warmth, you felt him shift and heard the faint scrape of his chair moving back from the table.
“Aerion?” you mumbled.
“Hush.”
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
But he rose with you still in his arms.
Of course he did.
The movement should have woken you more fully, yet his hold was so secure and the rhythm of his steps so smooth that it only made you nestle closer. One of your hands slid weakly against his chest, wrinkling the fine dark fabric there.
Behind him, chairs shifted and voices lowered. No one attempted to stop him. No one would have been fool enough.
You did not open your eyes, but you could imagine the sight of it well enough: Prince Aerion Targaryen, silver-haired and imperious, carrying his half sleeping wife from the hall as though she were the only thing in the room worth tending.
You smiled against him.
He felt it immediately.
“What is amusing?”
“You,” you whispered.
“Dangerous answer.”
“Mm.”
He passed from the heat of the hall into the quieter corridors beyond. The air there was cooler, carrying the scent of stone and torch smoke. His cloak had slipped partly around you now, cocooning you against his chest.
You were nearly asleep in earnest when he spoke again, so quietly you might have thought you dreamed it.
“They do not deserve to look at you when you’re like this.”
Your lashes lifted a fraction. “Like what?”
“Soft.”
The word settled over you like a touch.
Aerion’s jaw tightened faintly, as though annoyed with himself for saying so much, but he did not take it back. He only adjusted you higher against him, his hand spanning almost all of your back.
“You are mine,” he said, not harshly, but with a kind of low certainty that made your stomach flutter. “I will not have them staring.”
There was dragonfire even in his gentleness.
Especially in his gentleness.
You should have scolded him for that possessive streak, should have told him you were not some jewel to be locked away from admiring eyes. On another evening, perhaps, you would have.
Tonight, tucked safe in his arms and sleep heavy besides, all you did was press your face into his shoulder and murmur, “Then take me somewhere they cannot.”
Aerion went very still for half a heartbeat.
Then he bent his head and kissed your hair.
A rare enough thing.
A precious enough thing.
Done where no one else could see.
“With pleasure,” he said.
And if the prince carried you the rest of the way as though you were something sacred stolen from the world, if his sharp mouth softened only once your chamber door closed behind you, if the man who gave everyone else steel and scorn laid you down as gently as a prayer
well.
That was no one’s business but yours.
Because Aerion Targaryen was not a kind man.
Not to his kin.
Not to the court.
Not to the world.
But for you, half asleep in his lap, warm and trusting and wholly his, he could be sweet enough to make monsters seem tender.
thinking about letting vampire!aerion feed on you as if the meaning of his immortal existence lies solely on the blood coursing through your veins.
he'd have a fistful of your hair, holding the strands aside to expose the thin skin of your neck. the hand placed at the back of your head pulls you closer towards him, and he can hear the fragile beats of your heart falter for the split, lingering second in which he barely grazes the shape of his fangs against your pulse point.
then, aerion applies just the right amount of pressure he has learned to use, only firm enough to break through skin. hot, thick spurts of blood invade past his lips and into his awaiting mouth, and his lips wrap closely around your now bruising skin to prevent any of the liquid to slip past the corners. you're squirming in his grip, a sharp gasp escaping your lips when aerion groans at the heat flooding towards his tongue, the vibrations of the sound reverberating throughout your own body from how closely he has you pressed against his hard chest.
some dormant sense of intuition snaps an eye open from somewhere deep inside you, an urgent shock of adrenaline sparking through you at the instinct to fight against his grip, to force your way out of the arms that enclose you tightly against this ancient creature.
you battle against your own nature, and something tells you the internal dilemma is only making aerion enjoy this more, yet another rumbling sound bubbling through his chest as he pulls you closer by your waist, his hips making no attempt to desguise the hardness growing at his lower half when he rolls them against your clothed core.
"aerion... that's enough," you whimper softly at some point, when he has been attached to your neck for enough time that white spots start forming around your vision. "or else you'll suck me dry."
you have to tap him a few times to bring himself to fully listen. your soft, hesitant pushs against his shoulders soon become urgent the more aerion delays himself in the motion of pulling his fangs out. when he finally does, you feel the stickness of your own blood trailing down the curve of your neck, and it glistens all over aerion's mouth and chin when he pulls away to face you.
he smiles, slow and dark. his tongue darts out to gather some of the liquid threatening to drip from the corners of his lips, and the predatory sight of his fangs as he grins widely fills you with the urge to crawl away from his reach.
"that's what i've been feeling so tempted to do, darling."
WARNINGS: dark themes, arranged marriage, fluff, aerion is a warning himself, gentle!reader, aerion's only soft with her, obsessive behaviour, ooc aerion.
disclaimer : english isn't my first language :/ gifs cr : @ lady-arryn; @ s_attayee
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he never leaves your side at the wedding.
You still remember your mother’s one wish before the mysterious fever had claimed her life – the same words she had been telling you since you were a child.
"Let love always be your choice, darling. Do not repeat my fate."
She never spoke in long speeches, yet you knew. Your mother was too wise a woman – she never put things plainly. There was no need for it; you've always been a clever girl.
Never marry a lord out of duty. It will eat you alive, until nothing of you remains.
And here you were, from head to toe in your wedding attire, dressed entirely in red – the colour of his house.
At least you didn't break the promise you had given to your mother, did you? He is everything but a lord.
Your husband. The one you were meant for.
A cruel prince who has gone mad – that's what people say about him. A monster who takes pleasure in hurting others.
Aerion Targaryen.
A dragon in human form – his heart is too cold to be tamed, too hot to be approached.
Yet your father didn't care enough to do something about it.
After all, you were truly your mother's daughter.
Turning your head slightly, you studied his profile: pale silver hair that he had run his fingers through countless times, a tense jawline and eyes filled with nothing but irritation.
You couldn't blame him, honestly. The air was thick with the smell of wine, meat, and sweat. Men, treating your wedding feast as just another excuse to get drunk, glance at you with an interest that bordered on the obscene.
"Dragons don't need love," he had said when you first came here. "Don't bother trying. It will make you look pathetic."
But he was there, sitting beside you, even though most of the wedding has already passed, leaving only the drunkards behind. You had expected him to leave as soon as his father had returned to his chambers, but he hadn't.
Instead, Aerion's eyes stayed fixed on someone else.
"I'm going to rip that scum's eyes out right here."
Frowning at his sudden threat, you followed his gaze and noticed an older man with a shaggy beard staring at your cleavage.
Oh.
You let out a soft laugh. "He's not the first."
"He will be the last."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he was mindful of your pleasure on your wedding night.
Aerion's footsteps were loud in your quiet chambers as he slowly entered, still wearing his finery. It seemed you were the only one who needed such preparation.
The wedding night. To consummate the marriage, to fulfill the very reason you had been sent here: into the dragon’s grasp.
You recalled all your aunt’s stories about such nights of pain and impassive husbands. Your heart skipped a beat at the realization that your fate was no different from your mother's – perhaps even worse.
Your father was an honest man. He never loved your mother, nor did he seek to pretend – not for you, and certainly not for his wife.
He wasn't cruel. He never laid a hand on you, never spoke harshly, never punished you for the kind of whims children are prone to. Not once did he force your mother to bear one child after another to secure an heir.
And maybe that was the problem: he felt nothing at all.
Aerion noticed your mood shift – of course he did. He notices everything, you thought. He had taken you to the garden when you could no longer endure your family’s expectations, and after a silent walk, you parted ways to prepare for what was to come that night.
The longer the servants prepared you, the more you felt their sticky, pity-laden gazes. Words never left their lips, but there was no need: you knew exactly what they meant.
“A cruel fate for one so young.”
“You’ve done nothing to deserve this, my princess.”
"May the Gods have mercy upon you."
You smiled softly in response. There were fates far worse than yours.
Lost in thought, you didn't even notice when Aerion came close enough for you to feel his presence. He ran his hand through your hair, slowly combing it with his fingers.
Gently, almost tenderly.
"They're softer than I imagined," he murmured, as if mesmerised.
You froze, his touch somehow soothing you, then slightly leaned towards him, unsure of what to expect.
You slowly turned around to look at him and felt your breath hitch in your throat. His gaze was already roaming over your face, as if he wanted to remember every detail.
He wrapped his hands around your waist, pulling you closer until you shared one breath. "You are the dragon's wife now," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "And I'm not interested in hurting what's mine."
Then his lips crashed onto yours with such force you’d have fallen if he weren’t holding you so tightly.
There was nothing gentle about it, nothing subtle. He made no attempt to play the part of a good husband. Aerion kissed you like a man certain of what was his. Hungrily, he pulled you in, while you responded at your own pace. You kissed him slowly, as though you had all the time in the world.
He broke the kiss and let his lips wander along the line of your jaw to your neck, lightly grazing your skin with his teeth.
"Aerion," you whispered his name, and he let out a sound that was almost a growl. His teeth sank above your collarbone, his tongue leaving a mark that would remain as proof of your night.
A part of you wondered if he’d allow you to do the same.
You kept your thoughts to yourself. One day, maybe.
A little moan slipped from your lips, making him lift you so effortlessly – as if you had always belonged in his arms – as he guided you towards the bed. You gasped, wrapping your legs around him as he claimed your mouth once more.
"Perhaps this time," you thought, "your aunt was wrong."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he won't let you sleep apart from him.
"Egg isn't feeling well, and I need to be there for him." You were supposed to return to Aegon’s chambers to read him a bedtime story about knights. Yet here you were – Gods knew for how long – in your chambers, arguing with your husband about... about what, actually?
"If he is not feeling well, he can call a fucking maid who'll read him those stupid stories. And you certainly don't need to waste your night on him."
"I can’t bear the thought of him waking up in the middle of the night, Aerion," you stepped closer to him. "Terrified that no one is there."
You stopped in front of him and tried to meet his eyes, but he stared somewhere far off, his jaw tight. You did what you’d learned over the last month, what you knew would soothe him. You leaned against him, laying your head on his chest; his heartbeat is quick under your ear. His hands almost automatically – instinctively – wrapped around your waist and squeezed you lightly.
"He's our brother, our little treasure," your voice is soft – as always – you never raised your voice.
That made him snort. "And I'm your husband."
You blinked.
Then pulled back enough to face him and finally understood what the problem was.
How could you have missed that?
Since that night of the wedding, you’d always slept together. He never let you go to your own chambers.
Your hips burn with a sweet pain; you feel every mark he left on your body, every grip that will surely turn into bruises. You are exhausted; your husband is lying on top of you, his nose tracing your neck. The skin-to-skin contact feels so intimate, it’s almost laughable considering what just happened.
You know, however, that comfort like this is only temporary and you can’t let yourself get used to it. You try to get up, the pain in your hips makes it impossible to think clearly, but that’s a worry for another day.
"Where are you going?" his voice is hoarse, heavy with pleasure and something else you can’t quite recognize yet.
You tilt your head slightly. "To my own bed."
He fixes you with a look that leaves no room for argument. The decision has already been made, and all you can do is accept it.
“You will sleep here.” He pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist in a possessive hold, your back resting against his chest.
You can't help but smile. He wants you to sleep beside him. Together.
He buries his nose in your hair, deeply breathing in the scent of lavender – the soap used by the servants to wash the princess's hair. His hand rests on your stomach in possessive grip, as if protecting what has yet to exist.
"I thought dragons knew nothing of love," you lean towards him, speaking tenderly, causing him to murmur something under his breath. A sense of calm and something you can't name yet blooms in your chest.
"They don't." His voice is rough, but his grip hasn’t loosened at all. "You are my wife, it’s my duty to sleep with you. Do not be fooled."
But when you wake up, sunlight pours over the bed, and he is still holding you as if you could vanish at any moment – you knew better.
And now, waking beside him – even though you clearly remembered falling asleep by Egg’s bedside – you saw that he was not the monster everyone else believed him to be.
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he spoils you.
Taking off another bracelet engraved with his initials, you found your gaze was drawn to the jewelry box, filled with pieces he has given you - dragon pendants, countless bracelets in black and scarlet. Your eyes then move to the armoire, filled with dresses of the purest silk, tailored just for you by the best.
The books you've only ever mentioned once in your morning talks rested on the shelves, which seemed to appear by some unseen hand whenever you spoke of a new one.
"It is likely the servants," he said, avoiding your gaze. "Or one of my stupid brothers who wants to impress you."
A gentle laugh escaped you as you move towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands clung to you immediately, almost without him realizing.
You swayed lightly. "Maybe."
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he comes to you when things get difficult.
It was late at night when you had decided to walk through the garden, enjoying the quiet and breathtaking view that had become so familiar.
You had spent the day guiding Aegon through the history of his ancestors – he couldn’t care less, he only wanted to outdo Aerion – before finally deciding to rest because you had started feeling dizzy.
There had been no time to see your husband; you had simply assumed he was busy with his training.
How wrong you were.
When you entered the chambers, he was already there, standing with his back to you, staring off into the distance.
He didn't acknowledge you when you entered, yet you noticed the signs of recognition. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, as though he was finally letting himself be at ease beside you.
"Husband."
He kept silent.
Instead, he turned and walked toward you slowly. There was none of that teasing sparkle or even a hint of mockery in his eyes—only fatigue and acceptance, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Then, to your surprise, he leaned in and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling the scent that reminded him of home.
"My mother would've loved you," he whispered, a quiet, wry smile in his tone.
No pretense, no show. Sincere.
It was only then that you realized: Egg's sudden urge to learn something new, why it had been so quiet – no servants bustling about, no Daeron pestering you with his philosophical debates.
Their mother. They all needed something to distract them.
You lifted your hands to the back of his head, caressing his hair gently, making him pull you closer. A quiet hum escaped him, followed by a small kiss on your neck. It felt as if you’d melted into him - he held you so tightly as though the slightest distance could carry you away forever.
“I’m sure she was a wonderful woman,” you said, kissing him beneath his ear. “She gave me you, and a few more sisters and brothers besides.”
He smirked but didn't let go for a moment. "Could’ve just stopped at me, my precious wife."
You smiled, not falling for his little act. He tried to play it off as a joke, to hide his weakness - but you wouldn't let him. Not here. Not with you.
“I’m here,” you whispered, leaving small kisses to soothe the tremble he desperately tried to suppress.
His hands roamed across your back, fingers spread wide, his breathing deep and rapid. He clung to you like his life depended on it, and you didn't complain.
You could feel it. He didn't say much, but you knew. He needed you just as much as you needed him.
“You’ll always be here,” he said in a voice so low you’d hardly have heard it unless you were right there. “You’ll never leave me.”
⟢ He says he doesn't love you, but he cannot stand your tears.
In all the time you’ve spent here, you had never shed a tear. There was no reason to - everything you needed was already yours. People starved, gave their lives for the land; a princess's tears would have seemed ridiculous.
But this time you couldn't keep it in.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day like any other - jousts, a feast honouring the noble guests. Yet everything went wrong when word reached you that Aerion had lost his mind and broken the fingers of an innocent girl.
Your heart ached for the girl who had only been playing and having fun, unaware of how it would all turn out.
He would never hurt you, but that didn’t make it any easier seeing him harm another so calmly.
The door opened and you sensed his heavy steps before you heard them. You didn't give him your usual gentle smile - the one he's used to seeing from you.
"She mocked our family, our very blood," he said. There was a note of irritation in his voice at having to justify his actions so openly to you.
Dragons owed nothing to anyone. They acted, and they took pleasure in the results. Yet here he stood behind you, covered in blood and still proud, unable to bear even the thought that you might be hurting.
You didn't respond.
"This is treason," he continued, unused to your silence.
You were barely holding back your tears - you didn't want him to see them. Not from shame, never. But because crying wouldn't change anything. But what he said next shattered you completely and your gentle heart couldn't take it anymore.
"She's lucky it was just her fingers. I’d have taken her head if I’d told the King."
A quiet sob escaped you, one you couldn't hold back.
It was foolish. You knew the man he was. Even softened by you, dragon blood still ran through him. And you knew why he was frustrated, why that play had offended him so deeply - after all, his bloodline had been insulted, ridiculed.
And yet the image of a young girl of your age appeared before your eyes; her gaze swimming with tears, her hands powerless.
At first, Aerion froze at the sound. You’ve never cried, he thought. You’ve never looked away from him.
Then, as if the realization struck him, he strode across the room and turned you to face him, gently taking you by the elbow.
His eyes wandered across your face, as if he physically needed to ensure you were unharmed. You knew he would behead anyone who even dared think of hurting you.
And for the first time that didn't bring you any comfort.
It didn't scare you either - he had never scared you. He was your husband, the other part of your soul and you would always choose him. You would always stand by his side.
Still, a tiny piece of sorrow remained inside you – a quiet awareness that no one else would ever know just how loving and caring he could be.
He would always be a monster to them.
His eyes didn't leave yours, which were now red and swollen from tears that wouldn't stop falling. You noticed the frown that crossed his face as he realized why you were like this.
He leaned in and kissed your damp, flushed cheeks, letting his lips linger a moment longer than expected.
“Dragons do not pardon traitors, my love,” he said softly, confused as to why you were so concerned about a mere commoner, unworthy of any of your attention. Your normally bright face was covered with such a deep sorrow that his heart ached.
I’ll let her go,” Aerion murmured. “Would that make you feel better?”
You nodded slowly, still unsure whether he would keep his promise, unsure whether your wish alone could tame his temper. “Yes, my love.”
His eyes remained on you, studying your face for the smallest sign of doubt that might hurt you further. When he found none, he nodded and pulled you into his arms.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You decide it's time to end your situationship with Aerion. Unfortunately for you, he doesn't agree.
𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Alcohol consumption, Yandere and obsessive behavior, Stalking, Non-C0nsensual T0uching (incredibly not from Aerion), Creep behavior, Graphic vi0lence (not towards Reader), Manipulation, N$FW themes, Hinted and light $MUT, General toxicity and well Aerion is his own trigger warning. No use of Y/N.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.3k
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Well, here goes nothing! I sincerely hope you will enjoy this! It's the first time for me sharing something I wrote, so I would love any feedback! If you have any! :)
𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤: Angel - Remastered 2019, by Massive Attack, Horace Andy
Opening the passenger’s door, a gust of cold air blows right over your bare legs. You swing them out, planting your feet steadily on the ground. As you exit the fancy vehicle, a wave of goosebumps rises from your thighs up to your arms; you tell yourself it’s the change in temperature. A normal bodily reaction to something as natural as a drop of a few degrees. It’s not because you feel exposed, out in the open. It’s not because you feel vulnerable. Forcing yourself to stand tall next to the car, something in you makes you pause before completely closing the door. A futile Ariadne’s thread.
Your eyes scan the nightly landscape, illuminated in that yellow glow of streetlights that reminds you of late summer mistakes and secret conversations. You tell yourself it’s normal, to check your surroundings, even if somewhat familiar. You tell yourself you are not checking if-
The sound of the driver’s door closing behind you makes you jump.
“Okay, remember what we said?” a much too cheerful voice, compared to your internal monologue at least, thrills up from behind you. Soon enough Kiera appears beside you. Her luscious curls reflect the yellow glare overhead, creating a haze effect around her that reminds you of those pictures taken in neon-lit club bathrooms.
The smile she gives you is not dimmed by your clear… unsteadiness. You can’t help but muster a fond smile, for her, too. She closes your door for you.
“Yes, okay, okay” you concede, your hands up in mock surrender, “this night is for fun and lightheartedness only”. Interlinking your arms and starting to lead you towards the club, she nods, clearly pleased with your answer. Well, how could she not be? She basically organized this whole thing just for you. Just to take your mind off the recent happenings. You knew that, deep down, there was more concern than she let on, and you weren’t sure if it was for you or about you. Not that you can blame her, with how you have been behaving recently. It’s not that you are going crazy, or being paranoid. Your worry, and frustration, in your opinion, are well rooted. Gods, if you met him here too-
“In the end the guy I told you about came tonight” the lilt of her accent snaps you out, once again, from your spiraling thoughts. Not that she’s unaware of it. You sigh, faking grimace,
“Kiera…”, “I’m not saying you need to marry him” she defends, teasing lacing her words, “I’m just saying that he’s fun AND that you need a fun distraction”. Okay, she has a point.
The clicking of your heels accompanies your eyeroll, “Right, is he cute at least?”
Your friend just smiles, tilting her head sideways.
“You tell me, he’s standing there”.
Your gaze follows hers, finding your shared group of friends. There’s Raymun, proudly standing with his new beauty of a girlfriend, Rowan, or Red, as she introduced herself, under his arm; then, impossible to not notice, Dunk stands next to them, seemingly gaping at something the redhead just said, his ears turning bright pink. The same comment must have earned a laugh from Tanselle, because she’s covering her mouth sheepishly with her hand.
Lastly, the new recruit. Tall, quite built, with light curly hair that contrasts well with the sharp features of his face. Not exactly your type, but it’s not that you want to actually have something happen between you. As a friend for a fun night, he works.
“Remind me again of his name?” you ask the bubblegum haired girl beside you.
She refrains from commenting, but you know she has taken your question for interest. “His name is Steffon, Raymuns’s cousin”. Steffon. You hope you’ll remember it throughout the night.
As you approach your group, you notice that Kiera maintained her promise. Her boyfriend, Valarr, is not in sight. You didn’t ask her not to bring him, she offered not to invite him. Going as far as just telling him she was going out tonight, not even mentioning which club you were going to party at. Pious Valarr understood.
There must have been some way in which… he always knew where to find you. Not that you thought Valarr would actually tell him, but maybe, somehow, he found out through him. Just the thought makes the hair at the nape of your neck rise, how could he always know? Yes, of course he knows where you live, but you are always so careful to check that you’re not being followed, that there is no beast lurking in the shadows, awaiting to ambush you when you least expect it. And yet, since you ended things, you’ve run into him so often.
You always feel his gaze on you, first, smothering. A mantle that wraps around you like a constrictive snake.
He never speaks, when you meet. He doesn't even approach you. That alone scares you more than the idea of him cornering you, questioning why you ended things, demanding you to change your mind.
He simply… stares. Lounging near a tree, at the end of the street, between people in crowds, those eyes continuously finding yours, somehow.
You could have sworn that, one time, you felt his gaze locking with yours through the night when you went to close the curtains of your bedroom window.
You questioned, if he was really there. Stalking. Just outside your house. You must have imagined it. You hoped you did.
The image of the very same lilac eyes you were starting to fall in love with focusing on your frame like a famished predator, analyzing, assessing, savoring, burned at the back of your mind. Such intensity that it could be mistaken for longing, if it wasn’t shadowed by a dark, awaiting, knowledge.
The second time you looked outside, only the memory of violet remained on the glass.
In the open, when you don’t walk away quick enough, he smirks, or licks his lips like he’s relishing in a feast he’s about to indulge in. That’s when you usually turn around and leave, a shake in your fingers and a feeling you don’t want to name irradiating through your body.
The cheering voices of your friends bring you back to the present, their warm welcome grounding you in a space that feels safe. Quick pleasantries are shared between everyone, and you learn rapidly enough that Steffon is a fan of banter, light hearted jests and jokes already flying around when you enter the dimly lit club. The air is saturated with too much perfume and that distinctive, bitter, alcoholic smell that characterizes every club at this hour. The bass reverberates in your rib cage with a steady pulse that is begging you to sway in rhythm with it. You remind yourself of what you promised Kiera. Only fun tonight. No one knows you are here. He can’t know you are here. Everyone knows not to post or share anything that could give away your position, any hint that you are outside. Living.
Even if you know they mainly do it to soothe you, to not see you worried all night, you are still grateful, even if they don’t completely understand.
You allow yourself to believe that everything will be okay after the first two drinks and a tequila shot, for good luck.
The pleasant alcohol-induced buzz is soon enough flowing through you, softening the sharp edges in your mind, blurring the unwanted noise with the messy background of reggaeton music and general shouting. The flickering lights paint the bodies around you like a surrealist movie, one that Steffon must be appreciating too as you dance lavishly with Kiera and Red, movements alluring and synchronized as if practiced for months. You find that you don’t mind the attention.
Most importantly, you find that you feel good. Good when Tanselle starts snapping pictures that she deems aesthetically pleasing. Good when Dunk and Raymun start one of their, awful, breakdancing show-offs. Good when Kiera hugs you, sober as stone, because she hasn’t seen you so carefree in weeks, muttering something under her breath that you don’t quite catch, but that sounds awfully familiar to “forget that asshole”. Good, even, when Steffon himself steps in to dance with you, all charming and respectful, his hands never leaving your waist to trail somewhere lower, less appropriate. And good when another round of shots is served and the little amber liquid has your head delightfully spinning, so much that you almost tumble over your heels when you aim for one of the little sofas at the edge of the room. A hand steadies you, taking hold of your forearm.
“Easy there” Steffon muses, helping you sit down and claiming for himself the place next to you, “I didn’t think you were such a lightweight”. That wins him a snort, “and I didn’t think you could dance… acceptably” you counter. He smirks, almost preening, “I am full of surprises”. His cockyness doesn’t get lost on you, yet, talking with him is easy. The conversation between the two of you is light, shifting between topics without diving too deep into them, maybe because his interest can’t focus too much on one thing, maybe because you're too tipsy to care.
A, now buried, rational part of you knows your friends are giving you space to talk, alone, and that figment also notices how Raymun sometimes steals glances your way, silently checking if everything is okay every now and then. You catalogue it as the behavior of a protective friend, not of a surprised cousin. Everything is misty and nebulous and finally you don’t have to stay on high alert anymore.
You don’t exactly remember what Steffon asked you, when you notice. Your fingers subconsciously going to play with the necklace- that you don’t have anymore. Your body registers the absence first, the feeling of being without washing over you like a cold shower. Then, your hazy mind catches up, explaining to your consciousness that you didn't lose it, you gave it back. Willingly. Only then your floating soul snaps back into your body, dread spreading deep through your blood vessels at the realization that you forgot.
Forgot that he gave you that necklace. Made out of your favorite precious metal, two small chains connected on either side of an elegant circle, inside of which a three headed dragon was nested comfortably. Its eyes of vivid rubies that reminded you of pomegranates and blood the first time you saw it. His house sigil. You had thanked him at the time, kissed him.
How foolish, back then you didn’t realize how discordant his actions have been. Disappearing for days, while wanting to know what you were doing. Gifts and expensive dinners interspersed with questioning about where you two stood. Questions that never got an answer… the first time you brought the topic up, confused and frustrated, he suddenly kissed you so hard he knocked the air from your lungs. His eyes boring into yours, pupils blown wild, muttering a “you’re so hot when you get angry” that you couldn’t even contest because his tongue was in your mouth, his feverish fingers running over your body, then your bare skin, his mouth and teeth mapping every single feature that made you, you.
He ravished you so vehemently, consumed you so utterly and downright sinfully that night, that the morning after you didn’t even remember that you were disagreeing on something. You could only focus on the way he had whispered “mine” into your hair before sunrise came, as you lay tangled and naked together.
“Do you zone out often? Or is it my company that’s not entertaining enough for you?” You swallow, hard, sobriety taking hold of, a part, of your senses, and perceiving that Steffon definitely regarded the second option he presented you with as absolutely impossible. You rack your brain for a witty remark, something sarcastic that can get you out of the embarrassments of having stared into the void for Gods know how long, when something terribly familiar catches your attention just outside of your peripheral view. No, not catches. Commands.
You obey like muscle memory, turning and angling your body towards the siren’s call. The flashing lights alternate instants of red with blinding whites and a heartbeat of pitch black darkness.
You see him for one split second. You recognize him in less.
Aerion stands on the other side of the room, sharply dressed, as if he had been there for ages and it just took you too long to notice. His apparent calmness is betrayed by the small tick in his jaw, a clench that foretells something worse. His violet eyes appear almost black in the flaring beams, the lack of amusement and complacency in his expression leaving way to something else. You feel it lick at your skin. There’s only hunger in him tonight.
“I need some air” you excuse yourself quickly, your voice almost trembling. Standing up hastily, you turn on your heels to put distance between you and him. It’s always him.
How did he find you? How did he know?
You’re outside before you even realize it, the street deserted at such a late hour. Even the streetlights look dimmer.
Or maybe it’s your sight that’s unfocused. Did you stand up too quickly? Are you drunker than you thought? Surely you can’t feel as if there isn’t enough oxygen in the world because of him, right?
There’s hands on your waist. Grounding for a second, then, caging.
“I didn’t think you would be so eager” the voice that has been talking with you all night is definitely closer than before. “But I can’t blame you”. Now that he’s so close you can smell the cologne on him, something fruity with an underlying sickly sweetness that reminds you of rotten apples. It makes you want to gag. “I’d want me too”.
Steffon leans down, pinning you against the cold bricks of the club building. You can’t tell if he’s inebriated or just plain stupid, and you expect him to get off of you and apologize when you basically claw his hands off your hips, about to tell him that there’s no way this was going to happen- when he just seizes both of your wrists, a glint you have never seen surfacing in his eyes as he tells you “I like a fight”, the sickest sneer you have ever seen in your life on his lips.
There’s a split moment in which panic bubbles in you. Several different scenarios in which you either wrangle yourself free, and some in which you don’t, cross your mind, devising for the best plan of action, something, anything. None of them come true.
Steffon’s head tilts back at inhumane speed, a choked sound leaving his lips as his hair gets pulled into a bruising vice. Another sound, sharper, almost like a gurgle escapes him when a punch straight to the stomach makes him keel in two. Dropping to the floor in front of you.
Aerion stands behind him, a fury in eyes that can only be read as murderous. His lips are pulled back showcasing his teeth like an apex predator, and it’s only when Steffon whimpers another time that you see the ungodly angle at which his arm is wrung behind his back, Aerion’s brutal force threatening to pop it out of place at the slightest provocation.
There is a sense of unrealness pervading you, this really cannot be happening.
He looks at you then, eyes dousing you in awareness.
He doesn’t break eye contact when he hammers Steffon’s face into the wall.
Once is enough, because he goes limp down onto the dirty pavement, obeying like a beaten rug.
He takes one step towards you. Then another. You notice you are shaking when he takes your wrists in his hand, assessing the damage. His hands are warm, they always are. The contact sends a jolt up your bones that makes you want to run.
You don’t snatch your wrists away.
“You never listen, do you?” His tone isn’t accusing, merely stating a fact. You can see the way he already starts to take you in, that dark need of closeness that harbors in his movements every time you are near.
You want to recoil and drown in him at the same time. Why does he feel safe? You know he isn’t. Is he?
You will yourself not to look at the unconscious man behind him.
“Why are you here?” Is that what you were supposed to ask? To say? It’s clear why he’s here.
Aerion just scoffs, closing another inch of distance between you, his head tilting to one side as he runs his tongue on his teeth.
“This should be the part where you thank me for saving you” he titters, his thumbs gently pressing into the point where Steffon’s own fingers have just been, as if to erase the lingering memory altogether.
You, finally, will yourself to take one step back, retrieving one of your wrists in defiance. Or maybe it’s shame.
Shame that such a small touch can make you feel as if the time spent apart means nothing.
You falter. He notices.
Seizing the opportunity he closes, once again, the space between you two. He breathes you in, high on your presence, his now free hand going to rest just above your pulse point on the side of your neck. Effectively blocking your head from looking anywhere but at him. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t need to. Your hand goes to rest on his wrist. Ready to push him away, clearly.
He says your name in a way that is almost beseeching.
“Didn’t I tell you that there’s no one you can trust?” That conversation you two had now feels like yesterday. It felt sweet at the time. A voice at the back of your head you want to suppress whispers that it could be sweet now too.
“You know how wretched this world is.” His words are honeyed in the way molten resin entraps small lives, crystallizing them in amber. “They don’t deserve you, your kindness, your attention.” He does. He does, he does, he does.
Now right under a streetlight- has he been walking you backwards towards the wall?- you see the feral attributes on his devilishly handsome face. His hand sneaking up to have his thumb swipe at your lips, you feel his breath fanning across your face. There’s only him. Him, him, him.
Aerion closes the distance inch by inch, your noses brushing together as his other hand pulls you flush to him by your waist.
“I’m the only one that knows how to cherish you. How to please you. How to protect you ". He hums when you lean forward slightly, almost appraising the way your subconscious didn’t forget who you should orbit around. His thumb moves through your parted lips, pressing the pad on your tongue, and he has to gather every ounce of restrain as not to take you then and there.
“You are mine, darling” and how true that is, in his mind, since the first time he saw you.
“Stop pretending you don’t know that”.
His hand gets replaced by his lips. Fervorous and unstoppable and oh so sweet on yours. They claim with practiced ease, making you sigh into them, making you want more. More of the flames licking at your skin. More of the bliss clouding your mind. More of the way the fire in him makes you want to melt and never let go again.
He keeps your head still, his hand cradling it in a firm but painless grip. His tongue sneaks in your mouth and you both almost moan at the sensation. Aerion’s body cages your in, an unbreakable shield between you and the world, locked from the outside. His heat radiates even through the layers of clothing, the other hand now inching under the hem of your dress, but stopping at the level of your bare tight. Thumb stroking the inner flesh.
His strong hand grips there, a silent reminder that he can touch whatever belongs to him. That you belong to him.
You missed this. You missed him. You missed him. Fear coils around your spine.
You push him away with all the might you can muster.
He barely stumbles back, but doesn’t fight you. Both of your chests are heaving, and you already feel the presence of upcoming tears in your eyes.
Yet, his are adoring, a satisfaction in his expression that makes your stomach drop.
You shake your head, gathering yourself quickly as you move away from him.
You beeline for the club entrance, having to sidestep Steffon, still unmoving on the ground.
Aerion doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t even follow you.
You hate yourself for stealing one last glance at him before disappearing through the doors. He was smiling.
You're almost sobbing by the time you reach Kiera. Her words are frantic, telling you how they couldn't find you, asking you what happened. Everything your friends say is just a senseless chatter in your ears, as you beg Kiera, please, to take you home.
You take the back exit.
You don’t really remember the ride home, too preoccupied with wallowing in your shame and embarrassment. How did you fall for it again? Why does he keep looking for you? Why does he always find you?
Part of you says its destiny that wants you together, the other stays silent.
Kiera offers to stay with you for the night. It doesn’t take long for her to do two plus two. You refuse, you can’t bear to look at her. To look at yourself.
She still tells you she’s only a call away. You thank her, sincerely.
Then you close the door with every lock it has, and you go straight to the shower.
Hot water is scorching your skin before you realize it. Washing away the feeling of Aerion - it's still there - from your body. Washing away the memory of his voice - it’s still ringing in your ears - when he called your name. Washing away how you felt in that moment, because you liked it.
There’s a puff of smoke curling around Aerion’s lips, as he leans on the wall where you just stood moments before. Seeking your warmth.
The brightness of his phone screen lights up his features in a way that seems mythical, his gaze following the red dot as it travels through streets and alleys obsessively. Like a dragon making sure his treasure reaches its destination safely.
He sees your location pulling up at your home address. It stands outside for a while. Then, it stops inside your house. You must have left your phone on the small table in your foyer.
Good. Just in time to see his present.
A broken sound catches his ear, his focus shifting to the crumpled silhouette on the sidewalk a few feet away. He only gives a bored exhale in answer.
Steffon coughs a few times, and when his unfocused eyes land on Aerion, there’s a battle between fear and anger in his irises.
“You said” he chokes out “you said you would only punch me. Once”.
Aerion could have killed him, for what he did, but meeting you put him in such good spirit.
That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to cave in the worthless face of the vermin at his feet again. He steps closer, leisurely, and he preens at the way Steffon, futilely, tries to scoot back from him.
Aerion bends down, the world tilting, following his movements, until his face is only inches from the nose he previously broke.
“I told you” he starts, patronizing, a sharp edge in his voice that promises more violence if only the fool rolling in the dirt dares to object, “that you should only make her uncomfortable.”
There’s disgust in his steely eyes.
“And yet, here you come, touching what is mine. Leaving your filthy handprints on her.” Before Steffon can reply, a pale hand slides around his throat, unforgiving. Squeezing just enough to hurt. Just enough to remind who is in control.
“You are lucky you are still fucking breathing” one of Aerion’s eyebrow lifts, mockingly, “kinda”.
With that, he stands up, tossing his now consumed cigarette next to the curly haired man, as Steffon pitifully and greedily inhales more smoke than air.
There’s no need to explain what he would do if he ever saw Steffon in proximity of what is his again.
Still, Aerion kicks his ribs. Hard. For good measure. To feed his wicked and immoral pride.
With the melody of ragged breathing behind him, the dragon can finally go back to his lair.
You don’t know how much you stayed under the water stream. The only thing you want now, as you step in your cold bedroom to dress, is to sleep.
Sleep away this godawful night and have some hours of reprieve from your thoughts.
You shiver as you search for a comfortable shirt. Not even the soft material of your towel can keep you from feeling like freezing. Why is it so cold?
You turn around to close the window.
It should be already closed.
You always make sure of it before leaving your house.
A sick, sick feeling takes hold of your body. Daunting and frigid and oh so true.
Your eyes scan your room. Expecting the worst.
But your empty room stares back at you. Unchanged.
Except…
The moonlight catches it, making it shine almost derisively.
You looked for me. Here I am. It says.
Three red eyes stare at you through the darkness.
The necklace Aerion gifted you resting elegantly on your pillow.
Back to its rightful owner.
Just like… you.
If you reached this point, thank you so much for reading! It would mean a lot to me if you could let me know what you think of this little piece of my writing! Lots of love!
Note - this is for you @milkysea-02 for inspiring and encouraging me to write this. Also FEMALE Reader. Thought since I did a hotd and one for targaryens, its only fair I do this au with them too
Baelor Breakspear + Sharing your soulmate's emotions
Soulmates were a favorite subject among poets and bards. Tales sung so often the prince couldn't escape the word even if he tried. It was an endearing concept but Baelor knew how things worked in Westeros. Soulmates meeting were a rarity and even rarer if they fell in love. Yet the prince could feel you, so strongly in fact. To many it’s a curse, but the prince found it comforting.
He adored the moments he could feel your joy. Wondering what brought you such happiness. When anger or sadness tugged at his chest, he would frown wishing he could be there to offer comfort and ask what troubles you. Yes, meeting your soulmate was almost impossible, yet Baelor often thought of you; what you might be like. As he fiddles with his rings, nervous. He wonders if you feel it too. If you too ever ponder on what's bothering him. And when one day he finally meets you. Your father eagerly greets him, introducing you and your sister. It was painfully clear your father wished for Baelor to wed your sister.
And Baelor being the good man he is, indulges the man despite him promising no intention. Yet for some reason Baelor felt something pulling him towards you. He can tell you are nervous... because he can feel it. The prince tries not to jump to conclusions, but every glance, every conversation confirms his growing suspicion. And when he finally had a moment alone with you, he reached for your hand. Feeling every ounce of your emotion. And Baelor knew. He found his soulmate; his other half. No one would ever forget the look on your father's face when Baelor announces he will indeed wed his daughter. Just not the one he planned.
Maekar Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate after the worst event in your life
Maekar didn’t believe in this soulmate nonsense. It's just tales told to children so they have them hope for nothing. Maekar didn’t even believe in it. What were the chances that among thousands of people there was only one meant for you? Especially when he had already loved. His marriage to Dyana was happy, the many years spent together. She had bore him children he loves dearly. For what reason did a man like him need for a soulmate? Then tragedy struck. Where once Maekar was a devoted husband, he has become a widower. He did not weep. He did not beg or pray for the gods. He just stood there, unmoving and silent.
People offered sympathetic glances, kind words, a hand placed on his shoulder. It did nothing. For his wife was dead. She is gone where he shall never see her again, left with children who have no one else to seek but him. “My prince,” the voice called to him when he thought he was finally alone in the hall. It was you. He didn’t remember you for a second before it clicked. You were one of Dyanna’s ladies in waiting. Dressed in black with a seldom expression on your face as you offer your condolences. Maekar barely hears your words, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.
Then you touched his arm. A small gesture. Nothing more. An offer of comfort. It would have earned you a scolding had anyone else seen it. But Maekar merely froze. Staring at you with wide eyes feeling a pull within his chest. Something that is deeper than his grief. For a moment, you looked radiant, almost alluring. An urge almost overtaking him to just pull you in his arms. It couldn’t be. It fucking can’t be. The prince harshly tore his arm away from your touch, storming away. Leaving you staring at his back in confusion and dread as his footsteps echo through the hall.
Lyonel Baratheon + Soulmate marks are only visible after touching
The laughing storm never thought much of soulmates as many men in his time. He laughed at the idea often enough. Jesting his soulmate might be somewhere in the Essos cities dreaming of his touch. Until he came upon you. You weren't even meant to be in his tent. Your house was a minor one not like the Beesbury or the Fossoway; small enough to remain humble. Yet you defied your father and slipped into the tent. Music played, people laughed and drank, and there was Lyonel Baratheon dancing among them, his laugh filling the tent.
Eventually you joined the dancing, enjoying yourself. Till you were paired for a moment with Lyonel, your hands touching. And there it was, both of you hissing in pain. A line forming across your skin; itching and burning on the surface. Lyonel too gripped his wrist, staring in disbelief where the same mark appeared on his skin. Around you the party continues, blind to what’s happening right in front of them. Swallowing nervously, fearing what he might say or do and also fearing your father’s fury - you try to slip away. But Lyonel caught your wrist, pulling you to him. “Stay, you’ve only just arrived haven’t you?”
You had no choice as he led you to his table, his grip still around your wrist. He nudges you to take the chair next to him. His men stared in confusion while Lyonel pays them no mind, filling your cup with wine and taking a sip before passing it to you. You sip too, trying to ignore your lips are where his lips once were, all while his eyes are on you, an amused smile on his face. “So soulmate, can I at least have your name?” Gasps are heard from the men around you. And you can only think of how to explain this mess of a situation to your father.
Valarr Targaryen + Soulmates having their names on each other's wrists
Your parents held their breath the day you showed them your wrist and they saw the name. Valarr Targaryen. Of all the possible soulmates, yours had to be the prince. The heir to the iron throne right after his father. Your family was from a minor house. Approaching the royal family, offering them your hand with nothing but the only reasoning of being the prince’s soulmate would be laughable at best, insulting at worst. So you were instructed to keep it hidden. Always.
People will talk and if Valarr perhaps weds someone else, his wife may take offense to the words being said and your family simply couldn’t afford such a scandal. It was why with the tourney coming up, your father refused to take you at first. But you pleaded for days on end until he finally relented, making you promise that you would draw no attention to yourself. You fully intended to keep to your word. Till you accidently collided with the prince at the gathering before the tourney. Valarr instinctively grabbed you before you fell.
He asked if you were alright. But words were stuck in your throat, heart racing at the sight of him. It couldn’t be, it shouldn’t be. Your friend behind you who witnessed it all, calls your name asking if you are alright too. Watching as realization washes over Valarr’s face. He repeats your name back to you and you shake your head. “You have the wrong person, my pri-” “Show me your wrist.” It wasn’t a request. With shaking hands you allow him the honor to lift your sleeve, inhaling his breath when he sees his name on your skin. Valarr made you return back to your family, praying the matter was finished. So why was Valarr approaching his father, whispering something to his ear? And why has the heir of the throne now approaching your father directly?
Raymun Fossoway + Red string around your pinky is attached to your soulmate's pinky
Soulmates were a comforting thought to Raymun despite everyone else belittling him for it. He often wondered what you might be like. Were you beautiful? Were you out there thinking of him too? After all, you shared a piece of each other’s soul. It was said being far from your soulmate ached and losing them is described as the same pain one would feel if they took a spear to the chest. Sometimes when he was bored or upset, Raymun tugs the string gently just to gouge a reaction, his way of saying hello.
And every time he felt the sting being tugged back, he smiled. Sometimes he even did it at night when he couldn’t sleep, feeling a bit guilty if he woke you up. His cousin mocked him whenever he caught him staring at his pinky playing with the string invisible to the eye. It was one day in his cousin's tent, he was speaking with another squire. Then he felt a sharp tug on the string. It was stronger than usual, almost moving his hand forward. The realization struck him. Were you possibly close?
Without thinking, Raymun excused himself and stepped outside of the tent, ignoring the squire's concerns in the process. Raymun follows the invisible pull until it led him straight to you. He paused for a moment. Even from afar, you looked absolutely beautiful. Were you a servant, a traveler, a lady? Raymun truthfylly didn’t care as he approaches you, clearing his throat to catch your attention. “You’re my soulmate,” he blurted a little too loudly. People close to you both turned to stare. Raymun mumbled an apology before asking if he could speak with you alone.
Aerion Targaryen + Timer for when you shall meet your soulmate
Like his father, Aerion dismissed the idea of soulmates as foolish nonsense. Rolling his eyes whenever his sisters would dreamingly talk of meeting theirs. Content to never find his. He was a dragon, he had no need for such bonds. He hated that timer on his wrist. Felt like it was mocking him, making him feel that lack of control; that he couldn't escape it. Aerion ignored it for years, covering the timer with sleeves long enough so his eyes wouldn’t accidently peek.
But one day, while preparing for a feast, he noticed it. Only a few hours? Aerion frowns, squinting to make sure he is seeing it right. He dismisses it; it's just ridiculous. Until during the feast, sitting next to his father. He curiously glanced down again and saw only one minute lift. What stupidity, what mad- but his thoughts are cut short. There you were, approaching his table. Nudged by your mother to greet your hosts. Politely introducing yourself, curtsying even complimenting the prince.
And Aerion. He was staring. Couldn’t tear his eyes off you. Till his father called his name in confusion before Aerion realized he had been silent far too long. “Yes- yes, that’s kind of you,” he mutters before watching you return to your family once more. Then he notices you glancing down at your own wrist, frowning. And feeling a pair of eyes on you - you look up to see the prince already staring intensely. Was it lust? confusion? Hatred? As he watches you piece it all together.
Daeron Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate in your dreams
Ever since he was a boy Daeron had been haunted by his dreams. Only becoming harder and harder to cope with over the years. The sweet taste of wine helped at first. Before he started drinking more and more he ought to forget just for a moment. But in the middle of it all, there was you. The only thing he found calming. At first he assumed you were part of his visions. Till he realized you reacted to him, understood his words and spoke back to him. When he touched you. You felt real.
You didn’t appear as often as he wanted. Other times his head was filled with prophecies he couldn’t decipher; dragons, fire, death. Whenever you would show, relief washed over him. Daeron cherished those few moments he had. Begging you not to leave when he felt you slipping away, back to the conscious world yet again. Waking up with your name on his lips. And when he finally saw you in the flesh. Daeron was almost trembling. Gods, you were just as beautiful as you were in his dreams.
He wanted to take you in his arms right there and then. But too many eyes were watching, his father among them. When he finally had a moment alone, in a dark hall with no one in sight. Daeron pulled you close burying his face in your neck. “You’re here,” he whispers shakingly, “Gods, you’re here”. Sighing in relief, breathing your scent, letting his lips touch the skin of your nape. Daeron doesn’t care if your family came to summerhall for a mere visit. He doesn’t care what his father might say. He finally had you here, in his arms. He can’t afford to go back to the days where he just had you in dreamless nights.
Duncan The Tall + Time slows down when you meet your soulmate
Dunk had always been told soulmates were frivolous nonsense. Ser Arlan has said it more than once when the topic came up in passing. So Dunk moved through his days never giving it much thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe soulmates existed. He just assumed it wasn't meant for a hedge knight like him. Not until the chain of events. Trying to enlist in the tourney, meeting a little boy who goes by egg, speaking with prince Baelor himself.
As Dunk stood in the hall, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Ser,” he heard you address him, not realizing he was in your way. When Dunk turns to look at you. It happened. The world was slowing down, figuratively and literally. Dunk blinked a few times. Has he gone mad? Every sound was stretched out, every breath louder than it should be. Both of you lock eyes with one another, confusion shared. A second passes and everything snaps back to normal. Still, you and Dunk remain transfixed on one another, realization dawning your faces.
And then your name is called from a knight down the hall, informing you your father has been waiting. You nod and move past dunk who steps aside. As you walk down the hall, you glance back for just a second only to see him still staring at you in an almost daze. Dunk cursed silently to himself. Clearly you were a lady, a woman of a higher birth and status. He should leave it be. Yet somehow Dunk found himself watching you again later from across the tourney stands, Egg on his shoulder. And you notice him, trying so hard not to look back for long.
synopsis. history will remember you as aerion brightflame's wife and whisperer.
contents. fluff, established relationship, protective and possessive!aerion, wife!reader, ooc aerion
notes. he tries soooo hard to pretend he is not at your beck and call.
The morning light spilled pale and golden through the tall windows of Summerhall, catching upon the silver threads in your embroidery.
The door opened without ceremony.
“Father, what brings you to this side of Summerhall so early?” you asked, setting aside the hoop before rising to offer the courtesy due your husband’s sire.
Maekar stood framed against the corridor’s shadow, his expression carved from the same stone as the mountains of the Dornish Marches. There were few men in the realm who looked perpetually braced for battle even within their own halls; your father-in-law was one of them.
“Your idiot husband,” he muttered, striding inside as though the word itself had propelled him.
You did not so much as blink. “Your son,” you corrected gently, gesturing for him to sit.
He declined the chair with a dismissive flick of his hand, pacing instead before the hearth as though the fire might offer counsel.
“He has refused to attend the tourney at Bitterbridge,” Maekar said, irritation threading through every syllable.
You paused only briefly, though your thoughts moved swiftly. Bitterbridge had not been quiet of late; grain levies had tightened, rumors of hoarding had begun to circulate, and lesser lords who resented the crown’s interference had nevertheless grown loud in their demands for royal relief whenever their smallfolk turned restless. A progress to the Reach would not be undertaken for leisure, nor even for spectacle alone, but as deliberate theater of the Iron Throne's presence.
“I suppose my dear husband considers disputes over grain beneath his notice,” you murmured, retrieving your embroidery needle and aligning it with deliberate care.
Maekar snorted, though whether at your assessment or at Aerion himself remained unclear. “Thank fuck someone in this cursed family has sense."
You allowed yourself a small smile. “If you have come to enlist me as emissary, I fear you misjudge the difficulty. Aerion would sooner invite open rebellion than permit me to depart his sight for a fortnight.”
“Yes,” Maekar replied darkly, “that appears to be the fucking problem.”
The bluntness might have scandalized another daughter-in-law; you merely folded your hands in your lap and regarded him with patient attention. For all his severity, Maekar did not waste his visits on trivialities.
“He refuses on what grounds?” you asked.
“He claims the Reach is quiet enough without our presence,” Maekar said, voice tightening. “He insists that to answer every minor grievance with a dragon’s shadow is to encourage further complaint.”
You could almost hear your husband’s voice.
“However,” you ventured, “a prince’s attendance would remind those same lords that their harvest depends upon the stability of the crown.”
Maekar stopped pacing and looked at you fully then, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Precisely.”
You set the hoop aside altogether now, giving him your undivided attention.
“I wish my son to understand that ruling requires more than posturing,” Maekar replied. “The smallfolk grow anxious, which breeds discontent.”
“And Aerion’s absence,” you concluded softly, “might be interpreted as indifference.”
Maekar’s silence confirmed it.
You knew your husband’s tempers, his pride, the peculiar intensity with which he guarded what he deemed his own. You also knew the quieter truths few others witnessed: the way his restlessness eased at your touch, the rare unguarded smile reserved solely for you, the impatience that melted into something almost boyish when you praised him.
You said at last, “ You hope that my presence will render the journey tolerable.”
Maekar’s mouth twitched, almost conceding humor. “I hope your presence will make refusal impossible.”
You laughed softly at that. “Father, you attribute to me a power I do not claim.”
“Do not pretend modesty,” he countered. “He listens to no man at this court without calculating advantage, yet the fool listens to you.”
You rose and crossed to the window, gazing out across Summerhall’s rolling grounds where banners stirred in the mild breeze. Somewhere within those halls your husband would be engaged in some private irritation, convinced that the world misunderstood him.
“The Reach will receive a prince more favorably if he arrives with his princess beside him. Let them see that he can be… tempered.”
The word hung between you.
To tame a dragon was to risk being burned; to refuse was to risk letting it devour the fields unchecked.
“And if he refuses even then?” you asked quietly.
Maekar met your gaze without flinching. “Oh I can assure you that he will not.”
You arched a brow.
“He would rather march into a nest of vipers,” Maekar said dryly, “than admit before you that he shirks responsibility.”
A reluctant smile curved your lips. That, at least, rang true.
“Very well,” you said, returning to your embroidery only long enough to secure the final stitch in the dragon’s wing. “I shall speak with my husband.”
Maekar inclined his head, relief masked as gruff approval. “Convince him,” he said simply.
As he turned to depart, you added lightly, “You understand, of course, that if he agrees, he will insist I remain within arm’s reach at all times.”
Maekar paused at the threshold. “If that is the price” he replied, “the realm can endure it.”
“Sister!”
The brightly unfiltered cry preceded him down the corridor, and a moment later Aegon flung himself toward you with all the enthusiasm of youth, his hands fastening into the folds of your skirts.
“Yes, my love?” you asked, laughter threading softly through your voice as you steadied him with a hand upon his hair, smoothing back the unruly silver-gold strands.
He tipped his face upward, solemnity attempting to replace excitement and failing entirely. “Is it true,” he demanded in a whisper far too loud to be conspiratorial, “that Aerion has refused to go to the Reach because he says it is dull?”
You arched a brow. “Your brother does not find anything dull,” you replied mildly. “He merely prefers his spectacles grand.”
Egg huffed, the sound caught somewhere between indignation and admiration. “Will you make him go?” he asked at last.
There was no mockery in the question; to him it was simply the most practical solution available. If Aerion resisted the realm, the realm would send you.
“I will speak with him,” you said.
“That means yes,” Egg replied immediately, relief blooming across his features. “He always listens when you speak.”
“Always?” you teased.
“He pretends he does not,” the boy insisted, tightening his grip upon your skirts as though afraid you might deny it. “He argues and frowns and says dreadful things about peasants and banners, but then he does what you suggested as if it were his idea all along.”
You laughed then, unable to help it. "Really, now?"
Egg said, straightening with exaggerated seriousness. “Someone must know how to handle him.”
“And you believe it is I?”
“You are the only one who does,” he replied, the certainty in his tone unshaken. “When he is angry, he looks for you. When he wins, he looks for you. When he is bored, he comes to you. He does not even realize he does it.”
The simplicity of the observation struck more keenly than Egg could have intended.
You brushed an errant curl from his forehead. “Your brother is not so easily managed as you imagine.”
“Well, I did not say managed,” Egg corrected, with a dignity he had likely borrowed from some half-remembered lecture. “I said handled.”
The distinction drew a quieter smile from you.
“He frightens the court,” Egg continued, lowering his voice again. “And he frightens me. But he never frightens you.”
You considered that carefully before answering. “He would not wish to.”
Egg’s expression shifted at that, comprehension dawning in a way that was almost painful in its innocence. “He loves you,” he said plainly, as though remarking upon the weather.
You did not deny it.
“He is devoted,” you replied, choosing your language with care.
“That is the same thing,” Egg insisted, though his brows drew together in thought. “Is it not?”
“It can be,” you said, smoothing the crease from his brow with your thumb. “Provided devotion does not forget the world beyond itself.”
He absorbed that with visible effort before a fresh frustration seized him.
“I want to go,” he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “To Bitterbridge. I told Father I could serve as squire, or carry a banner, or do anything at all, but he says I am not to leave unless my brothers enter the lists.”
“And do they intend to?” you asked gently.
Egg scowled in a manner that suggested he had already received an answer. “Aerion says the lists are beneath him unless the prize is worthy. Aemon says he has no desire to break bones for applause. And Father says that if they will not ride, then neither shall I.”
You regarded him with sympathetic gravity. “Your father wishes to keep you from unnecessary danger.”
“I am not afraid,” he insisted.
“I know,” you said softly. “That is precisely why he is.”
The indignation faltered, replaced by reluctant understanding.
“If Aerion goes,” Egg pressed, returning to his earlier certainty, “and if you go, then Father will have no reason to keep me here. He said I may attend only if my brothers do. So you must convince him as well.”
The scope of the task did not seem to daunt him in the slightest.
“You ask much of me,” you murmured.
“You always make it so," he replied without hesitation. Your heart clenches.
As he darted away at the summons of some distant voice, leaving your skirts at last unclaimed, you remained in the corridor a moment longer, reflecting upon the curious position you occupied within this family.
Aerion is already in your bedchambers by the time you arrive, his face illuminated by the flickering gold of oil-fed flames.
Your husband stands at the edge of the hearth when you enter, one hand braced against the carved mantle as though steadying himself against some irritation that has followed him from council. He does not turn immediately, yet the subtle straightening of his shoulders betrays awareness long before your reflection reaches him in the glass.
“You have that look,” he says, watching you through the mirror rather than directly.
You close the door softly. The gown you wear is one he favors, a fluid red silk that clings without ostentation, thin enough that the heat of the chamber renders it almost indecent.
“What look?” you ask, fingers moving to unpin your hair, letting it fall in a heavy cascade over your shoulders and down your back.
His gaze darkens at the motion despite himself, lingering not politely but thoroughly.
“I know my family sent you. They should know better,” he replies, turning at last. “It implies I may be persuaded.”
“You may be,” you say, stepping farther into the room, candlelight tracing the line of your collarbone and catching in the hollow of your throat.
He studies you in silence, the pull in his expression no longer disguised. He looks as a man starved.
“Maekar grows impatient,” you continue, stopping just within his reach. “The Reach wishes reassurance.”
“The lowborn desire a spectacle,” he says dismissively, though his hand has already found your waist, thumb pressing into silk as if confirming you are real and not some conjured temptation. His grip is firm, almost bruising, yet you lean into it rather than away. “They call for dragons when it is convenient and curse them when not.”
“And you would deny them both?” you ask softly.
His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly, bunching the fabric at your hip. “I would deny them the illusion that I perform at their whim.”
You lift your hand to his chest, feeling the steady, contained force beneath linen and skin—the heat of your husband constant. Your palm slides lower, slow and deliberate, until your fingers curl lightly at his belt.
“You command,” you murmur, gaze never leaving his. “You always have.”
His breath shifts.
“They want you seen,” you continue, your thumb tracing the faint rise of his collarbone before drifting to the edge of his jaw. “Not hidden in these halls.”
He draws you closer in a single decisive motion, your body colliding with his, the impact enough to steal the space between your words. One hand remains at your waist; the other comes up to your throat, not choking, merely resting there—a possessive reminder of strength. You do not flinch. Instead, you tilt your chin slightly, inviting.
“And you were not made to be paraded before men who forget themselves,” he says, voice low, controlled, though the hand at your throat tightens just enough to feel.
“They will look regardless,” you reply, your hands sliding upward into his hair, fingers threading through silver strands with slow familiarity. You tug, not enough to hurt, only enough to make him feel it. “At least this way, they will see where I stand.”
His mouth hardens.
“I would sooner gouge out the eyes of every hedge knight and fishmonger who dares stare,” he mutters, disgust curling through the words. “Let them glimpse a dragon’s hoard and think themselves worthy of it.”
His gaze drags slowly over you again, possessive and unapologetic. “They do not deserve to look at you.”
His eyes close briefly at the contact of your hands, composure thinning in a way few ever witness. A faint exhale escapes him when you press closer, the silk between you a poor barrier against heat.
“Beside me,” he says, almost to himself.
“Where else?”
He searches your face then, as though reconciling the prince he presents to the world with the woman who knows precisely how to undo him. “They believe you temper me,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head, brushing your lips along the line of his jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the pulse beneath his skin. “Perhaps I only remind you of what you are capable of.”
A low sound escapes him, less laughter than surrender. His hand slides from your throat to your back, fingers spanning wide, pulling you flush against him so there is no doubt of his want.
“If I go,” he says, voice roughened now by proximity rather than anger, “you will remain within my sight. I will not have you wandering those pavilions while half the Reach imagines futures that do not belong to them.”
“I have no interest in futures that do not belong to us,” you reply, your lips grazing the corner of his mouth before you allow him the full kiss.
The word lingers between you.
His hand drifts lower, settling at the curve of your hip, thumb tracing slow, possessive patterns through silk. “You would endure the journey,” he says, though his mouth has found the line of your neck, heat trailing in its wake.
“I would endure far worse,” you murmur, your head tipping back to grant him better access, fingers tightening in his hair when his teeth scrape lightly against your skin. You were made to handle him—to meet heat with heat.
“They sent you because they know,” he says at last, lifting his head though he does not release you. “Because they see that I listen.”
“You do not listen,” you correct gently, your hand sliding between you, flattening over his heart once more. “You choose.”
A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, though his eyes burn brighter for it.
“And what do I choose now?” he asks.
“You choose to ride south not because they demand it,” you say, your lips brushing his again, slower this time, deeper. “You choose because you wish to be seen—and because you know I will be there.”
He holds your gaze for a long breath, and in it is something rawer than pride: it is needy.
“Fine,” he says finally, the admission stripped bare.
Your hand curves against his cheek, drawing him down until your lips claim his properly this time. The kiss deepens without hurry, his grip tightening at your back as though the world beyond these walls has already begun to recede. When he lifts you slightly, just enough that your feet barely brush the floor, you do not protest.
When you finally pull back, his gaze has softened in a way the court will never witness.
“Bitterbridge, then,” he murmurs against your mouth, decision settling with quiet inevitability. “We ride within the week.”
You allow a small, satisfied smile, your thumb still tracing slow circles over his skin as though sealing the bargain.
“Let them look,” you say softly.
His arms tighten around you, rough and reverent all at once.
“They will,” he replies, voice low and certain. “And they will understand precisely why I came.”
notes. aerion will be in for a sweet surprise at the tourney when he realizes he can’t gatekeep his wife forever ... maybe i'll flesh out the whole tourney
Summary: Daniel Ricciardo falls for Mercedes race engineer YN Antonelli - which is all good until the dangers of dating rival teams shows itself
Requested - Yes / @njutul
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mercedesamgf1: Two Antonelli’s in the Mercedes garage! Kimi Antonelli and his sister YN Antonelli sign contracts for the 2025 season - Kimi Antonelli will be driving for us and YN Antonelli will be joining his race engineering team!
username: she’s so pretty omg
username: Antonellis taking over merc
username: Toto Wolff is never going to know a days peace
yn.antonelli: so excited!!!
-> username: I’d be terrified to be my brothers race engineer, imagine that family dinner after a shit race
-> username: no fr you couldn’t pay me enough
username: WAIT WHAT
-> username: yeah they’ve both been in Mercedes junior programs since forever, she was with the engineering program and obvs Kimi in the drivers program, she’s been on Kimi’s team since then so they work pretty well together and obviously he trusts everything she says which makes life easier
kimi.antonelli: Let’s do it 💪🏻
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liked by: maxverstappen1, danielricciardo, yn.antonelli and 11,792,901 others
redbullracing: Ready to take on Melbourne
username: DANNY😭
username: max surrounded by all the rookies after FP1 I love him 😭
username: the best team omg
username: somebody tell me why Mercedes race engineer YN Antonelli is in the likes of Red Bull??
-> username: okay so I did some digging bc I can’t help myself 😭 she’s recently just starting following Danny and she doesn’t follow max sooooo I’m deducting that YN is only here for Danny
-> username: PLEASE IMAGINE HER AND DANNY
-> username: Wait sorry?? Fill me in why are we imagining her and Danny??
-> username: omg they’d just fit so well together both of them are just !!! like they’re both literal rays of sunshine, imagine Danny but girl form
-> username: it would be the healthiest, happiest relationship ever
-> username: nah im telling you now what this space it’s gonna happen
username: first race into the season and we’ve already started shipping two people who’ve never met before, f1 has never been more back ladies and gentleman
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, olliebearman and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: The Antonelli’s are taking over the paddock
username: you guys weren’t kidding when you said she was bubbly
-> username: fr did you see her and Kimi on sky sports??
-> username: iconic duo
-> username: I don’t know how it’s gonna happen but I NEED her and Danny to meet so badly!!!
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, yn.antonelli, georgerussell63 and 11,792,901 others
mercedesamgf1: A strong start to season, a podium finish from George Russell and our rookie Kimi Antonelli amazes with a P4 finish in his first F1 race!!
username: This is everything
username: KIMI & YN’S RADIOS ARE SO FUNNY
-> username: kimi: are you even looking at the stats , what the hell? yn: yeah we can get two overtakes done here if you just shut up and drive
-> username: siblings on the same team is everything i need
username: LOOK AT HER, SHE WAS MADE FOR DANEIL RICCIARDO
username: I don’t care what it takes we need them to win
yn.antonelli: Well done Kimi!!!
-> kimi.antontelli: Grazie, couldn’t have done it without you!!
-> username: I love them
-> username: I may be starting to be converted into a Mercedes fan because of them😭🫡
-> mercedesamgf1: Join us
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, lando and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: let’s see how we do here
username: HOW ARE WE FIVE RACES INTO THE SEASON AND DANNYYN HAVENT MET???
username: Kimi and yn are absolutely smashing it this season
username: im so over this they need to meet 😭
username: Mercedes have such a strong team rn like no wonder they’re in points every race
username: happy Kimi’s doing great and that yn is constantly being praised by Toto and Bono but DANNY AND YN HAVE TO MEET
username: Kimi got points again!!!
username: screaming at these comments, wtf they haven’t even met each other and everyone’s going crazy for them
-> username: i think it’s weird yeah BUT I do see the vision
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, maxverstappen1 and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: guys im manifesting the same things as you
username: SHE WANTS DANNYYN TOO OMG
username: if this means what i think it means then holy shit
username: YN SHIPS HER AND DANNY
-> username: nah im actually screaming so loud you don’t even know
username: ok girl i see you
username: @/danielricciardo come and get your girl
kimi.antonelli: Imbarazzante🤦🏻♂️
-> yn.antonelli: @/kimi.antonelli help your big sister and crucial part of your team out
-> username: Iconic really
username: why is max in the likes we got the wrong red bull driver 😭😭😭
-> username: max send it to Danny rn 🔪
username: She’s just as delusional as us omg
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liked by: maxverstappen1, yn.antonelli, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
kimi.antonelli: She threatened to throw my race if I didn’t post this - go to her page @/yn.antonelli
username: im in love with her omg
georgerussell63: Looking good, Antonelli’s
-> username: wrong f1 driver
mercedesamgf1: YN, please don’t throw Kimi’s race
-> yn.antonelli: 🤭🤭
username: DANNY FOLLOWS KIMI, YN I SEE THE VISION
-> username: wait what??
-> username: yn got Kimi to post her so Danny sees it 😭
-> username: You know what girl? I respect it
username: DANIEL LIKED !!!!
-> username: ITS HAPPENING!!
username: three months into the season and we’ve finally got something
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: Solo date in Miami
username: I know damn well you took date night photos upload them rn
-> yn.antonelli: 🤭🤭
username: give the people what they want yn
-> yn.antonelli: no idea what you’re talking about
-> username: wow she’s really treating us like this 💀
username: posting hot pics for Danny I know you
username: SoLo DaTe, girl we know damn well you were out with Danny last night
danielricciardo: Lookin good 😉
-> yn.antonelli: grazie🥰
-> username: SORRY!??
username: YN DONT DO THIS TO US
kimi.antonelli: Embarrassing
-> yn.antonelli: quite literally mind ur business
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: making friends
username: ‘friends’ ok yn
username: obsessed with this
username: YN GET A DOG RN
kimi.antonelli: I will have you fired if you dont put a mercedes top back on
-> username: Kimi crashing out over dannyyn I love it
-> mercedesamgf1: We agree, please represent your team 👍🏼
-> yn.antonelli: guys can we please help a girl out
-> kimi.antonelli: No
username: SHE POSTED HIM???
username: I know the post is dannyn but omg she met Leo????
danielricciardo: Friend’s is crazy
-> username: you out here confirming dannyyn so casually is crazy
-> yn.antonelli: 💀💀
username: I love this actually omg
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liked by: maxverstappen1, yn.antonelli, lando and 10,792,901 others
danielricciardo: Sharin’ is carin’
username: Sharing with @/yn.antonelli?
-> username: bro id bet my life on it
username: DANIEL RICCIARDO SOFT LAUNCHING?????
maxverstappen1: Happy for you mate
-> username: was about to be shocked max knew then remembered they’re teammates and gossip 24/7
-> username: So real did you see them at the drivers parade?? They were def talking about YN, he was blushing like crazy and Max was creased 😭
username: you just know Danny does the best dates
yn.antonelli: looks good 🤭
-> danielricciardo: Yeah you do
-> yn.antonelli: smooth ricciardo
-> username: Wait I love them
username: I just know Kimi is living for the fact that Danny Ric is gonna be his brother in law whilst also hating every minute of this
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liked by: olliebearnman, yn.antonelli, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
kimi.antonelli: Join F1 they said, it’ll be fun they said
username: I can’t tell if he loves it or hates it
username: little bro suffering
username: Yes, this is the content we want, more of this please
username: another pov unlocked
mercedesamgf1: Should we be worried about team loyalties?
-> yn.antonelli: noooo im all yours 🥺
-> kimi.antonelli: What team shirt are you wearing right now?
-> mercedesamgf1: Yeah, YN, we’d like to know too
-> yn.antonelli: mercedes obviously 👀
-> mercedesamgf1: Choosing to believe this for our sanity
username: I LOVE HIM
danielricciardo: Glad to have you here, kid!
-> kimi.antonelli: Glad I brought my sister here you mean
-> danielricciardo: Two things can be true
username: No stop look how fun they look together omgggg
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: post debrief vibes
username: date night !!
username: red bull and mercedes are fighting for p1 in the WCC tomorrow and their driver and engineer are out having dinner together 💀
danielricciardo: Hope the company was as good as you look
-> yn.antonelli: wasn’t too bad, would see again 🤭
username: nah im here for this pairing its so cute
username: i need her to lock in so kimi does well tomorrow
username: pretty girl omg
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, yn.antonelli, georgerussell63 and 11,792,901 others
f1: A new leader in the WCC - Mercedes are now leading the World Constructor’s Championship! This comes after a last minute call from YN Antonelli that saw Mercedes’ Rookie Kimi Antonelli undercutting Red Bull driver Daniel Ricciardo and in the process Daniel Ricciardo lost four positions!
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: kimi on the podium!!
username: YAY KIMI WIN
username: ok so dont get me wrong im so so happy for kimi BUT did you see how pissed off Daniel was
-> username: I mean he was on track for a podium finish
-> username: nah he flung that helmet on the floor 💀
-> username: and it was her call 😭
-> username: dating in f1 never works and im so sad
username: Well done omg!!!!
kimi.antonelli: Grazie, non avrei potuto farcela senza di te 🥰
-> username: He couldn’t have done it without her 😭
-> yn.antonelli: Felice di essere al tuo fianco, fratellino, orgoglioso per sempre di te
-> username: glad to be by your side, little brother, forever proud of you omg im sobbing
username: well dannyyn was nice whilst it lasted I guess
-> username: dont do that I still have hope
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liked by: maxverstappen1, danielricciardo, yn.antonelli and 11,792,901 others
redbullracing: Not the result we wanted but we try again
username: shit I was really rooting for dannyyn
username: that podium was his before that undercut omg :((
username: Merc’s strategy call cost Danny that podium
-> danielricciardo: Yeah. It did.
-> username: someone take that mans phone away before he fumbles her so bad please
-> username: :((((((
username: Aw they were so cute together as well
username: I mean in YN’s defence he can’t expect to date a rival engineer and then be pissed when her driver beats him 💀
username: divorce era
-> username: fr we thought the mercedes x red bull beef was bad before this is gonna be mental 💀
-> username: dont speak it into existence im praying he comes to his senses
username: Looking this good whilst having their worst results of the season and putting mercedes miles ahead should be worth points
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: another podium in the bag 💪🏻
username: uh-oh
-> username: what’s uh-oh
-> username: kimi beat ricciardo again
kimi.antonelli: Grazie!!!!
-> yn.antonelli: proud of you!!!
username: praying Dannyyn dont fight again
danielricciardo: Mega drive Kimi 💪🏻 Pretty good strategy calls too
-> yn.antonelli: wasn’t a bad race for you either, ricciardo
-> username: OH THANK GOD HES BEING MATURE
-> username: omg good I couldn’t have handled another fight
username: AHHH TWO KIMI PODIUMS!!!!
danielricciardo: Reckon a congratulation dinner is in order?
-> kimi.antonelli: You’re paying
-> olliebearman: I dont think you were invited mate
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liked by: olliebearnman, yn.antonelli, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
kimi.antonelli: At least he paid
username: dying at the fact kimi actually went to the dinner
username: WHAT DO YOU MEAN KIMI HARDLAUNCHED DANNYYN???
-> username: honestly im not even surprised
username: DANNYN!!!
yn.antonelli: you werent invited tbf
-> kimi.antonelli: IT WAS MY WIN !!
-> yn.antonelli: with my strategy !!
-> danielricciardo: relax kids, you were both invited
-> username: Daniel trying to win favour with kimi I love it
username: SCREAMING WTF
username: everyone say thank you to kimi rn
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liked by: kimi.antonelli, georgerussell63, danielricciardo and 2,792,901 others
yn.antonelli: not that it was a secret but cheers kimi
username: you know she’s fuming she didn’t get to do her own hard launch
-> kimi.antonelli: It’s deserved for all my suffering
-> yn.antonelli: he chooses to hang out with us btw
-> username: aww that’s so cute acc
username: YES MUM AND DAD
username: finally!!!!
username: It’s about time
username: THE SHOEYS😭
danielricciardo: Love you, pretty girl
-> username: WAIT we’re saying love??? omg im obsessed
Gemini had the fucking GALL to get in my email and summarize a 3-line email, taking up more space than the email did visually.
Hit the “thumbs down.” It’s like, what’s wrong??? Was our summary wrong? Were there offensive words? Thank you for helping us improve our AI tools :)
I selected “other.”
Text box popped up. Please elaborate!
Wrote in “I can fucking read” submit comment
Then had to spend several minutes torching all my settings with a flamethrower. Let me be clear: I’m (a lawyer) notoriously picky with my words FOR GOOD REASON (lawyering) so I overwhelmingly reject Gmail’s “helpful” little assistance. My privacy settings were set to “full paranoia” a little less than a year ago when I saw the writing on the wall and knew public defenders could become a target in the future. Better to lock it all down now.
Gemini had crept in there and turned ALL that shit back on. And showed itself by saying “Jane Doe says she’s so sorry for your loss and offers to reschedule for Thursday at 3” over an email from Jane Doe saying “I’m so sorry for your loss. We could reschedule for Thursday at 3?”
Why would I possibly need this. In what universe would I need this. I have eyes and a brain and a reading speed that twenty years ago was measured at 1500 wpm with full comprehension on dense scientific text. Furthermore! If I read a summary, I’m not reading what they actually wrote. If I’m not reading what they actually wrote, I’m not using my own judgment on the words and phrases that they used.
I literally don’t understand why this is helpful at all. This is just avoidance. Using LLMs to write is specifically Not Writing. Using LLMs to summarize is Not Reading. Using them to make art is Avoiding Making Art. Just READ! Just WRITE! I was not put on this fucking planet to not read and not write and not make art! Avoidance is an anxiety symptom and indulging it gives it more power.
If I had an AI to do my most dreaded task, answer the phone for clients, I wouldn’t use it. Because an AI cannot help them. An AI cannot hear the facts of their case, make appropriate noises, be thoughtful and insightful, and then give them a realistic estimate of what could happen in court. I am unique. I cannot be replaced by machine learning. I have style. I have expertise. I don’t hallucinate unless I’m having a really great Friday night and I’m off the clock.
When I need to outsource tasks from my own brain, I give them to people I know can do them and that I trust to do them right.
Fuck, it just sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?? Goddamn Gemini jumpscare right in my own fucking email
Summary: A princess, promised to a prince she does not want, is placed under the protection of Ser Brienne of Tarth, a knight unlike any she has ever known.
Rain had been teasing the castle for days, gathering in dark clouds that hovered like omens.
You stood in the solar with your hands clasped tightly before you, knuckles pale as the truth settled deeper into your bones.
Your father’s voice echoed in your mind.
You were to marry a prince from the southern coast. Political gain, valuable alliance, strengthened borders.
These were the words spoken around you, none of which touched your heart in the slightest.
You did not want him. You did not want any man.
Your father believed the matter was settled. You would meet your betrothed in a fortnight. The prince had written once, a letter filled with polite compliments and stiff formality.
Even parchment could not hide his disinterest. He wanted a queen, not you.
And you wanted none of this at all.
Your father arranged a new guard for you, someone skilled, unwavering, and loyal enough to accompany you to the prince’s lands when the time came.
You expected another grizzled knight with a narrow view of the world and a habit of reminding you to behave.
Instead, the doors opened and revealed someone entirely different.
Tall. Broad. Armoured in polished blue steel.
The figure stepped into the solar with the certainty of someone used to battlefields rather than perfumed halls.
Sunlight caught the golden hair escaping beneath the helm, and for a moment, you felt the smallest, strangest shift in your chest.
Your breath stalled. A man, you assumed.
Perhaps too young for the reputation your father spoke of, but imposing enough to silence every thought you had attempted to hold steady.
Then the helm lifted.
And the world tilted.
Her face was strong, angular, marked by the life of a warrior. Blue eyes as clear as the sky over Tarth. A softness lingered beneath her stern exterior, a kind of fragile grace that did not match the powerful way she carried herself. You had seen many knights, yet none looked like her. None felt like this.
She bowed deeply.
“My lady,” she said, voice low, steady, and absolutely beautiful.
Relief flooded through you so intensely that your knees nearly weakened. She was a woman.
Thank the gods, she was a woman.
Strange how safe that made you feel.
You exhaled slowly.
“You are to be my sworn shield.”
“Yes.” She straightened and kept her eyes respectfully lowered. “I am Brienne of Tarth. Your father has entrusted your safety to me. I will not fail you.”
There was no arrogance in her tone, only certainty.
A certainty she seemed to offer you freely. You swallowed as warmth gathered under your ribs. You had feared being paired with another man, someone who would misread you, watch you with suspicion, or speak down to you.
Instead, you had Brienne.
A knight, yes. But a woman too. A breath of calm you had not known you needed.
“I am grateful,” you said softly.
Brienne shifted slightly, as though uncertain how to accept gratitude. Her gaze remained fixed just a little off to the side. You wondered if she feared her presence unsettled you.
The thought made something tighten in your chest.
“You will not be alone in this, my lady. Whatever burdens you carry, I will ease them where I can.”
You felt her sincerity like a hand placed gently on your spine.
Later that day, as she walked beside you through the courtyard, you studied her quietly. Her stride was precise, each step chosen with purpose.
Her armour was well kept but clearly worn from true use, not ceremony. A knight who had lived the stories others only told.
At the training grounds, she paused when you paused. The yard was empty, save for puddles glistening from the morning rain.
Brienne adjusted her gauntlet and looked up, unsure whether to continue.
“You may practice if you wish. I do not mind waiting.”
Her eyes lifted to yours for the briefest moment. A flicker of something soft crossed her features. Surprise, maybe. Gratitude.
“As you wish, my lady.”
You watched her draw her sword, the metal singing through the air. She moved with remarkable control, her strikes precise, her footwork measured, her body balanced in ways that felt almost unfair for someone of her size. She looked powerful, capable, stunning in a way you had no name for yet.
When she turned, her eyes met yours.
She faltered, just slightly, as if the sudden awareness of your gaze pulled her off rhythm. She lowered her sword with a breath that left her chest a little too quickly.
“I hope I did not alarm you,” she said.
“You did not alarm me,” you replied, your voice softer than you intended. “It was remarkable to watch.”
Her cheeks coloured faintly. She looked away, the shy gesture at odds with her formidable presence.
“You honour me,” she said.
You walked back toward the castle together. The distance between you felt charged with something neither of you had the courage to name.
Brienne held the door for you, her head bowed.
“I will be at your side as long as you will have me, my lady.”
You paused, your hand hovering just above the threshold. Something tugged inside you, quiet but certain.
“I would have no one else.”
Brienne’s eyes widened just a fraction.
She swallowed hard, as if steadying herself against emotions she had not expected to feel.
The rain finally stopped, leaving the world smelling of wet stone and new beginnings.
You stepped back into the castle, unaware that your heart had already begun to betray your destiny.
Brienne followed, silent, loyal, already yours without realising it.
The days after Brienne’s arrival settled into a rhythm that surprised you with its gentleness. She moved through your world like a silent guardian, always close but never intrusive.
A comforting shadow. A steady presence. A breath of calm, you found yourself reaching for more often than you cared to admit.
You woke one morning to the faint sound of metal clashing beyond your window.
Curiosity pulled you from your bed, and you wrapped a cloak around your shoulders before slipping outside. The early air held a crisp chill, smelling of dew and distant sea salt.
Down in the training yard, Brienne stood alone.
Her armour glinted gold where the rising sun brushed its edges. Her sword moved in precise arcs, her body flowing in a rhythm that felt too graceful for someone so tall, so strongly built. She pivoted, struck, and shifted her footing, and the controlled brutality of her movements left you breathless.
You should have left. It felt improper to stare. But your feet stayed planted, your breath held captive in your throat.
Perhaps she sensed you. Or perhaps your gaze burned too brightly across the courtyard.
Brienne turned.
Her sword lowered. Her chest rose and fell with quiet breaths. A strand of hair clung to her cheek, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of uncertainty in her expression.
Almost embarrassed.
“My lady,” she said, straightening. “Forgive me. I did not wake you, I hope.”
You shook your head.
“You did not wake me. I only wished to see the morning.”
Her eyes softened, the faintest ease settling in her shoulders.
“It is a good hour for training. Peaceful. Quiet.”
“Do you train alone every dawn?”
Brienne hesitated.
“It is when I am least likely to be watched.”
Her meaning struck you gently and painfully at once. You had heard whispers before. The tall, odd-looking woman from Tarth.
The daughter who could not secure a match. The knight who fought too well for a woman, yet was mocked for it all the same.
You stepped closer.
“There is no shame in being seen.”
Her throat bobbed with a swallow.
“I would rather not invite mockery.”
“I would never mock you.”
Brienne blinked, and something warm flickered in her eyes. A quiet gratitude that went deeper than her words could express.
She sheathed her sword.
“Would you like to learn a few moves? Not combat. Only ways to defend yourself if needed.”
A thrill ran through you, small but undeniable.
“I would.”
She hesitated again, looking almost nervous. “
Then come here. Slowly.”
You approached, heart beating far too quickly. Brienne raised her hands in a careful stance and guided you through the simplest ways to break a hold, to twist away from a wrist grab, to shift your weight so you could escape.
Her hands brushed yours only briefly, but the contact lingered in your skin long after she pulled away. Brienne’s touch was warm, steady, patient. She held you as though she feared she might harm you if she applied even a fraction too much strength.
“You are doing well,” she said softly.
“You are a very good teacher.”
Brienne shifted her gaze to the stones beneath your feet. You saw the faintest curve of a smile.
When practice ended, she escorted you to breakfast, walking one careful pace behind you as duty required.
Yet every time your sleeve brushed hers, something tightened and then eased in your chest.
Your father noticed none of it. He only spoke of marriage contracts and dowries and banners, his voice droning like a heavy door that refused to close.
You sat beside Brienne during the meal, your shoulders nearly touching, and the contrast between her and the world of men around you grew sharper and sharper.
Later, you found her in the stables, tending to her horse. She looked up as you approached, her hand stilled in the creature’s mane.
“Do you seek me, my lady?”
You almost said yes. Instead, you offered a gentler truth.
“I prefer your company to most others.”
Brienne froze. Just for a moment.
Then she nodded slowly, eyes searching yours with a vulnerability she tried to hide.
“I am honoured.”
The rest of the day passed in small moments.
Brienne carrying your cloak over muddy ground.
Brienne placing herself between you and a reckless horse.
Brienne lowering her head when you smiled at her, as though she feared she might glow too brightly under your attention.
That evening, when you walked the battlements together, the sky painted itself in shades of rose and violet.
Wind pulled at your hair, and before you could secure it, Brienne gently tucked a strand behind your ear. The gesture was simple. The effect was not.
You felt her hand tremble before she withdrew it.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“It is nothing,” she replied, voice quieter than usual.
But it was not nothing.
It was everything.
The warmth of her touch remained long after sunset, and when you returned to your chambers that night, you closed the door with a soft, secret smile.
Your heart, it seemed, was learning its shape.
And that shape was her.
Your father summoned you at first light. His expression was stern in the way all kings learned to wear early, shaped by duty rather than affection. You sat before him with hands folded in your lap, trying not to think of Brienne waiting outside the chamber doors.
“It is time. You will depart within the next two days for the prince’s keep.”
Your stomach tightened.
He continued.
“The fewer who travel, the safer the route. I trust Ser Brienne of Tarth to guard you with her life. You will take her and no one else. Discretion is key.”
Ser Brienne.
Your father called her that constantly, refusing to acknowledge her womanhood.
You wondered how often she endured such things in silence.
You bowed your head, hiding the fear rising within.
“Yes, Father.”
He offered a curt nod, already turning back to his maps and alliances. You stood, dismissed as quickly as a thought in passing.
Outside the doors, Brienne straightened at once, eyes searching your face. There was concern there, barely veiled.
“My lady, what has happened?”
You exhaled.
“We leave in two days.”
Her expression did not change, yet something tightened around her eyes. She nodded once.
“I will prepare the horses.”
“Brienne?”
She paused.
“I am glad it is you.”
Her breath caught. She bowed her head slightly, almost reverently, as though the words were too soft to fully withstand.
“And I am honoured to be chosen,” she said.
But you could hear what she did not say.
She wished the purpose of the journey was different.
She wished she were taking you anywhere else.
So did you.
The morning of your departure arrived with stubborn clouds and a chill wind sweeping over the courtyard. Brienne helped you onto your horse.
Once mounted, she climbed onto her own horse and moved to your side.
“Stay close to me. The woods are unpredictable this season.”
“I trust you.”
Those three words affected her more than any praise you had ever offered. Her posture changed, shoulders straightening, as though your trust was a mantle she promised not to tarnish.
The castle walls faded behind you. The journey began.
For the first few hours, neither of you spoke.
The path wound between tall pines that swayed and whispered above your heads. Birds scattered with each hoofbeat, fleeing into the dark undergrowth. Everything smelled of damp leaves and distant rain.
Brienne rode a little ahead, her focus sharp, scanning the trees with constant vigilance. When she glanced back at you, her expression softened each time, almost without her noticing.
At midday, she guided you to a small clearing. She dismounted first and helped you from your saddle. The moment her hands touched your waist, your heartbeat quickened, and you prayed she could not feel it through your cloak.
She stepped back quickly, clearing her throat.
“I will gather wood for a fire.”
“I can help.”
“You do not need to, my lady.”
“I want to,” you insisted gently.
Brienne blinked at you, surprised, then nodded. The two of you walked side by side among the fallen branches, the silence between you warm rather than awkward.
You watched her often.
The way she moved, the way she carried herself with authority she never imposed, the way she let you walk a half step ahead as though granting you quiet dignity.
Once the small fire was lit, you sat across from her, your knees nearly touching.
“Tell me something,” you said softly. “Anything.”
She hesitated, gaze dropping to the flames.
“There is little about me that is worth telling.”
“I do not believe that.”
A faint pink touched her cheeks. She ran a thumb along the hilt of her sword, a nervous habit you were beginning to recognise.
“I was never meant for court. I tried once. It did not suit me.”
“Court is cruel,” you whispered. “And blind.”
Her eyes lifted to yours.
“I am glad you see otherwise.”
You held her gaze until she looked away, flustered, almost shy.
The fire crackled softly.
The woods hummed with quiet life.
Brienne’s presence wrapped around you like an unseen cloak.
You continued your journey for days. Each night, you and Brienne shared a campsite, a fire, a soft exchange of words that grew more intimate with passing hours.
She told you about Tarth, the sapphire island.
You told her about your childhood hiding in the castle gardens.
She spoke of her training.
You spoke of your dread of marriage.
She listened with a heart too large for her armour.
She never judged you.
Never pushed. Never ask more than you are ready to give.
By the fourth day, clouds gathered thick in the sky. Brienne watched the rolling grey above the treeline and hummed under her breath.
“A storm is coming.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that we should seek shelter before nightfall.”
As if summoned by her warning, cold drops of rain fell through the canopy. Brienne urged her horse closer to yours, almost brushing knees.
“Stay within arm’s reach of me. The path will get muddy quickly.”
Rain pelted harder, the forest darkening as thunder rolled somewhere far ahead. Wind whipped at your cloak, and your horse tossed its head nervously.
Brienne reached across and steadied your reins, her hand warm over yours.
“We are almost there. There is a hunting cottage nearby. Abandoned, but sturdy.”
You nodded, trusting her completely.
Rain turned the world silver.
Brienne guided you through the downpour with unwavering precision.
And at last, through the curtains of falling water, a small wooden cottage appeared between the trees.
She dismounted first, splashing through the mud, then hurried to your side, hands rising instinctively to help you down.
Once your feet touched the earth, her palms lingered on your waist longer than they should have.
Neither of you moved.
Neither of you breathed.
The rain roared around you, drowning out every thought except the truth pulsing between your hearts.
Brienne swallowed hard and stepped back.
“Inside. We must get you dry.”
You nodded, though your pulse still raced from her touch.
You followed her to the cottage door, unaware that everything you had run from, everything you had denied, would come undone within those four walls.
The storm outside had begun.
The storm within had only just awakened.
The rain began as a mist, then thickened into sheets that forced Brienne to lift her shield over your head as you hurried through the forest path. The storm had come faster than expected, swallowing the light and turning the world into grey water and cold wind.
Brienne’s hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, guiding you with steady steps until an abandoned cottage appeared between the trees. Its roof sagged, but it stood solid enough to offer shelter.
Brienne pushed the door open first, sword drawn, checking the shadows. When she deemed it safe, she stepped aside for you.
Her hair clung damply to her cheeks, her armour darkened with rain, and the sight of her like that stirred something deep in your chest.
Inside, the cottage was a single room with a crumbling hearth, a wooden table, and a narrow bed pushed against the wall.
Dust coated everything, but it was dry and protectively silent.
Brienne closed the door behind you. The storm roared against the roof, but her presence made the small space feel warm.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” she said softly. She removed her gloves, then her pauldrons, placing them carefully on the table. “You will catch a chill.”
You nodded, fingers trembling slightly as you untied your soaked cloak. Brienne turned away to give you privacy, but every part of your heart longed for her eyes on you.
You dressed yourself in a dry shirt from your pack and shook out your hair.
“Brienne,” you whispered.
She looked up. Her blue eyes reflected the firelight as she coaxed a flame to life in the hearth. When she rose from the floor, her gaze swept over you gently, almost reverently.
“What is it, my lady?”
You stepped closer.
“Do not call me that tonight.”
Confusion softened into concern.
“What would you have me call you?”
“My name,” you answered. “Just my name. As you say, it when you forget your duty.”
She swallowed hard. She did forget sometimes. You had heard it in the quiet mornings, the way your name slipped from her lips when she believed you still asleep.
Brienne took one hesitant step toward you.
“If I overstep, tell me. I would never harm you.”
“You could never harm me,” you whispered.
She lifted her hand, as if to brush your cheek, but stopped. Her fingers hovered inches from your skin, waiting for permission.
You leaned into her touch.
Brienne’s breath left her in a slow, aching sigh as her palm cupped your cheek. You reached for her with trembling hands, pressing your forehead to her chest. Her heart hammered beneath her soaked tunic. She held you carefully, as though she feared you might shatter.
“Brienne,” you murmured, tilting your face up to hers. “I do not want that prince. I never wanted any man.”
She closed her eyes.
“You should not say such things. It is dangerous.”
“But true.” You guided her hand to rest over your heart. “This beats for you.”
You had never seen her look so undone.
“I am sworn to protect you. Not to take what I want.”
“You are allowed to want, if you want me.”
Her restraint broke. Brienne kissed you with a depth that made your knees weaken. Her mouth was warm, her touch reverent, her breath trembling with relief and hunger.
She guided your back gently against the wall, her hands strong yet careful as they framed your waist.
Your fingers tangled in her damp hair, pulling her closer. She pressed soft, lingering kisses along your jaw and throat.
Nothing crude, nothing hurried.
Only devotion, only longing that had been trapped too long.
“Tell me to stop,” she murmured against your skin.
“I will never tell you to stop.”
She lifted you easily, carrying you to the narrow bed. She laid you down with more care than you had ever been shown, then settled beside you. Her calloused fingers traced the line of your hip, your thigh, your waist, exploring but never taking without invitation.
The storm outside muted into distant thunder. Inside the cottage, your soft sighs and her quiet gasps filled the space. You guided her hand beneath your shift. Her breath hitched as she touched you, gentle and slow, learning every response you gave her.
You clung to her shoulders, whispering her name like a prayer.
She kissed you again, deeper this time, her body pressed to yours, her movements careful but filled with yearning. It felt like confessions spoken through touch. Like a promise made in darkness.
And when you came undone underneath her hand, Brienne held you through it, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice shaking as she murmured how beautiful you looked.
You tugged her closer and touched her the way she touched you, guiding her, comforting her, sharing breaths and warmth until she shuddered in your arms.
Brienne buried her face in your neck, trying to steady herself, overwhelmed by how tenderly you held her.
After, the two of you lay tangled together beneath a worn blanket. Brienne cradled you against her chest, fingers drawing circles on your back.
“This changes everything,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I would face an army for you. But your father…”
“He will not have us. So we must leave before dawn.”
Brienne lifted her head, eyes wide with surprise and fierce determination.
“You would run with me?”
“I will not be given to a man when my heart belongs to you.”
A slow, breathtaking smile formed on her lips. She kissed your forehead, your temple, your lips.
“Then I will get you away safely, I have a plan.”
You curled into her arms as the fire flickered low, and she held you as though you were the only thing in the world worth protecting.
Tomorrow, you would no longer run from duty.
You would run toward freedom. And toward each other.
The storm softened into morning mist, leaving the forest washed clean and silver beneath the early light. You awoke first, your cheek resting against Brienne’s shoulder, her arm wrapped securely around your waist. For a moment, you simply watched her. The peaceful rise and fall of her chest. The faint smile tugging at her lips even in sleep. The softness she allowed only in your presence.
You touched her jaw gently.
Her eyes opened at once.
“Good morning,” you whispered.
Brienne’s expression warmed like sunlight catching steel.
“Good morning, my love.”
Your heart fluttered, but she did not seem to regret the words. In fact, she looked steadier than you had ever seen her, as though the night had forged armour around her resolve.
“We must go,” she said, brushing her fingers through your hair. “If we leave now, no one will see us.”
“Yes. Your plan. Tell me everything.”
Brienne sat up, and though she looked every bit the knight, she seemed less burdened, lighter somehow.
“I scouted the path before you woke. There is no sign of travellers. We will abandon the carriage at the river crossing. I will stage signs of an attack. Torn cloth, a broken wheel, blood from my arm.” She gestured to a small cut near her elbow. “Enough to confirm a struggle.”
A chill ran through you.
“And they will believe we died?”
“They must. It is the only way no one will come chasing you.”
You reached for her hand. She held yours tightly, as if afraid someone would steal you away the moment she let go.
“And after?” you asked.
“After, we head south. A small port village near the Stormlands. There are ships that sail for Essos. Far from your father’s reach. Far from the prince.”
“Far from everything I have known,” you whispered.
She looked scared then, truly scared.
“If you change your mind-”
“I will not,” you said, touching her cheek. “Where you go, I go.”
Brienne exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead to yours.
“Then we leave now,” she murmured.
The forest was still damp as you packed what little you owned. Brienne lifted your trunk with one arm as though it were nothing, then kicked dirt over the dying embers of the hearth.
When the two of you stepped outside, the world felt impossibly wide and impossibly fragile.
You walked beside her instead of behind. She seemed startled the first time you took her hand, but her fingers curled around yours quickly, as though she could no longer deny herself the closeness.
The journey to the river was quiet, but not like before.
It was full of shared looks, shared breaths, unspoken promises.
When the river appeared, fast and frothing from the rain, Brienne’s jaw tightened. This part of the plan cost her something. You could see it.
She helped you down from the carriage, then began carefully arranging the scene.
A torn bit of your cloak snagged on a branch. A smear of her blood on the wheel. The carriage tilted where she had loosened the axle. Your travelling satchel dropped into the mud.
When she stepped back, it looked real. Horrifyingly real.
A false memory of a fate that would never be yours.
“It must be enough,” she whispered.
“It is,” you said gently.
She cracked the horse’s reins and sent the creature running free into the forest, ensuring the scene could be interpreted as anything—bandits, wildlings, perhaps even worse.
When the last pieces were set, Brienne walked to you. You saw the beads of sweat on her brow. The tension in her jaw.
“This is the end of your old life. Are you ready?”
You took her face in your hands.
“With you, I am ready for anything.”
Her eyes glistened. Brienne kissed you fiercely, as though sealing the last part of her oath.
“Come. The sooner we reach the village, the safer we are.”
You travelled off-road through the trees, moving fast. Brienne kept you close at all times, her hand on your back, guiding you with instinctive protectiveness.
When roots and stones threatened to trip you, she steadied you before you even stumbled.
Hours later, the trees thinned. A faint smell of salt drifted on the wind.
“We are close.” she said.
You walked until the sound of gulls echoed overhead.
The small village came into view, weathered cottages, fishermen hauling nets, the slow creak of boats rocking in the tide.
You felt your breath catch.
Freedom.
Brienne glanced at you, her expression softening as though she recognised the exact moment your heart shifted.
“I will secure us passage,” she said quietly.
While she spoke with a ship captain, you watched her, tall, imposing, beautiful in ways she never saw in herself.
The captain looked wary at first, but after one sharp promise of coin and protection, he agreed to take you aboard at sunset.
Brienne returned to you with a small nod.
“It is done. We leave tonight.”
Your heart swelled, your throat tightening.
“Brienne… we are really doing this.”
“Yes,” she said. And for the first time, she allowed herself a small, hopeful smile. “Together.”
At dusk, you boarded the modest ship. The crew gave curious glances, but none dared question Brienne’s stern presence at your side. She guided you to a small cabin, set down your belongings, and then closed the door behind you.
She turned to you, hesitant, as though waiting to see if reality would break the moment.
You stepped into her arms.
She held you against her chest, burying her face in your hair, her body trembling with emotion she rarely allowed herself.
“I have never chosen anything for myself. Not once. Until last night.”
You tilted her chin gently.
“And now?”
Her eyes shone.
“Now I choose you.”
You kissed her, slow and certain, and felt her whole body melt into yours. Outside, sailors called to one another as the ship prepared to leave port. Ropes tightened. Wood groaned. Waves lapped against the hull.
A life ending.
A new life beginning.
The ship lurched forward, the wind filling its sails.
You kept your lips against Brienne’s, your hands tangled together, as the world you once knew disappeared behind you and the world you chose stretched wide before you.
just saw the concept of Demo!Steve Harrington appearing here and there and i'm absolutely begging x reader fanfic writers to get on it PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE
