[justatarg]

Sworn

Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Plot:

She returns to her armour.

He returns to his crown.

-•-

Prince Aerion Targaryen knew no peace.

He carried rage beneath his skin as other men carried blood, hot and restless, forever seeking a wound through which it might escape. He was vain, vicious and terribly proud.

A dragon given the shape of a man, though there were those within summerhall who whispered that the gods had neglected to give him a man’s soul.

Yet he did not waste his cruelty upon serving girls or trembling stableboys. Their fear bored him, Aerion preferred men who believed themselves brave. He mocked knights twice his age and size until their hands tightened around the hilts of their swords. He laughed during council meetings when lords stumbled over their words. Once, during a fit of temper, he had broken three of a puppeteer’s fingers simply because the wooden dragon in the little play had been slaughtered and laughed at.

After that, Maekar commanded that Aerion be guarded at all hours.

Not to protect the prince from assassins.

But to protect everyone else from him.

She was chosen because she did not fear him or, at least she had learned to hide it better than the others.

Clad in dark plate, with a pale cloak falling from her shoulders and a helm concealing much of her face, she followed him through every corridor of Summerhall, She stood outside his chambers while he slept. She waited beside the training yard while he bloodied lesser knights. She accompanied him to feasts, hunts and tedious audiences with men Aerion had no intention of listening to.

His shadow in steel. He referred to her as daily.

At first, he tried to provoke her. “Do you find me handsome?” he asked one evening, catching sight of her reflection in a darkened window.

“Yes, my prince.” No falter or hesitation in her voice.

“Do you think me cruel?”

“Yes, my prince.”

That had made him turn.

She stood perfectly still behind him, one gloved hand resting over the pommel of her sword. Aerion’s eyes narrowed. “Was that insolence?”

“No, my prince.”

He stared at her for a long moment before laughter escaped him, sharp and surprised, as though she had reached inside his chest and stolen it from somewhere he had forgotten it existed.

After that, he found himself speaking to her often.

She never truly answered him, not when he complained about his father. Not when he called his cousins weak or about his brothers. Not when he confessed, with a smile too cold to be sincere, that the realm would one day kneel before him or burn for refusing.

“Yes, my prince,” she would say.

Always the same.

Yet he began to hear the differences.

There was the weary yes, my prince she gave when he had drunk too much.

The warning one when his hand drifted toward his sword.

The faintly amused one when he insulted a lord who had undoubtedly deserved it and there was the quiet one, spoken late at night, when the halls had emptied and the fire within him had burned down to embers.

Aerion liked that one best.

He liked her silence. He liked that she never begged him to be kinder. He liked that she did not flatter him, though she would agree he was beautiful whenever he demanded it. He liked knowing that when he looked over his shoulder, she would be there.

She was the only constant thing in a life, the one thing certain to be beside his shadow at his back.

Then his marriage was announced.

A noble bride from a house wealthy enough to please Maekar and gentle enough, perhaps to survive his son. Hopefully.

Aerion received the news with a careless smile. “A pretty thing?” he asked.

“Very,” his father replied.

“Then I shall endure it.” His guard stood behind him throughout the conversation.

Silent.

Still.

Only Aerion noticed the way her fingers tightened around the leather grip of her sword.

On the morning of the wedding, the bells rang across King’s Landing.

The sept was filled with silk, jewels and false smiles. Lords crowded the benches while ladies whispered behind their hands, all of them eager to witness the joining of the dragon prince and his soft little bride.

Aerion stood before the septon dressed in black and red, a ruby dragon fastened at his throat. His silver hair shining beneath the candlelight like molten moonlight.

He looked every part of the prince they sang about.

Beautiful.

Proud.

Dangerous.

His bride approached beneath the arm of her father, pale and delicate beneath her maiden’s cloak.

Aerion barely looked at her, his gaze moved instead to the edge of the gathered crowd.

His guard stood beside one of the great stone pillars, dressed in ceremonial armour. Her helm covered her face, though the visor had been raised so she might see clearly.

So she might watch him belong to someone else.

The vows were spoken.

The princesses voice trembled.

Aerion’s did not.

When the time came, he took the maiden’s cloak from her shoulders. His hands were steady as he replaced it with the heavy black and red cloak of House Targaryen, drawing it around her narrow frame. “My protection is yours,” he said.

The words were part of the ceremony.

Nothing more.

Yet as he fastened the cloak beneath his bride’s throat, Aerion looked once more toward the pillar.

His guard had not moved.

She stood as she always did, her back straight and her expression disciplined.

One tear.

Only one.

Aerion forgot the septon’s next words.

He forgot the nobles watching him and the bride standing beneath his hands. He forgot the gods above them and the kingdom waiting outside.

All he saw was the tear sliding silently over the face of the woman who had never once complained, never once questioned him, never once given him anything beyond obedience.

His shadow in steel.

His peace, though he had never known to call her that. Her eyes met his across the sept.

For the first time, she seemed unable to say it. Yes, my prince. Aerion’s jaw tightened.

Something furious and helpless twisted inside him. He wanted to tear the cloak from his bride’s shoulders. He wanted to scatter the septons and knights and watching lords. He wanted to cross the floor, seize his guard by the helm and demand that she speak one honest sentence to him. Rather than just answering him back, he wanted to hear something real.

He wanted her to tell him not to do it.

She never would.

That was the cruelty of it.

He had spent years teaching the world that nothing could touch him, and she had loved him well enough never to try.

The septon ordered him to kiss his bride.

Aerion obeyed.

It was brief, cold and without tenderness.

When he looked back, his guard had lowered her visor. The tear was gone.

Only the steel remained.

That evening, after the feasting and the music and the endless congratulations, Aerion left his new wife surrounded by her ladies and walked alone into the darkened corridor.

His guard followed.

Of course she did.

Her footsteps echoed behind his own.

Aerion stopped beside an open archway overlooking the city. Far below, King’s Landing glittered with fires lit in celebration of his marriage. He did not turn around. “Did you weep today?”

A long silence followed before softly, “No, my prince.”

It was the first lie she had ever told him.

Aerion stared out over the city, there was no rage in him. No fire. Only something vast and aching that he had no name for and no means to destroy.

“You are a poor liar,” he said.

“Yes, my prince.”

His mouth curved, though there was no humour in it.

He lifted one hand, almost reaching back toward her.

Almost.

Then his fingers closed into a fist at his side. “Remain outside my chambers tonight.”

“Yes, my prince.” She would stand guard while he went inside to another woman.

She would protect him from the world.

Aerion walked on.

She followed.

Always three paces behind, where she had been ordered to remain.

Close enough to protect him.

Never close enough to be held.

The door closed between them.

She remained where she had been commanded, standing beneath the smoking torch outside the prince’s chambers with both hands clasped behind her back from within came the muffled movement of servants preparing the marriage bed. Soft voices. The scrape of furniture, woman’s nervous laughter, quickly swallowed.

The guard fixed her eyes upon the opposite wall.

She had stood outside his chambers on countless nights.

She had listened while he raged, while he drank, while he paced until dawn. She had heard goblets shatter against stone and furniture overturned in sudden fits of temper. More than once, she had entered to find blood on his knuckles and no explanation offered for it.

This should have been no different.

It was only another door.

Only another night.

Yet she could still see him beneath the candles of the sept, fastening his cloak around another woman’s shoulders while looking directly at her.

She had failed him then.

Not as a guard.

As something far more foolish.

One tear. One treacherous, shining thing that had exposed everything she had buried beneath steel.

She wondered whether he despised her for it.

The door opened.

She straightened at once.

A serving girl hurried out with her head lowered, followed by two others carrying an untouched tray of wine and fruit. Their faces were carefully blank, but they moved with the haste of people eager to escape. Aerion stood in the doorway behind them, his wedding coat had been discarded. He wore only a loose black tunic and dark trousers, his silver hair untidily. There was no flush of wine upon his cheeks, no satisfaction in his expression.

Only irritation.

His bride was nowhere in sight. “My prince,” the guard spoke softly.

His eyes moved over her armour. “You are still here?”

“You ordered me to remain.”

“I order many things.”

“Yes, my prince.”

Aerion leaned one shoulder against the doorway. “And you obey all of them?”

“Yes, my prince.”

“Without question?”

“Yes, my prince.”

His mouth tightened.

The silence between them stretched.

She could feel him studying her through the narrow opening of her visor, searching for something she had no intention of giving him again. “Remove your helm.” He ordered.

Her fingers did not move. “My prince?”

His gaze sharpened at the hesitation.

It was not refusal, she had not refused him. It was a question on her own behalf. “I said remove it.”

Slowly, she lifted both hands and unfastened the clasps beneath her chin.

The helm came free, cool air touched her damp hair and the skin she had hidden from him throughout the wedding feast. She kept her expression composed, though she knew her eyes were red.

Aerion noticed, he reached toward her.

Every muscle in her body locked, his fingers stopped beside her cheek, not quite touching.

A prince could touch whomever he pleased. He could command her to kneel. He could strike her, embrace her or dismiss her from his service, and she would be expected to endure each with the same dutiful silence but Aerion’s hand hovered as though some invisible boundary restrained him. “You did weep,” he murmured.

She looked past him into the chamber.

A fire burned in the hearth. Candles surrounded the bed. His young bride sat rigidly upon its edge, still dressed in white, her hands folded in her lap.

Aerion followed the guard’s gaze and stepped into the corridor, pulling the door nearly closed behind him. “Look at me.” She did.

There was anger on his face, but it was not the familiar kind. This anger had nowhere to go. No knight to humiliate. No performer’s fingers to break. No servant to frighten.

It was turned inward, and Aerion had never learned how to survive his own fire. “You had no right,” he said.

Her throat tightened. “No, my prince.”

“No right to stand there looking at me as though I had betrayed you.”

“No, my prince.”

“No right to make me feel..” He stopped, the unfinished sentence seemed to wound him more deeply than any blade. She waited.

He wanted her to rescue him from it. She saw that clearly. He wanted her to speak the words he was too proud to form, to confess first so he might mock her for weakness and hide his own beneath cruelty.

She would not do it.

She loved him too much to give him another weapon.

Aerion stepped closer. “You are meant to be nothing but a sword at my back.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“A shadow.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“You are meant to follow, nothing more.”

“Yes, my prince.”

His face twisted. “I hate when you say that.”

For the first time in years, she almost smiled. He saw it. The smallest movement at the corner of her mouth, there and gone.

Aerion stared at her as though she had placed a blade against his throat. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing, my prince.”

“You find this amusing?”

“No, my prince.”

“Liar.”

She lowered her eyes.

He took her chin between his fingers.

It was not gentle, but neither was it cruel. His thumb rested beneath her lower lip, his touch warm against skin chilled by the corridor.

She could have stepped away. She did not.

Aerion searched her face with a furious desperation. “Tell me not to go back inside.” The words were quiet enough that the guards at the far end of the hall could not have heard. Quiet enough that perhaps even the gods would overlook them.

She looked at the nearly closed door behind him.

As is bride waited beyond it, blameless girl brought to the capital to marry a prince everyone feared. She had not chosen this any more than the guard had. Aerion’s fingers tightened. “Say it.”

She could not, when morning came, the realm would call her traitor, seductress, oathbreaker. His bride would be shamed. Aerion’s fury would fall upon anyone who tried to separate them.

He would burn the world for an impulse and despise her when only ashes remained. So she gave him the only answer she had ever been permitted. “You should return to your wife, my prince.” His hand dropped from her face.

Aerion stared at her for several heartbeats, and she watched every trace of softness leave him.

The prince returned.

Proud. Beautiful. Merciless.

“You presume to advise me?”

“No, my prince.”

“Then keep your counsel.”

“Yes, my prince.”

He turned toward the chamber, his hand closed around the door handle, but he did not open it.

Behind him, she bowed her head.

Aerion spoke without looking at her. “If I ordered you to leave my service, would you?”

Her composure nearly broke. “Yes, my prince.”

His shoulders went still. “And if I ordered you never to look upon me again? You would look away?” She swallowed. “Yes, my prince.”

He glanced back at her.

There was hatred in his eyes then. Not for her.

For the obedience that kept her beside him and would take her away just as easily.

Aerion opened the door and disappeared into the chamber.

She replaced her helm then she stood outside while the candles burned lower, guarding the man she had just sent into another woman’s bed.

Hours passed.

No sounds came from within.

Near dawn, the door opened again.

Aerion’s bride emerged alone.

Her wedding gown had been exchanged for a simple robe, and her long hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked tired, though not frightened. When she saw the guard standing outside, she hesitated.

The guard bowed. “My princess.”

The young woman studied her for a moment. “He did not touch me,” she said, she looked at her own hands as if she had done something wrong, a small wearily laugh left her lips. She thought he’d be crueler.

The guard said nothing.

“He sat beside the fire all night.”

Still, the guard remained silent.

The princess drew her robe more tightly around herself. “He asked me whether I loved anyone before I came here.”

A faint unease moved through the guard. “And what did you tell him, your grace?”

“That I didn’t.” It was the first question she had asked anyone that night. The princess gave a sad little smile. “He said I was fortunate.”

The guard’s eyes moved toward the open doorway.

Aerion stood near the window with his back to them, watching dawn spread over King’s Landing. He held a cup in one hand, though it appeared untouched.

The princess followed her gaze. “I do not think he is cruel because he feels nothing,” she whispered. “I think he is cruel because he feels everything and cannot bear it.” Then she walked away.

The guard remained outside the chamber.

Aerion did not acknowledge her until the princess’s footsteps had faded completely. “Come inside,” he said. She obeyed.

The room bore no signs of a wedding night. The sheets had not been disturbed. The wine remained sealed. The fire had burned to glowing embers.

Aerion stood before the window, lit silver and gold by the rising sun. “Close the door.”

She closed it.

“Remove your helm.”

She removed it.

There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and something in his expression had been stripped bare by the sleepless night. “I have decided,” he said, “that I will not dismiss you.”

She held the helm against her hip. “Yes, my prince. Thank you.”

“You will remain my guard.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“You will accompany me everywhere, as you did before.”

“Yes, my prince.”

His gaze lowered briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “And will you weep over me again?” He picked up the cloak from the table.

She knew when he was begging. “No, my prince.”

Aerion walked toward her. He stopped so close that the ruby clasp upon his discarded wedding cloak pressed between them, pinned beneath his hand.

The same cloak he had fastened around his bride’s shoulders beneath the eyes of gods and men. He placed it around the guard instead.

The heavy black and red fabric settled over her armour.

Her breath left her.

Aerion drew the edges together at her throat, his knuckles brushing the pulse there. His hands were steadier now than they had been in the sept.

Neither of them spoke.

The act was meaningless. No septon witnessed it. No vows were exchanged. No lord would recognise it.

Yet the guard stood utterly still beneath his colours. Aerion looked at her as he had looked at no one else in his life with rage, with hunger, with unbearable tenderness. “My protection is yours,” he said.

This time, the words belonged only to them.

Her eyes filled as her jaw clenched to stop it, blinking and staring straight ahead.

Aerion’s face hardened at once. “I gave you an order.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

He caught it with his thumb.

“Yes, my prince,” she whispered.

Aerion, who had spent his life breaking everything he touched, bent his head until his forehead rested against hers.

He did not kiss her, that would have been easier.

Instead, the dragon prince closed his eyes and stood quietly within the arms of the only peace he had ever known.

[ildico-the-golden]

the first time you touch them

is this really me writing fluff w/o smut again? writing for the lady in waiting!reader AU again??

How did Baelor and Maekar react the first time you properly touched them?

Includes: Baelor Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader / Maekar Targaryen x f!lady in waiting!reader

Warning(s): none that I can think of.

The morning of the Small Council meeting began badly.

Not disastrously badly. Nothing had caught fire, no lord had issued threats of rebellion, and King Daeron had not yet reduced grown men to trembling silence before midday.

By court standards, this counted as promising.

And yet Prince Baelor Targaryen already looked tired. You noticed it immediately, of course.

The signs were small: the faint tension held at the corners of his mouth, the way he rubbed absently at his temple while rereading correspondence, the quiet stillness that settled over him whenever responsibility began stacking too heavily across his shoulders.

Most people mistook Baelor’s composure for ease, but you had learned better.

Queen Myriah sat near the window of her solar while servants moved around her preparing for the day. The room smelled faintly of orange peel and sandalwood, morning light spilling gold across tiled floors.

Baelor stood near the mirror fastening the dark doublet appropriate for council meetings, already half-focused elsewhere mentally.

“You are thinking too hard, my prince,” you told him.

Without turning, he sighed softly. “Good morning to you as well, my lady.”

The Queen smiled faintly over the rim of her cup.

“You see?” she said to you. “I told you'd notice immediately.”

Baelor glanced toward his mother with long-suffering patience. “You both speak of me as though I am not present.”

“That is because you rarely are entirely present before council meetings,” you replied.

His eyes narrowed slightly with quiet amusement. That expression had become dangerously usual in him recently.

“You are bold this morning,” he jested.

“And you are tired this morning.”

“A tragic condition, apparently visible to everyone.”

“Not everyone,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Only people paying attention.”

The words landed softly in the room. Baelor looked at you then, and suddenly you became aware that perhaps speaking honestly to Prince Baelor so early in the morning was an unwise decision.

Queen Myriah, traitorous woman that she was, hid a knowing smile behind her cup before rising gracefully from her chair.

“I have suddenly remembered another matter requiring my attention,” she announced.

You stared at her in disbelief. Baelor looked suspiciously unsurprised.

“My queen—”

“Do ensure my son arrives at council looking respectable,” she interrupted smoothly while crossing toward the adjoining chamber. “The realm grows distressed when princes appear disordered.”

Then she disappeared entirely, abandoning you alone with the heir to the Iron Throne.

Silence followed. A warm silence. A quite dangerous silence.

Baelor turned back toward the mirror, though you noticed the faint curve threatening the corner of his mouth.

“My mother conspires against me.”

“Your mother conspires against everyone. It is how she shows affection.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. You tried very hard not to notice how much you liked being the cause of that sound. Your gaze caught on the silver Hand’s pin fastened crookedly against the dark fabric of his doublet.

“Oh, Seven above—” you muttered.

Baelor blinked. “That is rarely an encouraging beginning to a sentence.”

“You are about to attend Small Council looking as though you dressed in the dark.”

“I assure you I did not.”

“One could not prove it from the state of that collar.” Before caution intervened, you crossed the room toward him.

Only when you stopped directly before him did it occur to you that perhaps approaching Prince Baelor with the intention of adjusting his clothing without permission was deeply inappropriate.

Unfortunately, by then it was too late.

“You permit entirely too many responsibilities to distract you,” you murmured.

Baelor stood very still as you reached upward to straighten the high collar of his doublet, the fabric beneath your fingers was warm. So was the skin of his throat where your knuckles brushed accidentally against it.

Your breath caught slightly.

Gods.

Up close, he was unfair to look at. Dark hair touched gently by silver at the edges, mismatched eyes lowered toward you with dangerous attentiveness, morning light catching soft gold along the edges of him.

You focused determinedly on the silver Hand’s pin instead. “This is crooked,” you informed him quietly.

“So I gathered.”

“You gathered correctly, yet you decided to ignore it.”

“That as well.” There was amusement in his voice now. Soft amusement, the kind reserved only for private moments.

Your fingers brushed the centre of his chest lightly while refastening the pin properly. You could feel the steady pace of his breathing beneath the layers of cloth and leather. You could also feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart through his chest.

Or perhaps it was your own pulse that had simply become loud enough to confuse them both.

“There,” you murmured after a moment. “Now you resemble the Hand of the King again.”

Neither of you moved. Your hands remained lightly against his chest. Baelor looked down at you and suddenly the air felt far too warm.

You became acutely aware of everything at once: the breadth of his shoulders, the nearness of him, the fact that your fingers still rested against his clothing.

Slowly, carefully, you began to pull away.

Baelor reacted before either of you seemed prepared for it. His hands closed gently around your wrists. Not forcefully. Not enough to restrain, just enough to stop your retreat.

The touch shocked through you both and you froze instantly. So did he. For one suspended moment neither of you breathed properly.

Baelor’s hands were warm around your wrists. Your own heartbeat stumbled painfully against your ribs as your gaze lifted fully to his.

He looked startled. Not by you, you gathered. Rather by himself, as though he had not meant to reach for you at all. And perhaps that was the most dangerous part; the realization that wanting your touch had become instinctive.

Colour began rising slowly across his face then, touching first the tips of his ears before warming gradually along his cheekbones. A real blush. Beautiful and helpless and entirely devastating.

You stared before you could stop yourself. Baelor let out a quiet breath that sounded almost embarrassed.

“I apologize,” he said softly.

But he did not let go immediately. Your pulse fluttered traitorously beneath his fingers.

“You caught me,” you whispered.

His expression shifted slightly at that. Something rawer in its nature. Something openly yearning before composure could conceal it again.

“Yes,” Baelor murmured, voice suddenly rougher than before. “I think perhaps I did.”

The words settled heavily between you. Not just flirtation. Something worse. Honesty.

Then, as though remembering himself all at once, Baelor released your wrists carefully. But his hands lingered a fraction too long. And the worst part, the truly catastrophic part, was the unmistakable look of reluctance in his eyes when he finally let you go.

Prince Maekar Targaryen was angry before you even entered the room.

Not loud anger. That would have been easier. No, this was the colder sort. The kind that sharpened him into something dangerous and silent.

You recognized it immediately when you stepped into the armoury adjoining the training yard and found him half out of his armour, stripping leather gloves from his hands with enough force to suggest he imagined the buckles personally offensive.

A squire hovered nearby looking deeply committed to surviving the experience.

“Leave us,” Maekar said without looking up.

The boy fled instantly. You watched the door slam shut behind him.

“You frightened him.”

“He should frighten more easily. It may preserve his life.”

You crossed your arms. “That is a deeply concerning mentoring philosophy.”

“I was not aware I was mentoring.”

“You corrected his footwork for nearly an hour.”

“That is called preventing stupidity.”

“Mm.” Maekar shot you a narrowed look.

Gods, you thought. Even irritated, he was unfairly striking.

His white-gold hair was damp from training; pale strands pushed carelessly back from his face while sweat darkened the collar of his undershirt. The beard along his jaw failed entirely to conceal the flush of exertion beneath it, though it softened the visibility of the old pox scars crossing his skin.

You had long since stopped seeing those scars first. Unfortunately, you knew, Prince Maekar had not.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You disappeared after court. Your lady mother wondered whether you planned to attend supper or declare war instead.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “A difficult choice.”

“There are less destructive hobbies.”

“You say this as though you know any peaceful people.”

“That is fair.”

Silence settled briefly.

Maekar turned away from you then, reaching for the leather fastening at his forearm bracer with visible irritation. The strap had twisted partially beneath itself. He tugged harder, but it refused to move.

A curse slipped beneath his breath.

You watched another moment before sighing. “You are behaving like a man personally betrayed by leather.”

“It is caught.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I am handling it.”

“You are losing a battle against your own armour.”

“I was unaware you came here to mock me.”

“You make it effortless.”

Another sharp look, but there was less heat behind it now. You stepped closer before he could object.

“Hold still.”

“I did not grant permission—”

“You also did not successfully remove the bracer.”

Maekar muttered something deeply unprincely under his breath but allowed you near. The moment you reached for his arm, however, the entire room seemed to shift.

You felt it instantly, the sudden awareness, the dangerous stillness in him.

Your fingers brushed the inside of his wrist while working the tangled fastening loose. Warm skin. Calloused hands. The solid tension of muscle held too tightly beneath your touch.

Maekar stopped moving completely. Not politely still, more specifically frozen.

You glanced up instinctively. Mistake.

He was already looking at you, not at your hands. At you.

Something sharp and unreadable had entered his expression, violet eyes fixed intently on your face while you stood far too close to him in the warm golden quiet of the armoury.

Your pulse stumbled. “You truly are terrible at this,” you said softly, mostly to break the tension before it consumed you both.

“I am aware.”

“You nearly strangled yourself with the straps.”

“I was managing.”

“You were declaring blood vengeance against buckles.”

One corner of his mouth shifted faintly beneath the beard. The sight startled warmth unexpectedly through your chest.

“There,” you murmured after loosening the fastening properly. “Done.”

But instead of stepping away immediately, your attention caught briefly on the edge of a fresh bruise darkening along his jaw near the line of old scars. The colour stood vivid beneath the torchlight and, without thinking, you touched it lightly.

Maekar inhaled sharply. The sound froze you where you stood.

Your fingertips rested briefly against the roughness of beard and scar and bruised skin beneath. And Maekar—

By the Seven. He looked shattered by it.

His entire body had gone rigid beneath your touch, as though every instinct warred simultaneously between leaning closer and retreating entirely. You realized suddenly, horribly, that no one touched him gently. Not without purpose and certainly not the scars.

Heat climbed immediately into your face. “I am sorry, I did not—”

“Do not apologize, please.” The words came rough and broken at the same time.

Maekar’s gaze had dropped briefly to your hand against his face as though he could not quite comprehend it being there.

Then slowly, almost cautiously, his eyes lifted back to yours. You felt his breath hot against your wrist, yet neither of you moved. The air between you had become painfully thin.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” he said quietly.

Your brows drew together. “Like what?”

His jaw tightened beneath your fingertips. “As though I am broken.”

Something in your chest ached instantly.

“You are not broken.”

“No?”

“No.” Your thumb brushed lightly, instinctively, once beneath the line of his beard before you could stop yourself. “Just used to being treated as though you should never need gentleness.”

Maekar went completely still again.

Then colour rose suddenly beneath his scars and beard alike, visible even through both. A harsh, undeniable flush spreading across his cheekbones and straight toward the tips of his ears.

You stared in honest astonishment. Prince Maekar looked furious about it, which only made it worse.

His eyes dropped away from yours immediately, breathing uneven now in a way you had never heard from him before.

“You,” he muttered hoarsely, “are fucking dangerous.”

Your heart nearly stopped. Because despite the accusation, despite the tension, the embarrassment and the visible struggle for composure, he had not pulled away from your hand.

I had this sitting down in my computer and felt like I wanted to go back to my origins for a bit. Yearning canon-esque Baelor and Maekar are back for a cameo!!

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[the-darklings]

‘i would rather have today with you than forever with anyone else’ & ‘i hope my absence haunts you’ w/ aerion? ^_^

The music from the feast seeps through the walls in muffled waves: fiddles, clapping, a boisterous cheer that still hasn’t quite finished fading since the announcement.

A betrothal.

Aerion’s.

But not to you.

You left before anyone could study your face. Before the court could decide what your silence meant, whether it was judgment or approval or something else entirely. Now you stand with one hand on the cold lip of a window, letting the night air bite at your knuckles. Below, lanterns move like will-o’-wisps in the yard.

Behind you, boots sound, precise and hurried.

The door to the hall thuds shut, sealing off the feast with a sound that feels too final for a place full of song. Aerion’s shadow slants long in the torchlight before he steps into it, and when he does, he looks exactly as he should on such a night: beautiful, gilded, composed in the way men envy.

Carnation rests pinned neatly to his breast. A piece of summer pretending it can survive the volcanic rage trapped beneath that smooth, pale skin.

“Aerion,” you say, and keep your gaze on the dark outside. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His voice is bright, lazy around the edges, but you hear the way it crack, like glass creaking right before it breaks. “Come congratulate me? Weep? Beg?”

You turn.

There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, not only wine, but also the court that’s been looking at him all night, weighing him like coin, admiring the prince who plays his part so prettily when needed. His mouth curves in a way it always does when he wants to appear amused by everything—by duty, by women, by you.

His eyes blaze with rage so potent it almost makes you flinch.

“You got what you wanted,” you say.

Aerion’s smile is more teeth being bared than joy. “Did I?”

“You got a bride,” you answer calmly, lacing your fingers in front of you. “A pretty one. A proper one. Someone who will smile on command and never bruise your pride.”

His gaze roams over you, hungry and ruinous. He stalks closer. Aerion has never understood distance between you except as a thing to be conquered.

“She’ll do,” he says impatiently.

Your mouth thins. “That’s a vile thing to say,” you tell him coldly, “about the girl you’re meant to honour.”

Aerion laughs under his breath. A short, delighted sound at the sting of your words. “Honour.” The word leaves his mouth like spit. He leans in, too close, his breath wine-warm and sweet. “You don’t care about her.”

“I care that you’ll ruin her,” you say bluntly and let him see that it’s not a bard directed at the girl but rather at him.

Ugliness twists his face, and you understand why. Because if you see him, if you understand him, if you can strip all that gold and leave the ugliness bare, how is he suppose to want anything else? He will hate the simplicity of such marriage and an innocent girl will pay the price for it.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” he murmurs icily. “Very high and noble. The wolf in her furs.” His eyes drop, briefly, to your mouth, then lift again, furious at himself for looking. “Did you come just to judge me?”

“No,” you reply. “I came because it’s my duty to be here as your family.”

“They want to—” Aerion strangled whatever he was going to admit, and you can tell it would have been honest, too honest even for him. “And I am being used,” he spits out.

You lift your chin. “Welcome to life, prince.”

His eyes flare and he moves again, closing the last inch between your bodies like he can force the world to bend by sheer proximity so it’s you and him instead.

“You think I don’t know what they’re doing?” Aerion’s voice drops, and now it’s not bright at all, instead it’s something strained, practically snarling. “They want to chain me to a sweet little thing and make me better. They want to make me safe.”

“Then be safe,” you tell him, because despite your softness towards him, you’re also cruel, “For once in your life.”

Aerion’s mask slips like you’ve slapped him, and you catch a glimpse of the boy underneath. Still starved, still burning, still terrified of needing anything he can’t take. Then he snatches cruelty back up like a cloak.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, almost dazed. “You’re always so cold with me.”

“Someone has to be, Aerion. Otherwise you’ll burn alive.”

His mouth tightens, and you see how that wounds him more than any insult you could have hurdled at him. He lifts a hand as if he means to touch your face, to force you to soften for him. It hovers there, suspended between you. Then drops back to his side, fingers curling and curling, curling and uncurling—

“You won’t even give me this,” he chokes out. “Not tonight.”

“Tonight you belong to someone else,” you remind him, and your gaze flicks to the carnation pointedly.

Aerion’s smile warps. “Do I?”

“You’re wearing her future on your chest,” you snap harshly. “Go back. Smile. Dance. Be the prince they want you to be.”

His eyes go flat and dark, and your nape prickles. You’ve seen this calm, this eerie stillness right before rage follows it, before bones break and blood flows.

“I would rather have today with you,” Aerion breathes, almost a hiss of breath, “than forever with anyone else.”

The torch crackles, distant sound of the feast still audible in the distance. The admission is tender for how dark it is. Brutal for how helpless he must surely know it is.

“Today,” you say carefully, “you’re engaged.”

Aerion laughs, but it breaks at the edges. “Yes.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, soft and dark and lovely, “I’ll still want you. It’ll always be you.”

“Aerion—“

“It’s the truth.” His words are a lash, and he licks across his lips, all the while staring at yours. “I won’t lie to you. They’ll have to burn me alive and even then my ashes will carry in the wind towards you. You understand, don’t you? If I need to wait, I’ll wait, I’ll play the part as long as needed. I’ll even get rid of that poor little fool if needed, or any other they saddle me with but in the end, it’s you and me.”

You step closer, just enough to make his breath hitch. Just enough to see the tremor he tries to hide in the fine control of his mouth. He’s so proud. He’s so helpless with it.

“You don’t get to say that to me,” you snarl between clenched teeth, “not on the night you promised yourself to another. Let me go, Aerion.”

Aerion’s eyes flash, wounded but vicious. “I promised them a performance, not you.”

“And her?” you fire back, soft as snow falling on a grave. “What did you promise her, Aerion?”

He goes still. Then his head tilts, and he smiles, soft and mocking. “I promised her nothing she’ll keep.”

“That,” you say, voice gone colder than ice, “is why I won’t give you today or tomorrow.”

His breath catches like you’ve stolen something essential from right inside his chest. He stalks closer anyway, defiant as a child, desperate as a man who’s never been refused what he wants.

“Then what will you give me?” he demands, and the fracture shows now, bright and ugly. “A lesson? A look? Another sermon about honour while you stand there wanting me?”

You meet his stare without flinching.

“I’ll give you the only thing you can’t take,” you say. “A boundary.”

His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump. For a second, the air feels like a blade held to skin; one wrong movement and you’ll get cut.

“Say you don’t want me,” he demands, and it’s not quite a taunt. “Say it.”

You don’t lie.

“I want,” you begin, quiet and steady. “For you to be better than this.”

Aerion’s eyes shine with a thousand emotions all at once—fury, grief, hunger take center stage, brighter than the rest. He looks like you’ve offered him water then yanked it from right under him. His hands flex once, helpless at his sides. Then he leans in until his breath warms your mouth, close enough that any passerby would think you’re about to kiss, and you have to steel your spine to stop yourself from moving back.

“By the gods,” he whispers, wrecked with it, his stare frenzied, “you do this to me and then expect me to let you go? Never. You make me feel like a man.”

You lift your chin, unshaken by the provocation of his nearness. “Then act like one.”

Aerion holds there for a long moment, trembling with the effort of not taking what he clearly, desperately craves. The heat of him is a living thing, pressing, insisting, ever so close to your skin. Then—abruptly, almost violently—he tears himself back, as if yanking his own hand from flame.

His smile returns, brittle this time.

“Enjoy the feast, aunt,” he tells you jovially, and it’s such a poor lie it’s almost an insult.

He turns, shoulder brushing stone as he passes, and you catch the smallest tell—his hand fisting once at his side painfully tight, like he’s restraining himself from reaching back or punching the stone until his skin splits.

At the door, he pauses. Not to look at you, but to steady his breath. Then he opens it and steps back into the music and the cheers and the girl waiting in silk, while you’re left in the empty corridor, counting your breaths.

[the-darklings]

Thank you for breaking me out of my own personal jail and placing me inside this cell, where yearning and duty are at loggerheads. 🤲 Stoic Prince B reacting in that maniacal™️ way had me thinking of a really hot, troublesome stifling day in KL. Like hot like the long summer during Maekars regein kind of hot. The type that irritates you and spins wool around your eyes. The heat is stifling and our Stark Girl, she is losing many battles to it. She cannot find comfort in any clothes, texture or room and is desperate to flee to some tunnel in the red keep. She needs cool stone walls against her back, she needs the cold and still air of a crypt. She is on the verge of something and I need him to witness that rawness. He is learning his desires and I wish to see the moments he accepts this to be the one truth he should have gone out looking long ago and him addressing himself how wonderful to stumble upon it on his front door.

I also see lots of acts of service, use of cold water and hands pressed to provide cooling comfort. I see white muslin, red eyes strained under heat that pricks and bends.

Yes I just need someone to share this brain rot with ne

#fic:holywaters

⊹ ࣪ ˖ summary: In which a dragon prince gives a she-wolf a helping hand.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 6.4k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: best way I can describe this one is: they fuck nasty without fucking at all, hope this helps! I locked in for this in a way that's unsafe for human kind, so any mistakes are my own. Gonna go watch the finale now and say goodbye to our sweet prince, cheerio~

read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.

“Enough,” you rasp into the empty, blistering room. “I yield. You win.”

The heat started before the sun was even fully up.

You woke with your hair already damp at the nape, the linen of your chemise clinging in slow, unpleasant patches. The shutters were cracked open to the east, but there was no cool dawn breeze, no knife of air to cut the heavy night away. Only light—thick and white and relentless—pouring in over the city as if the gods had tipped a bucket of molten gold over King’s Landing and decided to see what burns first.

By midmorning, the Red Keep is a kiln.

Stone that should hold the night’s chill has drunk the sun instead. Floors bake through your slippers. The air in the corridors hangs dense with the sour tang of sweat beneath the usual rot and roses you have already named for this city. Tapestries smother walls that ought to breathe; torches along the passageways smoulder fitfully, unneeded for light and only adding to the oppression.

You change your gown three times.

The first—a proper Stark grey in worsted wool, the one your father likes on you—lasts a single hour. The weight that comforts you in Winterfell feels here like a punishment. You peel it off with clenched teeth, skin stinging where the cloth has dragged. The second, a southern silk in deep blue, slides over your shoulders like water and then, traitor that it is, refuses to hold any shape. Every step makes it cling and whisper and cling again. You feel your own sweat beading beneath it, running in fine, infuriating tracks down your sides.

The third is a compromise. A light white muslin gown that one of the queen’s ladies had pressed on you with a fond, pitying look and a “You’ll die in all that wool, my lady.” It’s indecent by northern standards, thin and fine and barely there. You add a light surcoat in Stark blue over it to soothe your conscience, but even that feels like armour in this weather. The muslin clings the instant you step into the corridor, damp at the back of your knees, your lower spine.

You crave cold the way starving men crave meat.

You drift from room to room the way the heat drifts after you. The small solar off your chambers, where the windows catch what pathetic breeze there is? Hot. The shaded gallery overlooking the training yard, where you once thought King’s Landing almost bearable? Hotter. The sept, with its cool-tiled floor and promise of marble? Stifling, the air thick with incense that seems to coat your lungs.

Your skin feels too tight. Your bones too close together. Every sound rasps. Laughter in the distance, the rolling cadences of some herald’s voice, the clatter of armour. Your own pulse in your ears. You can’t draw a full breath without feeling like the sun has already been there first.

By the time the bells toll midday, there’s a fragile, glassy edge to everything.

You snap—quietly—at a maid for fumbling your cup. You flinch away from your own guards when they shift too close behind you. You stand by the narrow window-slit in your chamber, stare out at Blackwater Bay crouching dull and brazen under the sky, and think, absurdly, of the crypts at Winterfell. Of cool stone and still air and shadows that smell of old dust and older promises. Of the breath of the earth itself under your feet—slow, steady, indifferent to heat and court and Targaryen tempers and this endless, endless summer.

You were raised to bear discomfort. To ride in blizzards, to stand in drafty halls till your toes go numb, to sleep in armour if need be. You have prided yourself on it. But this… this is something different. This is a thousand tiny needles pricking under your skin. This is wool wrapped tight around your thoughts until every breath feels like it might be your last, purely out of spite. The walls feel close, and the sky feels far, you told Baelor once, thinking only of metaphor. Today, the walls feel close in a very simple, very physical way. As if the whole Red Keep is leaning in.

Something in you bends with it. Just a little.

You strip the blue surcoat off your shoulders, leaving only the thin white muslin, and let the discarded garment fall over the back of a chair. It slides down, too heavy, and puddles on the floor. You leave it there; the sight of it makes you want to scream. Your guards straighten when you step out into the corridor. Even they look wilted. Sweat shines dark along the edges of their gorgets; one has taken the liberty of unstringing his collar a fraction, the linen beneath damp.

“My lady,” one ventures. “Shall I fetch—”

“No.” Your voice comes out sharper than you intend. You force your shoulders to loosen. “No. I just… need air.”

“You won’t find any up here,” the other says ruefully before he remembers who he’s talking to. He snaps his mouth shut, eyes widening.

He’s right, though.

Not up. Down.

You have been learning the bones of the Red Keep the way other girls learn stitches. The obvious paths first. Throne room, yards, gates. Then the quieter ways. The side galleries. Service stairs tucked behind tapestries. Once, you found an old, disused guardroom by accident and lingered there just to feel what it was like to be under so much stone, the air cool and still on your skin.

You think of that now—of thick walls that the sun hasn’t molested, of floors that remember night.

“I’ll be in the lower galleries,” you say. “You can follow if you like. Or you can find yourselves a flagon of cool ale and thank the old gods I didn’t drag you into the yard in full mail.”

“My lady—” the older begins, frowning.

“Choose quickly,” you cut in, already turning away. “Before I decide the only way to cool off is to throw a Targaryen prince into the cistern and see if he floats.”

That startles a short, incredulous huff of laughter out of the younger guard. The older looks scandalised and resigned in equal measure. They fall in half a pace behind you anyway, because they are Stark men and stubbornness is contagious.

You take the servants’ stairs, the ones that coil inside the walls themselves. Each turn feels fractionally less bright, less raw. The torches here are fewer, spaced wider along the curving stone. The air changes by degrees, enough that the difference feels like mercy. The smell of hot dust and bodies thins, giving way to cool stone and the faint, wet tang of the cisterns below. By the time you reach the lower level, the light has changed. It’s not the hard white of the courtyard or throne room anymore but the softened, filtered glow of torches reflecting off damp walls. Your skin still feels too hot, but at least the air isn’t trying quite so aggressively to sear your lungs.

You dismiss your guards at the last turning.

“There are men posted at the main cistern,” you tell them, keeping your tone even. “And half the kitchens down here. I’ll hardly be alone.”

They exchange a look. The older opens his mouth. You pin him with a stare that has cowed riverlords twice his age.

“Stay at the stairs,” you tell them. “If I scream, come running. Otherwise, enjoy the blessed lack of sun on your armour.”

Reluctance wars with obedience. Obedience wins.

They take up a position where the corridor becomes a stair, clanking softly into place. You leave them there and follow the cooler draft, the sound of dripping water, the hollow echo of space.

The cistern is a long, vaulted hall of arches and shadow, the ceiling low enough that even you feel the weight of it. Pillars rise out of black water, thick and damp, banded with mineral stains where the level has risen and fallen over the years. Channels cut into the floor carry ladles and buckets of water away toward the kitchens and bathhouses. The air here is still and cool, heavy with the smell of stone and old, clean damp.

It feels, for the first time all day, like you can breathe.

You find a niche between two massive pillars, where a flight of shallow steps leads from the walkway down to the water’s lip. The stone at your back is moist and cool; when you press your palms flat against it, you can feel the deep, slow heart of the hill beneath your fingers. You slide down until you’re sitting with your knees drawn up, skirt pooling around you in a damp-edged cloud. There is a pitcher and dipper left on a nearby shelf, forgotten by some kitchen-boy too harried to remember his tools. You reach for it with fingers that tremble more than you’d like to admit. The clay is cool. Blessedly, wonderfully cool.

You pour carefully. The water is dark as iron in the dim light, but it sings over the clay lip with such a sweet, clean sound you could almost weep.

You wet your wrists first, because you remember some long-ago maester muttering about pulse points and cooling the blood. The shock drags a soft sound from you—half sigh, half strangled sob. You tip the dipper again, let a thin stream trickle over the inside of your elbow, the bend of your knee where the muslin has clung and rubbed all morning. Little runnels carve through the dust on your skin, the sweat. Each drop feels like a small absolution.

You hesitate only a heartbeat before lifting the dipper higher.

The first splash along your throat is almost painful. The second, lower, over the shallow dip at the base of your neck, sends a shudder through you that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with contrast. Heat and water. Parched and quenched.

The muslin of your gown darkens where the water soaks it. Fine cloth goes nearly translucent when wet, clinging more stubbornly to the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulders, the shape of your ribs. If you were in the great hall, you’d die before allowing it. Here, under the earth, with no one but stone and water and your own fraying temper, you do not care.

You’re on the verge of something. You can feel it.

Not just a storm of temper, though that hums under your skin. Not just tears, though your eyes burn, irritated and dry from too much light, too much heat, too much everything. Something else. A crack running down through all the duty and composure and careful northern distance you’ve wrapped around yourself since you arrived. As if the long summer has found a seam in you and is prying with slow, ruthless fingers.

You lean your head back against the pillar. Close your eyes.

You see, as you always do when it is quiet enough, the godswood pool at Winterfell, black and still and cold as old iron. You imagine, just for a moment, slipping under, letting the water close over you, all noise and heat washed away. When you breathe in, the air smells not of incense or tallow or too many bodies but of damp earth, old leaves, wolf and wet stone.

Your jaw clenches. Your fingers tighten hard around the dipper. You are so tired of pretending that this city sits easily on your shoulders. So tired of the sun pressing, pressing, pressing. Your hand shakes. Water spills, runs down your wrist, your forearm, dripping from your elbow in frantic little beads. You suck in a breath that scrapes at the back of your throat—

And feel, before you hear, that you are not alone.

It’s the faintest disruption in the air. A shift of weight on the stone. A breath that isn’t yours, drawn in and held.

Your eyes snap open.

He stands at the top of the shallow steps, half in shadow, half in the fainter torchlight from the walkway.

Baelor.

For a heartbeat, he looks less like a crown prince and more like a man who has wandered into the wrong part of a dream.

The heat of the day has not spared him. Stripped of courtly layers, he looks almost younger, more dangerous. His shirt is linen, light and loose at the throat, darkened in a wide V where sweat has soaked through at his chest. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms corded with old, familiar muscle, dusted with dark hair. There’s a faint dampness at his temples, threads of silver catching what light there is. He has left the Hand’s pin behind; there’s no emblazoned surcoat, no jewelled dragon snarling from his chest.

Without all that, the sheer physicality of him hits harder. Broad shoulders. Long legs braced on the stone. The line of his powerful throat, the hollow at its base currently working around a swallow that looks almost as if it hurts.

His eyes are on you.

On your damp, clinging gown. On the water beading along your collarbone. On the way you’re half-collapsed against the pillar, muslin plastered to the long line of your body, hair coming loose from its pins in messy, damp strands.

You think—wildly—that he looks as if he’s just been struck.

“Your Highness,” you manage.

Your voice sounds wrecked, roughened by heat and the small, private noises you have been making as cold water met overheated skin. You hear every shred of rawness in it. So does he. His fingers flex at his sides, a tiny, betraying movement.

“Lady Stark.” He says your title like he’s reminding himself of it. His voice is lower than usual, hoarser, as if the heat has burned through his practised court tones along with everything else. “I—”

He breaks off. You can see him sort, in real time, through at least three different sentences. Prince. Hand. Man.

“In the habit,” he tries again after a fraction, “of bathing fully clothed in the royal cisterns?”

It’s an attempt at levity. It lands crooked between you. There’s an edge in it. Not mockery. Something closer to disbelief.

You glance down at yourself. At your soaked front, muslin clinging like a second skin from throat to midriff, the faint outline of your stays underneath. Heat that has nothing to do with the air surges up your neck and into your face.

“Oh, good,” you say faintly. “We’ve reached the part of the day where I die of shame. I was wondering when that would arrive.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—helpless, startled, as if the reflex to be amused by you is stronger than whatever else is currently choking him. His fingers flex again. Baelor takes the last few steps down toward you, slow, careful, like he’s approaching a skittish animal or the edge of a cliff.

“I didn’t mean— I was looking for the master of cisterns.” His gaze flits briefly to the black water, to the forgotten dipper in your tight-knuckled hand, then back to your face. “The steward swore we were losing half our supply to some cracked channel. I… was not expecting to find you instead.”

“You and me both.” The pillar is cool at your back. Your skin feels feverish where your wet gown clings. “If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t plan on collapsing in a heap underground dressed like a drowned chicken. It just… happened.”

He stops a pace away. Close enough that you can see the pulse beating, steady and a little fast, at the side of his throat.

“You look far from collapsed,” he says quietly.

You don’t. You look undone. There’s a difference. He sees it. You see him see it.

He has seen you composed in council, answering the king without flinching. He has seen you on his arm in the great hall, under a hundred eyes, your back straight and your expression carved in good northern stone. He has heard you speak in the courtyard with your spine resting against cool pillars and your words cutting quietly to the bone.

He has not seen you like this.

Muslin plastered to your skin, hair damp and rebellious, eyes hot and a little wild. Breathing too shallow. The careful Stark mask stripped away by a foe no sword can cut—just relentless, suffocating heat.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The cistern’s distant drip-counting fills the silence. A drop hits the surface of the water somewhere out in the dark with a soft plop that echoes like a heartbeat.

Then Baelor moves. Not away. Not back. Forward, into your orbit, as if he’s been caught by some gravity he hadn’t realised was there until now.

He reaches for the pitcher.

His hand closes over yours for a heartbeat around the clay handle—cooler than you expected, calloused, sure. The contact is a jolt straight up your arm. You don’t know if he feels it too until you see the way his jaw tightens, the quick flare of his nostrils as he pulls in a breath.

“Allow me,” he says.

There is a note in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not command, though he could command half the realm with those same syllables; not princely politeness, either. Something stripped down past both. Bare.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

The words are quiet, but they land heavily between you.

He eases the pitcher out of your fingers with deliberate care, as if he’s afraid you’ll bolt or shatter if he moves too fast. He kneels—kneels, and the sight goes clean through you—on the step below you, linen pulling taut over his strong thighs, the damp edges of his cuffs dark against his forearms. The crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms, hand of the king, lowering himself to your feet in a pool of deep, cool shadow.

You stare at him, a little stunned.

“Is this…” your voice scrapes, “…part of your inspection, too, Your Highness? ‘Have the cisterns cracked? Are the wolves melting?’”

That pulls the faintest huff of amusement from him, ghost of a smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it softens something there.

“Consider it… an act of selfishness,” he murmurs, eyes fixed now on the water as he pours. “The realm would never forgive me if I let the heir of Winterfell simply… evaporate.”

“You’re very concerned about my state of matter.” Your words wobble only a little. “First turnips, now this.”

Baelor glances up at that, and this time the smile does reach his eyes, a flicker of heat in both the pale and dark irises.

“I find,” he says, almost conversationally, “that I am very concerned with your state, my lady.”

The honesty in it knocks the breath out of you more efficiently than the heat ever could. Baelor doesn’t give either of you time to dwell on it. He sets the pitcher down, dips his broad hand into the water, and brings it up cupped and dripping.

“Give me your hands,” he says.

It’s more request than order. It still lands like the latter. You swallow and do as he says, lifting your hands from where they’ve curled in your lap. His fingers close around your wrists—not tight, but firm enough that you feel the steady strength in them, the quiet, absolute control there. You have seen him hold a spear with those hands, seen the calluses and the scars that map out years of obedience to duty. Now that same grip cradles your hands in place while cold water trails over your pulse.

Baelor drags his wet palm along the delicate knob of bone at the inner wrist, over the cords of tendon and vein, up into the hollow where hand meets forearm. Slowly. Thoroughly. As if he has all the time in the world and no intention of wasting a single heartbeat.

The cold bites. Your fingers twitch.

“Breathe,” he urges softly. “In. Out. Slowly.”

You realise, dimly, that you’ve been holding your breath since he knelt. You obey, because it’s easier than not. The air, still cool by comparison, fills your lungs. Your ribs hitch once and settle around it. He repeats the process on the other hand. Each pass of his palm seems to draw some of the frantic heat from you, siphoning it off into the chilly water on his skin.

“Maesters say,” he offers lightly, as if this is merely conversation, as if he is not kneeling between your knees with his hands on your body, “that cooling the blood at the wrists and throat helps in this sort of weather.”

“Yes, well,” you manage, “maesters also think lemon cakes are a good breakfast. Their judgment is suspect.”

Baelor huffs something like a laugh. You feel it where his fingers rest on your skin more than you hear it.

“Lift your chin,” he says.

You hesitate. He waits. Slowly, you tilt your head back against the pillar, exposing the arch of your throat. The air moves over damp skin; the difference is infinitesimal and immense. You feel raw. Offered. As if every inch of you is suddenly a question you are too hot and too tired to tuck away.

Baelor gazes, just for a heartbeat.

You see his gaze track the line of your neck, the hollow at its base. You see the muscle in his jaw jump, the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The way his hand, hovering for a moment above your skin, flexes like he’s having to remind it of what, precisely, it’s allowed to do.

Then he presses his palm to your throat.

His skin is damp and cool; his fingers span from just under your jaw to the edge of your collarbone. The contrast is vicious. You make a sound you don’t recognise, somewhere between a gasp and a whine, teeth catching on your lower lip.

“Sorry,” he says at once.

“Don’t you dare,” you breathe. “Stop.”

Something dark and bright flares in his eyes at that. The hand at your throat stills, then moves with exquisite care, sliding down a fraction, spreading the chill along the tendons, the fragile barrel of your windpipe, the beat of your pulse.

“Better?” he questions quietly.

You nod, because words feel unreliable. His thumb rests just to the side of your artery, not pressing, just feeling. You are acutely, painfully aware of how fast your heart is pounding under that patient touch. His other hand finds the edge of your damp hair, where it sticks in curling strands to the back of your neck. He cups water and smooths it along the nape, fingertips grazing over the fine hairs there. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with temperature.

“You were right,” you murmur, because for some reason this seems important to say. “The walls are shouting. I can’t… hear my thoughts over them.”

He remembers that conversation. You can tell by the flicker of recognition in his gaze, by the way his mouth softens, pulling the severity from its line.

“Then we shall let the stone do some of the shouting for you,” he says. “You can be quiet for once.”

You snort, which turns into a half-hysterical laugh because everything is too close to the edge.

“My father would be thrilled,” you shoot back. “I think he’s been praying for that miracle since I learned to talk.”

Baelor’s eyes crease faintly at the corners.

“I doubt that very much,” he replies. “The North knows the value of a voice that doesn’t flinch.” His thumb moves, a bare sweep against your pulse. “I’ve been… grateful for it.”

There’s that word again. Grateful. As if your existence in his overheated, overburdened orbit is some kind of relief he didn’t expect to find. He doesn’t say the rest of it aloud. He doesn’t have to. You see it in the way Baelor’s gaze roams, just once, more freely than he usually allows himself: over the damp line of your cheek where a stray droplet has escaped, down the column of your throat, across the way the wet muslin clings to your sternum. It’s not a hungry look, not exactly. It’s… startled. Reverent. As if some part of him, long starved, is aware that it has, quite without warning, been sat down in front of a feast.

“This is foolish,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“The heat?” you ask. Your lips feel slow around the words.

“Among other things.”

He draws his hand away from your throat, leaving a cold imprint behind that throbs with the echo of his touch. For a moment, you think he’s going to stand, put a safe, polite distance between you, cloak himself back in Hand and heir and duty. 

Instead, he dips his hand back into the pitcher, then reaches lower.

Your breath stalls.

He hesitates for the first time, fingers hovering near your bare ankle where your muslin has hiked up when you slid down the pillar. Your slippers have long since been toed off; your feet are pressed flat to the cool stone step, toes curling reflexively against it.

“May I?” he asks.

The question is ridiculously formal for what he’s actually asking: whether he can touch a part of you no one has any business thinking about, let alone a crown prince on his knees in a cistern.

You should say no.

You should remember all the reasons this is wrong. That you are here as your father’s heir, a piece on the board. That he is the king’s eldest son, his father’s finest work, the one who has been taught since boyhood that duty comes before desire, every time. That the heat is making you foolish.

You don’t.

“Yes,” you hear yourself say. The word comes out rough. “Please.”

His eyes darken at that. There is something almost feral in the way his fingers curl, as if that single syllable has loosed a chain he’s been winding tight around himself for years. Baelor cups your heel in his palm, large hand swallowing the fragile bones easily, and draws it gently forward until your calf rests along his thigh, the sole of your foot braced against his hip. It is a scandalous intimacy, one that would make the court scream itself hoarse if they saw it. Here, under stone and shadow and water, it feels like the only thing in the world that makes sense.

He runs his wet fingers along the arch of your foot, over the sensitive skin there, then up over your ankle bone, tracing the delicate joint slowly, firmly. Cold water tracks his path. You shudder helplessly, fingers digging into the stone at your sides.

“Sorry,” he says again, though he doesn’t stop.

“You keep saying that,” you grit out. “And yet.”

“And yet,” he echoes softly.

Baelor slides his hand higher, skimming over the curve of your calf, spreading chill along overheated skin. Your knee falls a fraction more open, not entirely of your own volition. His gaze flickers there for a heartbeat, then back to your face, as if he’s reminding himself that he’s here to tend, not to take.

He swallows. You see his throat work, the small clench of muscle in his jaw.

“This summer,” he says quietly, as if talking will keep him steady, “has the smallfolk muttering that it will last into my grandchildren’s time. That Maekar will grow old under the same sun that saw him born.”

“Optimistic of them to assume you’ll let him live that long,” you say through your teeth, because humour is the only blade you have left to hold. “You looked ready to throttle him last night over supper.”

The flash in his gaze at the mention of his brother is brief and complicated—fondness knotted with exasperation and something else entirely when he glances up at you.

“I wouldn’t throttle him,” Baelor says. “There are more… creative ways to make a younger brother suffer.”

“Like arranging his betrothals for him?” you mutter.

His hand tightens, just a fraction, midway up your calf. Both of you feel it.

“That,” he says, voice suddenly very flat beneath the surface, “would be cruel.”

The word hangs there, shaded by more meaning than the stale, hot air should be able to carry. He exhales, slow. His fingers move again, gentler. You feel him wrestle whatever storm that thought brought with it back down, tamping it into the same deep place where he keeps everything else that doesn’t serve his father’s peace.

“This summer,” he continues, almost as if he hadn’t paused, “has laid the whole city bare. Every crack. Every fault. You see what can’t endure once the comforts are stripped away.”

“And what endures?” you wonder. Your voice is steadier now, the cold burrowing in enough to ease some of the fever.

His gaze finds yours, holds therefor too long.

“You,” he says simply.

It shouldn’t be a declaration. It feels like one.

“This place gnaws at you,” he goes on, tone still low, steady. “It shouts when you need silence. It presses when you need space. And yet here you are, down in its bones, spine against its stone, refusing to be moved.”

“You found me half-melted and swearing at a pitcher,” you point out. “That’s not exactly heroic.”

“Stones crack from heat,” he says. “You bend. There’s a difference.” His thumb makes one last pass along the inside of your ankle, right over the pounding little vein there. “If the gods had meant you for crypts, they would have left you in the snow. They sent you here instead. To my halls. To my—”

Baelor cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut on whatever word had been fighting its way out. His nostrils flare. His hand stills on your skin, fingers pressed white-knuckled to your calf.

You hear the unspoken syllable anyway, loud as if he’d shouted it.

To my side.

To me.

Something in your chest lurches, ugly and glorious all at once.

“Baelor,” you say, and it’s the first time you’ve used his name aloud without title, without the soft cloak of “my Lord Prince” you once offered as a compromise. The sound of it in your mouth feels different down here, bare as your throat under his hand. 

He flinches, just a fraction. The movement is small, but you feel it through the contact of his palm on your skin, the way his shoulders shift.

“That’s irregular,” he says. The words are roughened; the joke doesn’t quite land.

“Nearly everything worth doing is,” you echo him back his own phrase before you can stop yourself.

At that, something gives way behind his eyes.

You see it. The moment he stops fighting quite so hard against the shape of what he wants. The moment some deep, stubborn part of him, forged in fire and duty, in Blackfyre blood and the weight of a realm, simply… accepts a truth that’s been stalking the edges of his mind since you first walked at his side through that roaring, suffocating hall.

This. You.

Damp and furious and half-undone, back pressed to the bones of his ancestors’ fortress, breath stuttering under his hands. Not anything any careful, sensible prince would have gone out looking for. How wonderful, he thinks—wildly, helplessly—that he hadn’t had to. That you were sent to his front door under the safe name of alliance, and he has still managed to trip over the one person who looks at him and sees a man before a crown, who curses his court and still lets him cup cold water to her throat.

His fingers flex on your calf.

Your own hand moves without permission.

You reach down and catch his wet wrist, your smaller fingers wrapping just above the bone. His skin is cooler than yours, but not by much now; some of your heat has leached into him, as his steadiness has leached into you. Slowly, you draw his hand upward, over your knee, back to the solid, pulsing line of your throat.

Baelor’s breath leaves him in a rough exhale when his palm meets that spot again.

“You said I was on the brink of evaporating.” Your words are soft, but they don’t wobble. “That the realm would never forgive you if you let me. So don’t let go.”

It’s an outrageous thing to say to a man who has spent his entire life being asked to do nothing but let go—of his wants, his comforts, his sleep, any small, selfish yearning that doesn’t serve seven kingdoms.

He doesn’t.

Baelor’s hand cradles your throat more fully this time, thumb resting in the hollow under your jaw, fingers spread along the sides. Not choking. Just… holding. Feeling. Claiming, in a way that no one in the hall above would ever understand, because there is no politeness in it, no calculation. Only this: the quiet, feral decision not to step back. His eyes search your face like he’s afraid he’s misunderstood, that any second now you’ll come to your senses and flinch away.

You don’t.

You lean into his touch, just enough that your jaw settles more firmly against his palm. Your lips part on a shiver of a breath. Your eyes are fever-bright, pupils wide in the dim.

“Careful, Your Highness,” you whisper. “People will say you’re staring.”

“Let them,” he answers, and this time there’s no courtly smoothness left at all. Just a low, dangerous certainty.

Baelor looks at you like a man who has been lost in the desert for years and has finally staggered into shade and water. His thumb swipes once, very gently, along the edge of your lower lip where a drop of water has gathered without either of you noticing. The touch is so light it might as well be imagined, but your whole body clenches around it like a fist.

He is inches away from you. Inches from disaster. From salvation. From something that would alter the shape of both your lives more than any war.

His gaze drops, inevitably, to your mouth. You feel, very clearly, the moment his control frays.

It’s in the way his hand tightens just slightly at your throat, the way his shoulders hunch as if against a blow, the way his own lips part, breath ghosting hot across your face. You don’t move. You could. You could tilt your chin that last, lethal angle up. You could close the distance and let whatever this is devour you both.

You don’t.

Not because you don’t want to. Gods, you want. The want that has been building under your ribs since that first quiet walk through the hall rears up now, a wolf made of hunger and heat and the memory of his careful hand at your waist. You don’t move because you feel, under your palm on his wrist, the way his pulse stutters and then steadies, the way he pulls, from somewhere deep, a last, fraying length of restraint.

Baelor exhales slowly. His eyes close for a heartbeat. When they open again, they are still dark, still burning, but something has resettled behind them. Not denial. Not dismissal. A decision. To want, and to live with wanting, and not—yet—destroy the world that hangs on his shoulders for the sake of one kiss in a cistern.

“Lady Stark,” he says, and the title sounds, in this moment, less like distance and more like a vow.

His hand eases from your throat, one finger at a time, as if prying himself loose from something that has grown around him of its own accord. The air rushes in, hot and heavy, but you can still feel the ghost of his touch, a cold brand over the frantic beat in your neck.

He presses his wet palm briefly to your brow, like a benediction, smoothing a few limp strands of hair away. When he draws back, the air feels emptier than it has any right to.

“I’ll have more water brought down,” he says promptly. The prince is creeping back into his posture, into his words, but the man hasn’t gone; you can hear him under every syllable. “And someone will find fans and ice, if there’s any to spare from my father’s solar. You’ll stay down here until the worst of the heat has burned itself out.”

“Ordering me about, Your Highness?” you rasp, because if you don’t say something sharp your throat will close on everything else.

“Indulge me,” he returns quietly, repeating the words he once used when he asked to see you safely to your chambers. “Consider it a selfish request, again. I find I… prefer you solid.”

You huff a sound that’s very nearly a laugh. It comes out shaky. He looks at you as if the sound is a treasure he intends to count later, somewhere quiet, where no one can take it from him. Baelor stands at last, movements slower than they need to be, as if his joints have to remember how stairs work now that they’ve learned how kneeling feels. For a moment, his hand hovers as if he might reach to steady you as you shift, then he seems to think better of it and curls his fingers into a fist at his side.

“I should go,” he says. “If my father notices the Hand has disappeared, he’ll assume I’ve been assassinated and call a council. You don’t wish to be responsible for that noise.”

“You say that as if I’m not half-tempted,” you mutter.

The smile that flashes across his face at that is quick and almost boyish, shattering the last of the oppressive weight between you for one brief, glorious breath.

“No more talking,” you add, closing your eyes again and letting your head rest back against the stone. “Go. Before I drag you into the water just to see if it shuts you up.”

He laughs. Properly. The sound rolls through the cistern, low and disbelieving.

“As my lady commands,” he says.

His footsteps retreat up the stairs, each soft thud a small wrench in your chest. At the top, he pauses. You don’t open your eyes; you feel him looking back all the same.

“Try,” Baelor speaks into the dark, “not to dream too kindly of our heat.”

Your lips quirk. “I shall do my best,” you murmur. “Though I make no promises about the ice.”

He makes a strangled sound that might be another laugh, might be something else entirely, and then he’s gone, leaving only the cool stone at your back, the ache of his fingerprints along your throat and calf, and the knowledge, sudden and enormous, that whatever lay between duty and desire in both your lives has just shifted.

an: hope we're all feeling as unwell after reading this as I felt writing it 😂😂😂

[the-darklings]

was listening to aerion/ls playlist and one song having lyrics "sometimes I fantasize about faking my own death just to see how it would make you feel"? actually feeling INSANE. imagine.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader, background baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 1.7k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, aerion is still his usual, obsessive self, but dare I say it... this is a nice, albeit angsty, moment. in case you're curious, that line comes from maybe we're meant to be alone by bad suns. this little scene just grabbed me by the throat so had to get it out of my system, sorry to keep inflicting these two upon you but they fascinate me lol.

read on ao3. ⊹ series masterlist.

He says it like a jest, of course. 

The two of you are on one of the inner balconies above the city, the night pressing in close and heavy, King’s Landing sprawled below you like a brazier someone forgot to put out. Torches crawl along the walls; the sea smells of tar and rot and distant storm from earlier this afternoon. You’ve come up here to breathe something that isn’t the council-chamber dust. He has followed, as he always does, like a bad thought that knows the way to your door. 

Aerion leans on the parapet a little too far over the drop, hands splayed on the stone, short hair moving only slightly in the breeze. From here, if he slipped, he’d fall a very long way before the cobbles below broke him. You stand a step back, arms folded, crown a dark curve of duty against the stars. 

“Sometimes,” Aerion begins, conversational as if discussing wine or weather, “I fantasise about faking my own death just to see how it would make you feel.”

Your mind goes quiet in a way it hasn’t for many years. 

He glances up at you from under his pale lashes, mouth curving. “Would you weep?” he wonders idly. “Would you rage? Would you be relieved?” His fingers drum once on the stone. “Would you start sleeping better for it? Or would you lie awake wondering if I was still out there somewhere, breathing, watching?”

“This isn’t funny, Aerion.”

“Who’s laughing?” He tilts his head to one side, studying you like some rare beast he hasn’t yet decided how to prod best. “Imagine it. A boat out of Dragonstone. A storm, perhaps. Wreckage on the rocks. A few convincing pieces of me washed ashore after.” He bares his teeth, near feral. “You would have to wear black again. Wolf-black. Queen in mourning, twice over. The songs would gnaw on that, on you, for an age.”

Your stomach knots at his words. Anger spikes immediately after, riding over a colder thing you refuse to name, even in silence.

“You’re a prince of the realm,” you say sharply. “Not a mummer. You don’t get to vanish for curiosity’s sake.”

“Oh, but don’t I?” Aerion pushes off the parapet and stalks towards you, that careless prowl in his stride you know full well means battle. “No one would question it. Brightflame dashed to pieces by his own arrogance at sea. They’d say they saw it coming. My father would grind his teeth, Uncle would bow his head in defeat, the smallfolk would rejoice and whisper that perhaps the gods knew what they were about after all.”

He stops in front of you, close enough that you could reach out and plant your hands on his chest and shove. 

“And you?” he wonders, voice gone softer, rougher, more insistent. “What would you do, Aunt? Pray for my soul? Spit on my memory? Or would it… ache.” His eyes flick down, taking in the tight set of your mouth, the muscle working in your jaw. “Would there be a little hollow place where my absence sat?

You peer at him, face set like stone. 

“If you ever try something so stupid,” you say sharply, “I’ll find you. I will drag you back by your hair, and then I’ll kill you myself for daring to put that grief on your father and brothers.”

Aerion laughs under his breath, a softly threaded sound of mirth. “Ah,” he murmurs. “So you’d feel something, at least.”

Your hand twitches. You imagine, for one heady second, curling your fingers around his throat and shaking him until his teeth rattle in his skull. 

“You are not an experiment,” you snap, nostrils working. “And neither am I.”

“Everything is an experiment,” he answers flatly. “Life. Death. Love and loss.” He leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of him, the ghost of his breath at your cheek. “I just happen to be honest about wanting  the results.”

“Step back,” you say.

He does as he’s told, for once, but only after a beat, grin flashing, satisfied with himself. He turns away again, bracing his hands on the stone, looking down at the crawling lights of the city. 

“I won’t do it,” he says lightly. “You’ve convinced me. For now, at least. I’d rather watch your face when I’m alive, anyway.”

He hums some tuneless scrap under his breath. The wind catches the sound and snatches it away from you. 

You stand there for a moment, pulse drumming in your throat, aware of how easily he toys with his own death, how casually he holds the idea of your grief up to the light to see how it reflects in his grip. You should leave him to it. It would be wiser to turn on your heels and take your temper back to Baelor’s quiet, solid warmth and let it burn itself out there. 

You don’t. Your feet won’t obey. Because the longer you gaze at his proud, regal profile, the more the idea sinks in. The shape of it, his absence, his death, following you around as much as his presence does most days. 

Instead, you hear yourself say, “You’re wrong.”

Aerion goes quiet and still. “About what?” he asks, without turning. 

“About how it would feel.” The words come slowly, as if you’re dragging them up from somewhere deep and cold. “If you died.”

Aerion turns his head, just enough that you can see the pale edge of his profile better, the line of his nose, the small, intent smile starting at the corner of his full mouth. “Enlighten me, then,” he urges. “Would you throw a feast? Order the bells to be rung for joy?”

“I would mourn you.”

The breeze lifts your hair, tugs at the edges of your cloak. There are distant sounds of laughter and chatter and servants rushing around with some task or another, but right now, between you, there’s only the weight of the silence between you. 

“For all your many faults,” you continue, because it would be easy to stop there and let him make a jest of it, and if you’re going to say this, you won’t let him twist this. “For every cruelty. For every time you made me want to throttle you where you stood. It would be agony to see you truly gone.”

You’ve never once seen the mocking drain out of his expression so rapidly, like a tide pulled back too quickly. Aerion straightens away from the parapet by an inch. His fingers flex on the stone. The light, idle gleam in his eyes goes thin and sharp, as if something inside him has stiffened to attention. 

You keep going, because stopping now would be worse than anything. 

“I would mourn the man you are, Aerion,” you tell him, swallowing down the rasp you hear in your own voice, “because whether you believe it or not, you are my family, and this realm would be poorer—safer, perhaps, but poorer—without you in it. And I would mourn the boy you were before you decided to twist yourself into this shape. The one who loved fishing and came back soaked to the skin and furious he couldn’t catch the fattest fish in the lake. The one who played cyvasse with me badly till he learned how to play too well. The one who demanded I show him every Northern border, every Northern keep, on every map till he fell asleep. The one who asked me a hundred questions about snow and wolves and whether the stars look different above Winterfell.”

You swallow over a lump in your throat, a pain humming under your breast that you can’t quite hold back from him. 

“I would mourn him most of all,” you admit quietly. “Because he deserved better than the man you insist on being.”

Silence rolls out between you, heavy as thunder before it breaks, thick with a thousand memories shared. Not all of them are bad; perhaps that’s what makes this so hard. It would be easier to hate him if a thousand versions of him didn’t overlap in your mind’s eye. 

For one long breath, Aerion doesn't move at all. 

The usual armour of his expression—amusement, mockery, that sharp-edged delight at his own awfulness—slips. What’s left underneath looks younger. Raw, almost. There’s something like outrage in it, too, but turned inwards, as if he had been caught somewhere unguarded he didn’t know he still had inside him. 

“Aunt,” he says finally, and your title sits oddly in his mouth this time, strained under the usual smoothness. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?” you ask. “Because they’re untrue?”

His jaw works, once, twice, a muscle ticking there in a mad little flutter. “No,” he says, very quietly. “Because they’re not.”

There’s something inside him, you realise dimly, that still hears you, and hates itself for hearing you. It’s like your hand rests wrapped around his spine, and every time you’re this—almost close, almost loving—Aerion jerks towards the pull, even if he loathes himself for it later. A beat later, the grin returns, a little too sharp at the edges, the brightness in his eyes far too bright. 

“Well,” he drawls, exhaling, rolling his shoulders as if shedding some invisible weight. “What a comfort, to know my hypothetical corpse would not go entirely unlamented. I shall sleep like a babe tonight.”

“Aerion,” you bite out, a warning. 

He lifts his hand, palm out, as if to ward off any more truths from you. “Enough,” he says lightly. “Any more honesty and I might do something truly foolish, like try to deserve it.”

He turns back to the city, to the glittering sprawl of torches and alleyways and shadows that have never quite felt like home for either of you. 

You look at him for a long moment—the stiff line of his back, the way his fingers drum restlessly on the stone again, the small, unconscious tilt of his head towards the sound of your breathing—and then you leave, your footsteps hushed on the stone. 

Aerion stays exactly where he is, staring down into the dark as if he can see his own imagined wreckage on some distant, storm-tossed shore, and for a long, long time, Aerion doesn’t smile at all. 

an: I just think they're neat! [shakes aerion like a snow globe]

[boyloveisnteasy]

you are an amazing writer! will you pls write 5 times aerion tries and fails to court reader and 1 time he succeeds? <3

💌 five times aerion tried (and failed) to court you ⸺ and one time he succeeded.

⋆ a/n : i see all your requests, i'll get to them one by one if i like it & have a time. thank you anon !! ࿔ gif is for the aesthetic purposes only, there is no physical description of reader

The first time ⸺ when he saw you.

It was neither in the hall nor among the nobles, but in the garden.

Your house had arrived on their lands only a few hours before, and the feast had yet to begin. The castle already hummed with life: servants carried chests, lords exchanged polite smiles, and the air was heavy with the smell of wine and roasting meat.

He found you by chance.

Or almost by chance.

You stood among rare blooms — spider lilies — watching the delicate flowers sway. A gentle breeze stirred, and your hair, still loose and not yet tied by the maids, fell across your shoulders, glinting softly in the sunlight.

Aerion saw you from the shadow of a stone arch. He lingered there for a moment, just watching, then stepped forward.

“Have you lost your way?” he asked, his voice calm and even.

You turned, a surprised smile on your lips. “No, my prince. I am rather trying to escape the insistence of certain visitors.”

Then you looked back at the garden, a soft smile playing on your face. “It seems not to help.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I am no visitor of yours.”

“But yet you are here.”

He looked around the garden slowly. “Do not flatter yourself. I just passed by.”

“Then why did you hide in the arch’s shadow for a good while, my prince?” you asked, amused by his weak excuse.

Aerion opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head and turned away. “Careful.”

The second time — when he had asked for your blessing.

The tournament field was full of life: horses neighed, armor clanged, and the stands were bright with colorful gowns. The air was thick with dust and the smell of roasting meat.

You sat a row below, wearing a deep blue silk dress, embroidered with silver. Your hair was tied back, the front strands falling softly over your shoulders. You looked calm and untouchable — so different from the other ladies, waving their handkerchiefs in nervous excitement.

Aerion saw you at once. Clad in armor that shone brighter than the sun, he rode his horse straight toward you. Beside him was your cousin — a young knight on his first big outing. The boy looked pale and nervous next to the prince.

The prince said nothing. He gave only a slight nod — a brief gesture that said more than words ever could. He held out his hand, waiting for you to tie your ribbon to his lance, as if it were understood without question.

The whole court watched, holding their breath.

You looked at his hand, then at your cousin. And, without hurry, you tied the silk to your cousin’s lance. “May the gods aid you,” you said softly.

Aerion froze. His hand hung in empty air.

On the field, he was terrifying. He unseated your cousin with such force that the lance splintered, and the young man fell hard — dead or near enough.

After the victory, Aerion rode to you and threw a piece of your dirty, torn ribbon at your feet. He lifted his helmet and raised an eyebrow, hoping you would see the determination in his eyes.

You did not even glance at the shard. You rose, shook the dust from your blue silk, and walked away, leaving him with a taste of defeat.

The third time — when he wanted to apologize.

Your cousin’s name still echoed through the halls. Not loudly, but enough that each time you passed by, someone lowered their voice for a moment.

The door to your chambers swung open without a knock.

Aerion entered, carrying the same pride as always, but his movements were oddly awkward. He clearly wanted to speak, yet the words stuck in his throat, turning into a low, jumbled murmur.

“The ribbon. It was too slippery and fell… not very gracefully. I did not mean to throw it at you in front of all the common folk.”

He fell silent, looking as if he had just swallowed poison.

You watched him, barely holding back a smile at the ridiculous sight.

“Are you trying to apologize, my prince?” you asked softly.

Aerion straightened at once. “No,” he snorted, trying to regain his proud air. “I am trying to clear a misunderstanding. Dragons do not ask for forgiveness.”

“And dragons do not kill innocent young men.”

“He had no business on the field if he could not stay in the saddle,” he shrugged, showing no pity. “He… the one you chose?”

You blinked. “He is my cousin, my prince.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No,” you said firmly.

He froze. All his anger suddenly faded, replaced by a strange relief. He nodded shortly, almost unusually pleased. “Very well.”

He started back toward the door, then stopped and swallowed loudly. “You should come to my training in the small yard today.”

You smiled and stepped closer. “Is that an invitation?”

“It is an order.”

You only shook your head, bitterly, and closed the door in his face, hearing him curse on the other side.

The fourth time — when you were returning home.

Your house left at dawn, which made your fathers decide that the farewell feast should be a grand display of respect.

You sat at the high table, feeling the silk of your dress cling to your skin in the stifling heat and the light of hundreds of candles burning in heavy chandeliers.

From the start of the feast, Aerion had not taken his eyes off you. His chair was pulled so close that his elbow brushed yours constantly, and the smell of metal and leather overpowered everything else. Every time you reached for your cup, he was faster, filling it himself with golden Arbor wine.

“Drink,” he said, and there was no question in his voice. “Who knows when you’ll taste wine like this again.”

You only raised an eyebrow slightly, looking at the ruby liquid.

“Price does not make it sweeter, my prince. Sometimes plain water pleases the heart more than the finest gold.”

Aerion squinted, his fingers whitening on the stem of the cup. But what made him truly fearsome was when some young lord tried to approach you. The moment a boy from a neighboring house stepped too close, Aerion turned his head. His violet eyes blazed with a cold, punishing fire that made the poor lad pale, bow awkwardly, and vanish into the crowd.

Unable to bear the suffocating crowd, you excused yourself and slipped out of the tent. You needed the night air, far from lutes and drunken shouts.

You walked to the edge of the arch, where cicadas drowned out the music, and lifted your face to the wind, staring at the distant campfires. The silence lasted only a moment. Heavy steps on the grass and the familiar scent of fine musk told you the prince was near before he spoke.

Aerion came up behind you, his chest almost touching your shoulders. You froze, not turning, feeling heat radiate from him. His hands — hot and dry — rested on your shoulders, making you flinch. He moved your hair aside, exposing your neck, and you felt the brief, light touch of his fingers on your skin.

Then cold, heavy metal pressed against your chest. Aerion fastened a clasp, and a massive Valyrian gold necklace rested on your collarbones, a great ruby at its center, like a drop of frozen blood.

“Now you belong to the dragon,” he whispered in your ear, pride in his voice.

Slowly, with calm dignity that always annoyed him more than open defiance, you lifted your hand to touch the edges of the ruby. You did not flinch or look away as you turned to face him, trapped between the stone arch and his broad chest.

Your eyes met his — violet, burning with a wild flame of possession. You tilted your head slightly, a soft smile on your lips.

“You confuse gold with the soul, my prince,” your voice was calm in the night. “To belong is to give yourself willingly, and you take me by force. Is that what you desire?”

Aerion narrowed his eyes, fingers still pressing your shoulders. His face twisted with displeasure, and he leaned so close that your lips nearly touched. “Dragonfire asks no permission. It takes whom it wills.”

“Then you will have only ashes, my prince.”

You freed yourself from his hands, careful but firm. The heavy necklace tugged at your neck, reminding you of every word he said.

He watched you go, clenching his fists, unable to understand why his fire could not bend you to his will.

The fifth time — when he had written to you.

Aerion had been nowhere to be seen. Not at the gates, not in the courtyard, not in the last moments before departure. You did not search for him among the servants, nor did you slow your pace.

You rode down to the yard, lifted the reins, and swung into the saddle. Your cloak settled on your shoulders, the wind tangled your hair, and the dust of the road barely touched your cheeks. You took the first step with the horse, then the second, and the gates opened to meet the road. You did not look back. Not once.

The ride home took two weeks. It met you with quiet stillness. Familiar walls, the smell of earth and old wood, the faces of the servants — everything was in its place.

The heavy ruby necklace was still on you.

A week passed. Seven days exactly.

You had almost forgotten the heat of the dragon prince’s presence when the letter arrived.

You recognized the seal at once: red wax with a dragon stamp — familiar and sharp, like him. You held the letter longer than usual, feeling the weight of each word, as if it might jump out at you.

You broke the seal and opened the letter slowly, almost as a ritual, afraid the words might escape with it.

My lady, You left our home without a word, and I did not stop you. It was not forgetfulness or carelessness, but because I thought it right. You are free in your rooms and under your father’s roof. I do not intend to limit you, nor to demand a reply before the time is right. But do not think my silence is refusal. The dragon does not turn from decisions once made. It chooses — and it holds to the end. So do I. I do not let go of what I have chosen. You will have time — enough to get used to what is inevitable. Do not waste it. Wear the necklace. ⸺ Aerion of House Targaryen.

You read the letter slowly at first, then again, pausing on every line. The words, sharp and precise, left no doubt. No request, no apology.

In each line, his strong confidence and need for control shone, but between the lines, you felt something else — a desperate need to own what would not yield.

You folded the letter carefully, held it to the flame for a moment, and then let it go. The paper caught fire, the edges curled, and the writing melted away into ash.

You did not reply.

Because, for the first time in all this, the choice was yours alone.

The sixth time — when he succeeded.

Aerion sat in his chambers. The stone walls were cold and hard, but the soft candlelight glimmered on the armor in the corners. The room was quiet — broken only by the fire crackling and the faint scrape as he moved in his chair.

His fingers held the parchment, the letter he had sent to you a week ago.

The letter that hadn't been answered.

The room smelled of wax, iron, and the faint bitterness of the candle oil.

Had he been too eager? Aerion had poured all his will into not riding to your lands, into not locking you in his rooms.

A soft knock broke the silence. Aerion stood, the chains on his sword clinking lightly.

“My prince,” said a servant, looking down, “Prince Maekar asks for you.”

Aerion nodded and stepped to the door. The stone floor groaned under his weight. He waited as Maekar entered, calm and careful, not wanting to disturb the quiet tension of the room.

“The lord of the lands nearby, your lady’s father, asks for a marriage of respect,” Maekar said, his voice steady, respectful. “He invites our house to discuss the match.”

Aerion straightened, shoulders back, chin high. His eyes, sharp and cold, looked at his father with clear determination. Around his neck glimmered the same necklace he had once given you, the gems shining in the candlelight.

The next time you met, you sat at the great feast table. Your father, proud and pleased, kept signaling servants to refill the wine.

Aerion sat almost next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He kept his back straight, his gaze calm, like a dragon watching its prey.

When the conversation turned to the affairs of common folk, you leaned slightly toward him and smiled. “So, you really are my visitor.”

He smirked. “And you said you hid from them. Yet, look where we are.”

You give a quiet smile, sensing his attempt at casual ease, though the small curve of his lips and the fire in his eyes betray him. You glance at the necklace he once gave you — the cold sparkle of Valyrian gems in the candlelight. He speaks no words of feeling, no pleading, no asking. Yet every line of his face, every look, makes it clear — he is more determined than ever.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked straight at you, calm and warm. “Now, you will be the wife of a dragon.”

Slowly, he touched your hand under the table, weaving his fingers with yours.

The voices at the table rose again. Prince Baelor laughed at some joke of your father’s, but Aerion’s eyes remain fixed only on you.

MASTERLISTS

AKOTSK 𖾕𖾝꙼ᩚ𛲕𖾟 AERION

ᝰ.ᐟ @catmikaelson20 @rubyannebeaufoy @thoughtfully-burning @besonderselyy @littlewritergreatgirl-blog @demoniz3d @ibhearts @immauperfreak @pixel-pixie-xo @carbonated-beverage @anedpev @bighead02 @outshawty @icebearcucumber @agentcarter1946 @thestoriesitell-blog1 @transparentwizardblaze @wrkootle @tangikatanifa @kate-beth @mmasworld @anontargslvt3 @cassvictim @ladychaos1525 @hanakotateyama @bookishdelights @ae-gax @pharmacistfairytale @ladyhesperus @jaemimpulsive @besonderselyy

[maekarsmistress]

Hi! I know you wrote something similar, but I’m really desperate for more Maekar angst, there is so little out there sighhh. Maybe again with second wife reader! newly wed to him after a few years of Dyannas death. It wasn’t a marriage of love but she instantly fell for him, but he is closed off and keeps his distance so she tries to impress him, dressing beautifully making gifts for him and so on.. but still she realises that he still mourns his dead wife and she thinks she'll never be enough for him.. getting sad but with fluff and comfort at the end please? Thanks ☺️

- ALONE,

you overhear something you werent suppose to, was it all for nothing?

CW: none, fluff, angst, comfort.

i've been writing so much fluff i have started to forget how to write smut. will post more inbox drafts tmrw! huge series coming soon if this fandom still alive.. :-D wc: 3.6k. REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The marriage had not been one born of affection, and that much had been made plain from the beginning, spoken plainly enough during the quiet negotiations that had taken place months before the ceremony ever occurred. There had been no illusions in those conversations, no pretense of romance, no soft assurances meant to dress the matter into a prettier lie. Maekar Targaryen required a wife, the household required order, the children required a woman capable of managing what servants alone could not manage.

And you.. well, you had agreed.

No promises had been spoken beyond duty, no warm assurances, no sweet vows whispered between clasped hands. The marriage had been arranged with the sort of steady calm one might use when placing a new chair at a table that had long been missing one, necessary perhaps, useful certainly, though hardly cause for celebration. You had understood that well enough at the time, had accepted it without complaint, knowing perfectly well the sort of man Maekar was said to be.

Yet, you had fallen for him all the same.

It had not taken long; That was the unfortunate part of it, perhaps the most inconvenient truth of the entire arrangement - Maekar was not a man who made such things easy, his presence carried a quiet severity, his posture straight, his expression composed, he spoke little unless there was reason to speak, and when he did his voice rarely rose beyond a measured tone, calm and deliberate, each word chosen carefully as though conversation itself required discipline. His gaze was steady, difficult to read, the sort that lingered only long enough to acknowledge before moving on again. 

Still, you had noticed things.

Not grand gestures, nor declarations, nothing that would cause a room to pause or turn their heads in interest. Rather, the smaller things, the quieter habits that most others did not seem to observe. The way he paused in corridors when one of the children spoke, even if he pretended not to listen - the way he corrected the boy’s sword grips with careful patience rather than his usual harshness, his hand guiding rather than striking, the way his voice softened, only slightly, barely noticeable unless one was listening closely, when speaking to the youngest of them.

They were small things, quiet things, easily missed by those who did not look closely. Yet you had loved him for them before you quite realised what was happening.

Which, unfortunately, made matters somewhat difficult.

Because Maekar remained - quite simply - Maekar. Kind enough in his own manner, never cruel, never dismissive, but distant still. The space between you remained vast and measured, as though he feared stepping too near might invite expectations he did not intend to meet. He treated you with respect, always, with the careful courtesy due a wife, yet the warmth one might hope for remained just beyond reach, like a fire seen through the far end of a hall.

You had tried regardless.

The first attempt had been simple enough. A cloak.

You had spent several evenings overseeing its making, speaking quietly with the seamstress, selecting the cloth yourself. Deep black wool, thick enough for winter winds, lined with dark crimson silk that caught the light only faintly when it moved. The stitching along the collar had been subtle, nothing elaborate, nothing that might invite ridicule from a man who valued practicality above ornament. You had taken care with it, more care perhaps than the gift truly warranted, though at the time it had seemed reasonable enough.

You presented it to him one evening in his solar.

He had been seated at his desk when you entered, several letters laid before him, though he set them aside when you approached. He examined the cloak in silence, fingers brushing across the fabric as though testing its weight, its quality, the neatness of the work along the seams.

“It is well made,” he said after a moment.

A brief pause followed, quiet enough that you could hear the faint crackle of the fire across the room.

“Thank you.”

You had smiled, of course, because there was little else to do. Yet when he draped the cloak across the back of a nearby chair rather than his shoulders, when he returned to the letters waiting upon his desk as though nothing particularly notable had occurred, something small in your chest had tightened all the same. You tried to hide your displeasure behind a swift exit.

The next attempt had been different. Not a gift this time, but effort.

You began taking greater care in your appearance, choosing dresses more thoughtfully than before, selecting fabrics softer, more elegant, though never ostentatious. Your hair was pinned with careful attention, small details considered in ways you had not bothered with previously. Nothing that might draw laughter from court, nothing excessive or foolish, simply enough that the effort could not go entirely unnoticed.

Once, passing him in the corridor one afternoon, you noticed his eyes pause briefly upon you.

Only briefly.

Still, the moment warmed you for the remainder of the day, a small, foolish sort of comfort that you carried quietly with you.

Another time you left a book in his chambers, a history you knew he had been searching for for several weeks, the sort of dull academic volume most people would not have noticed missing from the library shelves. When he discovered it that evening he looked mildly surprised, turning the book in his hands as though confirming that it was indeed the one he had sought.

“I could not find this volume anywhere,” he said, brows knotted in something like confusion.

“It seemed a shame to leave it buried in the library,” you replied, a small smile gracing your face.

He nodded once, thoughtful, though the expression faded almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You were thoughtful to retrieve it.”

And again that quiet distance returned, settling between you like something familiar.

Weeks passed - then months.

You began learning the rhythms of the castle, the habits of the children, the quiet expectations placed upon you as Maekar’s wife. Meals required overseeing, disputes between the younger ones required settling, tutors needed arranging, small matters of clothing, lessons, schedules, and household order passed steadily through your hands each day. 

Servants began to consult you before making decisions, the children came to you more readily with small concerns, and gradually the household began to feel - if not entirely yours - then at least somewhat settled beneath your care.

Yet Maekar remained careful.

Not cold and not unfriendly, but distant still, as though a quiet wall remained between you that neither of you quite knew how to cross.

You told yourself it was understandable. Dyanna Dayne had been his wife for years. She had borne him six children, had walked these halls long before you ever arrived, her presence woven quietly into the life of the household. Her memory lingered in the quieter corners of the castle and on the faces of their children.

You did not resent her. How could you?

But some nights, when your shared chambers grew quiet, cold and the household had retired, when Maekar remained in his solar long after midnight with only a single candle burning beside him, you found yourself wondering whether you would ever reach the place she had once occupied. Whether you could reach it, even if you tried. Or whether you were merely filling the empty space she had left behind, a practical solution placed neatly where something irreplaceable had once stood.

The thought settled heavier with each passing week.

Still, you tried. You left small gifts upon his desk now and then, nothing extravagant, simply useful things - a better inkstand, polished and plain, a cloak clasp engraved with the three-headed dragon, a small leather case meant to hold his letters so they would not scatter across the desk whenever he grew impatient with them.

Each time he thanked you, each time he seemed grateful in his quiet way - yet something remained distant all the same.

Until one evening, quite without meaning to, you overheard the truth you had quietly begun to fear.

The hour had grown late enough that most of the household had withdrawn already, servants moving quietly through the halls with lowered voices, doors closing one by one as chambers were prepared for the night. 

You had not intended to linger in the corridor.

Earlier that evening a servant had mentioned, almost absentmindedly, that Maekar remained in his solar, occupied with matters of local lords. It was not unusual for him to work late, not unusual for such things to demand his attention well into the night, yet the thought had come to you regardless - perhaps foolishly, perhaps not - that you might bring him something warm before retiring yourself. A cup of warm spiced wine, something simple, something that might ease the chill of the hour.

The cup rested carefully between your hands as you approached, its warmth steady against your palms, the faint scent of spice rising from it in the still air of the corridor. You had imagined, perhaps, that he might look up when you entered, perhaps offer a word of thanks before returning to his work, nothing more than that.

But as you drew nearer to the door, voices drifted faintly through the thick wood.

Maekar’s voice came first, low and steady as it always was, the sort of voice that rarely shifted in tone no matter the subject. It carried through the door clearly enough that you paused without quite meaning to.

Another voice answered him.

“…you have been alone long enough,” the other man was saying.

There was a faint scrape from within the room, the sound of a chair shifting across the floorboards. Maekar did not answer immediately, and the silence that followed made you hesitate where you stood.

At last he spoke.

“I am not alone.”

The reply came calm and certain, though not defensive.

Another small movement sounded from inside the room.

“You have a new wife now… yes..”

He said it as though it were a crime. The words lingered faintly beyond the door, and for a moment nothing followed them. The pause stretched long enough that you found yourself staring at the dark grain of the wood before you, your fingers tightening slightly around the cup.

When Maekar answered again, his voice had slowed.

“She is… good to the children.”

The words struck more quietly than you expected.

Your fingers tightened further around the cup, the warmth of it pressing faintly into your palms as though you had forgotten it was there.

“That is not what I meant,” the other man replied.

“I know what you meant.”

Another pause followed, longer this time - then Maekar spoke once more.

“No one replaces Dyanna.”

The words were not harsh and they carried no bitterness, no anger, no sharp edge meant to wound anyone who might hear them. If anything they were spoken almost gently.

Yet they settled in your chest all the same, heavy and unavoidable.

For a moment you remained standing there in the corridor, the warmth of the cup fading slowly against your hands as the silence returned within the room beyond the door. There was no anger in what you had heard, no cruelty meant toward you, and yet the words pressed inward all the same, confirming something you had quietly feared for months but had never quite allowed yourself to name aloud.

You stood there a moment longer than you should have.

Then you turned.

The corridor felt colder as you walked away from the door, the sound of your own footsteps softened by the stone floor. The voices within the solar faded behind you, their words lost to the thick walls of the castle before you had gone more than a few paces.

You did not look back.

By the time you reached your chambers the drink you carried had grown cold in your hands.

The following morning you did not appear at breakfast.

It was not done with any great intention; you simply remained elsewhere when the table was laid. There were letters waiting to be answered in the smaller study, a seamstress fussing over winter cloaks that required your approval, the children’s lessons that needed watching lest the boys wander from their books and the girls grow bored of their letters. The household always had work to offer, and that morning you accepted it readily.

It was easier that way - it distracted you from the truth.

The great hall carried its own habits of sound, of conversation, of presence - Maekar at the head of the table, the scrape of chairs, the small silences that stretched when neither of you knew quite what to say. Better, you thought, to leave the morning quiet, to let the routine pass without you.

Still, Maekar noticed.

He was not a man who missed much, though many believed him too reserved, too withdrawn to observe the small movements of those around him. In truth he noticed more than most - who came late to table, who spoke less than usual, who laughed when they did not truly wish to.

When supper passed as well without your presence, the absence had settled firmly enough in his mind that he could no longer pretend not to see it.

That evening, when you returned to your chambers, the candles had already been lit.

The room held that soft amber glow particular to late hours, when the castle had quieted and only the occasional footstep in the corridor disturbed the stillness. You pushed the door open expecting solitude, perhaps the comfort of silence before retiring.

Instead, someone stood beside the window; you stopped just inside the threshold.

Maekar turned slightly at the sound of the door closing behind you. The fading light from outside outlined his figure against the stone arch, broad shoulders still held in that familiar rigid posture he seemed incapable of abandoning even in private.

For a moment neither of you spoke; until it grew almost unbearable. “I did not expect you,” you said quietly. Maekar studied your face, his gaze steady in a way that made it difficult to look anywhere else.

“You avoided breakfast.”

Your hands moved absently to the ties of your sleeves as you stepped further into the room.

“I was busy.”

“You avoided supper as well.” A pause lingered between the two statements, long enough that the quiet in the chamber began to feel heavy.

“Yes.”

Maekar pushed himself away from the window then, crossing the room slowly, his boots soft against the rugs laid over the cold stone floor. “You are upset?”

You considered denying it. It would have been simple enough, a brief dismissal, some polite explanation about household duties or fatigue. But Maekar was not a man easily fooled, and you had never been particularly good at lying to him.

“I know you still mourn her,” you said instead, your voice calm, though softer than usual.

Something shifted in his expression, subtle but noticeable. “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. Too easily, perhaps.

Your hands folded loosely before you, fingers interlacing as though they needed somewhere to rest. “I heard you speaking last night.” Maekar went completely still. “You said no one replaces Dyanna.” Silence settled into the room like dust, quiet and stubborn.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, studying the weave of the rug beneath your feet, gathering your thoughts before continuing.

“I understand,” you said quietly. “Truly. She was your wife - you loved her and she loved you, she bore you those six, beautiful children, I knew that when I agreed to this marriage.”

The words felt steady enough, though something in your throat tightened as you spoke them. Your voice wavered only slightly when you continued.

“But sometimes I wonder if I will ever fill the hole she has torn into you - into your family.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed faintly. “You believe I expect you to replace her?”

“No,” you said softly, lifting your gaze again. “That would be impossible.”

The room remained very still, the candles flickering faintly in the quiet. You offered a small, tired smile that did not quite reach your eyes.

“I only hoped that perhaps, someday, I might mean something to you as well.”

Maekar stared at you then as though the thought had struck him from nowhere, as though something long unexamined had suddenly been forced before him.

“You already do.”

The words came rougher than usual, low in his chest. You blinked slightly. “You do not show it.” the words came out before you could stop them.

His jaw tightened. “I am not skilled at showing such things.” he grunted.

“That much I had gathered.”

The faint breath that left him might almost have been a laugh, though it held more frustration than amusement.

For a moment he said nothing. His gaze moved briefly around the chamber as though he were seeing it properly for the first time in a long while - the desk in the corner, the small arrangement of dried flowers near the bed.

Now he found his eyes lingering on it.

“I meant what I said,” he continued after a moment, his voice steadier again. “No one replaces Dyanna.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing - even though it was hard to.

“I know.” You put your eyes anywhere but him.

“But that does not mean you are nothing to me.” The words seemed chosen more carefully now, as though he were feeling his way through unfamiliar ground.

“You care for my children. You manage this household with patience. You have been… kinder to them than I expected anyone could be.”

You listened quietly.

“And you bring me.. gifts,” he added after a pause, glancing toward the desk.

There was the inkstand, yes, but there had been other things — small things, easily overlooked. The book left on the corner of his table because you thought he might enjoy it. The warmer cloak laid across the back of his chair when winter crept through the castle walls. 

You looked slightly embarrassed. “I thought you might.. like… them.”

“I do.”

The answer came more quickly than he intended. Another silence followed, though it felt different now, less brittle.

Maekar stepped closer, stopping only a pace away.

“You are not Dyanna.” He murmured; something in his tone made you look up.

You held his gaze.

“No.”

“And I do not expect you to be.” He hesitated, the next words clearly less easy.

“But you are my wife.”

The way he said it made a shiver run down your back. “And that means something to me.” He stepped closer until he was a breath away.

Your throat tightened faintly.

For a moment Maekar looked uncertain. He had grown used to the quiet rhythm you brought into his life without ever truly noticing it - the small conversations that filled the space between duties, the easy laughter that came when the children argued over foolish things, the way the hall seemed warmer when you sat beside them at table.

The little gifts, the habit of finding something waiting for him when the day had been particularly long.

The absence of it that day had been… noticeable.

More noticeable than he had expected - more than he liked to admit.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck with a rare flicker of discomfort.

“I had not realized,” he said, voice lower now, “how quiet the hall felt this morning without you there - the children asked where you were. ”

He paused, glancing at the floor briefly before continuing with a faint, almost irritated huff.

“And the damned tea was cold.” You looked up at that, surprised.

Maekar met your gaze again, something honest and slightly awkward in his expression.

“I may not say much,” he continued, “but I am not blind. The things you do - the small talks, the ridiculous gifts, the way you smile when the boys are being insufferable little shits - I notice them.” He hesitated, then added quietly,

“I miss them when they are not there.” The admission seemed to cost him something, your expression softened, though you said nothing.

Maekar shifted again, clearly uncomfortable standing in the open with feelings he had never been particularly skilled at naming.

Finally, somewhat awkwardly, he reached for your hand.

His grip was warm, firm, though unfamiliar in its gentleness, as though he were not entirely certain how such a gesture was meant to be done.

“I am not a man who speaks easily of affection,” he said, you managed a faint smile at the confession.

“That much is obvious.”

For a moment he looked as though he might almost smile himself. Almost. His thumb shifted slightly against your knuckles.

“You are enough,” he said simply. Your other hand cupped his cheek, and he leaned into it as he looked at you. This was all you wanted.

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Growing Strong

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because it's filthy smut.

You had been taught since girlhood that a Tyrell maiden did not survive by strength of arms, but by knowing when to bend, when to bloom, and when to let thorns show only in shadow. Still, no amount of lessons in smiles and silks had prepared you for being traded like a piece on a Cyvasse board to a prince whose name was spoken in half-whispers and sharp warnings.

Aerion Targaryen. Brightflame. Mad.

The words followed him like smoke.

In Highgarden, your protests were received with gentle hands and firm voices. Your father spoke of duty. Your mother spoke of alliance. Your grandmother spoke of survival and said that roses learned early how to grow around stone.

“He is Maekar’s problem no longer,” one of your uncles said with forced humor. “He will be yours.”

Yours.

You had wanted Valarr. Everyone knew it, though no one had said it aloud. Gentle, courteous Valarr, who bowed and smiled and spoke kindly to squires and smallfolk alike. But Valarr was too valuable. He'd probably be betrothed to a Baratheon. An Arryn. A better match. You were to be used to bind a wound no one else wished to touch.

So you went to King’s Landing with your head high and your stomach knotted, wearing green and gold, a rose thrown into dragon fire.

The Red Keep smelled of salt and old stone. You were brought before Prince Maekar first, a man carved from stern lines and disappointment. His eyes lingered on you only briefly before flicking away, as if already weary.

“You ought to be patient,” he told you, not unkindly, but without warmth. “My son is…difficult.”

You almost laughed at the understatement.

Aerion did not come to that first meeting. You were told he was training. Or breaking something. Or both.

When you were finally presented to him, it was in a long gallery lined with banners and the bleached skulls of dragons, vast and terrible and beautiful in their dead silence.

He did not bow.

He looked you over the way one might inspect a horse.

“So,” he said, voice sharp and bright as a drawn blade. “This is the rose they mean to bind me with.”

You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.

“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”

His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”

“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”

That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.

“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”

You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”

He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be plain-featured little gardeners. I will not have it.”

You did not flinch.

“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”

That was a gamble.

It paid off.

His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”

He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”

He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.

“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”

“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”

He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”

You tilted your head. “I try.”

From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.

When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”

He liked that.

When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”

He liked that too.

He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.

You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”

The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.

You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”

He liked that more than he should have.

He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.

He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.

You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.

The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.

When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.

“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.

“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”

That pleased him immensely.

You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.

You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.

In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.

“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”

“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”

He stopped pacing. “Good.”

He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.

“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”

You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”

He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.

At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.

So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.

You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.

And slowly, he began to seek it.

He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.

“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”

You rose at once. “Of course.”

As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.

“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”

Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”

He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”

You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.

Three moons later...

It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.

Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.

Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.

“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.

You still.

“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”

You swallow. “My prince...”

“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”

The words land heavy between you.

“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”

You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”

“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”

His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.

“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”

Wife.

The word is not gentle.

“I am tired of waiting.”

His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.

“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”

You don’t pull away.

You never do.

“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”

The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.

“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”

“I didn’t mean to...”

He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.

“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”

You obey.

He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.

He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.

“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”

His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.

He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.

He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.

Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.

He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.

His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and hard.

“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”

Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.

His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.

“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”

Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.

He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a choked sound.

He doesn’t pull out.

He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.

“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”

His hand splays over your lower belly.

“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”

He hardens again sooner than you expect.

“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.

He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.

“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”

Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.

“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”

He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.

“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”

Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.

His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.

“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”

You say nothing.

His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.

“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”

It almost sounds like love. Almost.

“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”

His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.

“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”

Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:

“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”

Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.

“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”

His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.

“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”

The words settle into the room like ash.

“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”

Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.

Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.

“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”

His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.

“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”

Full series: Growing Strong, Married Life, Growing Familiar , Deep in the Meadow and Dragon Dreams, Perzys ānogār. Can be read as a oneshots.

a/n: I won't be caught dead simping for a blond unless it's a Targaryen. This deranged man has me in a chokehold helpppp 😭🥵. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist, I'm thinking of making one in case I write more fics about them.

[starxs-s]

──── Aerion Targaryen┆Consort's whim author’s note: So this was requested from me by @nessv1 thank you! This work contains: targcest, Aerion being a lil bitch, Aerion marrying for a title, Aerion being King (Prince?) Consort (don’t know what’s the correct title), sexual themes, childhood enemies, Aerion using her for gaining power on the court, canonical cruelty, some spoilers from the books (Ashford Tourney), sickness, death, arranged marriage, coronation, wedding night (mentioned), pregnancy, childbirth, small council being bunch of misogynistic old men, child loss, grief, funeral, Aerion’s poor emotions management, p in v, unprotected sex, oral m!receiving, hair tugging, TENSION. Aerion Targaryen x cousin!reader mdni

You remember how you flinched each time Aerion walked into the room. How careful you were when the whole family gathered together to talk and laugh and celebrate whatever occasion it was — it was way too long ago, you couldn’t possibly remember such feeble detail compared to how you felt each time your cousin’s eyes swept over you.

Aerion was an unruly boy — to say at least. Behaving only when his father’s eyes were on him. Causing havoc everywhere he came and leaving chaos and destruction after himself. You remember how pitiful the mewls of little Aegon’s cat were when the poor creature was drowning in the well. And then there was Aerion, leaning over the edge to watch it slowly die.

You remember yourself wanting to push him in — get revenge for the little animal that had no chance in a duel with a dragon — how Aerion always called himself before puffing his chest like it would be some kind of title greater than the one of a Prince he had. Or even greater than the King’s one.

They were dark thoughts — you knew that. No sane child would sentence an innocent creature to die. But yours weren’t very bright either when you imagined Aerion joining the cat’s body in the water.

Your father always kept you close — away from Maekar’s boys. Baelon was a great man as many said — ‘few could doubt that Baelor Breakspear would be a great King, for he was the heart of chivalry and the soul of wisdom and came to serve his father most ably as Hand’ — and he was always careful about those boys.

’Trouble’ — he said. ‘No matter the family ties, you must keep yourself away from their schemings, my love. Targaryen doesn’t need more scandal now that we are the weakest.’

So you did. Played with your brothers and when they went to sneak around uncle Maekar’s family chambers, you sought company of your Septa instead or played dolls with Daella when little Rhae was rocked in her crib by one of the nurses. The Princess was moons younger than you but the closest friend you had in those walls as your brothers more than often succumbed to the need of mastering their swords play and left you to yourself.

’Boys don’t play with dolls, sister.” Matarys said, his voice mocking and snarky as he clenched the wooden sword in his small fist. ‘Go to Daella, maybe you’ll find this freckled fool, Aerion.’ He snickered on what only earned him a smack on the back of his head by Valaar. 

And sometimes when you did, he really was there, sitting in the corner alone and moody with dragon figures scattered around him, a bruise on his cheek and the wooden sword tossed away as if its mere existence offended him. With the silver locks falling over his face more often than not and the faint freckles scattered around his pale face just like the toys around him. 

You tried to avoid him, not look at him and focus on playing with your cousin when the smaller one cooed innocently in her crib or on enjoying tea with aunt Aelinor when she came to visit. She always said the same thing to the nannies of Septa ‘I wish my own babe to join you soon’ 

But said babe never came — not when you were children, nor when you grew into a young woman and abandoned the dolls or gave them to Rhae. Through adolescence — when boys mock the strongest and words hurt the most — you kept Daella close to yourself, your whispers and gossips filled the chambers and halls. Despite how much younger the girl was, it was a pleasure to have such a soulmate in her. 

But as you grew the short glare of Aerion’s violet eyes didn’t soften — they stayed sharp and soul-piercing as if he still remembered how you looked when he was drowning the poor cat in the well. How you haven’t muttered a word, not a whisper, to a protest — just let him do whatever he desired and then leave as if nothing happened. He saw you returning to the place days after what happened as if to assure yourself that his madness was no dream. Or maybe you wished to see the poor creature floating on the surface. 

Whatever it was Aerion saw from the windows of his bedchamber as this need didn’t let you forget what he did. As if you took secret pleasure in seeing the consequences of his actions. 

So he became distant — too uneasy under the weight of your eyes — a ghost of your existence that despite your father’s warnings pulled you towards him. Fascinated you, confused you, terrified you. 

The same terror you felt when looking at him from the other side of the table when family gathered for feast, filled you when you were forced to take a seat next to him at Ashford.

Your father insisted on taking you with him to the tournament in Reach. ‘You're almost a woman grown, time to see a bit of the world, my daughter.’ So you did — your gowns were packed, so were your jewels and shoes, the book you were currently indulging in. 

The horror that filled you the moment you went through the bronze gate to the front yard where the horses were ready for the travel almost knocked the air out of your lungs. There he was — standing with Valaar and Kiera since Daeron started his travels the day before — no words left his mouth when you approached with hands hidden under your black cloak that now didn’t look like the best choice to wear since his one was almost identical. 

The journey was tense — you sat in the carriage with Kiera by your side, it was better than being alone but the truth was that your sister-in-law wasn’t Daella. You couldn’t tell her everything and only nodded quietly or gave polite answers to the pink-haired woman. Kiera was a stranger — from Tyrosh, a land placed far away, yet said strangers somehow managed to make your brother fall head over heels for the beautiful Essosi Lady. Despite her marriage to Valaar, you never reached the hand of her, leaving her alone in the land she never knew nor understood the customs of. Maybe it was your mistake, maybe you simply didn’t know what was coming. 

You hardly closed an eye that night — as you decided to camp instead of traveling through the night. You saw him, sitting there by the fire — staring into it with such fascination that made you think that he might see something in it. The light of it whispered its secrets to the silver-haired prince and he listened, succumbing to the mad sound of the fireplace. You wondered what the flames say?

’Burn them, burn them all.’

As much as you wanted to stay in your tent the sounds of Valaar and Tyroshi girl love-making spooked you away to seek the quieter place to bask in the light of the moon. It was cold, whimsical, much calmer than the one fire set over the trees — and as much as fire incited him then as much moon made your uneasiness go away. You remember how the branches cracked under his feet, how the violet eyes glimmered in the darkness of the forest after being hit by the moon’s shine. 

Aerion was beautiful — you couldn’t say that he wasn’t. ‘True Valyrian’ — some whispered during various celebrations your grand sire hosted in the Red Keep. And you watched him with the same intensity others did when gowns swirled around, music played and drunk lords laughed. The silver-white hair, the violet irises — so dangerous despite the color being named after such a feeble flower — the strong jaw, pale cheeks and the… faint freckles he had scattered over his face as a boy. 

He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved towards you or away. Only watched as if he was mentally deciding to drown you in the nearby Bluebyen river or as if he sought answers. 

‘Did you tell anyone about the well?’ 

'Did you tell anyone sick in mind I am?’

‘Did you tell anyone how twisted you are by not stopping me?’

‘Did you tell anyone how you kept coming back there like your presence there would bring the animal back?’

’…did you know I watched you do it?’

Only the sounds of wind were heard as the silence stretched between you before you flew, making his head turn after you, his lips pressing into a thin line and fists clenching tightly under his cloak. 

You did not sleep that night, only clenched your eyes shut and prayed to whatever God would hear you now to keep him away from you. Forever. So you just prayed and kept praying and praying and praying. That the shadow of Brightflame would never haunt you again. Please Gods, make him fail in Ashford. Please Gods make his chest to be pierced by some Lordlings’ lance. Please Gods make him meet you sooner than fate destined. Please Gods send him to the deepest parts of Seven Hells so that he would have no chance to crawl his way out. 

Ashford was a simple castle — like most castles of Reach were — chaotic with the sounds of knights dueling, training before the main events. It was a new sight to you, usually when Daeron the Good hosted any tournaments, the participants were long ready and eager to perform as most of your family sat in the royal box on the stands. 

It was simpler here, calmer than in the capital and you were sure that you couldn’t be happy here — too chaotic, everything out of the plain sight and the castle with no mystery about it, no history — not like the Red Keep. 

The capital’s castle was filled with secrecy and an uneasiness as the ghosts of the past that haunted its halls. Every man, woman, King and servant that passed there were now wandering around without purpose not able to rest in peace. But not only ghosts haunted the Red Keep but madness was present there making itself comfortable within it. 

You did not know why your father chose you to attend the puppet show. You — not Valaar not Mantarys. Your hair stood up as you sat there, unmoving staring into… what exactly? Puppeteers getting ready for the show? Flames dancing on the wall? Anything else. Anything else but him. Not when he slumped in his seat bored, annoyed by the loudness of the cheering crowd. 

The show was beautiful — the paper puppets, the shadows swaying across the walls as the show continued. Performers moving in the sensual dance of bodies and art that left you in awe… until. Your face scrunched in confusion and slight grimace as your eyes landed on the paper dragon — the thing was basking in the warm light as if it was real, you certainly wished that it was. That way you’d never have to fear the man sitting next to you if you claimed the beast yours. 

As much as the show charmed you and made you wait for more then now you were sitting with unease — as if something bad was meant to happen as soon as you blink. The anxiety made you unable to swallow the lump that now made itself comfortable in your throat as you watched the history repeat itself but now on the stage. 

For one moment the dragon was spilling out fire and the next a wooden blade had slit its paper neck making the snout fall on the floor with a thud. 

And Gods must have sent you signals by the distressed coiling in your stomach because as soon as the paper began to burn Aerion shot up from his seat. He wasted no time — grabbing the Dornish girl. Tanselle was her name, you believed at least — hearing it as the crowd gathered before just to flee in fear now. It all happened in a few moments — your cousin's furious yelling, screams of the crowd and clatter of guard’s armors as they rushed to your father and uncle. 

And they? Baelon didn’t look like he was much surprised by what was happening so quickly before his eyes and Maekar…? Your poor uncle looked half embarrassed and half resigned like what just occurred was a typical situation. 

In the room loud as this it was almost weird how loud the crack of the bones was but the sounds of girl’s screams that followed was what was the most audible. Her face contoured in something you only saw in expressions of those who fell a victim of your cousin’s wrath — agony and fear. Only the second thing bloomed now on your face as your legs carried you on their own — you tried to get to Aerion, you really did but it seems like you weren’t the only one that thought that. 

A tall man — taller than you ever saw anyone be made his way up to your cousins and the blow he landed on Aerion’s jaw was the cause of a startled gasp you let out. The white-haired man fell back — his black cloak spreading over the floor like spilled ink on the wood of your table and for a moment he just stayed like that. Shocked, confused, probably unused to the feeling of a real strike since he gave up fighting on the training yard the same very day the first bruise bloomed on his cheek when you were no more than children before he lunged at the man with violet eyes full of fury. 

The guard caught them both in time — Aerion so he would not unleash his rage and the man so he would not flee before the judgement and punishment reached him. Your cousin struggled against the guards, his anger untamable as the anger in his eyes flared like fire. 

What came next was a blur of Aerion’s curses towards the poor man that only stood up to the tyranny of the Prince and protected the poor Dornish girl. Your heartbeat sped up each time you remember the sound of the bone breaking — a noise of dreams and future wasting away as she would never be able to move them with the same precision. Her talent to make paper seem as alive now gone and you couldn’t help but feel sorry for the girl as the fault was inadequate to the punishment. 

Your knee bounced as you sat in one of the Ashford castle’s chambers — the fire making the room glow and seem almost cozy even if it did not bring you any comfort nor warmth that could wrap itself around you. 

Aerion’s cheek swelled as he sat there silently only twirling the knife in his grip. Redness appeared on the skin and if not for the violet color of his eyes you were sure they would turn the same shade as the bruise. He was silently seething it trying to keep his composure under the scolding gaze of his father — now staring directly at him to prevent any further damage. 

“The man should face consequences as he dared to strike those of royal blood.” Your words came unsure — as if you were still thinking if it was wise to voice your thoughts at all.

You felt Aerion’s gaze snap to you — his pale hand squeezing on the hilt almost as if he was imagining sliding the blade right over your skin just to see the crimson of the said royal blood. Dragon blood that ran in your veins and made you work up the courage to say something in the matter. 

‘The Princess is right… as much as I hate admitting it.” Maekar said, twirling the goblet of — how ironical — dornish red in his hand in the same manner as his son. 

The Prince’s voice was tired — resigned. Like he couldn’t stand dealing with another of his son’s affairs that needed handling. 

The Hedge Knight walked into the room — fidgeting nervously as if he was ready and yet afraid of facing the noose for the crime he committed. He named himself as Duncan the Tall, a Hedge Knight and a squire of the late Ser Arlan of Pennytree, a man with no more than name and sword hanging from the rope coiled around his waist. 

The sight almost pathetic if not for the goodness and righteousness that glowed in his eyes — the sight you never saw in your cousin’s eyes. Not even once during those long feasts when you had to pretend you cared about the conversation at hand and that the matters your father, uncle, brothers or cousins spoke of interested you. Or when his eyes burned a hole in the back of your head each time you came to play with the sweet Daella and he was simply sitting there — playing with dragon figurines or staring into emptiness when he grew out of the need to gather toys around him. 

You felt its coldness and fury throughout your life and now the Hedge Knight was meeting with it for the first and let’s hope for the last time. 

 As much as you did not wish to engage in the conversation, your ears caught the proud, almost arrogant “I want this ape to face me.” Aerion said at the hilt of his dagger came to crush a nut laying on the wooden surface of the table “In the Trial of Seven.” 

Your father, reluctant — agreed to his nephew’s wish as the combat seemed like a fair way out of the situation that made you even more uneasy about how it would end. 

You saw Baelon’s careful gaze when it turned to you, a warning not to get yourself in trouble, to try and keep Mantarys away from it as the growing boy was more eager to fight more than one green boy. But also the sharp stare was a silent plea — to not try anything, to remain as far away from it as you could. 

But instead? You walked right into the lion’s… or maybe the dragon’s den. When the night took control of the sky and the moon hanged the highest, you made your way out of your chamber, holding the bowl of steaming brew your mother once used each time one of the boys got beaten on the training yard. Your hands shook as you pushed the doors to Aerion’s chamber. 

Why were you doing that? Feeling sorry for the fool that started something others had to end. 

But yet you still walked in, you still stood by the doorstep, looking, watching and waiting for the moment he’d turn his head away from fire to you and start yelling and perhaps even kick you out while pouring the mixture over your head. 

None of this had happened as his violet gaze swept over you before his face scrunched in something similar to disgust but with a hint of reluctance at the sight of the mixture in your hands. 

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, shifting the ice in his hand before pressing it back to the swelling. 

What were you doing here? Why weren't you in your chamber, sleeping safely and soundly just to deal with the problems of the family all over again tomorrow?

“You got a bruise… I’ve thought…” you inhaled, your own gaze shifting to the bowl in your hand as the smell of the herbs reached your nose. “I’ve come to help.” You said finally, setting your eyes back upon him. 

The silence stretched in the chamber being disturbed only by the cracking of the fireplace nearby. 

“I am no damsel in need of aid.” He hissed, looking at you with the same fury he showed during the puppet show. 

“Never said you were, only that you need something that will stop the swelling.” You shot back and it felt like you were a child yet again, fighting with your cousin.

Even if said cousin hardly ever spoke a word when you entered the rooms — only staring as if plotting to make you join the cat’s body that swam lifeless in the well. 

“What is that?” His voice was rough and eyes distrustful just like the cat’s not like the dragons.

”My mother used to make it whenever one of my brothers would bruise on the training yard.” You wanted to say more — tell him how good it was and how fast swelling was disappearing after as much as rubbing the wet cloth into the skin but Aerion’s words made you wish you never entered the dragon’s den in the first place.

”Oh so now you wish to baby me like your mother did for those pampered princelings?” 

You haven’t spoken one mean word, haven’t judged him for what he did to the performer and the beautiful puppets, haven’t mocked him how he earned himself a blow for the said atrocity he committed. 

But every dragon has to be tamed first before it lets you close. 

“Very well if you wish to be seen with a bruise caused by no one more but a Hedge Knight then so be it.” You said clenching your jaw as your gaze fell on him — anger blooming again as the mere mention of the Hedge Knight made his blood boil. 

His gaze turned feral as he squeezed his hand on the piece of ice and turned his head back to the flames as if he was seeking answers in them. Guidance what he is supposed to do now. 

And the flame whispered as he listened to every word cracked out by the burning wood. And before he get to decide you moved — as if  coming near a wild animal that would not show any mercy if threatened. 

You could always imagine the dragon’s sharp teeth biting into your flesh as you wet the cloth in the brew and pulled the ice away from his face. As much as the cold helped with the swelling, the bruise was already blooming like violets in the spring with the purple colors coiling under his skin. 

You wiped it once with the cloth as you carefully sat down on the armrest of the seat, then again as his eyes shifted to you and watched you as you squeezed out the brew before going at it again. The third time his jaw clenched like he was holding back a snap or another hiss that would pierce straight through your confidence and make you flee back to your chamber just to get yelled at by your father the next day as Aerion would surely snitch on you for being so stupid. The fourth time he leaned in as you pressed the fabric for a bit longer, his violet eyes closing and his breath calming down. 

Your own breath hitched as the sight before you left you speechless. In all the years you came face to face with his anger, wrath and hatred, you’ve never seen him so calm. 

And not weirdly calm to uneasy calm. It was not the calmness that clinged to him while he was dropping the cat down the well just so the pure creature would meet its end just like its body met the surface. Not when he was sitting there on the sinners or in the corner and just being there — soaking in his own madness. And definitely not when he was ruing tonight’s celebrations. 

For a moment you just sat there — looking at him, watching him. Every little cut, bit of swelling or purple discoloration, the faint freckles you remembered from your childhood. The violet eyes — now hidden beneath the pale eyelids and white lashes — so like his mother’s

The moment shatters like the puppets on the show the moment his hand snatched your wrist away and his eyes comes back to normal — to their harshness and cruelty before his other hand takes the cloth from your fingers with such roughness as if he heard your thoughts and memories of late Dyana Dayne — a star that fell too early from the night sky.

”Get out.” His voice was strained — like he caught himself doing something even he wasn’t sure he was capable of. “Leave it and get out.” He hissed again as your watched him with confusion. 

The fire danced, veins rushed through the veins and fear intensified when you stumbled back in fear. 

The only thing you heard as you fled was the sounds of the bowl crushing against the wooden doors the moment they closed behind you. 

You did not sleep that night — couldn’t possibly be able to after such peculiar scene, How defiance melted into vulnerability and then hardened back and burned with anger.

You still felt the way his cheek tensed under your touch just for him to unclench his sharp just mere moment after. It was strange, weird even how the sight of his eyelashes fluttering close has made itself comfortable in the deepest parts of your brain where carnal desire and fear sprang to life next to it. 

The next days were a bliss — you saw the parts of his armor before it disappeared from you as if fleeing from you. Was he hiding? Coiling himself in some dark corner like a snake, readying just to snap and bite when you were the most vulnerable. 

You had not speak to anyone about the night — the short moment, so easy to forget, so easy to just swipe under the carpet and never bring it up again. 

Only when your father called you as you sat there furious, seething in silence and with a hard gaze — burning so hot that you were sure it could melt the Wall, you finally brought yourself to speak of it. 

To your surprise it was not Aerion who spilled the truth to Baelon. It was your brother who betrayed your trust despite you trying your best to keep him away from all this madness — Mantarys who shoved the knife right into your back after he saw you rush back to your chamber. Mantarys that spoke the words of you breaking your promise after he watched you run away, returning from the chamber of his own lover — a slight Ashford girl that managed to steal his wicked, boyish heart. 

“Stay away from this boy.” The words were harsh but still not as those Aerion spoke in the dead of the night. “If for the sake of keeping ourselves away from the scandal, Targaryen have to distance themselves from one another—“

”What Targaryens need is unity, to show the realm that we stand together and don't take it kindly when one of our blood is disrespected by those of lower ranks.”

And you didn’t even know how much it hit your father to the core — having argued with his own brother not so long as mere hours and how they split up into rivalry camps over the matter of Duncan’s judgement. You left that very moment, angry and frustrated with the feeling of being betrayed by your own blood

What you only didn’t know was that the said argument would take your father away from you.

The Trial of Seven started on the morrow when the mist was still hanging over the flowery hills of the Ashford and birds were not starting to chirp. The spring came early this year and it was a shame that those beauties were about to be splattered with blood. 

Yu sat in the box with Valaar and Kiera as Mantarys was forbade from attending the fight by your order brother.

"You'll see more than enough of violence before your time will come.” He said and you only watched as the even younger Prince stormed out of the chamber with a grimace — it was more than likely that he went to seek favor of this Ashford lady.

You did not see your father, did not wish him luck in the battle to come and told him to keep his guard up at all times. Perhaps you should’ve — perhaps that is what would keep him safe and ensure he’ll return with injuries not more serious than a few scrapes or cuts.

Daeron was first to go — your cousin was never as eager to master his swordplay as he was to drown his sadness in the cubs. It was almost comical how he fell from his horse after the first blow and just lay there for a moment as if unsure if this was reality or another one of his haunting dreams. But the pain in his chest certainly ensured him that this ensured him that it in fact was real so he almost rushed away from the fight as the horses kicked and the swords crashed against one another.

Somewhere more far away you could hear laughter — Lyonel Baratheon the ‘Laughing Storm’ it was, without doubt. Taking Duncan’s side of the conflict, surely thinking of the Hedge Knight as his companion as they spend the nights drinking and fooling around as you heard. 

Then a bang ringed around, steel hitting steel, weapon hitting armor and your heart froze. There was your father — sliding off of the horse and landing on the ground with a thud and clatter of the armor and behind him Maekar riding away as his head was turned towards his older brother. A scream left your lips involuntarily as you lifted yourself to your feet and then went to the railing of the box as if it was easier to call to him. To tell him to stand up, to fight, to not give up, to return to you and be as it was before, to live. 

Valaar moved to you pulling you away as you struggled against his grip like your life depended on it. 

Like the life of your father and other knights fighting this useless battle depended on it. 

Battle caused by your cousin and Gods, how hate for him suddenly spread through your whole body. There he was — shielded by the dark armor with the mask that reminded you of the fire he always stared into. Looking like he was burning. From anger? From need of revenge? From humiliation as he struggled against Ser Duncan the Tall?

Yu saw the way he knocked him down. Aerion landed on the ground with a groan that could be heard from where the audience sat. Was this the end? Did the Gods heard your prayers, you muttered on the way here, hidden in the tent from the violet, piercing eyes and the soft like silk light of the moon? 

Please Gods, make him fail in Ashford. Please Gods make his chest to be pierced by some Lordlings’ lance. Please Gods make him meet you sooner than fate destined. Please Gods send him to the deepest parts of Seven Hells so that he would have no chance to crawl his way out. 

You swallowed as Duncan’s sword hung in the air above him. The Hedge Knight was the man of honor and when Aerion screamed “I yield!” The man’s sword fell down. 

For a moment the tension left your body. You heard nothing, not a gasp nor grunt, no plea for mercy or any other pathetic words of surrender. Did he do that? Did he go against the wish of a Prince and grant him death? Did he freed you from the shadow of the Brightflame that haunted you every time you closed your eyes?

But then you saw it — the sword standing upright as it was pierced into mud and grief filled you. 

Gods… how much longer?

What came next… you were sure you’ll remember it til the day that Stranger will finally meet you. The chaos, the sadness, the sorrow and cries as the maester slipped out of your father’s chamber with eyes on the floor and head hanging low.

”The Prince died due to the injuries from the Trial.”

You did not come out of your chamber until the day of the funeral. You grieved in silence, hardly speaking, hardly sleeping and hardly eating. No tears. No, he wouldn’t want that, he wouldn’t want to be cried after as he always made sure he was the one to make all three of us smile and laugh and feel adored and so, so, so loved. You gave no thought to Aerion — he was not the one that haunted you now. It was the black dress that hung on your wardrobe’s doors, waiting for you to put it on and bid farewell to your father. 

The black veil covered your face as no tears slid down your cheeks. You refused to cry when the body prepared by the Silent Sisters was being burnt — a Targaryen custom, Valaar said and you listened, let him deal with the matters of your last goodbye. You refused to cry when Duncan showed up with guilt in his eyes and apologies on his lips. You refused to cry when you felt Aerion stand next to you. You refused to cry when he whispered the words in the language of your ancestors into your ear — High Valyrian on his tongue as he watched if your face would twitch. You refused to cry on your way back to King’s Landing. 

This time Kiera said nothing, only cupped the slight swell of her belly that grew through the days you spend in Reach and you refused to entertain her excitement about the new life she was to bring into the family. This was not the time for happiness and welcomes — it was time for sorrow and last goodbyes that were never truly said. 

You refused to see him. Moving your gaze away whenever he entered, locking yourself in the chamber with Daella so he would not find you, eating your dinners in your own bedchamber so you don’t have to face him. 

Days changed into weeks, weeks into months and Stranger visited you all. First it was Mantarys — the even younger Prince coughing out blood as the sickness came and the first dragon fell. You cried and cried and cried. The fate of your younger brother wasn’t what anyone deserved — the pain of losing a sibling always hurt worse as you lost the boy you awaited to be born, the boy that you played with and kept safe when others couldn’t. 

Sickness took Valaar the week later and his children joined him in his tomb as Kiera gave birth to two stillborn boys, too feeble to face the realities of the world they were brought into four months too early. 

‘A shadow came at his command to strange brave Prince Valaar’s sons in their mother’s womb’ you heard the whispers as their lifeless bodies laid next to each other on the funeral pyre. 

But it was not the doing of Bloodraven but of the sickness itself — the Stranger deciding that even the bravest and the most innocent dragons gave up under the force of nature even as their mother wept by your side being more alone now than ever before. 

Then not only your family grieved but the whole realm as The King died. Daeron the Good they called him. A good King he was — everybody said so, he brought Dorne into the realm and made Dornishmen our friends. 

‘Too many dragons are as dangerous as too few.” He used to say as he often sat you on his lap as a girl and read to you about those majestic creatures your ancestors rode. 

And now Targaryens were in the most vulnerable of their positions. With King gone and few heirs remaining the ravens flew, ink was spilled and words whispered. The council was called and a decision was made. 

The succession has not passed you by like you thought it would and even if tears prickled in the corners of your eyes and heart drummed the sounds of how wrong it was the crown was placed upon your brow.

It should’ve been Aenys — your uncle too busy with his books and locked in his study. Or Maekar — a man of honor that would hold the realm together as your grand sire would wish for. 

The coronation was a grand event — as if it had not been held in over two decades. You refused to wear any crown that was laying upon your ancestors' brow, as you didn’t feel worthy enough to wield one. Who was there to guide you? Your father’s ashes laid in the sept, your brothers were dead and you were almost sure your uncles despised you for stealing what they desired to have but what was rightfully yours. You couldn’t help but fear what will come after the coronation.

The small council that you attended only as cupbearer when your father wished so — not Valaar as he did not want to paint himself as power-hungry — was filled with a bunch of old men that cared only for the well-being of their own houses. You saw that during the long hours where you poured dornish red into their goblets. They would not teach you how to rule, none of the Lord that stood before you in the Sept would be eager to advise you — not a woman. 

The Grand Septon placed the circled crown on your head as you kneeled before him — long, crimson cloak trailed after you as on the steps. 

They all were there. Aenys with his wife whose womb stayed empty through it all, Maekar with his children — Daeron surprisingly sober and standing there like was was being robbed off of something, Aemon that came from citadel where he was learning to be a maester, perhaps it would be wise to make him a part of your council, poor Daella with her beautiful violet eyes filled with tears. And Aerion. 

Aerion with his jaw clenched and hands squeezed into fists as his eyes — so much like Daella’s — burning a hole in the back of your head. Aerion with plotting filling his mind and grimace of disgusting blooming on his face when he was kneeling before his new Queen.

Yet he did nothing, said nothing, moved nowhere as the celebrations stretched through the night and Lords drank with Daeron leading them and Ladies danced in their shining dresses. Music echoed through the halls where servants ran to bring more liquor and food. 

And you sitting by the table with the Iron Throne looming behind your back and golden, circlet crown, decorated by pink and white stones pressed against your hair as if ensuring you felt its weight. 

It felt utterly wrong how used to it you were getting with time. 

With each council and each petition those from small folk came to you just to kneel in front of the throne with pleas on their tongue. Every seeing with Lord and with every decision you made about the harbors, about the trade with Essos, about taxes and other matters that needed your handling. 

One month after your coronation the council spoke. Their words — piercing through your chest straight into your heart that stopped for a second causing your cheeks to pale as if you were already dead. As if your heart stopped permanently and not just just skipped a beat. As if you were about to join those you still grieved. 

“You need a Prince Consort, your Grace.” Lord Tully spoke. 

He was the master of laws and the oldest of those who sat by the table of the small council. No one spoke a word nor made any sound as he continued under the watchful gaze of Bloodraven that was seated as the master of whisperers. 

“A man by your side would strengthen your position as a ruler.” He said and you could feel your temple pulsing under the gold of your crown. “A Targaryen would be the best choice, that is your blood would stay pure and your House would be saved from extinction.”

He spoke so matter of factly, so boldly as if no basic courtesy would be expected from him. Talked and talked and talked like you and your family would be a rare animal needing help to survive and not disappear from the world. 

“The best choice would be Prince Daeron but since the council decided that Lady Kiera will wed him, he is unfortunately out of the question.” Lord Tarly said, scrolling through his papers. 

Already decided?

When?

And by who?

“And who decided so?” Your voice echoed through the walls as none of them were eager to answer. 

They all just looked at you, then stole glances at each other as if silently communicating who was supposed to bring you the news.

”It was decided when the late King laid sick with fever.” Bloodraven finally spoke, watching your reaction with his one, red eye. 

“My former sister-in-law is to be wed to another as she is still grieving after my brother and his sons?” Your words were sharp. 

But you were not doing that for Kiera — never for a stranger that sneaked into your family — but for Valaar’s memory as his death still pained you greatly. Just like all of their deaths. 

“Who allowed you to make such a decision?” You asked before swallowing but none of them even looked in your way. 

They all shifted uncomfortably but their expressions were almost bored. As if you bore them. You. The Queen. 

“As I was saying your Grace.” Lord Tully shut you up taking a sip from his goblet. “You need a husband.” His disrespect left you speechless as you couldn’t believe that he even dared to simply dismiss your words so easily. “The council suggests Prince Aerion.”

You felt the noose tightening around your neck as the words echoed through the small council’s chamber. 

Aerion?

Aerion?

No. It couldn’t be. Not when you were so sure you escaped his haunting presence, that being a Queen ensured you’d never have to face him again, never hear another word being whispered into your ear when you couldn’t even make sense out of it. 

But so it was decided.

The small council. Your small council, men who were supposed to advise you and help you rule, made decisions without informing you nor they acknowledged your own desires to stay unmarried and untouched by ghosts of the past. 

The wedding came faster than it should’ve. This time you cried — cried fat tears of despair laying in arms of Daella and Kiera who joined your small circle, filled with her own sorrow and sadness. They wiped the tears off of your cheeks, whispering words of encouragement, of love and of hope that were supposed to make it all go away. 

Did they?

Of course not. 

Your throat tightened as Daella tightened the strings of your corset and Kiera was already standing there with the white gown ready to be thrown onto the undergarments. 

And all this time that their hands worked your mind was occupied by images. Of him, of his cruelty, of his unmoving face and satisfied glim in eyes at the pitiful mewls of the cat when you were children. Of how he shot up from his seat at Ashford, the sound of the bones cracking and punches being thrown before screaming filled the den. Of how he leaned into your touch as if seeking comfort just to remember who you were and treat you so horribly again. 

And those eyes. Those violet eyes that watched you so carefully whenever you entered a room or sat by the table were watching you yet again as you walked towards him in the Sept. Aenys arm was the only thing holding you upright as you pleaded that he would be the one who gave you away since your father was long gone by now. 

You felt the coldness of his hands when they wrapped around you and they didn’t let go for the rest of the celebrations. Vows were spoken and you felt how different the warmth of his fingers was from his lips when they pressed against your own. 

And then he knelt before you yet again. With jaw clenched, clearly hating the fact that he had to bow to you out of all people but with victory in his eyes as they raised to you. And then a smirk of satisfaction as he felt the cold gold against his temples.

 Maekar stood there — resigned as you just sold the whole realm to a devil but with pride when Aerion stood up with a gold crown between the silver-white strands of his hair. 

It was the last time he kneeled before you.

And there was feast yet again, dances, music, food, wine and laughs that filled the throne room as celebrations stretched through the night and moon hung high on the sky. Like it did that day in Ashford when you came into the dragon’s den. 

Like it did now when the dragon’s den was a chamber of your own. And the bed dipped under your weight and Aerion’s hands were shrugging the parts of your gown off of you. And they watched as he took you with this desperate need that appeared all of the sudden in his eyes and how his hands clinged to your body and fingers dug into your skin. 

In hurt, he was not gentle nor considerate, he was thrusting like a madman and only comfort that somehow made it all better, warmth that wrapped itself around you was when they all turned their eyes away at the sight of your maidenhead and tears staining the sheets. 

You remember how you woke up — with his nose pressed into your hair and eyes closed as he laid limp next to you. It was a rare sight — one that you only saw in Ashford, him so relaxed and soft as his mind was still filled with dreamy nonsense. You almost wanted to caress the porcelain cheek, feel his skin under your fingertips, ensure that he was alive and not just a shadow that haunted you.

You let him attend council — it was his right as your husband and Prince Consort. He sat there, bored and moody. Clearly displeased as if he expected to take your seat on top of the table and handle your marble as if it belonged to him. 

And even if it was council’s idea for you to wed, they didn’t get any less insufferable. When you spoke of taxes, they suggested you conceive an heir. When you spoke how important it is that all eastern harbors remain in their best condition, they whispered of a baby that would soon make you swell knowing Aerion’s temper and attitude. 

It was like a snake eating its own tail — a never ending cycle of ignorance while you tried to make the kingdom the best it could possibly be. 

Aerion never supported you, only waited there for when his time would come. And in the said time you indeed swelled. With life — with a future heir. 

“We as whole decided that due to your condition, your grace… you should retire until the babe is born… let your husband handle the matters of the realm for the time being.” You heard when you reached your fifth moon.

When the bump became clearly noticeable but Thank Gods all the symptoms stopped, you weren’t retching in the morning and you could eat normally yet again without all those smells making you dizzy. 

Aerion didn’t protest, only watched like he always did, waiting for your reaction. 

“My husband is no King” you said and you can see him clenching his jaw like he always did when angry in the corner of your eye. “Not he knows anything about ruling” you added, straightening slightly in your seat. 

“It's more fitting that the man takes over when the woman is… unable to” Lord Tully said and took a swing from his goblet. 

“And who says that I am unable to?” You asked, eyes trailing over your whole council. “Do I not sit here even now, discussing the most pressing matters of the realm while being so disrespectfully ignored by my own council?”

“The council decided already, your Grace” he said and his lips pressed into a thin line. 

“The council cannot decide on anything unless it is agreed upon by the Queen” you argued as your voice raised. 

“I decided so.” 

Your eyes shifted to Aerion as he sat there cocky and arrogant with a smirk plastered on his face like he just won some damned tournament. His eyes yet again bloomed with victory like he just gained something he always desired. 

And he in fact did get what he always desired — but it was not a wife nor a babe she carried for him. It was a crown — a weight that rested on his temple and feeling of steel under his palms as he sat on the Iron Throne. 

“I thought you were aware that you wield no real power but it seems I have to remind you in presence of the whole small council.” You said and he raised the silver eyebrow. 

“I am your husband and the babe you are carrying in your womb belongs to me.” He said — his tone icy. “You listen to me.” He added and raised his chin arrogantly, like he would not allow any insubordination. 

Aerion blinked slowly when you rose from your seat — frustrated to no end and angry. Angry as the months of disrespect from those who were supposed to serve you. Stunned into temporary silence he had expected a different response, no doubt something sarcastic. Not such an easy surrender. But he recovered quickly, taking your seat in no time in an attempt to cover his surprise.

The council didn’t argue — no words were sent when you didn’t attend the council, only Daella came to have tea with you and ask how you are feeling, if the babe is kicking yet, if you felt anything. 

And you did — when the babe decided to come a month too early. You cried and cried and prayed and begged for forgiveness for the words you whispered, hoping Gods would hear you on your way to Ashford. So that maybe if they forgive you for praying for your husband’s doom, they’ll allow your child to live. 

Maybe Stranger will not come for your Aerion’s blood like you had hoped he would. Maybe your son — small and beautiful will be healthy and growing strong. That maybe despite all of your blood that soaked your sheets, you’ll be able to hold him in your arms before he’ll be taken too. Kiss his little scrunched forehead as the babe laid in your arms as sweat dripped down your own skin — you rocked him, lulling back to sleep as he quietened in the motherly grip with time. 

Baelon, you named him. A little white-head boylike his father with curls already covering the pinkish skin. They said that the sky high above was the color of the Narrow Sea, yet the same blueish color adorned your son’s eye as he finally opened them. The second one — deep violet as if you were thinking about Aerion during those long hours of agony caused that. 

He babbled and gurgled instead of chuckling like a babe should — the lack of joy on his little, rosy face was the only thing that worried you. 

But despite that everyone loved to come here and set their eyes upon him, cradle him in their arms and rock him back to sleep when he was reaching his tiny fingers to them. Aerion was one of many who were coming to the small Prince. His father — surprising you greatly — the time he spent away from council and with the crown off of his head was with his son. With his tiny, babbling Prince that seemed to do the impossible and charm himself into his father’s stone heart. 

“He’s a true dragon.” Aerion always said before setting him in the crib next to a silver dragon egg he laid in it a few days after Baelon was born.

The council felt more bold than you were comfortable with. A few days after your son’s birth they all ‘agreed’ that this isn't one of the Queen’s duties and that it is beneath her to breastfeed babes. You were furious of course. How could a mother be refused if she wants to feed her children? Be forbidden from making sure they had all that’s the healthiest and the best they could. A milk not from wet nurses that cared only for a coin they will earn from it but from a mother that was more that eager to take care of what’s hers. 

And Baelon was growing weaker so that even the dragon egg – a rock hard and dead – didn't help despite the beliefs how it always gave a baby strength. The sickness that took him was the same one that stole your brothers from you. 

When the spring came and one year since your father died passed, the Stranger took another Baelon. You lost your boy, a little white-head beauty. He was a fighter too, tried to beat the fever that took him.

And when you grieved filled with despair, Aerion was demolishing his own chambers, yelling in fury as he could not handle the sadness that fell over the whole realm. 

The mourning pyre was small – almost gut-wretching as you looked at it, trying not to make any tears spill over your cheeks that lost color over the last few days. You stood there staring as your son’s body was slowly covered in the green wildfire and only ash was left after a babe that was staring at you so curiously only a few weeks ago. He was there too – silent, brooding with jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth would break. Aerion had not whispered a word to you – not like a year ago when you stood there in Ashford, trying not to cry just like now. But his words, those you could not understand or did not want to make a sense of, all of the sudden drummed in your mind like a bell hanging above Kings Landing. 

Sȳz zaldrīzes.

We will all burn.

They say mother’s wrath is the worst thing one could face. Its fire could burn through the stone walls and poison the wells. 

So when you barged into the council's chamber a week later you left the councilors speechless. Their eyes went wide and they looked around at each other as if seeking answers. Aerion was nowhere to be found – he wasn’t pacing around the chamber, angry and snapping nor was he sitting on top of the table where he was supposed to be during your absence. His… well your marble was placed on the centre of the table left untouched. 

You grabbed it with the same vigour as when you were reaching for your crown this morning, before you settled down on your seat – it finally felt right, after so many moons of wielding the crown, it felt yours. 

“Where is my husband?” you asked, stopping the silence that occupied the room. 

“Prince Consort had not shown himself in this chamber since the tragedy occured.” the Grand Maester said before bowing his head. 

You sat a little bit straighter at the thought of him locking himself in the King’s chambers and succumbing into madness. 

“And the council?” your words echoed through the stone walls as the sun shined from the balcony behind you. 

“The council remained unyielding as always, your Grace.” Lord Tully spoke on your left side and the sound of the man’s voice made your blood boil – this was the only thing you did not wish to return to. 

“You mean to tell me you conduct matters of the realm in the absence of the ruler?” you said, looking at him coldly. 

“It was only a precaution.” The lord barked back while hand squeezed on the goblet. 

“It was treason.” Words spread through the chamber like a snake's venom after its sharp fangs pierced through the flesh. 

“Your Grace.” Lord Tully’s voice was hard as if he was trying to scold a child. 

“I have the right to demand you to be taken to the Wall for what you dare to do.” you snapped. “You made decisions about the realm that is not yours to rule over.” you said. “The council chose me to rule after my grandsire the late King passed.” you said and your own eyes burned like Aerion’s always did when he was furious. “And the small council is meant to advise and listen to its ruler and as for now this council brought tragedy after tragedy on the seven kingdoms and my family.” 

“This is how it is to put a woman on the throne, my Lords.” the master of laws snarked looking around the table for support yet he find none when you inhaled and strengthened in your seat. 

“Lord Tully.” you said and swallowed “I release you from your seat at my council.” 

Silence occurred as he only stared at you – eyes wide and slowly filling with shock and realization.

“Your Grace–”

“You are excused from this chamber.” you haven’t even looked at him as your voice remained firm and cold. “Leave when to Riverrun when I am still merciful enough to not send your sons to the Wall and daughters to Lys.”

His face reddened and his mouth opened and closed like the fishes he had in his house’s symbol. You only waited as he raised from his seat and put the marble back before bowing and muttering a shaky: “Your Grace.” 

You watched him go before inhaling quietly, 

“And I wish to remind anyone who will decide to do more than the scope of your duties they will be met with the same fate.” you declared before nodding quietly. “Let us proceed further then.”

The meeting lasted till evening – all the matters that were the biggest concerts were voiced by Bloodraven as he sat there with an almost satisfied smirk. You heard about taxes and expenses from the Master of Coin – Lord Lannister made a list of all the things the royal money was spent on before reading how much taxes were raised in the main cities of Westeros. What filled you with joy were the words of the Grand maester – first comfort after months of stress and overthinking. 

“The great sickness is substituting, my Queen.” 

With this great news the counselors were dismissed, candles were extinguished and papers cleaned up before you moved from your seat and climbed up the stairs to Maegor’s holdfast.

When you reached the doors to the King’s quarters, your hand stopped by the handle. You haven’t seen him since the funeral – not like you wished to see him anyways. It was this complicated feeling that swept over you back in Ashford when you came with the brew to his chamber without a real cause other than some dangerous whisper that haunted your mind. 

So you pushed on then in again – meeting with the sight of pillows’ feathers scattered across the floor as he probably took the anger out on them, little pieces of glass were laying on the floor by the time you reached the bed you were sure that the big, red splash on the wall was caused by the wine that must’ve splashed on it. The sheets were tousled and he laid there somewhere between them with white-silver hair mussled and his head hidden in one of the pillows. 

“I ordered to be left alone.” he barked but the sound was muffled as if he was speaking through the wall. 

“...Good thing that your orders don’t reach those of rank higher than yours.” you said and his body froze between the furs. 

“Get out.” It was the same harsh bark like the one he let out in Ashford but this time you stayed unyielding. 

“What is the matter with you?” you asked, looking at him. “You are so eager to take my place and now you lock yourself in the chambers and avoid council.” you said “Do you know what I had to do? Dismiss one of the counselors after you practically pushed the reigns into his hands.”

“Oh really?” he scoffed sarcastically before turning to prop up on his elbow. “And which one would it be?” he asked and you felt the heat in his stare. 

“...Tully.” you cleared your throat while toying with one of the rings on your fingers before turning slightly away from the bed. 

“The old fool had it coming anyway.” he rolled his eyes and plopped down on the bed, facing the canopy above his head. 

“You’re so spoiled.” You mumbled sitting on the mattress with your hands on your lap. 

“Spoiled?” he scoffed and pulled at the strings of your corset to bring you closer in one, harsh move. “You think me spoiled?”

The fabric squeezed tighter around your waist making a gasp to leave your lips and eyes to widen at the sudden feeling. 

“I think you horrible too.” you said and tried to loosen the fabric around you. 

“...Yet you keep coming back, hungry for more of my attention, my care, my touch.” he gritted out by your ear. “First the damned cat and you coming back there like a ghost to haunt me as if the biggest desire of your small, childish heart was to see me drown you next.” he said and loosened the first string, allowing you to breathe. 

“Then on our way to Ashford you watch me like I’m some kind of spectacle before wandering around like a startled maiden when this Essosi ‘lady’ and your dead-now brother fucked without slighest care in the world.” he said and pushed you hands away when you tried to pull his own away. “As if you wished to be fucked too, was that it? You wanted me to take your virginity right there, against the tree?”

“No.” you gasped out trying to resist the urge to pull the fabric off in one swift motion. \

“No?” he chuckled and the sound was dark and bitter. “Was it not your intent while you invited yourself into my chamber after that ape attacked me? With all that care and heart right on your sleeve as if you were willing to dig it right out of your chest and give it to me?” 

“You had a bruise.” you argued as his breath ghosted against the skin of your neck. 

“And you just came to my aid? Like some nurse?” he hissed. “Admit it. You were never scared of me, not like you claimed to be to my pathetic, little sister when you thought I didn't hear you.” he said. “You were drawn to me, every inch of you wanted me close.”

“You are the ghost of my existence.” you gritted out as the fabric finally came undone and the outside layer of your gown went loose against your skin. 

“That’s why you agreed to marry me.” He said as if completely ignoring what you said. “That’s why you crowned me as your Consort, because you wanted me to keep haunting you just like you plagued my mind since the youngest years.” oh. He didn't ignore you after all. 

“Stop it.” 

“That’s why you gave me a son.” His words were final as he spun you around to face him. “Admit it. What you feel towards me is not love, it’s need, it’s lust.” he said. “It’s want.”

“Fuck off.” you only managed to hiss out before he moved, pushing you off the bed. 

“That–” he said, making you land on the ground beside the mattress. “Is what happens when you pretend not to want me.” he said, pulling you up.

You ended up kneeling, your hands involuntarily going to rest on the softness of the mattress beside his hips. Your eyes widened as he sat there, loosening his breeches. 

“A Queen on her knees… who would have thought.” he scoffed before grabbing your chin. “Admit it.” he demanded before his odd carefulness taking the golden circlet off of temples and setting it on his nightstand. 

“I am not doing this.” you gasped out but crimson sneaked up on your cheeks. 

“Not doing this?” he echoed looking down at you, his grip on your chin tightened enough to be a silent command before his violet eyes flickered over your expression with a cruel tilt of his lips. “I could make you.” he said matter of factly. 

You inhaled before swallowing slightly as his gaze moved to watch your throat move. 

“You want it.” he said and shook his head gently. “You’re already wet just resisting me like this. How long do you think you’d last if I pushed you?”

With that he was moving again, one hand fisting your hair to drag you closer to him – that you could feel the heat rolling off of him like he was a real dragon, just like he was always saying – while the other shoved his breeches down just enough to free himself against your parted lips. 

“Here you are.” he said. “Open.” 

Your eyes went up to his before you inhaled through your parted lips. The second later you lips wrapped around the pinkish head and he let out a shaky breath – face contouring in desperation after the simplest of touches. 

He was long, now that you looked at him up close — with pinkish tip and a bit of white hair trailing from his belly button to the base of his cock. Pretty, really, not thick but just enough. 

You went slow – careful as to not hurt him in any way as his hands fisted your hair tightly and he continued to watch you like a hawk. But his gaze shifted when you took him deeper and his head tilted back to let out a gasp that made cheeks flush before you head started bobbing unceremoniously.

You were careful – taking just enough not to gag but still make him feel something as your mouth stayed wrapped around him. 

Aerion came quickly – with a quiet groan, eyes closed, flushed, desperate and needy.

You inhaled finally able to do so as the salty taste remained in your mouth. You lifted yourself up, shuddering as before pulling the dress off and moving to lay on the mattress with a ragged breath. You stared at the canopy – trying to make sense of what his mouth uttered so passionately next to your ear, of the act you just committed to and how strangely good it felt to make him so undone. 

Aerion moved – his hand gripping on your bare thigh as he pressed you down into the mattress. Something in his eyes shifted and he touched you like a man starved – seeking warmth, comfort and closeness with need. 

“Spread for me.” he grunted out as his hips jerked and his member hardened again, twitching back to life. 

His hips pressed to yours the moment you did that, his hand guiding himself into your warm core just to slide inside you after so long. 

His moves were desperate and thrust fast as he sucked and pressed open mouth kisses to the skin of your neck. Your moans and pitiful whimper echoed through the chamber. His hips were snapping, his pace rough and unmerciful as couldn’t understand what you were saying with how you were mumbling. 

“Aerion— slow down…” you groaned but your arms moved to wrap around him anyway and nails dug into the pale skin on his shoulder leaving the blood moon-shaped marks on him. 

Yet he didn’t. 

Despite how hard you were squeezing him, despite how much your cunt clenched on him. His moves stayed rough and insatiable like he was physically unable to cease.

You came suddenly. With a loud moan and trembling legs. And you felt Aerion filling you up to the very brim. 

His eyes were half lidded when he locked at you, yet they still had this wicked heat on them that made you aware of how far he was from being done. The warm light of candles glowing on his wet skin and this… almost desperate yet determined look in his violet eyes, that burned like the dragon fire he had in his veins.

He just smirked then as if deliberately challenging you while his fingers dug into your waist "On. All. Fours." He said with deliberate slowness, eyes raking over every inch of you until you felt like he'd memorized every last bit of exposed skin. "It wasn't a request." yet he didn’t complained when you simply laid flat on your stomach with your arms wrapping around the pillow

A wicked grin spread wider with every little sound you let out when his hips slammed against yours with fervor. He hissed but you could feel his cock throbbing in you before it pressed into that sweet spot that made a loud moan leave your lips into the pillow – your eyes watered this time and arms tightened around the pillow as he moved above you, nipping at the skin of your shoulder. 

Your cheeks burned and your mouth opened in the silent moan as you tightened around him again – this feeling coiling again in your lower stomach. 

“Please—” you breathed and lifted yourself slightly so that your back would press to the hard plates of his chest and you could feel how fast his heart was beating against your skin. 

“Please what?” He moved more deliberately as if he tried to make you go crazy, to make you leave any reason behind and simply give yourself to him like you always wanted. 

“Please… let me… I need to.” you mumbled into the pillow as his hand moved to smooth your hair away. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good.” he said and his pace fastened again. 

Tears spilled from your eyes at his words and you saw stars before clenching on him the last time. Aerion let out a strangled curse before following soon after. 

Your breath was quick and your heartbeat was even faster as he moved off of you and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. 

You stayed like that – for minutes or hours – until you haven’t shifted, pulling yourself on the pillow and pulling the sheets over both of you as if to cover the naked bodies from the moon’s watchful eyes. Its light began to slip into the chamber’s windows and even candles fire gave up extinguishing as if in fear. 

You lied there – his hand gripped your thigh as if he wanted to keep touching you even if the act came to an end. He looked like he wanted to say something – like he was searching for the right words to speak his mind before giving up and digging his fingers into your skin. 

He looked soft again, relaxed like you only saw you on rare occasions. Ashford… the morning after your wedding night… whenever he rocked Baelon to sleep when the boy was crying his lungs out at night. That was when he allowed himself for such vulnerability. 

The stars looked into your room as if surprised too with how calm Prince Consort could be, without all the anger, the hatred, disgust all snappy comments meant to pierce through one's thickest armor or wall they put up around each other. 

You only moved closer, setting your head with your tousled hair from his grip hair on his shoulder and listened to the beat of his heart as it was calming down already. You were careful – as if approaching a freshly tamed animal that still had wilderness clinging to them and was ready to bite if feeling the danger. 

Your husband’s arm came to wrap around you and he pulled you closer – allowing you to relax pressed possessively against the heat of his body and he breathed calmly. 

He seemed to finally find the truth he wished to speak and his hand clutched your waist desperately. “I watched you return to this damned well over and over as if you were waiting for me… when I stayed bewitched, body and soul and the thought of you spread through my mind like sickness spread through those that we loved.”

This is my longest work EVER and I am so proud of myself for writing that. I hope you enjoyed it, please interact with this post, it means the world to me. Akotsk premiere in four hours 😏

taglist: @trixxxel @lizzyzzn @what-is-going-on-even @alexablissmark @hearts-for-merlin @062292 @nonamenatalia @nnovacore @aotanimegirlpjo

starxs-s. est, 2026

[detectivesophia]

"i'll never be yours" | maekar targaryen x reader

PLOT! the five times Egg realizes his father was in love with his aunt and the one time he realized how truly doomed they were.

pairing: maekar targaryen x reader

word count: around 5.4k

a/n: NO TARGCEST. this is the first time i wrote in a while, so might not be my best (i also wrote the first part and the ending first and then got lazy writing the middle)

SOME LOVES ARE LOUD ENOUGH TO SHAKE KINGDOMS. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

The first time Egg realized his father was in love with his aunt, it came to him as most truths did in his childhood: carelessly and from the mouth of someone who should have known better.

The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down hard on Egg's back, slicking it with hot droplets of sweat. It felt unbearable. Dust was also clinging to the air, to his skin and to the back of his throat.

He thought that squiring would be something finer than this. Something worthy of the stories and songs. Instead it was just weight. It was sweat. It was the sour, lingering scent of wine that followed Daeron everywhere he went.

"Seven save me," Daeron muttered, swaying as Egg struggled with the fastening at his shoulder. "Did they give me a squire or a stableboy?"

"I can do it," Egg said eagerly.

"You always can," Daeron replied, listing his cup. "And yet..."

He did not finish his thought. Egg bit down on his tongue and tried again. His fingers slipped. Until by chance or pure stubbornness, the buckle caught.

Egg stepped back and looked up at his perfect work, waiting for some well deserved praise. But recieved nothing. Egg groaned and looked up ready to complain to Daeron but the older boy was no longer looking at him.

His gaze had gone elsewhere, beyond the yard, beyond the garden hedges, fixed on something Egg could not yet see.

"What is it?" Egg asked, rising onto his toes, as though the height might grant him some assistance with the high hedge. It did not.

Daeron did not answer at once. He drank what remained in his cup, slow and unhurried.

"Have you ever noticed the way Father behaves around her?"

Egg frowned. "Around who?" (the boy was now jumping up and down to try and gain some view beyond the hedges).

"Our aunt. (Y/N)"

Egg blinked. "No?"

Daeron hummed softly. "It's nothing. Less than nothing."

Egg wracked his brain trying to come up with some possible answer to what Daeron was insinuating. "Does Father have some problem with her?"

Egg was worried then because you as well as your family were meant to come to Summerhall before coming with them to Ashford for a tourney.

"Quite the opposite." Daeron turned to Egg and wiggled his brows. Egg frowned, knowing what that meant. "That doesn't mean anything."

"No, it doesn't."

"She's married. To Prince Baelor."

Daeron hummed.

"Father wouldn't-" Egg stopped, the rest of the thought refusing to settle into something. "He loved Mother."

At that, something in Daeron's experession shifted.

"He did."

The words hung there, unfinished. Egg waited for more but none came. "She's our aunt."

"And he's our father."

Egg shook his head. "You're wrong."

"Perhaps." Daeron set his empty cup aside and crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Egg's height. "Just watch him. You'll see it, or maybe you won't. These sort of things aren't meant to be seen at all."

He straightened, clapping a hand against Egg's shoulder. "Come on. I'll need another drink before I pretened to be a knight again."

Egg followed, though more slowly. He told himself there was nothing. Daeron was just drunk and imagining things.

The second time Egg noticed, no one said a word at all.

It happened in the Great Hall, in the lull between courses, when the noise softened just enough to hear the quieter things. The scrapes of a cup against the table, the half whispers of conversations and all that. The portion of the night where everyone was relaxed.

Egg had not meant to watch. He told himself he wasn't. But Daeron's voice had settled somewhere in the back of his mind and it was impossible to ignore it. So he took Daeron's words to heart. Watch him.

So he did. Egg watched his father from his place at the dinner table next to Aemon (who had his head buried in some large textbook. Egg was slightly concered over his brother's potential future neck problems).

His father sat at the end of the high table by his brother and Egg's uncle. His posture was straight and his expression was carved hard. He spoke when spoken to, nodded whe required and drank very little. There was little to nothing strange about it.

Until, his Aunt (Y/N) laughed.

It was not loud, nothing that would turn heads or draw attention to it. (Y/N)'s laugh was a lovely one and a familiar one to Egg. (The laugh came from a joke that Matarys told her but Egg did not hear what it was. From what he knew of his cousin, Egg didn't think it was a funny joke and his aunt was just being polite).

But Egg saw it. The way his father had stilled. Not entirely or in a dramatic way. But it was as if the statue had been shooken. A breath that was being held onto for a second too long.

Egg frowned. His father did not turn, did not look, his gaze remained fix on Baelor as the two were in a conversation. Maekar did not speak right away. Baelor carried on, asking a question that was answered by some lesser lord sitting next to Maekar. His paused moment slipped past, unoticed by all except for Egg.

It meant nothing, Egg told himself. Less than nothing.

People paused all the time. People lost their places. It was not uncommon. Afterall some people just get lost in their thoughts. It was not-

His father's hand tightened slightly around his cup. So slight it might have been imagined. Egg watched however, as he took a measured drink and set it back down with too much attention than it required.

Still, he did not look. Not at you. Egg found his gaze looking upon you instead. Looking radiant in the red silks that were probably made in Dorne. You had now reached your hand over to your husbands to get his attention, and leaned in to speak with a soft smile.

Prince Baelor and Princess (Y/N). Future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They looked right. They looked happy. The very pitcture of what Egg thought a loving marriage would look lile. As though the world had placed them exactly where they were meant to be. Egg was content knowing they loved each other.

So Egg went back to his food and started to shift his peas from his plate to Aemon's instead. Content to pretend that he was overanalyzing his father's behaviour.

The third time Egg noticed, it was close enough to touch.

It happened in the gardens, where the air was softer and world felt far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Egg had not meant to follow. At the time it had felt like nothing at all. He was just wandering paths he knew well, doing his best to avoid the maesters and his lessons.

That was until he saw them. He stopped before he could be seen and hid behind a tree.

They stood beneath the shade of an overgrown arbor, where the light filtered through in fragments painting them in gold. It was rather close. Not close enough to be indecent or improper. Just, closer than what was necessary.

(Y/N) was speaking, though it was too soft that the words could not reach Egg. Instead he had to settle on watching the shape of them. As (Y/N) was speaking his father did not interrupt, did not look away. Just gazed at your face.

From the looks of it, you had finished speaking and there was a moment of silence between the two of you. Then, your hand had lifted.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just brushing your hand against his sleeve. It should have been nothing because it was nothing. But again, his father had stilled. The way his breath seemed to catch, the way his hand at his side tightened just slightly.

He did not pull away, did not reach back, did not move at all. The two of you stood there, closer than what one would expect, with your hand on his arm. To Egg, it looked like a different sort of painting. One he had not seen at the dinner the other night.

Then you stepped back and distance returned. Whatever had just been there, slipped neatly back into place.

His father inclined his said, said something Egg could not hear but it was probably something drab (his father was a rather blunt speaker). Whatever it was, it resulted in a smiling (Y/N). Your smile was smaller and softer and gone quicker than normal.

And then it was all over again.

Egg did not move from where he stood, though he knew he should. He felt as if he was intruding on something. His thoughts felt tangled. Nothing had occured.

With that, he took a step back and starting walking back into the castle.

The fourth time Egg noticed, it nearly did not remain theirs alone.

It was not meant to be a moment at all. That was what made it dangerous.

The corridors were quieter at that hour, the castle settling into itself as the evening wore on. Voices dulled behind closed doors. Footsteps softened. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, their light unsteady against the stone. Everyone was preparing for bed.

Egg had been sent on some errand he no longer remembered.

It did not matter. He would forget it entirely, later.

What he would remember, what would stay, was this:

The turn of a corner. The sound of a voice, too low to make out. And the way he stopped before he understood why.

This time, from behind a corridor, Egg saw them at the far end of the passage, half-shadowed, as though the castle itself meant to keep their secret.

They were close. Too close. Much closer than before in the garden.

Once again you were speaking. Or not. Even in the dimmed hallway, Egg could see you were loosing your composure. The normal picture perfect you seemed frazzle in the dark corridor. Words were spilling out quick but quietly. As if it was something that had been held back for too long.

Egg could not hear them, only feel the shape of them in the air, sharp and unsteady. (He was thinking to himself that he should really work on his sneaking abilities so he could somehow find himself closer so he could properly eavesdrop).

His father said nothing. He only watched you. Not as a prince might. Not as a brother should. As though the rest of the world had fallen away.

Egg’s breath caught, though he did not know why. He should not have been there. He knew that. And yet he did not move.

You stopped speaking. The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed in, taut, waiting.

His father took a step forward. It was small, measured and hesitant. Enough to close what little distance remained between you.

Egg felt it then, that strange, tightening awareness, like a thread pulled too thin. Something was about to happen. Something that could not be undone.

Your hand lifted, hesitant, uncertain, as though you had not meant to do it at all. His father’s followed. Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that the space between them felt like something real. Something fragile. Something one breath away from breaking.

And for a moment, the two of you didn't move.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. And the spell shattered. Your hand dropped at once. His father stepped back just as quickly, the distance snapping into place as though it had never been crossed at all.

By the time the servants turned the corner, there was nothing to see.

It was just a prince standing where he ought to stand. A lady composed, untouched. Silence, neat and proper, where something else had been moments before.

Egg pressed himself back against the wall, heart beating too fast for something he did not understand.

No one noticed. No one said a word. And yet, Egg knew.

That it had almost—

He swallowed, the thought slipping from him before it could take shape.

It had been nothing.

A step taken. A hand lifted. A moment that came too close to becoming something more.

The fifth time Egg noticed, nothing threatened to happen at all.

There was no interruption waiting in the wings. No footsteps. No tension poised to break. Only certainty.

It happened in a corridor (the same one as before) and he was not meant to linger in, though he had long since stopped believing that mattered. The castle had begun to feel less like a place one moved through, and more like something that simply contained him.

He heard your voice first. And then his father’s.

Egg stopped before he saw you.

You stood facing one another, not hidden, not secret, simply… there. As though there had never been anything to conceal.

Your hands were folded neatly before you, composed and contorlled. The opposite of what you looked like the previous night he had seen the pair of you.

“I leave with Baelor at first light,” you said. Your voice did not tremble. It did not need to.

His father nodded once. “I know.”

No hesitation. No question. Only acknowledgment.

Egg watched the way you held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. Not lingering. Not resisting. Just, steady.

“As it should be,” you added quietly.

It was not said like a comfort. It was said like a truth that had already been lived. His father’s expression did not change. But something in him did.

Not outward. Not visible in any way that would matter to anyone else. Only Egg saw it.

The smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pause in his breathing. As though something had been set down carefully, something heavy, something once held too close.

“You will be well,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a fact he had chosen to believe.

You gave a small nod. “As will you.”

And that was all.

No step forward. No reach. No fracture in the space between you. Only distance, held deliberately in place. As if it had always belonged there.

You turned first.

Not away from him in avoidance, but toward what was waiting for you beyond the corridor. Beyond the castle. Beyond this moment entirely.

Duty, already ahead of you.

His father did not watch you leave. Not when it mattered. Not when it might have changed anything.

He simply stood there until your footsteps faded completely, until even the echo had gone soft enough to disappear.

Then he turned away as well.

Egg remained where he was. Not because he was unseen. But because there was nothing left to witness.

Only something he finally understood in full:

Not all loves ended in ruin. Some ended in choice. And in that choice, quiet, certain, unspoken they had already lost each other long before either of them ever reached for anything at all.

The one and probably last time Egg understood how truly doomed they were, it was at Ashford Meadow.

Some loves are loud enough to shake kingdoms. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

The tourney had turned the world bright again.

Colour returned in banners and gowns, in the gleam of armor beneath the sun, in laughter that carried too far across the fields as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong.

For a moment, Egg believed in that brightness.

He had never seen so much life. Never felt so far from the boy he was meant to be. He had lost Daeron somewhere in a tavern’s chaos and shaved his head in reckless relief, as though shedding identity might make him freer. He had even met a hedge knight, Ser Duncan, before the crowd swallowed him whole.

Then the royal family arrived. And everything began, quietly, to fall into place.

Egg hid among skirts and passing legs as he watched them take their places. His aunt stood near the pavilion.

The wind caught at her dress, lifting it in soft, unsteady motion, and for a moment she looked less like a princess and more like something imagined, something almost too gentle for the weight of her name.

She smiled more easily now. Baelor lived. And so she could, too.

He stood beside her with easy warmth, speaking to those who approached them, his hand resting at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there.

She laughed at something he said, turning toward him, bright and unburdened.

It should have been enough. It was enough.

And still... Egg knew, somewhere deep and unspoken, that in another life, in another shape of the world, it might have been his father standing there instead.

Behind them, Maekar stood at a careful distance, speaking with a lord he was not truly listening to. His attention kept returning, again and again, to where it should not.

There was no grief in it. No rupture. No visible wound.

Only something quieter. Something held too tightly to be named.

Their eyes met once. His father’s. Hers.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. And yet Egg felt it as something entire. A silence stretched between them, thin, precise, almost reverent.

Until Baelor spoke her name.

She turned. And the moment was gone. The world continued exactly as it should have. But Egg did not move. He watched.

Later, Baelor was called away. And Maekar stepped into his place beside her. It looked like nothing. It was nothing.

A conversation between in-laws. A passing exchange. A courtesy sustained by courtly habit.

But Egg saw too closely now. The ease that should not have been ease. The closeness that should not have existed at all. A handmaiden passed. Words were spoken too quietly to catch.

And then, Maekar offered his arm. She took it with no hesitation. It was a simple thing.

And yet the way her fingers settled there, the way his arm did not move away, the way neither of them corrected the distance. It felt like recognition. Like something remembered instead of chosen.

Too familiar to be coincidence. Too natural to be allowed. A blush rose faintly at his father’s neck. Gone as quickly as it came.

And for a moment, it felt almost right.

Until Valarr came running, bright and alive, breaking everything open again. The spell did not shatter. It simply… dispersed. Like smoke.

The world ended at Ashford Meadow.

It did not, of course.

The sun still rose over Ashford, pale and indifferent. The wind still moved through the fields, stirring banners that now hung heavy and dark. People still spoke, still walked, still breathed.

But something had ended all the same.

Baelor died.

The bells had tolled for what felt like hours, their sound low and unrelenting, echoing through the castle and out across the tourney grounds. Even now, standing among his family, Egg swore he could still hear them, like something lodged deep inside his chest.

They had chosen to burn him at Ashford. Egg wasn’t sure why that made it worse, but it did.

This place had been bright, only days ago. Full of laughter and colour and life. He could still remember it, the banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd, the way everything had seemed so large and full of promise.

Now everything felt hollow.

Egg stood stiffly beside his father, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. If only he hadn’t left Daeron. If only he had stayed. If only—The pyre crackled. Egg forced himself to look.

Flames climbed steadily, consuming what remained of Baelor’s body. The heat pressed against his face, sharp and unbearable, and still he couldn’t look away.

His gaze shifted. His aunt stood closest to the fire. She did not weep. She did not speak.

She stood as though carved from stone, her face pale, her expression empty in a way that frightened him more than tears ever could.

Valarr stood before her, shaking. Egg could see it even from where he stood. The way his cousin’s shoulders trembled, the way his head bowed forward as though the weight of it all might crush him.

Her hand rested gently in his hair. Not moving. Just there.

Behind them, Kiera stood still and silent, her presence quiet, almost ghostlike.

Egg swallowed hard. He had heard what happened. Everyone had.

Whispers had spread quickly, slipping through corridors and between servants like smoke.

They said she had been the first to reach him. That she hadn’t believed it. That she had demanded a maester, again and again, as though saying it enough times might undo what had already been done.

They said she had knelt beside his body, hands pressed to him, begging the Seven to give him back.

That she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood. That it had soaked into her sleeves, her hands, her skin.

Egg squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

They said Ser Duncan had tried to pull her away. That she had fought him. That she had screamed. Not words, just sound. Raw and broken.

And then his father came.

Maekar had been the one to pull her back. They said she had struck him. That her fists had hit his chest, over and over, as though he were something she could break. That she had cried into him like the world was ending.

Egg opened his eyes. He looked up at his father now.

Maekar stood beside him, unmoving. Rigid. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key.

Egg wanted to say something. Go to her.

He didn’t know if he would have said the words aloud or not. He only knew the thought pressed against his throat, desperate and insistent.

Go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Not like this.

But Maekar did not move.

He stood where he was meant to stand. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more.

Egg felt something twist inside him.

But he had learned, by now, where to look.

So he looked closer.

He saw the way his father’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin. He saw the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the stillness that was not calm but restraint stretched too thin.

And then it happened. Briefly.

So brief Egg might have missed it, if he hadn’t been watching.

His aunt lifted her head, just slightly. As though something had pulled her attention away from the flames. Her gaze crossed the distance between them. And found his father.

Maekar looked at her. Not as a prince. Not as a brother. Just as a man.

Everything was there. Egg felt it, even from where he stood.

Grief, sharp and consuming.

Longing, familiar, aching, unrelenting.

Regret, heavy, suffocating, endless.

All of it, laid bare in a single look that lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was too much. Too intimate.

Her gaze dropped. Maekar’s jaw tightened. And just like that… It was gone.

The fire crackled. The wind shifted. The world went on.

And whatever might have been… didn’t.

Egg shouldn’t have followed her. He knew that.

Even so, he slipped from the hall, keeping to the edges where torchlight thinned and attention softened. He was careful, quiet and was left unseen.

He told himself he would stop at the doorway. He didn’t.

The hall was dim when she entered, curtains drawn heavy against the day. It felt smaller than it had before. Quieter in a way that pressed at the ribs.

She moved slowly, like each step had to be chosen in advance. Egg lingered just beyond the threshold, half-hidden in the corridor’s shadow.

She crossed to the high table to Baelor’s seat and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing at all. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands. Baelor’s rings caught what little light remained.

Egg’s throat tightened before he could name why. She turned one of them between her fingers. Over and over. Not fidgeting, holding on.

As though stillness might undo something. The door opened again. Egg went rigid. His father stepped inside.

There was a pause in him that Egg did not recognize. Not fear, exactly. Not hesitation either. Something closer to awareness. As though the room had become uncertain ground.

As though he was not sure he was allowed to cross it.

She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him. Did not move. For a moment, he only stood there. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her. Not close. Never close.

Silence gathered between them, dense and unyielding.

“I do not know where to begin,” Maekar said at last.

His voice was quieter than Egg had ever heard it.

She let out a breath that almost broke on its way out. “I do not know either.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt too small the moment they left him.

They stayed anyway. Unanswered.

“You know,” she said after a while, still looking at the ring, “my mother once told me not to love anyone more than my children.”

Maekar did not speak.

“I loved my children,” she continued. “And I loved my husband.”

Something in him shifted at that, barely visible, but real.

“And I loved you.”

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt held.

Carefully. Like something fragile that neither of them trusted to fall.

“(Y/N),” Maekar said at last, roughened, “there are no words—”

“You know,” she cut in, not unkindly, but with something steadier beneath it, “in a way, I wish you had meant to kill him.”

The air changed.

Maekar’s head turned slightly, as if the words had weight enough to move him. “How could you say that?”

“It would make things simpler,” she said. “For me. As selfish as that sounds.”

He did not answer. There was nothing to answer. A long pause. Then—

“Do you remember,” she asked, quieter now, “when Baelor and I were betrothed?”

A breath left Maekar that might once have been laughter. It wasn’t now. “Of course I do.”

A faint sound from her. Almost agreement. Almost nothing.

“You said you would burn your entire house down before you let it happen.”

His mouth tightened at the memory, something old and unguarded passing through him and gone again before it could settle.

“I was young,” he said.

“We were all young,” she replied.

Silence returned, softer this time. Less sharp. No less heavy.

Then she moved.

Slowly, she took one of the rings from her hand. Turned it once between her fingers. Twice.

And placed it in his palm.

“Here.”

Maekar looked down at it.

“I cannot take this,” he said. “He was your husband.”

“And he was your brother.”

That landed cleanly. Without argument. Maekar closed his fingers around the ring anyway. Not tightly.

Egg stepped back before either of them could notice him there, retreating into the corridor as quietly as he had come. He did not run. He did not linger.

Some things, he understood, were not meant to be seen all at once. Or spoken.

He understood then that some things were never meant to be spoken. Just simply known and lived with.

[osarina]

A KNIGHT OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS

AERION TARGARYEN

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON (series)

httyd shit posts and asks

incandescence (nsfw; 9.6k)

bewitched (nsfw; 10k)

saudade (nsfw; 9.3k)

hiraeth (nsfw; 12.3k)

sehnsucht (nsfw; 10.2k)

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lamentably yours (sfw; 2.5k)

lacuna (nsfw; 17k)

HOW TO SLAY A DRAGON (series)

TBA

THE F1 AU

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MISCELLANEOUS VOLANTENE!READER AUS

TBA

OTHER (NOT VOLANTENE!READER)

TBA

DAERON TARGARYEN

lament, cassandra (sfw, 5.8k)

VALARR TARGARYEN

the look of love (sfw, 5.2k)

the trials and tribulations of valarr targaryen (sfw; 4.3k)

MAEKAR TARGARYEN

IN THE NAME OF THE SEVEN

TBA

[osarina]

ঌ RȲ ĀNOGAR SE PERZYS

FEATURING: aerion targaryen x fem!reader

SUMMARY: aerion wants to get to know you better, trying to gauge whether or not you might be willing to return with him to westeros. you think that he’s snooping for information about volantis to report back to his family. everything goes spectacularly wrong. 

WARNINGS: fem!reader. reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described. aerion is aerion. the high valyrian is not properly translated because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL. valyrian exceptionalism is believed by the old blood of volantis (implied heavily through reader's narration). brief mention of incest. implied abuse through reader's childhood but she does not see it as abuse. reader and aerion fight (like steel is drawn and blood is spilled LOL). aerion is extra unstable/unhinged in the last scene. knife play (also not really play HUDFAISSDUIHFAS). jealous aerion. possessive aerion (like to an extreme in this part, lowkey yan at certain points). reader and aerion are both terribly hard-headed and not listening to one another. reader is a liar. unprotected sex. switch!reader. switch!aerion. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This part makes me laugh lowkey because it probably could have been cut in half, because the first three scenes are just meant to be build up for the last scene, but I was just having so much fun getting into reader’s memories/worldbuilding for Volantis/her relationship with her family that each of the “build up” scenes became egregiously long LOLLL. But ANYWAY, this is the longest installment by far and with good reason, it is very much a bonding chapter for our girl and Aerion, despite the conflicts that take place, because they are learning about each other, the way they were raised, how they came to be who they are today, and it’s eventually what catapults them into becoming the very close confidants they will become in time. There are many hurdles that both of them must go through to get there though, the first and foremost currently being the impermanence of their relationship It has obviously been weighing on both of them, and they have widely different ideas of how to proceed (reader not wanting to follow Aerion to Westeros, Aerion all but expecting her to), and it comes to a head here (though be warned, it is not resolved in this part, but a certain party thinks that it is). Also, please be aware that this installment has a lot of my own lore/worldbuilding for Volantis, and the way that I’ve built it, the Volantene old blood do not hold the Targaryens in high regard, because I think the Targaryens are in a very interesting position that they’re not “Andal enough” for their subjects (ie. Raymun’s whole rant), but they’ve abandoned too many Valyrian customs/traditions to appease the Faith & their subjects and have “diluted their blood” too much to be seen as “Valyrian enough” for the old blood of Volantis who obviously still lean into their Valyrian heritage more than anyone else in the world. + There’s additional resentment there over the Targaryens having (and being the reason for the deaths of) the last dragons. All this to say, I had fun with this installment and it was probably my favorite to write thus far even though the vibes are a bit different from the last few, and I hope you enjoy too! Also, I kind of lost track of the timeline so now its been 6 months ndhfaiudfhsudf LOLLL. Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!

READ: FEVER STRUCK | EPHEMERAL

“Hm? What was that?”

The argument begins with a conversation while the two of you are drunk on firewine and lounging in the sand, watching the sunset, though neither of you knows quite yet the disastrous path Aerion’s line of questioning will lead you down. 

It’s been almost a moon since the two of you came down with sea fever, and Aerion has been acting odd ever since. At first, you assume it is simply one of his moods—Aerion has many of them, after all. Some days, he wakes restless and sharp-tongued, prowling through markets like a caged beast looking for something to bite. Other days, he is languid, stretched across cushions with a goblet in hand, while you entertain yourself by irritating him until he snaps. Recently, he has been quieter, more prone to lashing out, quicker to assert himself at your side when you drift away. 

Which is normal-ish. 

If it were just that, you might be able to brush it off as another strange, territorial mood. But it’s also the way he watches you now—like he is calculating something, weighing your words before they have even finished leaving your mouth. It’s the way his questions come, one after another, circling the same subjects as though he is trying to pin them in place. Volantis. The Black Walls. Your father. The factions at court. Old rivalries. Trade. 

At first, you laugh it off, answer lightly, deflect when you can. But he does not let things lie—he has never been inclined to do that, but it appears even less so now. He presses and doubles back. He remembers what you say and returns to it days later, asking the same question from a different angle, as though he’s watching for inconsistencies.

It’s not how one makes conversation. It’s how one… interrogates when they’re trying not to be obvious about the interrogation. You know the difference because you have done this before—because you have had it done to you. There was an Elephant heir once—Aenys Vyninar, son of one of the current ruling Elephant Triarchs—clever and smiling, pretty and soft-spoken in a way that made men and women underestimate him. The two of you spent years circling one another at court, trading questions dressed as pleasantries, testing for weaknesses, loyalties, and limits, anything that could be turned into leverage later. You learned quickly that the most dangerous questions are never the ones that sound like interrogations—they are the ones that sound like curiosity. 

Aerion does not smile the way the Aenys did, and he does not try to lower your guard with stolen kisses and touches as he asks the questions—he is far less subtle—but the pattern is the same.

And when the red flags start waving, when you start paying attention, you notice other things. The servants say he stays up most nights trying to write up letters to send by raven to Westeros. That ravens come more frequently now, dark shapes cutting across the sky toward the Vyrano’s manse at odd hours. One of your harbor boys tells you the same—that the prince has been sending more birds west than he had when he first arrived.

Which—that upsets you, because when you put it all together, it leads you to one conclusion: that he’s trying to get information out of you to send back home. It upsets you far more than it should. More than it ever has when men try to use you. It is logical, you tell yourself. He is an exile trying to regain favor with his family; of course, he would look to a foreign noble from a city that has bordered on enemies with his family for three hundred years to try to get information to curry favor. It is logical, and it would not bother you so much if he were anyone else, and yet—

And yet, it makes your stomach twist. Terribly so.  

“I asked,” Aerion says again slowly, as though he suspects the wine has dissolved whatever good sense you possess, “whether you have ever been west.”

You pause, fiddling with your wine glass. 

A broad question. Broader than the last few he’s asked, but questions do not have to sound precise to be useful. Sometimes the broadest ones tell you the most—where someone has been, what they have seen, which courts have shaped their thinking. It is how you learn, not just what a person knows, but how they know it.

You assume he’s talking about western Essos, and you imagine that he’s going to ask about Volantene political relationships with the rest of the daughters of Valyria. Yesterday, he asked about the Tiger and Elephant parties—it would be the next logical step, from internal politics to foreign. You can picture the reports to his father, telling him which Volantene nobles would be amenable to a trade negotiation, which Westerosi goods would be most profitable, which Free Cities might take issue with a Westeros–Volantis alliance, and how they might take advantage of it. 

The most important thing an exile can do in exile is prove to his family that he is still of use—that he is worth bringing home.

You know this because you have tried it yourself.

In the first year, when the sting of exile was still fresh and pride had not yet slipped into hopelessness, you played this same game. You listened more than you spoke once the anger passed, collected names and allegiances, traced who held power and who only pretended to. You sent word where you could, careful little reports dressed as courtesy and loyalty and proof that distance had not lessened your value. That you were still worth the future they had taken from you.

You still do, sometimes.

But they never answer. Never acknowledge the work you put in. Not you, not when exile is a mercy, but Aerion—

Aerion’s exile isn’t permanent, and it isn’t mercy. Aerion’s exile centers on the question of when he will go back, not if. Aerion’s exile can be shortened if he proves to his father that he has been properly chagrined by his time abroad, if he proves that he is useful to his family. You told him this yourself when the Tyroshi and Myrish envoy docked in the harbor.

You should not indulge it, not when you know what he is doing. You know this.

“West,” you repeat vaguely after a moment, when the silence has stretched on too long.

He hums, silently beckoning you to continue, and your brows furrow.

You wave a lazy hand in the air. “A couple times,” you say. You speak even though you know better, and your voice is light, but there is a pit in your stomach that you cannot seem to rid yourself of. “When I was younger. Pentos and Tyrosh when I was two and ten. My father was threatening some merchant lords, and thought I should join to see how it is done. The Stepstones several times to rout pirates who looted our ships.”

Aerion’s gaze does not leave your face, lips flat, deadpan.

“I meant farther west, you fool.”

Westeros? 

You blink, trying to figure out why he would be asking you about Westeros of all places, unless he’s trying to gauge the old blood’s opinions on his homeland—in that case, he will be seriously unhappy with the answers he receives, and you will have to tread carefully.

“Oh.” You consider that for a moment, fingers sliding through the fine-grained sand as the sun begins to set over the sea. “No.”

Half-draped over his lap, you peer up at him curiously, watching the way his lips pinch together. He doesn’t look down at you, gaze pinned on the sunset, even though you can tell he’s not really watching it at all. You do not watch it either, even though you were the one who insisted on coming out here to watch the sunset. 

You watch him instead.

It is easier, you’ve found, to understand Aerion when he’s not speaking at all. When he speaks, he is sharp and cutting, and never truly says what he means, using words as weapons or shields depending on his mood. But when he is quiet, you can see all of the things he would ordinarily hide behind his chosen mask, how his lips tighten and his eyes shift as he stares into the distance, how his brows furrow and his nostrils flare as he exhales. As though this is just as difficult for him as it is for you—you like the idea of that, at least. That he is using you for information, but it is not easy for him to do so. 

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, it pisses you off—you like the idea of that? Consoling yourself by telling yourself that at least it is not easy for him to do this? Who even are you?

“Why?” you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow, watching as he hisses in annoyance when the bone digs into his thigh. You give him a sweet smile as he shoots you an accusing glare. “Hm?”

“I was just curious,” he says after a moment, still shooting you a vicious glare. “What do you know about it?”

Yes, you realize, tongue pressing to the back of your teeth when you realize you were correct in your assumptions. He’s trying to figure out Volantene opinion on Westeros. Why does it bother you so much that he’s using you for information? It shouldn’t. It’s logical. You would be doing the same if he were from a kingdom worth the old blood’s time. So, why can’t you push away the way your chest tightens? Worse, why are you allowing it to happen? Why haven’t you shut this down and accused him of what he’s doing? 

It all comes back to the same questions that have been plaguing you for weeks: What will you do when he leaves? Is this really just a taste of fire? Indulgence? Distraction? Why do you not sabotage, when you have never been above such methods before? Why, ever, would you think of home, and then think of bringing him to see it? Why would you sit at his bedside while he’s sick and nurse him back to health? Why do you sit here and let him use you as a source of information to report back to his family?

It is becoming increasingly intolerable to pretend this isn’t what it is—and what it is, is entirely unacceptable.

You press your lips together and raise your eyebrows. “That is a very broad question, dragon prince.”

Aerion scowls. “Answer it.”

You huff softly, shifting your weight so that you’re more comfortably draped across him, fingers idly brushing patterns into the sand.

“Fine,” you concede. “Let me think.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting toward the horizon as you lay your head in his lap, lashes fluttering when his fingers lift to toy with the ends of your hair. You hum, mind racing from thought to thought as you try to remember something not totally unpleasant to give Aerion as an answer. Westeros is not fondly spoken of in Volantis, or throughout Essos generally, really, and the Targaryens are—well, the Volantene old blood have low opinions of the western dragon family for countless reasons. 

“I know that it is called the Seven Kingdoms, even though there are technically nine,” you say after a moment, proud of yourself for coming up with something neutral. You hear Aerion snort above you. “I know that House Targaryen rules over them. Though from news that has crossed the Narrow Sea, I hear that rule has been… contested, recently.”

Aerion’s fingers still in your hair. Touchy subject, you realize, and decide to move on.

“Your people call themselves more civilized than the rest of the world while chopping each other apart over titles and inheritance disputes,” you continue wryly, unable to help yourself, but you catch yourself when Aerion scoffs. “Your winters are long enough to kill cities, and your summers long enough to make men forget the cold exists at all.”

“Go on,” he murmurs, absently smoothing your hair back from your face.

“I know that your men love the idea of honor until it becomes inconvenient for them,” you add, lips curving, “and that half your court would sell the other half for a slightly better seat at your king’s table.”

Aerion bristles with a huff. “That is hardly unique to Westeros.”

“No,” you agree, “but you dress it up in prettier words and act as though you are better than everyone else.”

Aerion scowls. “What are the Volantene courts like, then?” he asks after a moment. 

“Vicious,” you say immediately, a small smile curling at your lips as your eyes slide shut, and nostalgia floods you in an instant. You miss your home. Miss it so much that you’re willing to talk about it with someone who is clearly only trying to fish for information from you. When did you become so sentimental? “But we are honest about it. Mostly. We do not pretend otherwise, or cloak it in honor or chivalry or whatever pretty words your lords use to justify their ambitions. We want power, and we take it when we can. If we cannot, we position our pieces on the board so that we can”

It is the pride of the old blood, you do not say out loud, who refuse to hide their nature behind gentler fictions. 

It is said that thousands of years ago, while the rest of the world prayed to gods, the Valyrians became them, and though the Freehold burned, that arrogance did not. Gods are not bound by the morality of men. They do not temper themselves to be palatable, and they do not soften themselves to be loved, or feared, or understood. They simply are. They take what they want, and the world bends around them—or breaks.

Even the Elephants, in all of their coin and venom, live by that same understanding—smiles sweeter and daggers in ledgers instead of hands, but no less sharp for it. They do not pretend their wars are anything but wars. They just prefer quieter battlefields. You do not have to question who your enemies are in Volantis; the lines are drawn clearly, etched in blood and coin and old grudges that no one bothers to soften with pretty words.

“We are what we are,” you finish, voice soft with wistfulness, though your eyes remain closed. “We do not dress it up to make ourselves easier to stomach.”

Aerion’s fingers slow in your hair. “And what is that?” he asks.

You smile faintly.

“Cruel,” you say simply. “Ambitious. Patient when we must be, vicious when we can be. We remember what we were, and we do not pretend we have become something lesser simply because the world hopes we have.”

Unlike the Targaryens, the old blood of Volantis lost its dragons during the Doom, but it never lost its blood, its rites, or its rituals. You’re not quite sure why you try to get that dig in, because you know it will irritate Aerion, but you’re feeling quite irritated yourself, so you think you should share the wealth, so to speak. You shift slightly, turning your face more fully into his lap, his warmth a pleasant contrast to the cooling sand beneath you. He doesn’t lash out the way you expect him to. 

“And you think we do,” Aerion says, voice cool. 

“I think your Sunset Kingdoms dress its power in virtues it does not actually believe in. Honor. Duty. Piety. As though naming something noble makes it so,” you reply. Then, you add, “I think your family has learned to soften what it is to make it palatable to those who would fear it otherwise.”

“That is untrue,” Aerion scoffs, jaw tight.

“Is it?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, but you decide against pushing further, because you don’t want to argue—not really.

You think, bitterly, that if any of your friends could see you now, they would laugh in your face. It is not that you want to argue, you understand, not really, you are just frustrated with yourself for giving Aerion everything he wants without protest, even when you know what he’s doing, even when you know that if anyone back home knew this, they would lose their mind. You befriending and fucking the dragon prince is already bad enough, but giving him information like this? 

They’d never look at you the same. Never. 

The Westerosi royal family has long been spoken of with disdain. They are dragonlords who traded their blood for crowns, who bent themselves to lesser men and called it conquest. They are diminished, your father would say, softened in a way the Volantene old blood refuse to be, and when the last of the dragons died for their inheritance dispute after years of the old blood trying to work with the Targaryens to restore the Freehold… 

Well, many of the old blood would prefer a union between rival houses than anything to do with the Targaryens.

Aerion drawls, “You seem to have a very low opinion of my family and my homeland.”

“I have never been, dragon prince,” you remind him, dismissive, hoping to shift the conversation back to him. “I only know what I have been told.”

“And yet you speak as though you have seen it yourself.”

You crack one eye open to glance up at him. “Is it inaccurate?”

Aerion’s lips press together. “…Not entirely.”

You smile faintly, satisfied, and let your eyes slide shut again. “Tell me about your courts, then.”

Aerion does not immediately reply, and you think he has some nerve—so quick to seek information from you, but not even willing to put on the front of reciprocation. But then he speaks, and the brief spark of anger is extinguished. 

“They are not so different from what you described,” he admits. “Ambitious and petty, although they pretend as though they are above it. They speak of honor and duty and loyalty to the Realm, and then they undermine each other at every opportunity, scheming and lying and making alliances that last only as long as they are useful. Everyone has their own nest of vipers, but they insist on pretending the snakes are doves.”

You snort. “How exhausting.”

“It is,” he agrees. “You are expected to smile at men who would gladly see you dead, call them allies, break bread with them, trust them, invite them into your home—”

“And then poison them later,” you finish lazily. “In Volantis, if a member of an Elephant family sets foot in the palace of a Tiger family without invitation, it is known that their life becomes forfeit if they are caught. And vice versa. We do not waste time pretending we are anything but enemies, would sooner break a neck than break bread.”

“It is not all bad,” Aerion says quietly after a moment. “It can be amusing—at times.”

“How so?” you ask, gaze lifting to his face as you stretch in his lap, fighting a yawn.

“Watching them,” he replies. “They whisper behind closed doors and pass notes through servants they think loyal, make careful little moves across the board as though no one else can see them. They are so convinced of their own brilliance that they cannot see that they’re not as clever as they believe themselves to be. It is like here—sitting on the balcony above it all, watching the magisters and merchant princes scramble with their alliances below. I think that—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, jaw tightening as he looks away. You tilt your head curiously. “You think that…?”

“Nothing,” he says after a moment, voice unusually subdued. 

You watch him for a beat longer, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You were about to say something,” you press.

“I changed my mind.”

“Well, change it again.”

Aerion huffs softly, irritation creeping back into his expression like a mask snapping into place. “No. I decided it was not worth saying.”

You watch him carefully for a moment, noticing how tense he suddenly is, fingers flexing where they rest against your body, restless energy thrumming beneath the surface of his skin. He is terribly on edge, all of a sudden, and though it makes you curious, you have little desire to antagonize him after the mind-numbing day of feasts and politics you had.

“If you say so,” you say lazily. Then you add quietly, “It does sound like it could be amusing, watching it unfold—at times, that is.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks toward you, an unreadable expression on his face, something terribly and uncharacteristically soft in the amethyst of his eyes. His throat bobs. Briefly, you wonder if maybe your assumptions were wrong because Aerion has never looked at you like this, not so open, not so hopeful, but you disregard the thought immediately, because what else would it be?

“Yes,” he agrees. “At times.”

——————————

Several days later, he prods again, and you are aggravated, though you try to play it off.

“Did you just say something?”

Aerion rolls his eyes, irritated. “I asked you what you did as a child.”

You pause, mind working to figure out what information he might be trying to gather from this. “That is a strange question.”

“It is a simple one,” he counters. “Try to keep up, wench.”

You scoff, rolling your head back against the cushions and swinging your feet onto his lap, ignoring the indignant look he shoots toward you. You lift your wine glass, beckoning for one of the courtesans to come fill it for you, and as she does, you tilt your head to look at Aerion again, calculating.

“What does it matter?”

Aerion shrugs, though his gaze remains fixed on you in that sharp, assessing way he’s been the past few weeks. “I am curious.”

“You have been unduly curious these past few weeks,” you note, subtly calling out his attempts at intel gathering, swirling your glass once it’s filled and lifting it to your lips, taking a long sip and staring at him from over the rim. Aerion flushes and gives you an accusing look. Some nerve. “Why do you care to know about my childhood?”

Aerion sneers, realizing you’re not going to drop the why. “Children are taught what matters long before they are old enough to understand it,” he says after a moment, voice clipped and logical. “How they play is how they learn to think.”

“Ah,” you realize, lips curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You are asking how the old blood raise their heirs.”

Aerion does not deny it, but he does squint lightly with a small frown, so you wonder if you got something wrong. You don’t press again, though, humming lightly, head falling back to look up at the ceiling as you decide how you want to answer. You feel his hand curl around your ankle, thumb running absent circles around the bone protruding there. Your gaze traces the impeccable marble above, considering your words. 

You should not indulge him, you think as you do every time he snoops for information. You know what he’s doing. 

Yet, you find yourself wanting to anyway. You want him to understand you—where you came from, who you are, how you became this way—and you want to understand him to. 

This is not indulgence, not a taste of fire or a distraction, this is—

“Well,” you say lightly, “we did not play at knights and maidens, if that is what you are imagining.”

Aerion scoffs. ”I am not.”

“Good,” you reply. “Because that would be terribly dull.”

He fights a sneer and then presses, “So? What did you do then?”

“We played cyvasse, of course,” you say first. “Before we could properly hold a blade, we were taught to move pieces across a board. Have you played before?”

“I have not,” he says after a moment. “How is it played?”

“It is a strategy game,” you explain, despite better judgment, despite knowing that if he were anyone else, you would have told him to fuck off and take his snooping to shove it up his ass. But he’s not anyone else—he’s Aerion, and you hate that it changes anything, everything. “Two players, each with their own set of pieces—elephants, dragons, heavy horse, spearmen, trebuchets, more—arrayed in secret behind a screen before the match begins. The board is made of varied terrain, so positioning matters as much as the pieces themselves, if not more. Each piece moves differently, and the goal is simple: outmaneuver your opponent and capture their king. It is more about learning foresight and patterns, and how to weaponize them, than anythign else—anticipating moves, controlling space, forcing your enemy into mistakes before they even realize they’ve made them. I will teach you to play one day—” The promise slips out before you can catch it, and you hate how easily it does. “—but you must promise not to cry when you lose, dragon prince.”

Aerion bares his teeth at you. “I do not lose.”

“You will,” you say with an easy curl of your lips, head lolling to the side to look at him. “I have not lost a game of cyvasse since I was a child.”

Aerion huffs and raises his chin. “We will see.”

So arrogant, you think fondly, a small smile on your lips as you roll your head back again to look up at the ceiling, exhaling through your nose as you recall the first time you remember sitting across from your father at the game table. 

You were young—four or five, maybe. You vaguely recall staying up half the night flipping through a war book detailing the Century of Blood. You didn’t understand half of the words yet, but you understood the pictures, and that was enough. 

He was proud of you—your father was always proud of you. You were his pride and joy, his sharpest blade, the child he paraded before the Tigers as proof that his bloodline would not falter when it came time to name a successor. Your brother was always your mother’s favorite, her soft little boy who only wanted for music and laughter, but you were your father’s daughter, cut from steel with a mind honed for war. 

You had not won back then, you were still only a child, but you remember how the room had gone quiet when your father realized what you’d done. How you’d unwittingly shaped the terrain to choke his advance, funneled his stronger pieces into narrow passes, sacrificed just enough to bait him forward. You had not understood the full scope of it then, only moving pieces in the way you’ve seen others and in books—you were just happy that you had made your cold father smile, determined to do it again. 

But the men around the table had understood. 

The old blood weigh their children in potential, and you proved in one game that you were not merely clever for your age, but prodigious in a way that could be honed with time. You saw patterns quicker than most, and moved pieces with an an instinct that could not be taught. You were invited to more tables after that, tested and pressed and always watched—and you always, always rose to the occasion. 

You were fucking inevitable, and everybody in the Black Walls knew it—from your peers to the elders to the Elephant cunts who watched you with wary eyes the moment you began shadowing your father at council meetings. 

The Tigers were desperate for someone sharp enough, ruthless enough, visible enough to rally behind without fracturing themselves in the process. Old blood bred pride, and pride made men difficult to follow—that was especially true amongst the warhawks of the Tiger party—but you made it easy. You were young, brilliant, charismatic, undeniably of them, and you made victories look effortless. You gave them something that they had not had in generations—momentum, the miracle needed to steal the majority from the Elephants after three centuries of losses dressed up as compromise.

Until you weren’t. 

From future Triarch to a prince’s whore.

Now you’re lounging with a fucking Targaryen, letting him pick you apart piece by piece, drive a blade into your chest, after you hand him the steel and stand there with open arms, smiling as he does it. 

Who the fuck even are you? What have you let him make of you?

A fool, that’s what.

Your teeth grind together, tongue pressing against the back of them as you school the heat that rises at your train of thought. 

“We played at war, too,” you force yourself to continue, clearing your throat, forcing the lingering thoughts away when you see Aerion watching you with those calculating eyes, trying to figure out where your mind is when it drifts. You do not want him to know, so you push it all away. You do not know whether you are more angry at him for asking, or at yourself for answering. “Much more violent than Cyvasse.” You toss him a wink and a smile that barely makes it to your eyes. “And much more fun.”

He raises his eyebrows. “War?” he echoes, and when you hum in affirmation, he says blandly, “War is not a game.”

“It is when you are a child,” you say. “Or rather, when your tutors wish to see what you might become. They would divide us—children of the Tiger families against one another. Give us each a stretch of garden, or a section of a family’s palace, or even an entire courtyard, and tell us to take one another’s. Whoever has the most territory by the end is crowned victor.”

Aerion’s eyes narrow, amused, curious. “How would you take territory?”

“With whatever we could find,” you say easily. “Wooden swords, practice bows, servants bribed into acting as informants, other children convinced to betray their sides. Once, I set fire to the stables one of the boys was given as his territory to smoke him out, and then had him hunt down another in exchange for keeping him in the game as a vassal.”

His lips twitch faintly. “That sounds less like a game and more like training.”

“It was, partly,” you admit. “Cyvasse showed them how we think. War games showed them what we would do with that thinking. They were able to determine which of us were worth investing time in, and which should only be used as broodmares and trophies for the ones who were.”

Aerion raises his brows slightly, as though considering your words. He asks at last, “And what did you do with your thinking?”

You give him a sharp smile. “I won, of course.” 

Your eyes slide shut, your smile softening. Your brother would always wait for you to find him during war games. He would try to slip away to some hidden corner of the palace whenever the bells rang to signal a day of games, but your father’s men always found him in time for the starting horn. So he learned to wait instead—counting on you to reach him first, so he wouldn’t have to face your father’s wrath for being the first to lose his territory. 

You’re too old for war games now, but you can’t help but wonder what your father has roped him into now that he’s his only heir left. You know well what it looks like—long days in the yard until your arms tremble and your grip fails, tutors who strike first and correct later, lessons in strategy that bleed into lessons in cruelty. You thrived under it, but he never did, fingers better suited to strings than steel, temper too gentle for the kind of world your father demanded you both to master. You stood between him and the worst of it for as long as you could—taking the harder paths and drawing the attention away, winning quickly so he wouldn’t have to lose slowly—but there is no one left to do so now.

Your throat tightens, and you ask after a moment to change the subject, “And what do Westerosi do as children, dragon prince?” 

Aerion doesn’t answer for a moment too long. You crack one eye open to peer at him, seeing how his expression is all twisted. He says after a moment, voice little over a mutter, “Knights and maidens.”

You laugh loudly, ignoring the way he sneers at you, a smile pulling at your lips as you roll onto your side to look at him more clearly. 

“Were you the knight or the maiden?” you tease, laughing again when he gives you an offended look, grabbing your ankle to drag you closer to him, until your head is flat against the cushions. He shifts so that he is hovering above you, forearms pressed on either side of your head, narrow hips slotted between your thighs. You lean your head up to brush your lips against his as you purr, “I would be your knight, zaldrīzes dārilaros.”

“I was the dragon,” he says, snapping down on your bottom lip. Your eyes flutter shut as he bites hard enough to draw blood before sucking lightly, running his tongue over the wound. “I am the dragon.”

“Yes, yes,” you agree, lifting your hands to cradle his face between your palms, fingertips skimming against his temples. “And a ferocious dragon, you are. Even back then, I’m sure.”

His eye visibly twitches at your words, and you fight another laugh as you lean in to press your lips to his again, sighing lightly into his mouth as he lets out a pleased hum, instinctively sinking into you. You drag your tongue lightly along his, tasting the honey he was picking at earlier off his tongue. After a few moments, you exhale through your nose and lay your head back against the cushions again. 

He tilts his head, gaze sharp, trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

“I think it sounds nice,” you admit quietly, tracing your fingers along his face before you let your hands drop. His brows furrow. “Knights and maidens growing up. It sounds…”

You trail off with another sigh. Your brother would certainly have preferred it. He might have actually been happy when the two of you were younger if he’d grown up in a place that had children play pretend instead of war. A lump forms in your throat. You swallow it away.

“Peaceful,” you finish at last. “A better way for children to be raised.”

Aerion’s expression is unreadable as he stares down at you.

“You think so?” he prods, an odd tone to his voice.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “Yeah. I do.”

——————————

“Hm?” you ask during the final conversation, the damning one, head lolling to the side so you can look up at him, mind fuzzy from the copious amounts of firewine you’ve consumed, limbs warm and weightless from the incense creeping around the gardens of the First Magister’s estate. “What did you say?”

“Do you ever pay attention when I speak, you useless whore?” Aerion snaps at you.

From the gardens below, a flutter of giggles reaches the balcony you’re lounging on with Aerion. You frown, peering forward through the marble bars to shoot a glare down at the gaggle of courtesans entertaining the First Magister’s eldest son, though they’re too drunk on wine and clouded by incense to feel your ire.

“Go silence them,” you mutter, even as you return to where you were using Aerion as a cushion, head against his shoulder, back to his chest. “They give me a headache.”

“You do not order me, wench,” he replies immediately, but there is a distinct shortage of heat behind the words, and he sounds thoroughly distracted. 

You squint, tilting your head to the side before you look up at him again, catching an unusually contemplative expression on his face. 

“Careful, dragon prince, you might strain yourself thinking so hard,” you say with a lazy smile, to which he instantly shoots you a sneer. Even that is lacking in its effect, so you ask again, “What did you say?”

Aerion exhales through his nose, arm returning to where it was snug around your waist. After a moment, he says stiffly, “Do you enjoy gardens?”

What type of question is that?

It is both the question itself that catches you off guard and the way he asks it—careful in a way he only is when he’s trying to fish for information, like he is circling something larger and cannot quite bring himself to say it. 

But what the hell would he gain through asking about your interest in gardens?

“What?” you say immediately, voice so riddled with confusion at his question that Aerion’s grip on you tightens, and when you glance at his face, you see the tips of his ears going red. Baffled, you back track, “Well, who doesn’t?”

Aerion frowns, as though not satisfied with your answer, and you stare at him, bemused.

“Now who doesn’t listen?” you say petulantly instead of answering, still trying to figure out the purpose of the question. All of his questions have led somewhere. This one must, too—you just cannot see where yet. “I told you all about the gardens in Volantis a few weeks ago.”

Aerion glares at you. “When?” he demands. “You did no such thing.”

“I did,” you hum, looking away spitefully.

“You did not.”

“I did. But I shall remind you, since I am feeling generous,” you tell him after a moment. “Back home, my family’s palace had a garden that stretched larger than the docks here in Lys. We had flora from all over the known world—Yi Ti, Ghiscar, even your little Westeros—my brother cried once because he could not understand why winter roses would not bloom in Volantis. He was so distraught that my mother asked my father to go down to the spellslingers and bloodmagickers to see if there was a way to sequester a section of the garden and alter the climate so that the roses might bloom for him.” 

Your lips curve up into a smile at the memory. 

Your brother wailed when your father came back with the unfortunate news that there was no way to make the roses bloom in the palace’s garden. The two of you were only six then, and he was already openly softer than you, more than what was acceptable to your father and your tutors, and this incident only further confirmed what they already feared—that he would never rise to be the kind of heir they demanded. They hoped to nip the weakness in the bud by separating the two of you, because you were always quick to rise in his defense whenever they tried to beat the fragility out of him, but they only succeeded in making sure that the two of you became very creative about disobedience.

You were meant to spend the mornings being bored to death in the music hall learning the harp and the flute, while your brother suffered through sword drills and archery in the yard below. Then, in the afternoon, the two of you would swap: you would take to martial studies while he would take to the arts. 

It only took three days for you to begin switching places after you discovered that the eastern corridor connecting the music hall to the training yard had a servants’ stair that no one bothered to watch.

You would double down on your favorite lessons and abandon the rest entirely. No one ever realized what the two of you were doing, or if they did, they didn’t dare tell anyone who mattered. You were both good enough at lying anyway—the only tells you had, squinting lightly before you speak and smile tightening slightly at the edges, were ones that you could only ever pick out in each other. No one ever knew either of you well enough to catch them. It worked out. 

It always worked out for the two of you until it didn’t anymore.

Your heart aches suddenly, and you blame it on the wine still wet in your mouth.

You do not like thinking of your brother, or home, or anything. You wish Aerion would not ask about it, but he does not seem keen on stopping anytime soon, and you clearly lack the ability to stop yourself from answering.

It is aggravating. You are aggravated already.

“There was no way, of course,” you finally say, blinking once as you realize you lost yourself in your own thoughts, and Aerion is waiting for you to finish your story, watching you carefully. “Or if there was, they were not going to waste blood and sacrifice on roses to dry my brother’s tears. But even without the winter roses, it was beautiful. We would spend hours chasing each other up and down the rows of flowers and shrubs, climbed the orange trees even when our governess yelled at us to get down.” You sigh and finish softly, voice heavier, “They were easy days, back then.”

You can feel him listening more closely than the story warrants, as though this—of all things—is what he had been trying to draw out of you.

It makes no sense, you think, frustrated. What are you missing? 

And then he says:

“You speak of magic casually.”

His voice is quieter than usual, thoughtful in a way you do not often hear from him. His chin rests lightly against the top of your head where you lean against him, and you feel the vibration of his words through his chest.

You scoff softly. “Of course I do,” you reply. “It is casual. Half of our rites are steeped in it. If your family hadn’t fled to the west before the Doom, you would know of them.”

“If our family hadn’t fled to the west before the Doom, we would’ve perished alongside the twoscore families of dragonlords who remained,” Aerion drawls. Then adds more curiously, “But you make it sound simple. As though one can simply walk into a shop in Volantis and purchase a spell the same way a Lyseni merchant buys silk. Is it truly so common there?”

Ah, you think, mood souring even more as Aerion reaches the intel he wants. You can feel the turn in questioning now, the question beneath the question. Not just what Volantis is, but what it still has, and what might be taken. What he might bring to his father to prove himself a worthy son. 

You tilt your head with a hum, eyes sliding shut as you force away the bitterness. You should stop here—redirect the conversation elsewhere. 

You don’t. 

You say lazily, “Within the Black Walls? More or less. When I was nine, I had a bloodmagicker curse an Elephant boy bald after he pulled my hair in court.” Aerion snorts behind you, but his arm tightens slightly around your waist, as though he wants to ask more but can’t formulate the questions. You know exactly what he’s doing. You press anyway, giving him the opening he needs. Your eyes slide shut in frustration—you do not know if you hate yourself or him more. “Are you interested in magic?” 

He doesn’t answer right away, and his voice is clipped when he says, “Well, it is our blood, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you agree blithely, running your fingers along the back of his hand, enjoying the way his fingers twitch under your touch, though you shouldn’t be enjoying anything at all. “Though your Westerosi maesters pretend otherwise, like to claim that magic died with the old city. The magic of Valyria will not die until the blood that birthed it does. Your family kept it alive with dragons, for a time, and ours keeps it alive through old rites and rituals passed down from our ancestors.”

You should not be telling him this.

Aerion makes a sound in the back of his throat. You feel him shift slightly behind you, velvet cushions rustling as he leans back against them, pulling you with him. Your limbs are heavy and weightless at the same time; you sink back into him because you can do naught but, head rolling back against his shoulder with a hum. You hate yourself for it. 

“Our family has not passed down many rites and rituals,” he admits quietly after a moment. “I—” He cuts himself off, and you crack one eye open to peer up at him, seeing the way his jaw works as he tries to find words. “I sought them out. Hoping to bring them back.”

He does not have to say what they are. You know by the wistfulness in his voice, the yearning in the way his grip tightens on you. You remember the expression on his face that day he woke after his fever broke—nyke ēdrugon ēdan iā zaldrīzes—and the bitterness that had begun to claw at your chest dissipates. Your gaze traces up to his face as he stares up at the night sky with the same unreadable expression he wears whenever the conversation edges too close to something he actually cares about.

At last, you hum and say, “Well, the old blood still remembers what your family abandoned. We retained many of the rites and rituals of our ancestors.”

It is easier to bicker with him than it is to acknowledge that you understand him far better than you should—because acknowledging that means admitting that you have really, truly known what he was doing from the very beginning, and that you have been giving him everything he wanted anyway. And that is an admission that will lead you to both a question you are not ready to face and an answer you’re not ready to hear.

Aerion bristles immediately, snapping him right out of his spiraling thoughts.

“We abandoned nothing,” he hisses.

“You did,” you reply, voice airy, though there’s an edge to it now. “Your family crossed the Narrow Sea, wrapped itself in Andal customs and Westerosi superstition to appease your new people. You built a kingdom among people who feared the very blood that made you powerful.”

His jaw visibly tightens.

“We conquered them.”

“Is that what you call it?” 

He makes a sharp sound of disbelief, and you continue, because it is also easier to provoke him than to sit with the way he looks when he speaks of wanting to understand Valyrian customs and tradition, because that only makes you want to indulge more, because it makes you want to tell him things you should not be telling him, because that makes you angry—at yourself, at him, at everything. Because you want him to understand you, where you came from, where he came from, even though you know his intentions. 

“You married outside the blood, and adhered to their laws and justice,” you say, counting lightly on your fingers against his hand. “You took their Faith, their maesters, their customs. Do you even know the names of the Fourteen Flames?” 

“The mountains?” Aerion scoffs, becoming increasingly more irate the more you speak. “I—”

“Our gods, dragon prince,” you say, gaze shifting out toward the gardens again. Aerion cuts himself off immediately, going silent. “I speak of our gods. Not the mountains.”

“I know the names of our gods,” he says through his teeth, face reddening. “Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar, Syrax, Ty—”

“But you did not know that the mountains were named for them. You do not know the proper rites. Have never stepped foot in a temple,” you finish lightly. Then continue lazily, tone far too conversational for the touchy subject. “I have heard stories of your Half-Year Queen letting smallfolk claim dragons in her little war with her brother.” You tilt your head slightly, amusement curling at the corner of your mouth. “I oft think I, too, was born in the wrong generation, because I would have paid dearly to see the faces of the old blood when that particular bit of news reached Volantis. They must have been absolutely aghast.”

His grip on you turns briefly bruising. Aerion’s voice becomes colder, more defensive. “They were dragonseeds.”

“Commoners,” you correct.

“They carried Valyrian blood.” 

He speaks as though the words are poison in his mouth, as though he agrees with you, but cannot bring himself to say it plainly—will not speak ill of his own house to someone who does not share its blood. 

“So do half the whores in Lys,” you say mildly. “Should we have allowed them to become dragonlords, too?

You don’t know why you’re pushing him like this, needling a subject that is clearly sore.

No, that is a lie. You know exactly why. Because you would prefer to turn this into a fight than admit that you are still answering his questions, than admit you are weak for him, than admit that you lo—

Aerion’s arm tightens around you again. “That is not the same.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I tire of this conversation,” Aerion says through his teeth, shifting as though to rise to his feet. “You are exceptionally irritating tonight.”

“You are the one who brought up the topic,” you disagree, settling back against him when he tries to move you off of him. He bares his teeth at you furiously when he finds that he cannot move while you’re on top of him. You give him a sweet smile in return. “You can only blame yourself, truly.”

“I did not,” he spits. “I only asked if—”

He cuts himself off, looking away, and you raise your eyebrows, curious. 

“You asked about gardens,” you recall, stretching languidly on top of him, a pleased sigh escaping your lips as his body shifts beneath you. “A terribly riveting topic. Why is it that you asked me about them again?”

It couldn’t have been to get to the topic of magic in the Black Walls—you had been the one to bring that up. There must have been some ulterior motive that he abandoned when the topic of Valyrian magic presented itself. 

But what was it? You find yourself stuck on it even now—all of the pieces he’s handed you fit together perfectly except for this one, and it’s bothering you. Because you feel as though you should know how it fits, like the true reason for his question is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t put it into words.

“It does not matter now,” he scoffs, looking away. When you glance up, the tips of his ears are red. You squint, suspicious. “It was only a question.”

Only a question, he says—like all the others.

“Well, did you intend to follow that thought somewhere?” you ask mildly. “Or were you simply struck by a sudden and unprecedented interest in my opinion of landscaping?”

Aerion exhales through his nose sharply. “You speak far too much,” he mutters, but his expression has gone distant now, uncertain, and you tilt your head to the side with growing interest. 

“You were going to follow the thought,” you say, voice soft in realization, sharp in accusation. “With what?” 

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

Aerion scowls.

“You are intolerable.”

“And you are very bad at being evasive.”

Instead, he stares out over the gardens again, his arm tightening faintly around your waist as though grounding himself in the present moment.

After a moment, he says stiffly, “I only meant to say that there are gardens in Westeros.”

What does that mean? you think to yourself, bemused, thoughts faltering mid-turn, trying to figure out how this fits in with everything else, but you find yourself at a loss, because it doesn’t fit. Not with the others, with the pattern you have been so certain of this whole time. What the hell do Westerosi gardens have anything to do with intel to send back to his family? Flora for trade?

Or—have you been off mark since the beginning? 

No. That is ridiculous. It was obvious. 

Right?

“Well, I would certainly hope so,” you reply dryly. “Nine kingdoms and not a single garden would be a strange place indeed.”

Aerion bristles like a furious cat. “Forget I said anything, you impudent wench. I no longer wish to speak of this subject.”

This time, you do laugh, turning in his arms to look up at his face. He does not look down at you, but he does hold you, one hand cradling the back of your head so you don’t have to strain your neck to hold it up, the other resting on your hip, nail biting into your skin.

“Very well,” you say lazily, mercifully letting him retreat from whatever thought has him so wound up. “Then I suppose we should return to more pleasant subjects.”

Aerion glances down at you suspiciously.

“Such as?”

You hum, nosing into the soft silks draped around his shoulders, thoroughly comfortable, though your thoughts are no longer quite so loose, still trying to figure out what this might mean.

“Well,” you muse, “we could return to arguing about how your family has abandoned Valyrian tradition.”

Aerion hisses angrily. He really is a lot like a cat, you think, terribly amused as you lift a finger to his lips only for him to snap at it. “You speak boldly for someone in my arms. I should snap your neck.”

You grin up at him easily. “I would enjoy the feeling of your hands around my throat.”

Aerion scoffs with a roll of his eyes, but he doesn’t quip back a snide retort as you expect. You can feel his mind turning again, circling something, and you wait for him to speak. Finally, he says, voice quieter, “If it still lives there as you say—magic, the old rites and rituals—why has Volantis not conquered half the known world? Why have you not—”

Why have you not brought back dragons?

You snort outright at that, and you can feel Aerion’s indignant gaze trained on your face.

“Oh, dragon prince,” you sigh, lifting your hand to cradle the side of his face, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. You don’t wince when he bites it hard, irritated by your condescension. Instead, you slip it into his mouth, stroking his tongue lightly to make his face flush. “Now who sounds like a child listening to stories? Magic is old and costly and temperamental. It only answers blood, and rarely in the clean, simple way men want. One can ask for rain and receive flood. Ask for victory and receive it at devastating costs. Ask for life and pay in something worse.” You pause, slipping your thumb out of his mouth, back to resting on his cheek, and you say more quietly, “There is no blood in this world valuable enough to restore what was lost.”

“You are wrong,” he replies after a few moments. You raise your eyebrows at the certainty behind his words, gaze flicking up to his face again, but his attention is somewhere beyond the gardens, and his body is terribly tense. “There must be.”

“Must there?” you ask dryly.

“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “Yes. There must. I’ve seen it. I—” He cuts himself off again, exhaling through his nose. You lean up slightly now, tilting your head to the side when you see the feverish intensity that suddenly spreads across his face, a frown settling on yours. “They will return. I know it. We just need to find the right price.”

“And what blood would you offer, dragon prince?” you ask him, voice light, but a bit more cautious now. “A thousand slaves? A hundred magisters? Our bloodmagickers have tried it all, I assure you.”

Aerion scoffs. “Volantis thinks too small.”

You’re more amused than offended as you ask, “Do we now?”

“Yes,” he says, amethyst eyes sharp as they cut toward you. “You speak of magic as though it’s some crude exchange. A goat for rain, a king for victory.”

“Because it often is,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Are you to lecture me on magic now?”

“Dragons are not rain or victory,” he hisses. “They were bound to blood. Dragonlord blood. Goats and common blood would never be enough, regardless of the droves they come in.”

You pause now, tilting your head to the side, lips curving down as you realize where his thoughts are turning. “If it were blood alone that was key, Volantis would have solved this problem centuries ago. Do you imagine our bloodmagickers have not thought of that? The old blood still runs thick and pure within the Black Walls, and it has spilled more of its own veins than you would find tasteful in its attempts to return life to our stone eggs.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks down toward you, jaw tight. “I do not mean Volantis.”

You hesitate, recalling the way he insisted that his poppy dream was not a dream, not really, and you feel unsettled. You do not like where this conversation is going. You do not like the feverish look in Aerion’s eyes, nor the certainty in his voice. You do not like any of this.

You scoff and say, “Then who? You sound as though you would be willing to offer yourself to the flames.”

“I am not afraid of fire,” he says after a moment. His gaze drifts once more to the sky, and you sit up from where you’re lying in his arms, lips pressed together, suddenly not feeling all too drunk at all. Your stomach drops. He adds quietly, “Dragons are born in fire.”

“Now it is my turn to tire of conversation,” you say after a moment, looking away, a pit in your stomach and a lump in your throat. You especially do not like the image that this evokes—fire and pain and charred bone and Aerion. “I think I preferred to speak of the gardens. Tell me more about Westerosi gardens. I might like to see them one day.”

You need to pull this back to something simple. Something you understand. Except, you don’t understand the gardens either, you realize desperately. You don’t understand any of this. You suddenly feel terribly out of depth, but you would rather he keep asking his pointed little questions, picking at you for answers you should not give, than sit here and speak so easily of throwing himself into the flames for a mummer’s farce.

Aerion’s attention snaps back toward you, expression caught between something wounded that you refuse to acknowledge and something hopeful that you also wish not to see. As though he can’t decide if he wants to be hurt by your dismissive words, or if he wants to lean into the fact that you’re willing to indulge his initial question. 

He evidently decides on the former and says tightly, “I thought you would understand.”

You exhale through your nose, watching the glittering courtesans below, though they feel strangely distant now. “Understand what?”

“That some things are worth more than comfort,” Aerion replies.

You scoff. “I understand ambition, dragon prince,” you say mildly. “Volantis practically breeds it. But ambition and martyrdom are not the same thing.”

“I did not say anything about martyrdom,” he replies, watching you with an intensity that makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. Is he fucking serious right now? you think incredulously. You are aggravated. You have been aggravated for weeks. You’ve been aggravated with yourself. You’ve been aggravated with him. You’ve been aggravated with this situation, the way you’ve handled it, the way he handles it. And now you are fully aggravated because how dare he come to you with I am not afraid of fire, and expect you to understand. He continues, frustrated, “You just spent the better part of an hour explaining that magic answers blood. That the rites of Valyria still live in your city. That the old blood still have access to the dragonlords’ secrets, and yet the moment I suggest that perhaps the answer lies closer to us than your bloodmagickers believe—”

“You suggest setting yourself on fire,” you say through your teeth, trying to rein in your temper. “I prefer my dragon princes alive and breathing, not charred bones.” 

“I am not suggesting dying.”

“You quite literally suggested burning.”

“I said dragons are born in fire.”

“And men die in it.”

Aerion shrugs faintly. “Most men.”

You withhold a deep sigh and instead ask, “Why did you ask me about gardens?”

Aerion stiffens, scowling at you from the corner of his eye. “I told you I no longer wish to speak on the subject.”

“And I no longer wish to speak on this one, so either sit here silently or put your mouth to better use.”

Aerion sneers at you, seemingly just as aggravated as you are, hand darting out to fist your hair roughly. “Perhaps I should force your mouth to better use,” he spits. “Put that vile tongue of yours to work at the only thing it’s good for.”

You lean in to press your lips against his before you can stop yourself, huffing sharply against his mouth when you feel his breath hitch as you shift back into his lap. His grip on your hair eases as he cradles the back of your head, and you slide your hands beneath his silks, nails grazing his abdomen in the way that always makes him shiver.

“I will teach you,” you say after a moment, before you really understand what you’re offering to him. You rest your forehead against his, lips brushing his as you speak. His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes to look up at you. You keep yours closed. “The old rites, the rituals, our gods and traditions—all of what your family has lost over time, but you will promise me something in return.”

What the fuck is wrong with you? 

All of the questions ring through your head again: What will you do when he leaves? Is this really just a taste of fire? Indulgence? Distraction? Why do you not sabotage, when you have never been above such methods before? Why, ever, would you think of home, and then think of bringing him to see it? Why would you sit at his bedside while he’s sick and nurse him back to health? Why do you sit here and let him use you as a source of information to report back to his family? Why do you find yourself so aggravated by this whole situation? Why did your stomach drop when he spoke of himself in terms of blood sacrifice? Why are you willing to teach him all of the things his family willingly abandoned, knowing how much it would infuriate your people?

You don’t have to look at him to know the rapturous look that must be in his eyes, amethyst slivers around widened pupils, lips parted. He always gets this way when you talk with him about Valyria and what is left of it. Aerion is almost breathless as he says softly, “Anything.” 

Your hands slide up along his ribs until they rest flat against his chest. The words leave you far more bluntly than you intend. “You will not burn yourself alive trying to bring life to stone.”

Aerion blinks, and then his brows draw together. His hands go still at your waist and in your hair. He says slowly, “You think that is what I intend to do.”

“I think you are arrogant enough and reckless enough to try, if you convince yourself you can, and you sound half there already,” you reply, nails digging slightly into his pale skin. One hand slides up further—to the Valyrian steel he wears on his throat—and rests there firmly. He tilts his head back slightly, baring his neck to you. “You are mine. You will not go somewhere I cannot follow, and I will not follow you into the flames.”

Aerion’s lips part as he stares up at you. Instead of becoming defensive, like you expect, his breath catches in his throat as he asks, “And where would you follow me?”

Would you follow me back to Westeros? 

The real question he’s been asking this whole time lands all wrong. Lands late. Like this question has been hanging between the two of you for weeks, waiting for you to catch up. The uncertain, wide-eyed look on his face now is the same one he’s worn every time he’s asked about Volantis—every time he circled and pressed, every time you told yourself he was picking you apart for something to send back across the Narrow Sea. Volantene politics, the Black Walls, what you knew of Westeros, how you grew up, the gardens. 

You knew from the beginning that he was never quite asking what he really wanted to ask, but you didn’t realize it was this. 

He was not asking what Volantis could give him; he was never trying to figure out information to send back to his family to shorten the sentence of his exile. He was—he was trying to gauge whether or not you would follow him back to Westeros; he was trying to make sure he would not have to leave you behind when it ended. The thought is almost laughable—that he has been dancing around the same question that has been haunting you for months—but the more you think of it, the more it makes sense. 

He wanted to know your opinions of his homeland to know if you would ever be willing to make it your own. He asked you about your childhood and the way you were raised to understand what you would be leaving behind if you did. He circled around politics and simple things like gardens to find where you might bend—to see what angles he should press if you proved reluctant, which arguments might sway you, and which might make you dig your heels in deeper if he brought it up. 

Your jaw tightens, remembering all of the ways you had inadvertently implied you would because you did not realize what he was asking.

It does sound like it could be amusing, watching it unfold—at times, that is.

I think it sounds nice. Knights and children growing up. It sounds… peaceful. A better way for children to be raised.

Tell me more about Westerosi gardens. I might like to see them one day.

Fuck.

Your throat tightens. “That is not a promise.”

“And that is not an answer,” he counters, matching your quiet tone. “I will decide whether or not I will give you my word after I’ve heard your answer.”

Would you follow him back to Westeros?

You do not know, you realize blithely. Lys without Aerion Brightflame here to warm your bed, to chase you across rooftops and join in your mockery of this island of silk sounds like a dreadful existence. Now that you have had a taste of life in exile with him, you do not want a life without him. 

But would a life in Westeros be any better? 

Aerion is a prince, and you are an exile. You would never be allowed to marry him—it would be a political disaster for the Targaryens if they allowed it. The Elephants could even take it as a declaration of war—and though you do not believe your father and the rest of the Tigers would back military action against you, the Elephants have their own means of war through coin and secrets. They’ve felled many an empire with gold and words, and you do not wish to see Aerion cast out permanently, as you have been, because of you.

And what would that mean for you, then? Would you be a mistress while he frolics with a proper lady wife? While she bears his children and his name? You would rather slit her throat, his, and then your own. You would rather set fire to their keep and give him the flames he so desires. You do not want to share him, and if you cannot have him, you do not want to be anywhere near him and the woman who does, lest you find yourself doing something regrettable. 

“I do not know,” you say at last, shifting away as his expression twists. He did not expect that response; you can tell from the way his lips part, from how he blinks once and then furrows his brows, recalculating.

“You do not know,” he echoes flatly. 

“I do not know,” you repeat stiffly, gaze shifting to the garden. 

Aerion scoffs suddenly, pushing you off his lap to rise to his feet, his face a war of pride and anger and embarrassment and hurt and disbelief. He convinced himself that your answer would be anywhere, everywhere, iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, and you cannot even blame him—weeks of careful questions to build up the courage to ask you more directly, and perhaps if you hadn’t been so blind, so quick to assume the worst, you could have subtly dissuaded him from this answer. 

Instead, you unintentionally led him right to it, not realizing his ultimate goal.

Fuck.

“Of course, you do not know,” he says bitterly. “I will make your answer easy, then: do not follow me anywhere.”

“Aerion—”

“Remain here, and play your games, drink your wine, fuck your whores,” he spits, making his way off the balcony, back into the First Magister’s manse. He casts a derisive look over to where you’ve risen to your feet. “You have made a life here. One that suits you well enough.”

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” you ask.

Aerion pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against the carved wood as he glances back at you over his shoulder. For a moment, he says nothing. Then his mouth curls. It is not a pleasant expression.

“It means,” he says slowly, “that you have grown very comfortable amongst silk and pillows for someone who was once meant to preside over the Black Walls.”

Your spine straightens, fury flaring hot in your chest as he uses what you told him against him.

“You—”

His gaze drags over you, distasteful.

“A daughter of Volantis,” he continues, voice edged with something cruel. “Heir to one of the oldest bloodlines in the city. Future Triarch, if I recall correctly.”

You stare at him in disbelief, anger hot, hurt worse, burning deep in your chest, in your lungs, behind your eyes.

“And now?” he adds. “Now you lounge about, bickering with courtesans and playing at being amused by everything around you. You speak of your city’s power as though it still belongs to you, but you do not even live within its walls.”

“Fuck you,” you say, the words a low hiss because you cannot manage anything else. 

“Done that, as has half of the city, I’m sure,” he says with a sharp smile. The steel on his neck gleams traitorously in the moonlight. “You were meant to rule the last standing city with the secrets of Old Valyria, and you cower at the idea of leaving your pillowed prison. Perhaps you are not who I thought you were. I have no interest in dragging a coward content on being a whore across the Narrow Sea.”

You stare at him blankly, words ringing in your ears long after he’s finished speaking. You don’t know why you’re so wound up, don’t know why it feels like there’s fire flooding your veins, why your heart is racing and your pulse thuds in your ears. You have not felt this way in a long, long time—not since you were on your knees in the Ivory Yard with shackles on your ankles and wrists. Even in that first year of your exile, when everything was still jagged and new and unbearable, when you were learning of the existence of new wounds every time someone spoke to you, no one managed to get under your skin the way that he has right now.

It is infuriating.

It is humiliating.

It is—it is fucking ridiculous.

You should not be so upset. 

You rationalize that it’s because he’s caught you while your guard was down, because you let him wear your guard down, even though that is something that you haven’t allowed in a long, long time. He’s been inadvertently whittling at it for weeks. All of his questions about Volantis, talking about your past, your father, your brother, your childhood—it reminded you of the future you were promised and denied—you should have deflected or redirected, but you answered, and it has put you in a state of wistfulness, of yearning, of what was and never will be again. You miss being home. You miss your brother. You miss your father. You miss who you were before exile. You miss who you could have been. Years of resentment, of anger and bitterness, have long since settled into something bearable—a still, glassy lake you’ve learned to live beside without looking too closely at your reflection in it. And Aerion—

Aerion has hauled a fucking boulder over and dropped it straight into the center. The surface shatters. The calm you’ve built annihilated, replaced with violent waves that drag everything buried beneath it back up—old anger, old pride, old longing, all of it rising too fast, too consuming, too much. 

And he has the audacity to stand there and look at you as though you’re the one who has done something wrong. 

Worse than anger, worse than pride, worse than longing, is the fucking hurt that spreads through your chest, cruel and unrelenting. Is it because you feel like a fool for not realizing all of this sooner? Because this was avoidable? Because this feels like your own fault? Because he’s using what you confided in him against you? Because you trusted him with something that he used as a knife to drive into your back? 

Or is it because he’s right?

You say, “Get out of my sight before I cut your fucking throat.”

“Gladly,” he hisses through his teeth. “You may find me when you remember who you are.”

——————————

“Remember who I am,” you echo, spitting the words at Caelyx. “Who does he think he is? He has no idea who I am. He thinks he knows me after a few months together on this island? I should have drowned him the moment he called me a whore on that rock, let him drink that poisoned wine, put my fucking blade into his throat. I—what?”

Caelyx is smiling into his wine next to you. “Nothing,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I just have not seen you so wound up in a very long time.”

You scoff loudly and look away, gaze flitting across the hall of Vyrano’s manse, where you have been forced to make an appearance for yet another of his ridiculous feasts. You got into an argument with the First Magister earlier in the day because you did not want to attend, but he insisted that your presence tonight was necessary, so now you are forced to sit in the same general area as Aerion as he lets two whores paw at him while wearing your Valyrian steel.

“I should kill him,” you say after a moment, teeth grinding together as your gaze draws over to where a girl with your hair color is kissing up his neck, and another with silver hair is positioned half in his lap. You don’t even want to look at him, but your attention keeps pulling back toward him. He’s not even looking at you. You want him dead. “Can you fucking believe this?”

Caelyx hums, shifting to face you. He lifts his hand, fingers grazing your chin before he tilts your face toward his, smoothing his fingers over the line of your jaw to try to make you ease how it’s clenched. You relent after a moment, sighing, and he runs a thumb over your bottom lip before he murmurs, “You are giving him what he wants, my lady. You must not keep looking at him. He grows more smug each time your eyes draw to him.”

You know that he is right. You press your tongue to the back of your teeth, eyes sliding shut. 

You can feel his gaze on you now that your attention has been forced away from him. 

That is as it has been for the last fortnight—you watching him when he is not looking, him watching you as soon as you look away. Both of you far too aware of one another while pretending not to be aware at all. 

You have not spoken to him since that argument in the First Magister’s manse. He has not sought you out, nor you him, and the days have been long and agonizing, terribly boring. You drink, you find whores to entertain yourself with, you lounge on sun-warmed rocks and velvet cushions. You do as you have done for five years, and it is unbearable in a way that it has not been since the first months of your exile. You are bored and restless, and your temper has been outrageously quick to snap, and you find yourself looking toward the east at dawn and dreading your bed at dusk. 

Is this how it is meant to be once he leaves?

You are furious. You are furious at the situation. You are furious at Aerion. But most of all, you are furious at yourself for allowing yourself to get attached to this Targaryen prince the way you have, for allowing him to become more than just another distraction, for allowing him the power to hurt you. You never should have let him become more than what he was that first night at the mid-summer festival: a plaything, fun to antagonize and toy around with, fun to pass the time, but nothing worth fussing over. The moment that Caelyx caught on to what was happening, and you felt your temper fraying just at the mere idea of him leaving for Westeros and you staying in Lys should have been warning enough for you to start pulling back.

Instead, you sat there and convinced yourself that it was worth it—that you would prefer a taste of fire at the risk of being burned to a lifetime of ash. Here you are, burned thoroughly, not for the reasons you anticipated, and you have no one to blame but yourself after lighting the fire and handing him the flame. 

“This is not who I am,” you say through your teeth, turning your face slightly into Caelyx’s palm. “I am not so—”

Weak.

“You are furthest from weak,” Caelyx murmurs, knowing what you’re about to say without you having to say it at all. You can feel Aerion’s eyes boring into the side of your head. It takes all of your will not to turn to meet his gaze. You distract yourself by letting Caelyx hold the weight of your head in his palm, lips curving down when he lifts his other hand to cradle your face with both. “You are the first daughter of the oldest bloodline in Volantis. Lady of the Sorrows—how many men can say they’ve made the River Rhoyne run red?

“Do not pander to my ego,” you mutter, but you do traitorously find yourself feeling better at his words. 

Do not forget who you are, he tells you without saying anything at all, which serves to irritate you because it reminds you of what Aerion had the gall to say to you two weeks ago. But Caelyx actually knows who you are, you tell yourself—he was here when you were at your worst, eased you through the rockiest days of your exile when you were angry and violent and only wanted to go home. It is different coming from him than it is from Aerion, who only threw it in your face to wound you.

“Ah, but you have always liked when I pandered to your ego, my lady,” Caelyx says with a familiar teasing smile, leaning in to ghost his lips against your jaw. He breathes out, “Though it’s true that you never did care much for words when I had you distracted properly.”

You huff out a soft laugh, tilting your head back slightly to give him better access to your neck. Your pulse flutters as his soft lips trail down your throat, nipping and licking at your skin the way you like. Caelyx has always been good at this—soothing you, pleasuring you, being with you when no one else dares to. Even now, even as fury clouds your mind and desperation runs through your veins, you find the terrible pulse pounding in your ears easing beneath his touch.

“You are shameless,” you accuse, though there’s no real heat behind it, letting him kiss down to your collarbone, and then back up to the corner of your lips. He brushes them there once, pale lashes fluttering as you tilt your face to him so that your lips ghost one another.

“Only for you,” he replies easily, hand from your face to your abdomen, fingers smoothing over your bare skin after he slips his hand beneath the silks. 

You do not answer. You do not trust your voice not to betray you. You still feel Aerion’s eyes on you, and it is maddening, the way your awareness of him lingers even when you refuse to look at him—like heat at your back, a blade hovering just shy of your skin. You know the threat is there even if you cannot see it with your own eyes. You itch to look at him, but Caelyx stops you before you can make the mistake.

“Let him stew,” Caelyx murmurs. You let out an airy sigh as he sucks lightly at the underside of your jaw. “You do not chase. Do not start now.”

A bitter laugh threatens to rise, but you swallow it down. “I am not chasing.”

“Not yet,” he says, lifting his face to brush his lips against yours again. 

“Not ever,” you reply, and his violet eyes glitter, pleased by your words. He nips at your lips. You let him. You click your tongue. “He is an idiot. He thinks the world should bend to him. That I should bend to him.”

“He is a prince,” Caelyx corrects, thumb stroking the line of your jaw. “He thinks the world belongs to him.”

And he thinks you do too.

The thought once sent a thrill running up your spine—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon, I am yours, you are mine. Now, it only frustrates you, because he was never yours, not really, and the months you’ve deluded yourself into believing otherwise have finally caught up to you now that he’s asked the question you’ve been dreading since Caelyx first brought up the topic. You slide your tongue along the back of your teeth, frustrated. 

“He is a fool,” you insist with a scoff. “Do you think I would get in too much trouble if I shoved him over the balcony?”

Caelyx laughs, a pretty sound, one that has always settled your nerves. “If you want him gone, my lady, all you need to do is say the word. I will have it done, and no one will know it as anything but a terrible accident.”

And yet, therein lies the issue. 

You do not want him gone. You want him. You want him completely, and you hate the idea that one day, someone else will have him. That the day will come where you either have to bid him goodbye or be okay seeing someone else have him in a way you will never. 

What a double-edged blade it is, you think, that exile is the only reason you were able to meet him, and it is also the reason you will never be able to have him.

Or maybe you would have found your way to one another anyway, you think wryly—somehow, someway. Though you cannot imagine how, because had you not been exiled, you would have been elected Triarch and married to your brother, but Aerion is—well, Aerion. And he matches you in a way that no one has ever been able to. You cannot fathom a life where the two of you never met.

Perhaps through war, you consider at last. You are both violent little things; it would be fitting that you met on opposite sides of the battlefield.

“I dislike seeing you like this,” Caelyx murmurs, a heavy look in his violet eyes as he pulls back to look at you, more serious than you’ve seen him in a long time.

“Do you? I’m surprised you haven’t hit me with an ‘I told you so’, yet,” you say, more a joke than anything else, but Caelyx flicks a disapproving look toward you.

“I find no satisfaction in being correct. If you remember, I only brought this up out of concern,” he says. Then his lips flick up into a familiar smirk. “Though if you insist, I did tell you this would be an issue.”

You roll your eyes, nipping playfully at his fingers, and he lets out another pretty laugh, leaning slightly into you. You mutter, “You are incorrigible. I cannot believe that you were the one sent to deal with me all those years ago. How did I not kill you?”

He winks at you. “You were too distracted to manage it.”

Your brows lift. “Was I?”

“Mhm,” he hums, voice dipping lower, amusement curling through it. “If I recall correctly, you were far too occupied with my tongue to be thinking about murder. Hard to stab a man when he’s got you too busy forgetting your own name.”

You snort despite yourself, shoving lightly at his shoulder. “Arrogant.”

“Is it arrogance if it’s true?” he replies smoothly, catching your wrist before you can pull away, pressing a brief, teasing kiss to the inside of it. “You’ve always had a weakness for my particular talents.”

“Mm,” you murmur, though your lips twitch. “A tragic flaw, truly.”

“A devastating one,” Caelyx agrees solemnly, though the smile in his eyes gives him away. His thumb traces slow, absent circles against your pulse. “Though I would be happy to remind you of it.”

“Perhaps I should take you up on it,” you murmur, lips curling up into a small smile when he leans in to ghost his lips against yours. “I find myself in desperate need of a distraction.”

Caelyx hums softly, pleased, the sound vibrating against your lips as he closes the distance properly this time, his mouth settling against yours with a familiarity that puts you at ease. He shifts closer, sliding closer to straddle your lap as his hands come up, one to the back of your head, fingers entwining with your hair, and the other slinking loosely around your shoulders.

“Desperate?” he murmurs against your mouth, amused. “That’s not a word I hear from you often, my lady.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” you scoff, but you’re smiling, eyes sliding shut as he kisses down your throat, one hand dropping to slide beneath your silks, skin warm against yours as he trails his fingers up your abdomen, your body instinctively shivering. “I—”

Aerion is across the room in a heartbeat, though neither of you notices until too late. 

You hear Caelyx let out a hiss in surprise, violet eyes flying open, and your attention snaps upward as he’s forced off you, yanked away with brutal force, balance lost as he’s dragged backward by his collar. 

“Aerion, what the fuck?” you start to snap when you recognize Aerion standing at the edge of the cushions, amethyst eyes ablaze, jaw tight, a type of fury rolling off of him that you’ve never seen from him before. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge you, and as you’re pushing yourself up to sit straight, you see steel flash in his right hand. Your eyes widen, and you’re moving before you even really understand what’s going on, hand wrapping around Aerion’s wrist as he tries to drive a dagger forward, fast and vicious, aimed straight for Caelyx’s throat. 

The force of his swing jolts through your arm when you stop it, a hair's breadth from plunging through Caelyx’s neck. Your fingers press bruises into his skin as you hold him in place, grimacing slightly as he strains against you, trying to force the blade forward anyway, driven more by fury than sense. Distantly, you notice courtesans and magisters alike fleeing the room, and you gape at Aerion in sheer disbelief, but Caelyx has the nerve to let out a breathless laugh, eyes wild. 

“Careful, dragon prince,” he purrs, voice smooth, despite the fact that the tip of the blade grazes his skin. “You’re looking rather unstable.”

You give Caelyx a sharp look, but he only winks at you, which only serves to set Aerion off even more from the way he bares his teeth. He drops the blade out of his right hand, left hand darting out to catch it by the hilt midair, but you jam your shoulder into his chest before he can swing outward with his free arm. He stumbles backward, eyes flashing furiously as he finally turns his attention to you, and you shift so that you’re standing in front of Caelyx, head falling slightly to the side as you stare at Aerion. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?” you ask him, voice light despite the tension in your shoulders as your fingers wrap around the grip of a fruit knife. The blade is much too thin for you to actually be of use in a fight with him, but it’ll be enough at least to deflect the blade. You just need to disarm him. “What the hell is your problem? There’s no way this isn’t going to get back to your father.”

That only serves to irritate him—maybe you should have bit your tongue. He says coldly, “Get out of my way.”

Who the fuck does he think he is? 

You smile sharply, although it doesn’t reach your eyes. It is only the two of you now—everyone else has fled the room, even Caelyx’s better judgment finally got the best of him, leaving the room as soon as you were between him and Aerion. “Make me.”

Steel clashes as Aerion lunges forward again, faster this time, both of you letting loose two weeks of frustration and fury onto each other as the dam finally breaks. The fruit knife in your hand catches the dagger with a sharp noise, the impact jarring up your arm as you deflect the strike just enough to send it skidding past your side instead of through it. You step into him, closing the distance, and you drive your elbow hard into his chest, knocking him off balance enough for you to lift your leg and put your foot into his thigh, forcing him down to one knee. 

“You’re out of practice, dragon prince,” you mock, pressing the tip of the fruit knife under his chin, enjoying the way his eyes flash furiously at your words, “or perhaps you are better off a whore than a knight. Your father chose the right Free City to exile to after you embarrassed him.”

His jaw tightens at that, something ugly crossing his face, but you are angry—his words echo through your head. You may find me when you remember who you are. He has no idea who you are, but if he wishes to know so badly, then you will show him the worst of you. 

“If you ask Caelyx nicely, he might be willing to give you some tips—he’s quite good at what he does, and I doubt your father will take you back anytime soon after this little display. You might be able to make some decent coin with his help when Vyrano inevitably kicks you out of his manse for causing too much trouble,” you continue when he doesn’t immediately respond, voice cutting, lips curled up into a small smile. “You cannot even hold yourself together long enough to stand in a room without drawing steel like a rabid dog, and you think—”

You don’t notice that he’s wrapped his hand around your ankle until too late, the air ripping from your lungs as he yanks your foot off the ground to knock you off balance, dragging you down onto the floor with him. Your back hits the ground hard, knocking the air from your lungs, and you grimace in pain when the back of your head smacks against the marble. Aerion is on top of you in a second, weight heavy on your hips as he leans over you to press his dagger against your throat, amethyst eyes wild.

“How many times have I warned you that your tongue was going to get you in trouble?” he breathes, dragging the blade up your neck to press it against the corner of your mouth. “Do you think this is a game? That you can say whatever you want and walk away untouched? That you can take what you like and leave the rest in pieces at whim? I’d sooner see you dead, whore.”

Your lips curl up despite the sting of the blade sliding against your skin. You ignore the taste of iron as you murmur, “And what, exactly, do you think I’ve taken from you, dragon prince?” 

His grip tightens on the dagger, and he doesn’t answer, but his expression tightens, jaw flexing and amethyst eyes shifting into something far more vulnerable than the rage that has consumed him. You hate the way it makes your throat swell. You hate even more than you know the answer to your question as soon as you ask it.

His breath comes out unevenly, and the dagger is still at your lips, pressing deep enough for blood to trickle into your mouth, but the expression on his face is all twisted, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

You notice, absently, that his fingers are trembling around its hilt—at your collar too, where he fists the silk you wear.

It would be so easy to mock him.

The thought rings through your head traitorously. You would if you were back home and he were any of your peers—you have in the past, laughing in Aenys’s face when brought up binding the most powerful families of the Elephant and Tiger parties through marriage, telling Jaenys to fuck off when he told you that he might love you. Only one person has ever been spared from your cruelty, and that person is not Aerion. You could make him bleed right now in a way that’s far more painful than the blade he has pressed against your mouth. 

You do not.

“You know what you’ve taken,” he replies, voice hoarse, little over a breath. The dagger slides down your cheek to your jaw, and he drags a thin red line until the tip of it is pressed to your pulse point. His eyes fixate on the droplets of blood that bead at the shallow wound before they flick back up to meet yours. “Do not play the fool. You knew what you were doing this whole time—clinging to me, mocking me, covering for me when you could, telling me about your home, taking care of me while I was ill, bringing me to places that you claimed were only yours. You knew what you were doing, and you do not get to pretend that you don’t. You do not get to pretend as though this is nothing. You do not get to walk away.”

“Aerion—”

“It is infuriating,” he spits, the tip of the blade digs a smidge deeper into your skin. “You’ll take everything someone is willing to give you, but the second they ask something back, you run—as though you think you do not owe anyone anything. You get close, you take everything you want, and then you leave before it can cost you anything, like nothing ever mattered. It is infuriating. You are despicable. I will not allow it. I am not a silk boy for you to toy with—I am a dragon. I am the one who takes. Not you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, lips parting and breath coming out too shaky for your liking as you stare up at Aerion. You can feel his breath fanning across your lips, the haze in his eyes reflecting a war of pride and fury and indignance and desperation. You’ve seen this before—never this raw and never this close, but you have seen it nonetheless. You have known that this volatility was there from the very beginning, tucked beneath the sharpness of his tongue and the arrogance he wears like armor. He burns too hot and too fast; everything in him is always just on the verge of spilling over into something uncontrollable, because Aerion feels everything too intensely, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it so he shows it in the worst ways possible.

“When I am called back to Westeros, you will come with me,” he says at last, eyes searching yours for an answer even though he speaks it as a command, dagger pressing into your neck a bit deeper as though reminding you that you do not have a choice, threatening you that he will go through with what he promised should you deny him, because he would rather you dead than with anyone else. “Say it.”

“No,” you reply.

Aerion lets out a noise caught between a hiss and a whistle, eyes flaring dangerously. “You think I won’t? I’ll kill you before I let you walk away from me. I’ll—”

“I don’t think you will,” you reply quietly, and Aerion makes another noise, this time in the back of his throat, wounded and furious like he didn’t expect you to call him on his bluff, “and you cannot make me come with you.”

Aerion grinds his teeth so hard that you’re sure it must be painful. He digs the blade into your skin deeper, as though trying to force himself to do it, and then he lets out a terribly broken exhale, letting the blade clatter to the ground next to your head. Frustration, rage, desperation all swim plainly through his face. 

He vows instead, “Then I will kill everyone else. If you stay behind when I leave, I’ll have them all hunted down.” When you sigh and shake your head, looking away, his hand darts up to grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “The whores you surround yourself with, the harbor brats that cling to you—anyone dares who comes close to you when I cannot. I will have them burned for it, and I will have their corpses delivered to you with Brightflame branded on their face, so that every time you look at them, you think of me—so that you may never dare to forget me.”

You exhale through your nose. “I will not forget you, Aerion—”

He bares his teeth. “Then I will make you wish that you could.”

You roll your eyes. “This is deranged—”

“I do not care,” he snaps immediately. His grip on your chin tightens, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. “You do not get to walk away from this. You don’t get to walk away from me. This was not nothing. I was not nothing. I am not nothing.”

“You’re wrong,” you say after a moment. A lie, it tastes bitter on your tongue, makes your chest ache so terribly that you want to take it back as soon as it leaves your lips. “It was nothing, Aerion. Just a bit of fun. You made it into something it isn’t. It—”

“Liar!” Aerion accuses, voice loud and shriller than he intends, expression twisting violently. “Iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon—” His voice breaks over the High Valyrian. “—you’re the one that said it. You are the one who said it. You do not get to say that and leave; you do not get to make me say that and leave.”

“It is not as easy as you’re making it out to be!” you finally explode, hands driving upward to push him off of you. He tumbles back onto the marble, and you grab the dagger he dropped near your ear. You swivel so that you’re the one straddling him, pressing the blade to the apple of his throat. “You are a fucking idiot, Aerion. You are an idiot, and I will not go to Westeros with you just to watch you get married off to some noblewoman—”

“You dare to call me the idiot,” he hisses, leaning into the blade without fear, forcing you to pull it back when it starts to sink into his neck. “You think I’ll let myself be married off to some dumb cow when I have you? You—”

“It is not up to you,” you spit, shoving his shoulder back down so he’s lying flat against the ground. He sneers up at you, lips parting, blood trickling down the length of his neck, amethyst eyes wide and wild, slivers around dilated pupils. You repeat more calmly, because one of you desperately needs to calm down before you end up killing one another, “It is not up to you, Aerion. You are beholden to your father and king, and they will never allow—”

“Fuck my father, and fuck the king,” Aerion interrupts viciously. “They can both fuck off. I will wed you here. Now, even—” What?! “They cannot stop me from having you.”

You exhale, shaking your head and closing your eyes, setting the dagger to the side. You look away as you sit back on his thighs, frustrated and just wanting this conversation to be over, because he will not listen to what you have to say. He sits up, one hand lifting to grab your chin again, more gentle now as he turns your face to him, thumb stroking the line of your jaw.

“I will do it,” he says, quieter now. “Here. Before we go back, so they cannot stop it. We can do it in Valyrian tradition—by blood and fire.”

Your throat bobs as your gaze meets his, the fervor still there, but the fire behind it has tempered into something less volatile, something warm and steady that settles over you like heat rather than wild, open flame that has been licking at your skin. It would be easy to lean into it, to let yourself rest in it. You want to—desperately, desperately you want to.

“I thought your family didn’t retain any of our rites,” you say, voice hoarse as you try to rebuild the walls that he has broken down stone by stone over these last few moons together, so that you can put this to rest. 

“We retained one,” he amends, thumb pressing against your lower lip. “Let me have it with you. We do not need anyone’s blessing—not my father, not my grandfather, not anyone’s. We do it here. We bind our lives in blood and fire, and it’s done. They can rage about it later, but it won’t matter. You’ll be mine, and I’ll be yours—iksan aōhon, iksā ñuhon—no one will be able to take it from us.”

You want to agree.

You so desperately want to agree. You do not think you have wanted anything so bad since the Triarchy was within reach. Since you were chained in the Ivory Yard, staring up at your brother for the last time as you waited for your fate to be decided. Since you were put on the ship to Lys, not even able to say goodbye to those you love. And you think it is ridiculous. It is ridiculous that you want this as badly as you wanted to be Triarch, as badly as you wished for a life with your brother, as badly as you wished to say goodbye—it is simply not possible that Aerion managed to carve himself this deeply into you in six short moons. 

It is ridiculous, it is absurd, it is exactly the sort of thing you have spent your entire life learning how to avoid. You have had men before him—men and women, better men and better women, safer men, safer women, easier men, easier women. You have had partners who would have given you everything without demanding anything in return—Aenar joined your campaign through the Shallows and Slaver’s Bay, knowing the risks, knowing it was treason, fighting at your side, spilling blood in your name, Jaenys almost started a war for you when the Elephants dared to chain you, Aenys would have set aside three centuries of family grudges and risked disinheritence to wed you—and yet—

And yet, your chest aches, and you cannot drag your eyes from his, wide and searching, tracing your face for a hint of an answer before you speak. You have never wanted any of them the way you want him. Never felt anything close to this—the tightness in your throat and the pull in your chest, the terrible, overwhelming urge to give in. 

You start to shake your head, and Aerion’s jaw tightens. “We can’t.”

“Why—”

“Because I will not see you exiled as I have been, Aerion!” you say loudly, shifting to get off of him, but he grabs your wrists to hold you in place before you can. His face is riddled with confusion, like he doesn’t understand what you’re saying—of course, he doesn’t, you think bitterly, because he hasn’t thought so far ahead. “You—you do not understand the gravity of my exile. I should be dead right now, Aerion. I should have been torn apart in the Ivory Yard. I parted on good enough terms with my father and the Tiger Party, yes, but the Elephants are the majority, have been the majority for three centuries, will likely be for the next three after what I’ve done. I am lucky that I am not dead, and if word gets back to the Elephants that the Targaryens have taken in someone they exiled for high treason, they can take it as a declaration of war, Aerion.”

Aerion presses his lips together. “They cannot do anything to Westeros—” You laugh, it is a harsh, cruel sound, and you roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. He is a fool—an arrogant, idiotic fool. “—They can’t. I would like to see them try to declare war on us. They would—”

“Westeros has been facing civil unrest for over a decade, Aerion,” you spit. “Do you think we are fools who do not pay attention to what happens across the Narrow Sea? Your lords are already looking for excuses to turn on you. The court bristles over Rhoynish influence, and the Blackfyres did not rise from nothing. They had support, they still have support. Men who lost lands and sons and pride for backing them, men who would seize any chance to see your line weakened again. They sit here in Essos now, building their power in that sellsword company that just sacked Qohor, and all the Elephants would have to do is whisper in the right ears, send the right coin—”

You shake your head. You cannot swallow away the lump in your throat. You knew all of this already—it has been hanging over you for several moons now, but it is different speaking it out loud. You will never be able to be with him, not unless he accepts that being with you would mean setting aside any hope of ever being able to go home. 

“Your father will not risk it—your king will not risk it,” you tell him. “Westeros cannot afford to make an enemy of Volantis when there is so much unrest already, and I will not see you bind yourself to me through blood and fire, knowing that as soon as you do, your father will have to permanently exile you to avoid a war with my people.”

He’s quiet for a long moment—too quiet, and too long. You expect him to argue, to snap and deny and twist your words into something easier to fight against, but he doesn’t. His grip on your wrists loosens slightly, not enough to let you go, but enough that it no longer feels like he’s trying to restrain you, so much as it is that he just wants you close.

“I do not care,” he says simply after a moment, but his voice is stripped of anger and frustration; there is something small and childlike in the words, as if he knows what you’re saying and understands the logic behind it, but can’t bring himself to accept it, even if all he has a flimsy lie to shield himself from the truth. It is so far from the arrogance and fury he hides behind that it cracks your chest right open. His gaze doesn’t leave yours, wide and stubborn and far too open as he shakes his head. “I don’t. I just—”

He falters, staring at you, lips parted as he shakes his head. 

“It is your fault,” he accuses, throat bobbing as he swallows. “It is your fault. You should have left me alone—” The edge to his voice comes back now, not entirely, but enough. His breath is unsteady, eyes locked to yours as though he’s trying to force you to understand. “You should have treated me like everyone else on this pillowed prison, but you didn’t. You dragged me through your city, into your games, into your ridiculous, arrogant little world where you pretend you are above anything. You let me in. You told me you were mine, and that I was yours, and now you expect me to go back to Westeros and sit in that viper’s nest and pretend that I am—that I have not had you? That I have not felt—”

He stares at you, his face twists, he is angry, and you are not sure if it’s at you, himself, or both. You do not dare speak, because there is a heat that threatens behind your eyes, and a tightness to your throat that is overwhelming.

You know this, you want to tell him to shut him up. You know this is your fault, you know you never should have let this go so far, you know this is a mistake that has irrevocably destroyed you both. 

“You’ve ruined it,” he breathes out. “Do you understand that? You’ve ruined everything. I have thought about it, you know? Every day since my father exiled me, I have thought about leaving this wretched place and going home—there was nothing I wanted more than I wanted to go home.”

His voice is strained, and the words come faster, more accusing, like he’s been holding them back for too long. You wish he would stop talking. You don’t want to hear this—it will only make everything harder. He continues before you can bring yourself to speak.

“I counted the days, envisioned our banner in the harbor, imagined walking up to my father and—” He cuts himself off abruptly, grimacing as he looks away, as though he was about to admit to something that he realized he shouldn’t. “I would step back into it, and everything would be as it should be—and then you—and now I—” He rubs his face hard, frustrated. “Now I think about going back, and it feels like I am being dragged back into something smaller. I look at it now, and all I can think about is that you will not be there.”

“Aerion—”

“And I am supposed to want that?” he demands, something incredulous slipping through the anger. “I am supposed to be satisfied with it, knowing—” He exhales sharply, cutting himself off again before the words can come out wrong. “I won’t be. I know I won’t be. I will think about this place, about you, and everything else will feel like a poor imitation of something I’ve already had, and it is your fault. You’ve made everything else feel—” He falters again, as though searching for a word to describe what he means. “—less. You have made everything feel less, and you do not get to ruin it—me—and walk away like it is nothing, do you understand?”

You do not respond for a long time, staring at him helplessly. You do not know how to respond—and it is such a foreign feeling, truly. All of the years you spent honing your blade in the training yard and your tongue in court, and this dragon prince has it tied in knots, because you do not know what to say that will make him understand. 

“Say it,” he says again, hands slipping from your wrist to hold your own, fingers sliding between yours. “Say that you will come with me.”

You let out a shaky breath, and then you smile. It is tight at the edges. “Okay. I will.”

“You will?” he breathes out, eyes searching your face rapidly.

You swallow, and then you nod, breathing in deeply, squinting slightly before you say again, “Yeah. I will.”

Aerion visibly relaxes, breath leaving him in a rush, like something in his chest has finally unclenched after being wound too tight for too long, like the fire burning him from the inside out has finally been extinguished. His hands tighten around yours firmly, and he searches your face again.

“You mean it,” he says, not quite a question, but he waits for you to answer as though it is one.

You nod. 

It feels easier than speaking. 

He exhales again through his nose, separating his hands from yours to lift them to your face. He cradles your cheeks between his hands, gaze tracing your face, and you hope that he does not see the lie thinly veiled behind your eyes. You lean in to press your lips against his before he can search for too long, hands sliding up his abdomen to rest firmly on his chest. You can feel the rapid pace of his heart thrumming beneath your touch, can taste the wine on his tongue as it mixes with the blood still wet in your mouth. 

He kisses you back, lips sliding messily against yours, fingers biting into your cheeks. One hand slides behind your head so that he can thread his fingers through your hair, and the other slides down to your waist, so he can pull you impossibly closer. You have kissed Aerion hundreds, thousands of times since he’s arrived in Lys, but this kiss feels different—it is not rough and biting, a fight more than a caress, and it is not even like the slow kisses you share in the cove, a place that is only yours and only his, where you can fall into each other without fearing unwanting eyes. This kiss is—

It feels like surrender. Surrender to this. To each other. To this mess that you have found yourselves entangled in, with no hope or desire to be free from. To everything you have been denying for moons on end, because this is not distraction, or a taste of fire, or indulgence—if it were, you would agree to his request without hesitation, you would not lie to appease him, knowing you will renege on your promise when the time comes, because you would not care if Aerion was permanently exiled for binding himself to you through blood and fire. You would not care because it would mean you get to keep him, because all you care for is your wants and whims, without restraint and without consequence. 

But you do care. 

You see the way he looks west, and you see the yearning in his eyes when he speaks of home, though he tries to hide it behind a veneer of arrogance and bitterness. You see it, because you are intimately familiar with it yourself—and you will not be the reason he is stripped of his birthright and cast out. Not when you know very well that he will never truly be happy choosing you, when you know the what ifs will haunt him for the rest of his life, and he will look west when he thinks you are not looking, and he will dread sleep because he will be forced in front of all of the faces he left behind.

It is not your right to make this decision for him, a traitorous part of you whispers as he sighs into your mouth, hand sliding up and down your back as he kisses you deeply. It is his decision to make, and if he chooses you, then so be it, but—

But you know better, you counter viciously. He doesn’t know exile as you do. How could you condemn him to what you’ve suffered for five years, what you will suffer for the rest of your life,  knowing how it’s ruined you? What would you do if you were in his position? If you had a chance to go home, but it would mean leaving him behind for good? Would you take it?

If you had a chance to go home, but it would mean leaving him behind for good, would you take it?

Your breath catches against his mouth as he drags his tongue across your lower lip, waiting for you to part them for him. You do, and he lets out a pleased hum against you as he licks at the inside of your mouth, tongue pressing against the cut he made at the corner, lapping at the blood he drew. 

You love him—somehow, some way, Aerion has managed to worm his way into your heart. He has lit up the part of you that you thought died the moment you were cast out from the Black Walls, stripped of everything that made you who you are, your promised future, the one you bled and destroyed yourself for, ripped away like it was nothing. Five years you’ve spent rotting away, cold and empty and always lying to yourself, and he was able to reignite the flames that once burned through you like it was nothing. 

And he loves you, you know this now, too. If he didn’t, you would not be having this conversation; he would not be convinced that he wants you more than his birthright, he would not be so upset over the idea of you not coming with him, he would not allow himself to be so—

His breath hitches into a soft moan against your lips when you shift your lower body so that you can sit more comfortably, unwittingly putting pressure on his half-hard cock. His pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, waiting for you to do something rather than take it himself. You hesitate just for a second, gaze tracing the flush high on his sun-kissed cheeks before you slip your hand beneath the silks he wears, fingers wrapping around his cock.

Aerion’s jaw falls half slack, head lolling backward as you lazily stroke his cock, thumb running over his tip, smearing the precum already dribbling down his length. It’s not long before he’s heavy in your hand, breath leaving his lips in ragged pants, the whites of his eyes slivers as his eyes roll half-back when you squeeze the base of his cock. He tries to turn his face away, chest heaving. 

“Jurnegon rȳ nyke,” you breathe out, free hand coming up to cradle his cheek gently as you pick up the pace of your wrist, leaning in to ghost your lips against his, nipping his bottom lip. He lets out a low moan, pale lashes fluttering as his hazy gaze tries to focus on you. “Jaelan naejot ūndegon ao.”

Look at me. I want to see you.

Aerion’s breath is hot and shaky against your lips, eyes lidded; you can feel his abdomen tensing and spasming as he tries to stop himself from jerking his hips up so that he can fuck your fist. You press your lips to his more firmly, tasting the wine on his tongue as you drag your tongue against the roof of his mouth. The next noise he lets out is more of a whine than a moan, pitched and breathy and so sweet that you just can’t help yourself from giving him what he wants when he gasps a: “Kostilus,” into your mouth. 

Please.

You part your lips from his and smile when he instinctively finds himself chasing you, a pout forming on his kiss-swollen mouth when you lean back a little further, just far enough so that he can’t catch you. Before he can start complaining, you shift forward, hand sliding down to your own silks so you can shift them to the side. 

“Oh,” you breathe, breath hitching when his tip presses against your cunt, slipping against your slick folds. 

You nudge your nose against his, forehead-to-forehead, eyes sliding shut as his trembling fingers find your waist so that he can help you ease down on his cock. He nips your bottom lip once before you start to sink down, and lets out a low moan when he feels your walls clamp down around him. You take in a breath that sounds almost like a hiss, a sharp whistle between your teeth as your back arches into Aerion’s chest, the burn of his cock against your walls, stretching you open, makes your thighs tense and your head all hot.  

“Sīr ȳrda,” he groans, leaning back slightly so his lidded gaze can drop to where the two of you are joined. 

So tight.

One hand slips from your waist to your cunt, lithe fingers sliding down to your clit so he can rub slow circles on it; your head drops forward as you gasp, forehead pressed to his temple, you mouth absently at his jaw, biting back a whine as he lifts your hips up off his cock until only his tip is stretching your hole, and then guides you back down. He does it again, and again, again—a slow, agonizing pace that makes tears prick your eyes. 

You rock your hips against his, desperately trying to take over to set a quicker pace, teeth grazing his neck; his fingers bite deep into your thigh, thumb still rolling your clit, chest heaving as he lets you bounce on his cock at your leisure. Each time you drop your hips so that you’re flush to his thighs, you swear that you can feel him in your stomach, so deep that you can hardly breathe, hardly think, so full of him that all you can feel is him. 

Your fingers claw at his back, and he grunts lightly, arm slipping around your waist so that he can drag you closer, until your chest is to his and you can feel the rapid thuds of his heart against your body. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, muffling a moan by biting down hard when he starts fucking his hips up into you, meeting your bounces, burying himself deeper, deeper, deeper. He pinches your clit lightly, shifting the angle of his hips, and you choke out a noise—a sob or moan or gasp, you’re not sure, half his name, half a curse—as your whole body shudders, nails raking down his spine, jaw falling slack as you cum so hard that spots dot your vision.

“Gevie,” you hear him breathe, arm tightening around your waist, holding you close as you come undone on his cock. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and your thighs burn, and your body is trembling violently, and the lewd sound of his cock driving in and out of your cunt has you dizzy. You can hardly even make out what he’s saying, drowning in the feeling of his slick body sliding against yours, the sound of his hitched gasps and pitched moans, the taste of his skin, of the blood you drew at his throat before you tossed the knife away. You cannot get enough of him. You will never get enough of him. “Kesi—kesi sagon mēre. Ao se nyke. Rȳ ānogar se perzys. Ivestragon ziry.”

Beautiful. We—we will be one. You and I. Through blood and fire. Say it.

You feel his fingers leave your waist to slide up your body, threading through your hair. He pulls your head back, and your breath hitches at the sight of his swollen lips and sweat-slick skin, glistening as the sun begins to set outside. You choke on air as he thrusts his hips up, eyes sliding shut again, thighs so tense that it’s almost painful. You already feel as though you might cum again, chest fluttery and stomach tight and hot, and Aerion’s grip tightens on your hair, the pull at your scalp forcing another moan from your lips as he tries to get your attention to him again.

“Say it,” he demands, but you don’t even know what he’s referring to, all of his words sliding in one ear and out the other, eyes big and watery as you lose yourself in the familiar amethyst, black blown wide and so fucked-out that you can see the haze he’s feeling in them. His jaw tightens when your cunt spasms around him again, lashes fluttering as he lets out a low groan, abdomen flexing beneath your hands. His cock twitches inside of you, and your eyes half roll back when you feel it grind against that soft spot that makes you writhe, a whimper spilling from your lips. “Say it!”

If you had a chance to go home, but it would mean leaving him behind for good, would you take it?

“Avy jorrāelan,” you gasp, because you do not know what he wants you to say, and the question that keeps ringing through your head makes your eyes wet and your chest hurt, and that is the only thing you can think of when he looks at you like this, when he holds you like this, when he is so deep inside of you that you cannot even breathe, much less think. There are no walls to keep in what has been plaguing you for moons now, no way for you to twist what you feel for him into something more manageable—more understandable.  

I love you. 

The words rip from your lips so honestly that it stuns you—that all you can do is stare up at Aerion with parted lips, only barely processing what it is that you spoke, watching the way he physically falters, eyes widening. It is the truth, it is the truth you have been avoiding acknowledging for months in fear of what it means—the truth you have been terrified of, desperately trying to explain as something else. 

You want this for the rest of your life, you want him—this was never just indulgence or distraction. Never. This was always—it was always him. It was always you. It was always the two of you together, from that first meeting until now. This was how it was meant to be. He is the fire to your steel. You are sharp enough to cut, and he is hot enough to burn, both of you are reckless to actually try, and you love it—you love him.

But if you had the chance—

His grip on your hair loosens, mouth hanging open, and then he leans in, before you can blink, pressing his lips to yours in an open-mouthed kiss, hot and messy, lips slipping and teeth clashing. He kisses sloppily down your neck to your collarbone, teeth catching skin, and then he drags his mouth back to yours. He does it again, and again, and again. 

He muffles a pitched moan into your mouth, and it catches on something close to a whine. He is mumbling something, the same thing you spoke: avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan, avy jorrāelan. He says it like a prayer, desperate and reverent all at once—over and over and over again, through gasps and groans and whimpers, muffled into your mouth, against your skin. 

His grip on your hair and waist tightens, and he pulls you down on his cock, fucking his hips up into you for one last reckless thrust as he spills his seed deep inside of you with a choked noise, pretty face twisting as his eyes knock back and his jaw falls slack. 

You shudder against him when you feel him fill you, cum pumping deep inside of you, so much of it that you can feel the excess dribbling out of you, smearing on your thighs. You’re hardly even able to kiss him back when he finally brings his lips back to yours, breath ragged as he drags his tongue across the back of your teeth, sliding it lazily against yours. You sink into him, a pleasant, boneless feeling settling into you, one arm slinking around his waist while the other entangles with his hair as the two of you come down from your high, sharing the same air, the same warmth, unwilling to unwrap yourselves from one another.

You do not know how much time has passed by the time you finally speak, but the sun has set, and the stars glitter through the night sky, and you finally ask the question that has been bothering you for a fortnight now: 

“What brought all this up? About going back to Westeros?” you ask quietly after a moment, carding your fingers through his silvery hair. Aerion is still panting, eyes half-glazed over as he buries his flushed face into your chest. “Hm?” 

“I… I have been in correspondence with my father,” Aerion says after a long moment, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he pulls himself together. You knew this already from your harbor brats and courtesans, but you hum anyway as though it is new knowledge, ignoring the pit in your stomach. “I am sure you have heard of the fever spreading through the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I have,” you agree after a moment, fingers stilling briefly in their steady movements as you wait for him to continue. It is hard not to hear about it when all of Essos has closed its ports to their neighbors across the Narrow Sea. From what you hear, half of the folks in their major cities are succumbing to the sickness; a strong man could wake up healthy in the morning and die by evening. 

“My grandfather and two of my cousins have come down with it,” Aerion says quietly after a moment, and you’re grateful he doesn’t see the way your eyes slide shut in shame, as you remember what you’d been spiraling in paranoia about a fortnight ago. His kin is dying, and you thought he was sending ravens to betray your trust. “The maesters do not think they’ll live through the moon, and my uncles Aerys and Rhaegel are in the Red Keep too—if the worst comes to pass and they all succumb to the fever, then my father will have to bring me home when the ports reopen. It could be months from now, it could be next week.”

You do not know how to respond to this. You have never been good at comfort. “I see,” you say after a moment, voice soft. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandfather and cousins. Were you close?”

Aerion scoffs softly into your skin. “No,” he mutters. “My grandfather and grandmother always preferred Uncle B—” He falters over the name, but then clears his throat and continues. “—Uncle Baelor and his sons. After what happened in Ashford, well, they could hardly stand to look at me and my father. They blamed us for Baelor’s death, even if they wouldn’t say it out loud.”

There is something odd in his voice as he says it, as though it is only a front of indifference that he’s putting up, as though it bothers him more than he’s letting himself accept, but you do not call him on it.

Instead, you ask, “And your cousins? Were you close to them?”

“No,” he says immediately, and then pauses. He says again, with less certainty, “No.”

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest against you, like he’s searching for something to do with them. You do not respond yet, because he sucks in a breath as though he has more to say, but doesn’t know how to push it out. 

“They’re Baelor’s sons. Valarr and Matarys,” he continues after a moment. He adds bitterly, “Everything I was supposed to be, according to my father.”

His throat spasms as he swallows. “Matarys—he is younger. He did not take to combat or jousting. I do not see much of him. We are not close. Valarr—” he starts, and then huffs a quiet breath against your skin. “Valarr is always around, always doing what is expected of him. The perfect prince. The perfect son. My grandfather adores him. My father—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening as he lays his forehead on your shoulder. “Everyone does.”

You hum, just so he knows you’re listening.

“I speak to him,” he admits, quieter now, like it’s something he doesn’t particularly enjoy admitting. “Spoke to him. More than the others. We wrote to each other when my family left for Summerhall after the rebellion, and sparred often when we visited King’s Landing. I thought—he did not write to me after Ashford, when I was sent here. Did not speak to me after the trial. I almost died—nearly bled out on the tourney field, almost had my skull crushed by that oaf of a hedge knight, and he did not even bother to—no one bothered to—I—it does not matter. I do not wish to speak of this.”

You want to ask him about the Ashford Tourney, curious to hear what actually happened. Rumors have crossed the Narrow Sea, of course: Prince Maekar’s mad son invoked an ancient blood trial to cull the line of succession, that he meant to cut his way through kin and rival alike beneath the guise of honor, that he laughed when he learned his father struck a killing blow to his uncle. You have never been one to put stock in rumors—there are countless that follow you and the reason for your exile—but there’s always some level of truth to them.

But Aerion’s voice is strained, and his fingers have gone still against you, so you do not press. Your fingers resume their slow path through his hair—it is longer now, six moons ago, it was cropped short to his ears, but now the silver brushes past his shoulders, soft, silky strands that you could spend hours toying with. He breathes out against your skin, uneven at first, then slower, as though trying to regain some control over himself.

“It does not matter,” he repeats again, hands curling against you, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I do not care about them. I do not care if they send ravens, and I do not care if they drag me back or leave me here to rot.”

He is lying. You can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his grip on your waist tightens, the way his fingers tremble despite ardent attempts to still them. Your eyes slide shut. 

He lifts his head from your shoulder so that he can look at you, and your hand slides from the back of his head to his face, thumbs absently stroking the faint scars that line his cheeks. Usually, he would turn his head away or bat your hands, but now, he lets you, leaning into your hand slightly, like the touch steadies him, like he needs it more than he wants to admit. His eyes slide shut for a moment at the contact, lashes resting against flushed skin as he lets out a heavy sigh. 

“You will come with me,” he says again at last, forcing his eyes back open so that he can look up at you. “You will. We will do it here, if we must, if that’s what will convince you—blood and fire. I do not care.”

His gaze searches yours with that stubborn, unmovable certainty that makes it impossible to argue with him properly. You exhale through your nose, not responding right away.

“Say it,” he adds, quieter now. “Say that you’ll come with me.”

He doesn’t need to speak the please that almost comes with the words. 

Your lips part, and your fingers still against his face, the pads of your fingers brushing over the raised skin before your hand slides down to rest on the side of his neck. Your thumb glides along his pulse, feeling how it flutters unevenly beneath your touch.

If you had a chance to go home, but it would mean leaving him behind for good, would you take it?

You smile lightly—it is small, and it is tight at the edges. “I will. I’ll come with you.”

Yes. You would.

[ghostlybfgf]

could you write about the akotsk men lowkey (or highkey) yearning for the reader? i just know your headcanons would go absolutely feral and unhinged in the best way 😭

i sure can, and this idea was delicious i couldn’t pass it up.. they be going crazy 🙏

yearning for their s/o

featuring: baelor, maekar, dunk, aerion, lyonel, valarr and daeron

Baelor is the quiet type in his yearning, the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud or adorned in silk and splendour, yet he makes it known in the small ways. Though it eats him up inside. The thought of you alone is enough to drive him mad, it tightens his chest, a lingering thought of your smile or your scent even in the middle of council or meeting with lords that makes him shuffle the rings at his fingers tighter.

He paces in his room at night at what to do, not because he is unsure of you or himself, but instead how you would react. He wants to do right by you, to treat you well and better than my other could, and no doubt he could do so.. and so he does it with kindness. And as he becomes more straightforward, he is as chivalrous as people speak of.

Everything he does is in respect and in thought of you. The hand at the small of your back, the gentle warning in his voice when someone dare make a threatening step or word toward you, the way he doesn’t flinch at your touch, even when angry or upset, but his body shudders, like memorising you. His face follows you everywhere, boring into your being like you are the only one around him, in front of beside, and to him.. you are. Like you hung the moon and the stars all at once, even when duty and the world grains on him, you are the saviour.

Though it doesn’t come out as much as he wishes it to, he affirms his actions with his words. And he never lets a moment slip from his grasp, when he is to be away from you for a while, he’s pulling you aside into a quieter corner of the Keep, or holding you from behind in your chambers, whispering about how much he adores you, about how strong the pair of you are together just as you are apart, and he is the same when he has been away. He comes back to you, back straightened and at a respectful distance, yet when you are alone, his hands curl around you, breathing you in, pressing kisses to your skin.

He listens when you’re speaking like you are reciting poetry, or prophecy.. it does not matter either or, but he memorises it down to the finest detail. How you spent your day with your ladies, where you went, how you’ve been feeling and the little things that made you laugh. As much as he tries to ward it off, when another fanciful lord or young knight apparoches you, and you laugh a little too hard or stand too close his smile fades a little and he dismisses himself. Baelor feels selfish in wanting you, but it’s something that consumes him, and his presence is all protecting, even when at a distance.

——

Just as much as he broods, for Maekar, nothing close compared to how he does as how he feels for you. He rejects it in a sense, pretends he doesn’t care as much as he does, but it’s all wrong.. because he cares too much. Every little thing you do. Another man comes near you? His jaw tightens, fists clenching a little so much he contemplates drawing his sword. He sharpens with everyone else around him when you are near, like he is fighting himself, an itch crawling his spine.

He tests in ways, accommodating in the smallest of ways. Adjusting your cloak whilst grumbling, a finger curling to yours as you walk, and walking on your windward side, fussing with the small hairs at your forehead. The times where you thank him for something, or speak softly letting him in just a little, he turns his head away, like contemplating, like he doesn’t deserve to hear or know it. But his ears prick up, and those stoned eyes look toward you with a tenderness creeping behind them.

His protection comes in the form of watching you, much like a hawk does, pulling you tighter to his side when you link your arm with his. A habit of his, of course, is when he’s ranting and cursing all of those who get on his nerves.. as soon as you give him a look, or tell him to stop, he does. Immediately. His mouth pressed to a thin line and that offended look on his face, and yet he doesn’t hesitate, not to listen to you.

You’re always left with something, if not a piece of him, a kiss sharply pressed to your neck in the morning, a bracelet he had specially made and engraved, or new finery and dresses not just because of material nonsense, he could care less for that, but because it reminded him of you. The colours, the brightness, the thoughts put into it.

And finally, he tolerates. Or rather, he acts like he does with you like he does everyone else, but the thing is, he wants you to bother him, and he enjoys it. When you find him in the corridors after a long and boring council, or sneak away to his study while papers pile high ordered by his brother, he remains stern, yet his hands envelope you into him. And the smile peeking on his face and heart hammering in his chest is evident to say the very least.

——

Now, Dunk is somehow more clumsy when in love and yearning, if that is indeed possible. To put it plainly, he doesn’t believe he deserves you, no matter how much things may prove others, he is in a constant state of reassuring himself, of pinching himself that you’re even real. And that’s the whole thing really.

The way he is, is soft and wordless, often because he’s left at a loss for words at you. But, he is always there, the steady, immovable object that is your hedge knight. And he takes it up in more practical ways, knowing he can’t quite express it in other ways. He carries things for you, reaches a hand out before you do, and it’s not because he thinks you can’t do it, in fact he pushes you to do it, but for him it’s instinct. Its the wanting, to be useful and to be chivalrous for you. So that book you wanted in the top shelf? He’s barely lifting a finger to grab it and place it into your hands with a soft smile. You have nowhere to sit comfortably? He’s pulling out every cloak and piece of rag he has just to make sure you feel alright la

Unlike some others, he is fairly obvious in his affections. Any little thing you do and he blushes. He waits for you to make a move, not that you don’t notice he has, but because he isn’t quite sure of when to proceed, and as soon as you touch him, a mere hand braced at his chest, he is melting. He finds himself staring a lot, drifting of dumbly as you begin to ramble, or eyes folllwing you a little too long as you make your way back to him. To him every little thing you do is magic, like anything else he’s ever seen.

This man has a habit of sleeping silently when you are around, somehow more still but also more aware. With you in general he is eased, but with a tense in his shoulder, more acutely aware of every danger or possibility around you both. This is where is he is most likely to be protective, especially if you are out in the country with him, he is always on guard. A group of people approaching you, be it lords or ladies or commoners like himself, he is standing taller than he already is, hovering the space between you both, inching to even hold you close, and sometimes he does. Not quite possessive, but not ignorant either, he would and will not hesitate.

——

Aerion is similar to his father in this sense that he will not speak of it.. until he breaks open that is. And when he does, he becomes a bit of a mess, not a weak snivelling one, but tighter, with eyes sharper, fingers flexed tighter, and his orbit slowly crashing into yours. He is transfixed with you and also, on the people around you. He pushes the ones he doesn’t like out of your circle just so that he can get in, to put it simply, and though he acts like he doesn’t care, it couldn’t be further from the truth. More impulsive than most, in his violence, in his cutting words, he attempts not to be with you. He slows down in his speaking, breaths deeper before settling into you, eyes watching you like he is actually taking in what you are saying when you speak.

He is possessive even when he doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to. The steps that seem closer than necessary, just to feel you beside him, the warm breath at your ear with a smirk as he talks, but the glint in his eye that speaks of speaks more. He doesn’t soften, it’s not in his nature, but he has a way about him with you that is desired, wanting more than the violence that precedes him. The thing is, he wants to be beside you, he wants to be in your company and he will make up for it in ways. A glare at someone you dislike, or perhaps more when they overstep that they’ll regret later, a book of stories left around you even if he rolls his eyes at it. The way he corrects you, in your dress, in your grammar, in the way he teaches you High Valyrian, it isn’t cruel, perhaps a little brash and tutting, but it is of care.

His touches are never short of adoring and yet controlled. He knows what he is doing, and there is restraint until there isn’t. He asks where you’ve gone, if not from you, cornering you just a little, but to your ladies, and he follows after that. No matter your daily duties or how you spend your nights, he finds a way to be there somehow, and somehow, actually enjoys it, the slight of his lips curving at your smile.

Much like others, he intends to win your favour, and though he subjects others to bloodshed, he wants to keep you away from it, dragging you into the aftermath perhaps, but he would not lay it onto you. Not entirely. At tourneys, he cracks lances at men who whisper threats and shameless jests, sending them into the dirt, blood leaking over the wood, only to be graced with the flower crown you toss at him. You fulfil in him a sense of pride, a wanting he can’t and wouldn’t describe, but he keeps it, the flower crown as well as your favour, and to him.. that is the only honour worth keeping.

——

Like a spring set into action, Lyonel, as usual, is fanatical about it, but not just out of material.. he is grand. he sends you gifts, invites you to his gatherings and pulls up a chair next to him, large and decorated, only for you. His hand is waving people off mid conversation just to strike up one with you, following you about with his charms and a smirk, and he makes sure you know there is no shame in it, his chin tucked into his palm as he listens in. Though unlike with others, something about him quietens with you.. not different, not unlike himself, but something he reserves for only you.

He worships the ground you walk on, literally. If he wasn’t born of the house he was, people would think he was a squire or your own personal jester with the way he hovers. Offers you food and treats constantly and the funny thing is he doesn’t realise that he’s doing it, and he’s offering you everything as a matter a fact, no matter how odd or out there, he’s bringing it to your attention, even if you bring it up once. And has a habit of introducing you both as one, cutting people off before they even have chance to speak as he’s bowing, announcing your name like it is a holy decree.

He’s not used to acting so soft, though he is that outgoing with the people around him, there’s a certain gentleness that he doesn’t know, but he tries for you. And he means it. The jokes you tell him, even as a quipped barb at someone, he’s laughing way too hard, smiling wider, and it’s never forced. All of it is real and he find that he cannot help himself with you around. Or those times when you are cold or a little uneased, he’s wrapping the big golden cloak of his around your shoulders, or moving just a little, a lot, closer to you, near coiling around you. And he does it so fast you’d hardly notice until he has..

You have a way more than anyone else to make him stumble. The times when you praise him, he looks genuinely stunned, brown eyes brightening even as his mouth goes for something clever, and yet he can’t find it, instead he takes it in, jumping to shower you in kisses back. You often catch him staring at you, just gazing with that present smirk on his face, the knowing one, one where he could be thinking anything, and it doesn’t even have to be innuendo, it’s purely just love. He catches himself doing it too, and does he stop? No.

——

Through and through, Valarr is a gentleman, and it takes him a while to come to terms with his feelings. Though that’s not to be said that it takes him long, he isn’t an idiot and he knows it, perhaps for you that’s besides the point, he makes sure he does all he can to impress you, to court you as he should, but not to overstep. Yet he finds himself always staring a little too long, stepping a few strides closer through corridors and pathways. Though much like the quiet moments, he isn’t shy in it either, the attempts to ask for your favour when he was won a tourney are consistent, and unless it has especially asked of him, you’re the only one he raises his lance to, proclaiming to win in your name.

He blushes fully, without abandon, and once it’s there he cannot stop. And why? Simple with you around. Compliments and praise included, particularly at a tourney or when you catch him in the training yard, he hands his head low to hide it a bit before shaking his head, but it settles him. To him you are that much of an inspiration and a muse, and he uses it to propel him forward, both running with nerves and slight pride of the fact you believe in him.

He always talks to you gently, no matter how upset or angered by any situation, he slows for you, hands reaching for yours as he listens. And often times when you reach for him back he can forget what he’s saying. Valarr is hopeful, in everything he does, and he wouldn’t slander that with you, and that is how he yearns for you. Every time his eyes set on you, he is imagining, you both happy, your future, and how to protect it.

There is a habit he has of finding excuses for you, harmless as they might be, it’s glaringly obvious to those who know him well enough, not that he listens of course. At feasts he is always seated next to you, pouring your cup after offering, holding his arm out for a dance. He goes by the book but even then things get a little off course, as he isn’t as always princely as he should be, but that’s just what you do. The rounds you take into the woods, he escorts you whenever he can instead of your squire of the Kingsguard, stealing books from the maesters deeper histories just for you, or lemon cakes from the kitchens with little letters he’s written.

And when things are quieter, the pair of you settling into conversation, or perhaps none at all, he goes still, especially when you rest on him. And if you fall asleep, this man is not moving, not for council or for anyone, to him, his family of course, and you come first.

——

Daeron is a mess, to simply put it. But not in the shameful, panicked way, more so he is only scared of shaming you or scaring you off because he is already in love before the time he first realises it. He knows the reputation that proceeds him, the drunkard who stumbles about court often lost from his father’s side, but there is more to him, a side of it must happen, he only wants you to see. And so he prefers to prove his love to you when others aren’t about, where you can both be entirely, you. Like finding you in the libraries and plopping himself down beside you, basking in the lonesome you find together. Or, the opposite.. tugging you through the lower streets of King’s Landing when things get too loud, escaping out just toward the gates and hiding away in a tavern.

He lets you in more than he does anyone else and tells you of his dreams, how he is sure they have sweetened around you, whether that is true or not it’s not to be said, but because of you know knows one thing. He eases. The glint in those blue eyes are tender even when he speaks of frightful things, because you are there. And he leans in close when he speaks, like it’s only meant for you, particularly when he is drunk or vulnerable, slurred words becoming slightly more proper (as much as he can) just as not to make you uncomfortable.

He feels like you’re the only calm he’s found. And he wants to express that, though words often escape him, at least from the mouth. He writes instead, poetry, little stanza like sonnets just for you that he passes by your chambers or slips into the deep pockets of your cloak. He insists it’s ‘nothing in particular’ and yet there is only one muse, obvious and radiant, and that is you. On his own outings, he’s still thinking of you, picking up small trinkets on his late night blights into the city, necklaces and bracelets, bouquets of flowers slightly crumpled but just as bright and he’s presenting them all to you proudly.

There is a smile on his face when you enter a room, a fighting urge not to get up and run to you at that very moment, so he doesn’t, not always, though his resolve slips. But when he greets he does so warmly, asking you of your day immediately, complimenting you without hesitation, curling himself around you with a head rested to your shoulder or an arm wrapped around you.

[ghostlybfgf]

hello! might I request the akotsk men reacting to seeing reader treating children kindly and gently? like dunk watching reader coddle egg, baelor seeing reader read to matarys, maekar seeing reader play with his younger kids (daella and rhae included), etc? thank you!

this is such a sweet idea thank you for sending it in!! i sure can 🥹💗

REACTING TO THEIR S/O WITH CHILDREN

features: baelor, maekar, dunk, aerion, lyonel, daeron and valarr

The rain outside had been relentless, hammering down onto windowpanes and stone like a drum, and more than the storm raging, it had kept you inside with little to do. Beyond tea with your ladies and overseeing lessons performed by the septa’s, there was not much to cure your boredom.

Much less had it done so for the children.

You had been married to Baelor for over a year, and you shared a happy and content marriage, a loyal one, and despite the many looks exchanged in passing at the knowledge of it being his second, the pair of you basked in your love.

And when his youngest, Matarys came to you with a book in hand and smile pleading, you dared not refuse. You had been close with both boys since your betrothal, left without the softness of their mother since her death many years before, they grew fond of you instantly.

Valarr had remained proper, polite smiles and kind words while sharing jests when others were not listening, he orbited you during feasts and tourneys, a steady presence with a soft smile. Whereas Matarys had become your shadow, one that had clung hard. Though often prone to distance with his nose in a book, he took to you, preferring to be at your side than most others.

And Baelor had delighted in it, watching carefully across halls of from your arm with a tender gaze. As had you, though they he was warned even by his brother not to smother you, you assured him, finding comfort in his presence and the break from humdrum at court.

Hunting was something your husband had little time to do these days, much less with his son, but it had proven triumphant. Hares and boar were found upon the trail they had set out on, taking up all day from the early morning and leaving you alone, and they had only arrived back once the rain had set in, and the ache in their bones began to burn.

You were not so unfortunate to be out in it however, instead the hearth crackled from the corner of the fireplace, soft pillows pressed into your back as Matarys lay gently next to you. He had peeped into your solar with a book so big it had barely fit into his arms, clutching it tightly as he set it into both of your lap’s.

“And what is this?”

“Histories of Old Valyria.. and the Doom.” You watched the way his face lit up as he talked of his ancestors, only looking up at you once he had opened it, dragging his finger along the pages as you did the same. They were worn, rough at the edges and thick with old parchment, the book itself had smelt of mothballs and ancient ink, the black thick across the cream coloured page.

“Is this the choice for today hm?”

“Indeed, I thought it would be best. I have been practicing my Valyrian.” He beamed, sitting back just under your arm as you leaned in to listen.

“Then you shall have to teach me.” You smiled, holding the other side to keep the heavy book open.

And the pair of you read together, aloud, taking turns across the chapters, and you indulged in such histories, hearing more of them than you ever had. First the many houses that had existed in such a time.. more than just your blood of the dragon. Velaryons, Celtigars, Belaerys and over forty that were known to rule.. You had read about Daenys and her premonition that forsaw the end of their reign, and that their empire was not so much one throne but a Freehold, much different to the way life was lived in the present.

Baelor had climbed the stairs in steady strides, flight after flight passing guard and servant alike he had kept his head low, nodding politely. He ached, a sharpness in his back pushing him all the way to your chambers, and how he longed for you. To relax and to bathe, to hold you and catch up on the day you had without one another as you often did.

It was something he looked forward to, though what he didn’t expect, walking the seemingly longest hall to your chameber and guiding the door open, was two figures laid across the armchair. The chair itself sprawled wide and long much like a chaise, coverings of gold and crimson with engravings of patterned flowers.

It was Matarys’ chapter to read, purely in Valyrian, an account of one of the many supposed slaves of the time and their life under the rule of their dragon lords. The both of your were so engrossed you did not noticed the way he studied form the doorway, his back to the door he had closed quietly.

His finger trailed the page, carefully reading over every word in ancient tongue as you encouraged him, learning just beside him. Baelor felt something tight pull in his chest, rather settle, not like the muscles that ached or bones that felt cool to their depth, it was warmth. The hearth had raged on yes, but he was many paces away, and the tiresome furrow of his brow had eased into a look of wonder, his gaze honing in on you both tenderly.

“Naenie sia glad hen vējes kesrio syt ēdas maghatan.. I know this word, peace, it says peace but I don’t know..” Many people were glad of the Doom because it had brought..

He stumbled over his words, looking up at you for help, eyes squinting at the word before him neither of you managed to pronounce properly.

“Lyks.” Peace.

Both of your eyes shot up then, landing onto Baelor who stepped steadily toward you both, that familiar tug of his lip forming with the tilt of his head.

“Lyks.” You both repeated, and he had nodded, moving across the chamber to your other side. His hand planted over Matarys’ head who already began reading once more, this time more confidently, pride settling in his chest as it did his father’s who looked at you with a smile.

He pressed a kiss to your temple as he sat beside, stroking your knee as your duo soon had become a trio, settling into the softness of the afternoon. The storm thundered on outside, but inside by the hearth and with your family, there was a warmth nothing quite else could fulfill.

Maekar had warned you of the children at first. And it had made you laugh, waving him off like it was nothing, though you hadn’t entirely realised what you were getting into. They were a handful to say the least, and after many months into your marriage, you know understood why beyond his targaryen heritage, his hairs were more grey than silver.

The girls had ran to you all at once, another little pair of feet following just after.

Egg.

The little ones had done this most often, creating havoc where they went, chasing one another about until they landed at someone’s feet, and somehow that had been yours. Particularly in their fathers absence, and though they respected your word just as his, they felt as if they had gotten away with more with just you, that they were able to be more than just an expectation, but children.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, all of you knew of it, and he didn’t do it out of malice, only love, but even after the nights of urging him to ease, his pacing back and forth about their whereabouts and behaviour, he hardly managed to stay so calm, and it irked him.

So they came to you instead, and with Maekar standing on council for the early morning until noon, it was no better than you to have been left in charge. Also when that had descended from simple lessons into playful chaos.

They had set a stool in front of you first.

“Our nursemaid does not know how to braid, could you help us.. the traditional ones? Please please..” Words tumbled out at once, two pairs of eyes peering up at you expectantly. Their dresses swirled at their feet, shades of violets and pink, sweet smiles on their flushed faces from running you suspected.

And so you did.

At first you had brushed Daella’s hair, sitting her in front of your vanity so that you both could see better, pins and clips in between your fingers as you combed through the light brown strands. Rhae stood at her side, peering up just over to see the mirror she could barely reach, impatiently awaiting her turn.

You did so one by one, praising both yourself and the Gods that you had managed to practice on the off chance. Daella’s braids were pulled slightly looser, sitting in twos across each side of her head, pulling her hair into a half up half down, elegant style. Rhae’s were no different, but more refined, higher up on the scalp and tightened into a small bun.

Aegon sat behind, watching the three of you with a curious smile as he kicked the floor below him from the daychair. He caught your eye in the mirror as the girls marvelled and whispered about their hair, in a world of his own.

“Are you not having your hair braided my prince?” He shrugged a little, standing tall as he met your eyes

“Knights do not wear braids.” He complained, shaking his hair.

“Now that is not true. Only the finest warriors wear braids..”

And thus, between the gallant voice you’d raised and the smirks his sisters gave him behind you, he had obliged, changing his mind as quick as it took him to sit onto the stool at your legs and command, nicely, what braids he had wanted.

With the length of his hair just growing through to his ears, after shaving it all off mysteriously, there was little to work with, but you made do. He donned two at the sides of his head by the time you were done, one on each, proud and tightly knotted.

The three of them were pleased, just as you were with your handiwork, and then they had turned to you. Menacingly..

“You must do yours..” Daella spoke first.

“I don’t know about that they are not—“ You reasoned.

“You are one of us.. you have to.” They had begged, a string of ‘pleases’ and cries probably loud enough to be heard down the hallway until you had relented.

“Fine.. but only a few.” You had insisted, and they delivered.

Albeit, more than a few. Much like the girls, you had multiple on each sides of your head, well done for small, clumsy fingers, and it left your hair flowing but pulled out of your face.

The four of you together, battle ready and mischievous, but only then did it begin.

Wooden swords bashed together just as feet tapped and danced about the room, the chaos wasn’t like the usual craziness, more sharpened, like all four of you were truly staking out where to go and who to pick off next. It had been every man for himself, as Egg had declared, and all of you set about your solar taking turns hiding and attacking.

You had been so engaged in fact you didn’t notice you husband standing entranced with wide eyes until you had collided with his chest, warm, calloused hands clutching at your arms to keep you from falling.

“Oh I’m so—“ You had looked up, huffing the stray hairs from your face as you met eyes with his violet ones, piercing and yet tender as they gazed into yours.

“Husband.” You breathed, easing in his grip, it did not soften, only stroked the sides of your arms through your sleeves

“Wife..” It came out gentle, the familar grumble and astute annoyance left in his voice from hours of a court debacle that had been left on his tongue just as he was about to utter it when he found you.

“We were just..” You went to speak, still out of breath.

“Look father it is our braids.” His youngest called out, running toward you both.

“A warrior hm?” Rhae fell into his side, a hand moving from you with one to cup her little face with a half smile. He tilted his head at her looking over her hair and back to you, your wooden sword still in hand, eyes raking over your face, your blush, your braids.

“But you haven’t killed anyone.”

“I have.” Maekar raised an eyebrow and she turned, angling you both to the other side of the chamber. “Two.”

Her little finger pointed playfully, to the other two in a heap on the floor barely controlling the giggles that left their mouths and shook their bodies on the cool floor. His eyes followed to them, huffing under his breath, a sound that could have been mistaken for a laugh, rumbling his chest, before turning once more to you.

You were certainly disheveled and rather unsightly for a lady of your position. Your skirts had rumpled, your hair a mess and pulled from its styling but the smile that reached your face in small pants was unlike anything he had seen.

And just as Rhae had ran back off to ‘finish the battle’, he had closed his arm around your middle, pressing a sharp kiss to your lips as your noses nudged.

“They suit you.” He did not specify what he had meant, because his words had a double meaning. And it was not only the braids he was talking about..

Life on the road brought little comfort. That was until Dunk had found you. And the boy who by any means never left his side. He was grateful of Egg’s company, even after the events that ensued not long into their friendship, somehow it brought them closer, more comfortable in a war torn world wrecked by grief and guilt.

And with the three of you together, there was more than just friendship found, there was love, a family.

Egg had clung to you both, in different ways. Where there was lessons to be learned from both of you, Dunk often walked first, leading the strides in arms and worldly wears, whereas he found gentleness in you, sharing curiosities and the wonders of the world.

Both of you often getting into more trouble than you had meant to behind Dunk’s back. And after a long day of travelling, making your way further into the westerlands of the Reach, you had sound your spot to set up camp.

The night was coming in faster that particular evening, the late spring having its last few cold blights until summer was upon the realm. Leaves were beginning to fill the trees, the countryside greener than you had seen it in a long time, the cool wind settling a deep chill in your bones.

“Got some more wood f’the fire.” Dunk called from the trees as he stumbled through with logs in his large hands, rising up as he caught sight of you both. Egg had sat with you, flattening out the blanket that had been rolled up on Sweetfoot’s flank for half of your journey.

It was barely warm enough, a dark shade of green, covered in lint and fallen leaves but the wool was enough to keep you enclosed and the most of the chill out as you took it around your shoulders and his smaller ones.

“Could you go any slower?” Egg mumbled rubbing his eyes.

“Hey I spent half the afternoon chopping these..” Dunk reasoned, chuckingthe kindling between you all.

“It shall be done soon..” You assured him, breaking a yawn that pulled from you, wracking your body in a shiver from your own tiredness. Your eyes wandered to Dunk where he had ducked in front of the fire, sliding the flint across the rock in front of the piles of logs with a huff, cursing under his breath at the boy’s impatience. You had only chuckled, watching him struggle to light the fire as Egg shivered into your side, you shushed him quietly.

The fire had taken only minutes of grumbling to light, an array of orange flickering bright onto the roots to the tree branches you had sat under. Egg’s eyes grew wide before they fell tired, eyelids growing heavy with full bellies as much as finding food would allow, and the comfort of your embrace.

“See it did not take that long..” You said, turning to him as he nodded.

“You’re telling me..” Dunk softened then, looking up at you across from the flamed, his broad features lighting up in the darkness as your softer ones did. He found himself staring more than he had meaned to, swearing it was just to keep you both under watch, eyes darting at the sounds around you as he stoked the fire with a sharp stick.

But it was more than that. It was the way you held Egg, his now squire, and the way he tucked into you looking so contented and calm, the fact you had still stuck beside him after all of this time. And somehow, by the grace of all that was good, your beauty was amplified by all of it.

Night descended fast as the three of you talked, more so, the three of you talked eachother into sleep. Egg had not relented of course, as he usually did, despite how tired he was himself, he had kept on, he had never wanted to sleep.

“Those three are brighter tonight..” His small voice mumbled out, hand pointing up into the sky through the fluttering leaves in the night breeze. You had laid down by then, propped up only slightly on the satchels and sacks you had carried with you. He was growing more tired by the moment, fighting to keep his eyes open even as he told you tales of the stars and planets above you.

“Perhaps it is the three of us..”

He smiled at that, curling further into your side, blinking up at the stars twinkling above you.

Dunk lay across from you, propped up on the nearest tree, always watching as he continued to even with an arm under his head and laying back onto his cloak.

“He is close t’you.” He called out, voice rumbling as he observed, the boy’s breathing evening out as he fell into a fast sleep.

“He is to us both..” You answered, tucking the blanket around you both tighter.

“Aye, but he softens with you.. haven’t seen him do that in months.”

“You mean he bullies you less.” You chuckled, as your eyes met, the firelight flickering in your pupils, his already blown.

“Or that.” He shook his head, tutting quietly bit playfully, crossing his arms as he lay back properly.

“Goodnight Dunk.” You smirked, rolling over to at last rest.

“Goodnight Love.”

Though even as he closed his eyes, head fallen back and the hammering of his heart quickening in his chest slowing with exhaustion, he had stayed awake. Long after Egg had fallen asleep, and a while after you, the embers growing white and cold with the night, the three of you had laid together, with one last look up to the night sky.

The three stars still shone brightly even as the moon fell over the horizon, a knowing from Egg’s words alone, that the three of you were together, and you were better off that way.

His gaze did not betray him, not once.

He saw the way they wanted after you, the way you gave your kindness freely and lovingly, in ways he had not seen for many years. He wanted one of his own of your own. And truthfully, though it pulled at him, stoking the fire that burned beneath, beyond all primal urges and ‘duty’ if it was not one of his own, he would not have looked upon you the way he did in such moments.

Your own babe, Maegor, named after the cruel, by his account, lay across your chest. Familar silver hairs flopped across your skin, the firelight flickering in the background.

Aerion had been dragged from the tourney with scraped and bruises to match his triumph, as champion of the day he had not been as worn as many expected him to be. Instead the thought of you powered him, the ride back from the nearest town and into the courtyard stables.

You had spent the days at home since birth, many worries for your health from the advisory of maesters and your chambermaids. Your husband hadn’t delighted in the idea, particularly missing out on you spectating his victories. Though to keep you away from everyone else and just in his arms for a little longer from court, he did not argue. Not when he was so close to having you in his arms again, turning corridor to corridor until he had found you.

You hummed to your son, a tune you had heard once when you were a girl, smoothing your palm over his head as he cooed in your arms. He had only seen the top of your head from the doorway, through the cool night, the curtains blowing in as night curled over the realm. It had been the only way for him to settle for the moment, moonlight calming him over the heat of the day, as much it did you, even as you heard the door click and footsteps step in.

His armour had long since been discarded, removed carefully by his squires, leaving him in just his open chainmail and breeches, arms flexing as they braced around your chair.

He did not say anything for a moment, eyes widening to find your son in your arms and not in his cradle or with a maid. And though he did not have it in him to often ease, wanting your company and yours alone, he did not find himself disappointed.

Not with the both of you together, his wife, his son.. he exhaled harsh through his nose, curling around to your side to press a curl to the crown of your head.

“You should not coddle him, he is blood of the dragon, not a parasite.”

“He is but three moons old Aerion.” You snapped though you didn’t hear the bite in his voice, it was merely jest, though he underlined it with truth, the familar growl settling as he stood before you both.

“Mhm.”

And though it could have sounded like protest, his eyes told a different story. The stoney eyed scowl he usually wore twinkled as he blinked, mouth pressing open as he breathed, taking in the sight before him. You were in your nightclothes, the white chemise curling at your feet as the small boy wriggled in your arms, sound asleep.

“And how was today..?” You blinked up at him.

“I brought home trophy, there wasn’t much competition. There never is.”

“So I see.” You said, eyes raking over the cut across his cheek, small but mighty, a dark bead of crimson to match the bruises at his knuckled and arms, just as you imagined them littered across the rest of his body.

“Though this is much better..” His voice did not falter, and he only watched, slinking his back into the chair beside you with a tap of his fingers on its rest.

The trophy was brought home, whispers of his name climbing ranks as a knight to be paraded across the realm, both by lord and himself alike. Though he had meant it, beyond every clash of a sword and ounce of blood he had spilled, when he had came home to you, it had meant more than just that. It was protection, assurance, for him, for you.

His family.

Among all of the traipses and splendours that journeying could give you, away from your home at Storm’s End, there was one thing to be lacked.

Softness.

That couldn’t be said for you marriage of course, it was full of it, all tenderness and warm hands, soft kisses to your skin and gentle words from a proud man. However debauchery was often centrefold, not quite the place for a little boy, much less a Prince.

The boy had flitted around to from time to time. whispers grew louder at every visit with him and the large man your husband had come to love. As did children come from time to time, sitting upon the benches as their mothers and fathers drank themselves into a stupor of chattering and laughter, they often occupied themselves. You had smiled at them as they ran over to you, enchanted by the Laughing Storm and his wife and he did not know what to do with such attention, even as they chased after his antlers and your pretty dresses.

Egg had been apart of that, though more observant. He was more refined, more gentle than the other children, as you would have supposed for his different upbringing. And there you grew fond of him as he did you.

The celebrations were in full swing, tents lined on the grasses of Storm’s End across fields and meadows. For one of the nearby lord’s name days, Lyonel had decided to host, allowing more space and more excuse to let loose after weeks of tense councils.

And just as your husband had relished in the arrival of his hedge knight’s arrival upon invitation, you had some so with the boy that had launched into your middle in a tight embrace.

“Good to see you too, my Prince.” You hugged him to you with a huff.

“I missed you.. it was an awfully long journey.” He pulled away to smooth the dirt from his worn clothes, violet eyes bright.

“So I imagine..” You chuckled wiping the dirt from his cheek.

Dunk had followed just after, catching up to you both as Lyonel stood beside you, beaming widely. The festivities boomed behind you, the sunshine high in the sky as your castle home loomed proudly at its side.

“Come big man.” He held his arms out, embracing the giant before you as he bowed politely to you with a smile.

“The boy wouldn’t let me refuse.” He chuckled, sniffing through the pollenated air. The men then began conversation, something of tourneys and when Ser Duncan planned to stay, when Egg tugged onto your sleeve.

“Might we get something to eat.”

“We might, I have a few ideas..”

The pair of you took off, walking through market stalls and vendors, snacking on treats and tarts and eyeing up all sorts of weaponry. You had enjoyed yourself immenselyand by the time the evening began to draw in, the string lights of the markets lighting up your way to a familar voice booming.

“To mark the happy day, humbly hosted by me nd my.. astounding wife.” He raised the chalice as everyone followed for your shared friend’s nameday, and also to you, just as you and Egg had entered the tent, Lyonel’s eyes finding you through the crowd with a loving smile. “And to my father who let us hold this whole thing.” He rumbled out at the end, taking a long gulp of his wine as he and the others laughed in cheers.

The night carried on in happiness with you relaxing at your table enjoying the warmth and fun around you.

Egg had sat by your side through the whole thing, spotting faces in the crowd and the small noble houses and their sigils, telling you all he knew of each of them. Though even when the hedge knight was around, his frame taking up the space rightly as he was dragged into dance and stepping around people, people stumbling and jumping about, Lyonel couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

Amidst the noise, he found himself honed in, even as he himself was pulled up to dance, he took it graciously, performing just by the slightest as you both locked eyes, and though there was that usual, deep carnal spark between you, there was something different he felt. Something he had not began to think of until you, and as he made his way, weaving through people, he tucked his arm around you as you and Egg mimicked others and laughed together.

He pressed a kiss to your lips, pulling away only as he sat down, though his eyes didn’t, only moving around as a cough came at your other side.

“You don’t plan to steal my wife do you.”

“Of course not Ser.” He blinked up at him bashfully, a smirk pulling onto his face. And though he had meant it, Lyonel’s eyes squinting at the boy he only chuckled.

Because it was more than he had in a long time, good ale, his love, and more good company.

Daeron had been put in charge, oft imposed on responsibility of taking care of his younger sibling ever since his mother’s death, much less when Maekar lost slight control of them all in their growing age.

But with his own afflictions, it only grew harder, more difficult to manage and keep up. And that’s when you came along.

They hovered around you, out of respect and love, much like their eldest brother did .

“Give her some space for Seven’s sake.” Maekar sometimes ordered, one time at the feasting table with a mouthful of food, and they listened at once, through it did not stop their gazes following you everywhere. Or the way they tumbled after you wherever you had went.

Much like it did in the very moment you spent in the gardens. It was a welcome break, your studies done for the day already before noon, and no others until the morrow, you were entirely alone and thankful for such peace. The lilies were in full bloom, summer flowers and peonies brightening the bushes into a glow.

You had closed your eyes all but for a moment until you heard bickering, it was muffled at first, from behind the bushes.

“Do not step there..” A voice broke the silence.

“Perhaps she is sleeping..” A smaller once came next.

“Let’s go.”

“No she said we could.”

You peeped one eye open, and that’s when two little legs had been pushed forward, standing right in front of where you sat in the marble bench. You opened both of your eyes then to find Aegon, or Egg as you all called him, with an apologetic smile on his face.

“And what might I help you with?” You inquired, sitting up straighter to face him.

“The girls and I were wondering if you wanted to join us.” You urged him on in a nod as he rocked on his heel, hands princely behind his back as you caught them snickering behind the bushes.

“I would much love to. Perhaps we should race them to the fountains.” He grinned brightly as you whispered in close, taking his hands as the pair of you ducked through the hedgerows, much set out like a maze. Their giggling had stopped, noticing the way you had disappeared as they looked around, smirking as they knew this game.

There was always one to be had, someone chased someone, someone beat and raced another, it was non stop, and even with the sun on your backs, blazing ardently, you had not minded, even if your peace had been disrupted.

You had reached the fountains first, the girls tumbling around the other side in short bursts of breath, all of you placed your hands onto the solid, white rock.

“It seems I have won.” Egg announced.

“No.. I made it here first.” Rhae called, tilting her chin up to the sky in pride.

“You did not, I did.” Daella reasoned with them both with folded arms.

“Actually—“ Egg started.

“Perhaps we should race to the other one, then we will truly see.” You had cut them off before banter had turned to arguing, never truly knowing who would be set off first. They all turned to you at that, eyeing them mischievously with your skirts in hand as you began to rise.

“Race you.” Rhae teased then, poking her tongue out at you.

“You first.” Your hand flicked up a scoop of the water from the fountain as they three sprinted away, you following after, their squeals and screams stumbling down the steps and stone as they headed for the nearby fountain. They had made it all in one group, still arguing as they all pushed and shoved to reach the rock first.

You slowed into the scene not long after, huffing as you smoothed your skirts.

“Right right.. and who won now.”

“It seems none of you.” The four of you jumped, the breeze bristling as Daeron stood up from the walled rock he had leant upon, a weary smile on his face as he moved to you. Truth be told he had heard you before he had seen you all, sneaking away himself from his father’s side to be pushed onto a council he wanted no part of, he found himself in the gardens, following the sound of your voice until three others chimed in.

And so it seemed, he had made it there first. He stopped behind you, resting his chin onto your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your middle, your own folded over his gently.

“Mind If I steal her back..” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, a smile creeping up onto his face at his younger brother’s looks of disgust and sisters one of wonder. And they ran off once more, chasing and laughing, his chest pressed into your back.

“I like you with them. They are whole like this.. We all are.”

The tourney was a grand event. Stalls and marketplaces full of fruits and wears from across the realm trailed for miles and miles, smiling ladies and courteous knights, there was little to be bored with.

Though even as you were left to your own devices, walking amongst the hustle and bustle with Ser Roland at your side, there was another presence who wasn’t enjoyng himself quite as much.

“Must we always come here in the heat of the day.” Matarys grumbled, a large price of parchment in his hands of all the names yet to be called upon the tourney field.

“Come now, we are here in support, it is not that bad..” You reasoned with him, walking steadily ahead as your eyes caught the many faces that urged you to their stalls.

“It wouldn’t be if my brother would come out earlier.”

You huffed a laugh, remembering the early morning you had spent together, awake at dawn in your shared tent, waking softly bare and sharing short kisses before he had to leave . He had always left early, ‘to ready himself’ he’d often said. Though the hours that passed seemed to weigh on you all in anticipation.

“None of them do Matarys, the day has hardly begun.” You turned on your feel to face him, both the Prince and Ser Roland stopping in their tracks, the older man greeting you with a gentle smile on his stern, weathered face. Your good brother with a quizzical one as you held out your hand, taking him into your stride.

Boredom had claimed you both by the time you had reached the royal tents, no books or scrolls or even spying on passing houses had been able to occupy you.

Not until you both had the brilliant, though probably not the wisest, idea to dress one another in his brother’s armour. Upon the stand near your shared dresser had stood the exact replica of the midnight black metals he had worn that day, used for the safe keeping from every battering should he need another.

“Is this at the front of the back?” Matarys turned around, checking over his back and chest where the next plate was supposed to go. And though you had seen your husband dressed many times, you hadn’t the slightest clue.

“I believe on the back.”

You moved the metals around, frowning as it still didn’t look right, sliding them over his shoulders as they sagged from the heavy weight. He had the chest plate on as you turned it to fit properly, putting it on the wrong way at first, or so you thought, as you kneeled down to clasp the armour at his legs.

His arm reached out at once with a smile, flicking his auburn hairs from his face, “And you can have this, he’d want you to have it.” You barely registered what he had said before he had held the open visored helm next to your face, “It should fit.”

“If you insist.” You smiled wearily with a chuckle, taking it into your hands as you patted the armour on his body to check its tightness. You placed the helm over your head, sliding it on with a careful tug, his body stumbling backward as he attempted to stand tall on the oversized armour.

“Well.. how does it look?” You held your arms out, twirling in place, the metal muffling your voice deeply.

“Ridiculous.” He laughed heartily as you looked at each other and fell into shared near uncontrollable laughter, your head nodding back as the helm nearly pulled your head back.

How on earth could he wear this?

“As do you.” You jested back.

“I feel it.”

“You both certainly look like something..” Another voice called out then, the smile reaching your ears before you had seen it.

Valarr.

He held the flap of the tent open, straightening his back as he entered, smiling from ear to ear with sweat on his brow. What a sight that something was. His younger brother and his wife in his armour, about ready to fall over under the weight of it all, much like he had felt from the heat until he made it into the cool.

“Husband you are back..” You moved to meet him, hardly able to see over the holes in the helm

“Indeed Iam..” He stepped forth, clutching the helm as you attempted to pull it free, though he studied you in it for a minute, contemplating with a smirk, before removing it off entirely, finally giving you room to breathe. He whispered a small ‘hello’ as the familiar hearty swell crept up chest, his lips curving at you.

“And you do know you have that wrong don’t you.” Valarr suddenly turned to his brother looking him up and down as if he was the most daft thing of all.

“For Seven’s sake, we’ve tried it three times already.”

And moments before his name had been called by the herald to enter upon the lists, Valarr had spent time doing what he’d much rather have been doing had he found you earlier. Spending time with the ones he loved most..

[sem-ra]

In the Shadows of the Red Keep

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Baelor Targaryen x Reader

When you come to serve Kiera of Tyrosh as a lady-in-waiting at the Red Keep, you know what awaits you: strict etiquette, political pressure and endless expectations. Instead you find a kind, watchful prince who sees you in a way no one else does.

♡ = smut

✦ Chapter 1 ✦ Chapter 2 ✦ Chapter 3 ✦ Chapter 4 ✦ Chapter 5 ✦ read on ao3 ✦

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[fen-luciel]

Wedding night

Final part of my series on ao3: Wolves and dragons AerionXreader

Here part 1 part 2 part 3

Warning tags:

Forced marriage/slow burn/toxic behavior/semi-public s&x/humiliation/canon-typical violence

WARNING: smut/dubious consent

You were woken by four handmaids who were staring at you like an animal on a spit.

The windows had been opened, letting in a chill worthy of the north, accompanied by the salty smell of the sea, not even your mother had ever woken you with such urgency.

You rubbed your eyes trying to regain the sight, the sound of footsteps going back and forth from the bathroom bringing everything needed into place.

“For the gods’ sake, I’m not marrying the king, what is all this mess?” you muttered with your nose buried in the pillow, you doubted that with the arrival of the guests, the ceremony and the feast you really needed to wake up at dawn, you would have happily postponed a few hours before officially becoming a Targaryen.

One of the handmaids approached the bed, she had a sweet, childish tone and indeed when you turned to look at her you realized she was very young. “Prince Aerion wanted to do things in a grand way and his father allowed it- I think he even organized races, but those are just rumors, my lady.”

You held back a grunt.

Oh you weren’t surprised if Aerion had organized something more unpleasant than a simple drunken dinner, you were more confused that his father would let him do it, but if you were understanding a pattern of that family it was that even after tearing each other apart they returned to caresses and hugs as an unconvincing excuse. It was probably Maekar’s way of making up for sending him away.

Letting out a very unladylike yawn you began to stretch your arms before sitting up and like a bolt from the blue you jolted sharply, drawing the attention of the women in the room with you.

There was a moment of deep confusion on their faces, then clearing your throat you asked, “Is the bath ready?”

The eldest of them nodded. “We have everything needed for the bath and the preparation of your hair, my lady. Tell us how we may assist you specifically and we will help you.” The four of them lined up side by side in front of the bed like a row of armed knights, but with bows and stockings as weapons. You pulled yourself up slightly before clearing your throat, trying to sound as gentle as possible.

“I believe I am indisposed. Could I have a bit of privacy to bathe? I will call you back as soon as I am ready.”

They looked at you in confusion for a moment before realization lit up their faces. “Oh of course, we will bring you a change of clothes in the meantime.” And in single file they left with a small bow, leaving you alone in your painful realization.

As soon as the door closed you threw off the covers and with horror noticed what kind of problem you had.

Aerion had been a beast.

And now you could say with absolute certainty that he had also done it to punish you, because those marks on your legs were wounds of war. In the heat of the moment you hadn’t thought too much about the consequences, with your feet suffering from the cold, your ass in the air and his tongue between your legs, you hadn’t thought about the aftermath and with the cherry on top being getting caught by Daeron you really hadn’t dwelled on it. Many of those marks were purple or dark red, around them multicolored bruises had formed that reached halfway up your thigh, some bites were dry with small spots of blood or had the clear imprint of teeth accompanying them, not to mention there were streaks of blood down to your knee, marks left by Aerion’s wounded hand that had taken far too seriously its grip on that damn dagger.

Getting up hurt like hell, your muscles were sore, and the blankets were stained with various now dried spots scattered about, a sign of your restless sleep. It was strange to believe you hadn’t woken earlier from the pain, but it was also true that as long as you remained still you had felt little more than discomfort.

On the desk where the largest mirror in the room rested you finally saw the shape of that mess. You remembered well the strongest bite he had given you under the ass and indeed it was one of the worst marks, complete with dried blood accompanying it, you had no doubt he had done it on purpose.

It was like reading a map of his mental instability on your skin, a slow crescendo of wounds and marks he had given you with a passion worthy of an untrained beast. Puppies like children tended to bite the things around them and Aerion, just like a spoiled child, had wanted a taste of you before the wedding.

You felt embarrassed at the mere thought and yet you were grateful that the castle was so gloomy, if you closed your eyes you could still see Baelor looking at you, the more you thought about it the more vivid and detailed the image became, and you couldn’t even lie to yourself, you had come on his tongue moaning like a beast, you couldn’t deny anything and you knew that somehow Aerion would use all of that against you. For what purpose was still to be understood, but you would have time during the day to find out.

The hot bath stung your wounds, you had an excellent excuse for the stains on the sheets, but certainly not for all those bites. Witnesses, women were great gossips and you couldn’t allow them to go around saying that the prince’s wife was a whore, it would be another accusation your future husband would have to fight, who (even knowing the truth) would have ill tongues accompanying him all the time.

You would dress yourself, maybe you could ask your sister for one of her damned creams for skin cracks from the cold, not so much because they could work miracles, but better than nothing.

While you were washing your skin they had come knocking to tell you they were leaving everything in front of the door and that they would wait outside for you to call them back. The water turned a strange brown/red shade, removing the dried blood from the wounds you were able to better analyze the depth of some bites. Perhaps Aerion was not a dragon, but he certainly bit like a dog.

You opened the door little by little to make sure you were alone before grabbing everything, you couldn’t leave them hidden in the room with the risk that they might find them so you simply put them on. Near the wardrobe, on a mannequin covered by thin white paper, you could glimpse a dark dress.

You remembered the day before, those few words spoken by Aerion before fleeing your room. Caught up in the heat of the moment you had almost believed it was a joke, but moving the material aside you were left speechless.

The wedding dress was beautiful, with a white bodice embroidered on the sides in black and red in intricate stitching that recalled stylized dragon profiles. The soft skirt was a long trailing gradient that from the white of the bodice resumed orange and dark red colors, you recognized the shades and the scale-like patterns, it reminded you a lot of his armor you had seen at the tournament, it perfectly imitated the design of a flame. The arms were bare to allow for fine gloves that reached the armpit, closing along the middle finger leaving the palm uncovered, black, intertwined with dark stones that reminded you of those of the castle. The veil was also very similar and the small crown greatly resembled a row of slightly curved claws at the front.

You would have said that a man like him could not have such taste, that he had probably been helped, but even his armor was fascinating and Aerion did not seem the kind of man who accepted advice from others on how a Targaryen should dress. None of his family (at least from the male side) dressed nearly as well. If he had truly designed that dress you could add it to the list of his virtues.

Not that you kept one, it was perhaps at… two virtues and a hundred flaws?

He knew how to lick a cunt and make clothes against his numerous and multifaceted anger management issues.

Better than nothing, right?

As beautiful as it was though, you would not wear it. You had brought a dress from your home, and until proven otherwise the ceremony required an exchange of cloaks. You were in a hurry with the wedding just a few hours away, but what had happened the other night was a big clue about who Aerion was. After everything you had said to each other, the aggression and the reaction, instead of completely losing his mind he had gotten on his knees to eat you.

He was a spiteful dog to understand. When at the tournament you had moved away from him the first time he had been angry, but he had begged for your touch. The second time he had been more aggressive, but at least according to what he had declared he wanted you to sleep with him, words to be taken lightly since if he hadn’t been injured you doubted you would have come out of there completely untouched. He had been happy with your cooperation and the day after he had seemed calm, but you didn’t know how much to take those attitudes as truthful and reliable while he was bedridden and injured.

Here instead you had been able to taste more levels of his negative aspects. The trip he had given you on the stairs was among the most childish things you had seen him do and you still hadn’t fully deciphered the gesture. If he aimed to punish you because he believed (rightly) that you were the cause for which he would be pushed to the north then what did he want?

Did he hope you would fall down the stairs?

Was he only aiming to make you look bad in front of his brothers and father? To belittle you to make you less regal in their eyes as you were for him? After all, as much as modesty had never been one of his virtues, neither the rest of the family held back in their sense of superiority compared to nobles—even if they respected etiquette given their upbringing. Even without dragons to fly above everyone’s heads they were Targaryens and the others were no one.

You didn’t believe it was a spite to show something to others. All your most intense interactions had happened in private. Even in that room and the night before when he had shown up with the clear intention of kneeling at your feet. Something had clicked that he had liked, that had pushed him to knock on your door and almost beg you to be a devoted wife. Thinking about it clearly, what he had ordered you had a sweet taste, a light in his eyes that truly hoped you would behave well for him. You hadn’t even touched him, he had come on his own while making you reach an orgasm. That was his egocentric act, knowing that even if he hurt you, you liked it and bent under his hands.

Maybe it was a gamble, but you believed he wanted the fight.

That constant prodding that had led you to push him into another kind of violence. You didn’t know anything about his sexual experiences, but it was clear that it wasn’t his first time with women or, if it was, then he had to truly be a son of the gods, it was the only logical explanation. In any case you imagined there were a line of poor girls who had been forced into bed with the prince and you could only imagine the things that had been done to these ladies. Originally you had believed that sex was not a means to use to manipulate Aerion, but now you saw a new angle to it.

You reached the wardrobe where your belongings had been moved. Well covered, two dresses were hanging with few differences between them (a kind concession from your mother) who, in anticipation of the milder climate, had had both made to measure with different materials just in case, one more winter-like and one lighter. With your house’s cloak on your shoulders you would be covered from the wind anyway and once inside you would suffer less from the maritime cold, so you took the lighter one.

The fabric in this case was almost entirely white, more as tradition would have it. The skirt was composed of three layers of different lengths, with the longest touching the ground in a more rounded and moderate train, the second ending at knee height before lengthening behind to the ground and finally the third starting from the hips gathered at the back of the waist in small waves. The bodice was partly transparent, thickening over the chest studded with clear stones similar to glass that reflected blue and violet lights. The edge was decorated with a light gray wolf fur that covered much of the chest, the fur passed around the arms where the sleeves were accompanied by long waves of a material similar to the veil.

Finally, the circlet rested low around the forehead, four fingers high and with intricate metal weavings that created designs of snowflakes and stylized stars also decorated with precious stones.

The bodice tightened in the back with a lace, so you slipped your legs in and pulled it up over your hips. The important thing was to hide the marks on your legs, for the rest they could help you. So, making sure everything was in place, you called them back. They didn’t ask too many questions about your half-dressed state, pulling the lace to make the dress fit you perfectly. Every now and then they cast hesitant glances toward the other dress left in the corner and you reassured them, “I will speak to my future husband about his dress.”

They didn’t say much. When you sat on the chair to let them work, you felt a painful sting in your flesh and you wondered if the wounds might be bad enough to stain the dress, but the layers of the skirt were enough to hide any evidence just in case. They tied your hair in a complex arrangement of braids that reminded you a lot of those you had seen on other Targaryen women and your stomach dropped a little. So caught up in all the dramas of the men around you, it had become a secondary weight the reality that you were about to get married and change your life forever. At least for a while you would still have the familiarity of snowy lands with you even if your lineage would now be secondary.

It was a strange realization. You thought of Aerion, of the embarrassment of having been discovered by his brother, of the dramas of their family and then of your sister who would soon become the lady of the north. You would have children, the seasons would be the same, but with completely different weights, thinking of all the times your mother had scolded you because you had gone out poorly covered and she repeated those phrases that everyone had heard as children at least once, “You’ll see when you become a mother,” or the more classic, “When you are in my shoes you’ll see who was right.” And others still. You worried what kind of father Aerion would be. Yours had been little present in your upbringing, but he was very different from the Targaryen and above all there were far too many legends bordering on the surreal that accompanied the birth of children not entirely of royal blood.

Yes- there were rumors of many bastards around the kingdoms, but just as many stories of children born with reptile scales and feline eyes, the seed of madness and prophetic dreams. You couldn’t pretend they were just stories, you had the proof before your eyes and you were terrified of experiencing it on your own skin. It was something far worse than normal problems of a mother and there seemed to be no solution. It was like signing a project doomed from the start, but what could you do? Running away was a road that would only lead to death.

“My lady- ” the young one called you, interrupting the flow of your thoughts. She held out a white handkerchief that you looked at in confusion before realizing that a tear had fallen from your eyes and now dampened your profile.

“Thank you.” You took it carefully to dry your eyes under the worried gaze of the four. The young one cleared her throat before speaking. “If I may… I think Prince Aerion is truly charming and I am sure he will be an excellent husband-”

You snorted a genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. At your side the tallest of them lightly slapped the young one’s wrist, ordering her to be quiet. “Forgive her, my lady, Meredith has been here only recently, she is still learning her place.”

You shook your head, a smile coloring your lips thinking that the poor girl was honest in her words, having luckily had little to do with Aerion given how she had spoken of him. “It’s not a problem. I am glad to talk anyway, I admit I am feeling a bit homesick.” You lied so as not to weigh down the atmosphere. They seemed to believe it because Meredith lit up like the sun. “Oh my lady, I can imagine. I have heard much good about the north, harsh lands but fascinating, I would love to visit them one day.”

Her cheerfulness was a breath of fresh air and distracted you from that ball of crying that was swelling in your chest, needing to explode, so you fed the conversation, also sparking the chatter of the other three in a more relaxed and frivolous atmosphere.

“Are you married?” you asked after the circlet was placed on your head, the veil for now pushed back to let them apply some makeup. Meredith shook her head, but two others nodded. The eldest, whom you had discovered was named Nina, puffed out her cheeks, reminding you a little of your father. “I have been married more years than unmarried, my lady, by now even my children are grown and have their own families.”

You asked her about her marriage and more. Time flowed much faster with their company, even drawing a few laughs from you now and then and inexorably distracting the bad thoughts that you could ignore for a few more hours. Meredith’s laughter was contagious and you apologized several times for moving while they helped you with your makeup in front of the mirror. “I think he is really sweet, he brought me flowers saying they reminded him of the color of my eyes-” she squeaked with a slight blush on her cheeks, earning no small number of eye-rolls from all of you. “Oh saints Meredith, I must teach you a thing or two about men or you will end up with a ring on your finger from the first street bard.” The other scolded her, earning a pout in response, so you tried to reassure her.

“If I may say, I prefer a man who brings me flowers rather than hunting carcasses as trophies. I have had to refuse far too many hares and deer antlers to complain about flowers today.”

Another laugh exploded in the room, fueled in part by the disgusted expression of the young girl who was not used to such courtship methods. “No- I prefer flowers, my lady.”

The chatter was interrupted by a knock at the door that abruptly cut the atmosphere, especially when at Nina’s request to identify himself it was Daeron who answered from the other side, killing your smile.

The woman noticed your sudden change in mood and tried to send him away. “My lady is preparing, your grace-” but you waved a hand to stop her. “No, it’s fine. He may come in-” you cleared your throat, returning to more ladylike manners, straightening your shoulders. They had finished preparing you anyway, you only needed to put on your shoes.

Better here than later.

Part of you almost hoped he was too drunk to remember, but for what other reason could he be there?

All four excused themselves with the promise to return once the prince had left. You remained watching yourself in the mirror’s reflection, waiting in silence. Daeron watched them walk away down the corridor before closing the door behind him.

It was the first time you saw him dressed so well. His usually messy and dirty hair had been properly washed and tied into a ponytail behind his head, the red and black colors of the house on every garment. He still had that glassy look and deep dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed to have done his best to look presentable.

Probably under his father’s orders.

The silence that followed was awkward.

It would have been a good move to open your mouth and say a polite phrase, but you were afraid your voice would betray you. You couldn’t even look him in the face, keeping your gaze fixed just below his chin, never turning as if you were very busy looking at yourself in the mirror in search of something to fix, but everything was perfect and the stillness was more embarrassing than empty phrases.

He shifted in place for a moment before walking to the window, leaning his elbow on the sill. He sniffed before speaking. “I- wanted to apologize. Yesterday everything went wrong because of me and- last night I came by to apologize and-” he cleared his throat “-I had drunk a bit, I had a nightmare about- dragons and- I woke up and- and I wanted to tell you I was sorry and- and ask-”

“Ask me for forgiveness?” you interrupted, finally turning to look at him.

He seemed caught off guard by your sudden gaze, gaping a couple of times before nodding. His eyes scanned you from head to toe repeatedly, almost frantically. You wondered if he was under the influence of something, but he wasn’t slurring, so it was hard to tell. He ran a hand through his hair, ruining the perfect ponytail. Looking more closely you noticed he had the first button of his collar open and his cuffs rolled up, exposing his wrists.

“Was there really a need to come to my door in the middle of the night, Daeron?” you asked in a half whisper, unable to hide the accusation in your voice. He seemed offended by it and tried to justify himself.

“I didn’t know when else to come. You had run off after dinner and Aerion was on my back. I wanted to reassure you-” he raised a hand as if to brush something away from his face “-I wanted to tell you I would behave at the wedding after I had set him against you- I saw what he did when we went up the stairs, I don’t want to make this marriage more complicated than it already is.”

He completely ruined his hairstyle, strands falling in front of his face as he tried to push invisible hair behind his ears, only grabbing the neat ones instead. At least he seemed sincere in his discomfort.

“I don’t even know why I came here now- I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol and my head is exploding-” the stream of words poured out of him like a waterfall. He took a step closer to you, glancing at the door like a trapped animal. Despite you being the one who had been caught in a compromising position (and with a constant burning to remind you of it), he was the more agitated of the two, almost making you laugh.

Almost.

“Is that what you came to tell me? That- that you are on my side?” You stood up, ignoring your bare feet on the carpet. Being able to face him made you less nervous. Attacking instead of having to justify yourself gave you a bit of courage in that absurd conversation.

“Yes! I told everything to my father. That I messed up, he scolded me as he always does and told me to come and apologize to you. And- I mean-” he shook his head “-I would have done it even if he hadn’t ordered me, but in case he comes to ask you at least you know-”

You rolled your eyes. Of course part of those apologies also served to protect himself. You had to repeat it to yourself and let it sink in, Daeron was not a saint and even less a selfless man, and he had still seen you with your ass in the air.

“Oh you are very kind to tell me, maybe next time show up during daylight hours, okay?” You pointed a finger at his chest without touching him and offended him more than you expected because he snapped back sharply.

“As far as I know you were supposed to be in your room sleeping, not sitting on my brother’s face and coming in his mouth!”

You were left speechless.

A wave of embarrassment mixed with anger hit you, unable to respond as sharply as you would have liked. You could feel your cheeks heating up while a veil of discomfort settled over you, making the air heavy.

You stammered, holding back a long series of unpleasant epithets along the lines of him being a drunkard and a coward, before pressing your lips into a hard line, tasting some of the lipstick that lightly colored them. It was enough to remind you that you couldn’t physically attack him or you would wrinkle the wedding dress and ruin the long work of those women waiting patiently not far away, who would surely hear if you started screaming like a madwoman.

He too seemed to realize he had crossed the line because he shrugged like a boy and shook his head. “Gods- I didn’t mean- I- I’m drunk- I mean- I always am, I’m sorry-” it sounded like a cat’s meow. For a moment he turned his back to you before dropping onto the unmade bed.

You remained silent, letting him roll in his apologies. You knew he was right, it had been a chain of events he truly couldn’t have foreseen and blaming him was your way of washing your hands of it. You could have thrown Aerion out, perhaps he wouldn’t even have protested, or that might have sparked his anger the next day, but you would never have had an answer— because you hadn’t hesitated for a second, you had let him do it and you had enjoyed it from beginning to end. Daeron had many faults, but he didn’t deserve the weight of your shame.

“No. Listen. You’re right- I mean… it was an absurd moment and I don’t know what got into your brother last night- we argued in the afternoon and I thought he had come to finish me honestly. Instead… it all happened very quickly.”

You would have liked to rub your hands over your face, but you would have ruined far too much work and you didn’t want to be late for your wedding. That conversation was already an extra stop.

“What got into him? Well, he likes you. It’s a positive thing. I think.” The smile he gave you was more of a grimace. “Listen. Let’s take a step back. I’m sorry. For postponing the inevitable. On the ship he lost his mind, he started throwing everything and of course he tried to hit me, but luckily our brother and other guards were down there and separated us. I realized you wouldn’t have had the same defense from him, and then-” he waved a hand “-that stupid scene on the stairs, I was behind you and I saw you clearly. I- I can’t do much, but I wanted to tell you that whatever happens I don’t want to take it out on you. I’m sorry you will marry my brother.”

You smiled, gathering the train to move it carefully to the sides of your legs as you stepped back to lean your hips against the edge of the desk. “Funny. Your brother Egg told me the same thing.”

Daeron looked at you, surprised, tilting his head. “At Ashford?” But you shook your head. “No, shortly after, on the way home. I saw him with Ser Duncan the Tall. We exchanged a few words-” seeing how he looked at you hopefully, you added details “He seemed happy. I think the journey will do him good.”

He nodded, murmuring a few quiet words before standing up again. “Yes, he can still be saved from this family. Thank you for telling me, it’s hard to get news of him for obvious reasons. I’m sure he would have been happy to see you, even if the event wouldn’t have been the most joyful.” He stood up again and began walking toward the door. “Anyway, I said what I had to say, I’ll see you downstairs-” but halfway to the door you called his name.

“Daeron. I was wondering… is Aerion- like you?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, breaking through the barrier of courtesy. With the discomfort seemingly passed, your doubts resurfaced, and who better than the drunken prince could give you an answer?

“You mean an alcoholic?” he replied, turning to look at you with a strained smile. The light from the windows, now full in the morning, reached up to where the prince stood, illuminating him in a sharp cut that highlighted the golden strands and the bluish circles under his eyes. You shook your head, but he didn’t give you time to correct him.

“I don’t know if he dreams of dragons. We haven’t spoken for many years. He… used to be calm. Growing up something snapped and I don’t know.” He shrugged, it almost felt like he was talking about a mischievous dog rather than your future husband. “He truly believes he is a dragon in human form. He takes it very seriously and becomes irritable if you point out the absurdity of the statement. Honestly?” You looked at each other for a long moment, with an acidic aftertaste. “Maybe he has nightmares. And mistakes memories for premonitions. Maybe it’s just the madness of our blood. I don’t have an answer. And there is no solution.”

The words sounded like a tombstone and there was no need to ask for clarification from the prince, he meant them as such. That marriage was a slow descent into hell and the only way out would be a direct leap from the window.

Daeron seemed guilty seeing how shaken you were by his words and approached you again. A small smile softened his lips. You found it absurd how beautiful and damned all those men with terrible character were. You could smell the wine soaked into his skin, almost mocking you- reminding you that in front of you there was not a handsome prince, but an alcoholic visionary who had lost, even before being born, his divine rights tied to dragons that had been gone for years. Your mother’s words came back to you about seducing him to bend him to your needs, but in truth this man filled you with deep pity. And you hoped you would become friends.

“I truly think you’ll manage just fine. He likes you and that works in your favor. Maybe- the north will manage to smooth him out a bit, just as I hope Egg will grow better away from luxury. In the end you get used to it. And you can only move forward.”

You exhaled in a very unladylike way, sharing his melancholic expression. “It is very sad. If I may say.”

“Marriages are politics. Not happiness- my lady.” he murmured sadly.

He surprised you by taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles before making a small bow and finally leaving you alone in the room with a heavier heart and a knot in your throat you couldn’t name.

Going down the stairs in high shoes with four women holding your veil high was the real horror of the wedding. You threw manners to the wind and clung to the railing as if your life depended on it, moving in an embarrassing sideways gait that no one dared to comment on.

Once downstairs you went out toward the gardens where the wedding would take place. You could hear the chatter of the guests in the distance. All the high nobility was there to bear witness and you had to swallow many bitter pills. As the firstborn you had already attended events with those people and you felt little sympathy for most of them. Perhaps marrying a man like Aerion would save you from several drawing rooms, no one would have the courage or the desire to ask him for an afternoon together.

Just before the arch your father was waiting for you.

He had put on his best outfit, which resembled a softer version of his armor. He took the cloak with the Stark sigil in his hands and after the servants arranged the train of your dress on the ground they bowed and left you alone.

There was a moment of silence that felt endless before he moved to place the cloak on your shoulders, securing it with the cord at your neck. “Do you remember the words you have to say?” he asked suddenly in a hoarse voice. Looking at him more closely he seemed not to have slept at all.

“Yes, it’s not like there are many.”

He returned in front of you before letting out a whistle. From behind the hedges Whisha appeared, wagging her tail upon seeing you before coming to your side.

“I’m not sure-” but he interrupted you.

“If there is something I approve of in this marriage it’s that you bring the direwolf with you.”

When he called your name, placing his hands on your shoulders, your heart tightened. Your father didn’t use nicknames for his daughters, calling them by name was his way of conveying what he felt and now you felt its weight more than anything else.

“I have not been a good father. I did not have the courage to fight your whims and I did not raise you as a noble woman should have been. But I didn’t have the stomach to fight tradition either and make you the knight you deserved to become. I kept you balanced in the void and now I have forced you onto the path you wanted the least. And I will be ashamed of it for the rest of my life-”

You felt tears rise to your eyes and had to use one of your sleeves to dab them before the salty drops made a mess. “Father-” but he interrupted you again.

“You have a more untamed character than a beast and you have restrained it for the good of the family. I am not a fool, I know I would be nothing without you and your mother. So what I want to say-” a sigh “-is that I am sure that bastard of a Targaryen will understand that he has a real woman at his side. One who will either save his life or destroy him. And gods as my witness, if you ever choose the latter, I will choose you.”

You had to press your lips together, you would have wanted to hug him, but you knew that if you did you would burst into tears, so you placed your hands on his chest pretending to brush away nonexistent lint before leaving them there over his heart. “The northern winter has forged me as a woman together with the guidance of you and my mother. The Targaryens have no more fire to spit, but I will not underestimate the danger. I will return to you if I ever need it. Father.”

It was enough as an answer, he moved the veil in front of your face before offering you his arm.

You cast one last glance at the arch before smoothing your skirts in nervous movements, then you took your place beside him taking his arm, Whisha moved to your uncovered side shaking her fur as if to settle, aware of the spectacle you were about to give, but above all of the reassurance that having her by your side gave you.

You were the one to take the first step, your shoes clicked on the stone as you stepped into the garden.

Long rows of chairs were arranged on both sides, quickly looking around you recognized many familiar faces from the northern lands, but you did not dwell on them. Your sister had mentioned the majesty of the place and indeed it felt as though you were in a small grove that smelled of roses.

The aisle stopped in the center where a draconic statue at least two men tall stood, dark like everything else in that castle, in front beneath a small gazebo Aerion awaited you with his cloak on his arm, beside him Maekar and Daeron, your sister was on the opposite side barely holding back a smile, the anxiety of the previous day seemed to have left her, you wished you had her frivolity in small things, you wondered if she would be just as radiant on her day.

As you approached you could finally look Aerion in the face, you swore you saw his gaze narrow, a clear disappointment at not seeing you in the dress he had gifted you, but as the day before on the ship his gaze roamed everywhere to look you over from head to toe, this time not even Whisha could distract him, he had eyes only for you. He was devouring you.

Once at his side you let your father move your veil aside before he stepped near your sister, the septon gave a small bow of his head before turning to take the glass placed behind him, beside you Aerion murmured almost imperceptibly “I gave you a white and red dress.”

You hinted a smile mimicking his tone “You gave me a red ass.”

He coughed in surprise drawing the gaze of his father who was frowning as usual, he clearly would have wanted to scold him, but he held back letting the septon continue the ceremony armed with the famous dragonglass, “now you may cloak the bride with your mantle and take her under your protection.”

Aerion did as ordered before passing the cloak to your father, then placing the dark fabric embroidered with the red sigil over your shoulders, it was cool to the touch despite having remained under the sun during the ritual prayers, finely embroidered and thin it made you shiver for the contrast with yours much thicker and rougher.

Aerion took the glass in hand, you let out a small gasp when he cut your lip, you felt a sincere echo of fear thinking that he was decidedly the kind of man who was aroused at the sight of blood and that he could overdo it without seeming suspicious, but he did not sin by excess and handed you the object making you do the same with him, then using each other’s blood to smear your foreheads, finally you cut your palms before joining them and letting the septon bind you with a ribbon and recite further prayers.

It was not the first time you were this close, moving your tongue lightly inside your lip tasting a dark drop you thought back to the days of the birthday, astride his horse while he slaughtered his opponents, and after when dragged into the mud he had been bent and subdued leaving you with a shiver of selfish joy at seeing him suffer. Those evenings in bed so weak and defeated, and now on the opposite side standing before the highest members of the realm, instead of celebrating a marriage witnessed only by relatives you were showing everyone the union of the north with the royals. In this world pacts tended to be thin and words deliberately deceptive, but a marriage closed doors and built unbreakable paths where the only way out was death.

And for a single instant seeing those violet eyes burn into yours you told yourself that despite everything that man truly seemed to want you, even without royal blood, even without dragons, magic, or lands, Aerion desired you and made you feel good.

Not loved. Worshipped.

If a madman distracted himself from his desires to admire you then there was something stronger than desire, it was obsession, need, hunger.

Aerion did not love you and did not want you, but he behaved like a beast that hoarded treasures under its claws and he had already marked you. He made you vibrate with egocentric pride. After all part of your years lying with men were due to the feeling you experienced when they desired- and begged for a piece of you, at the center of frivolous attentions like a god you chose the chosen one who would have the honor of tasting it and you enjoyed every moment of it. Now even a madman wanted you, it was dangerous, but it fed your flame as you fed his.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” Aerion pronounced.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.” you imitated with reverence, the weight of the promises marked by blood that was beginning to overflow from your palms soaking the fabric of the ribbon.

“With this kiss, I promise you my love” you had to press your lips together for a moment to avoid smiling like a fool, it was almost a joke to hear such a word from a man like him, the burning on your lip was an ironic reminder of the true taste that marriage would have, but it did not matter, by now you had spoken the words and when you met halfway to kiss it was like throwing the anchor that weighed down your stomach, bound to him in the name of the gods now and forever there was no way to escape without spilling blood, but you did not feel it would be your path, you had bowed your head many years before and you wanted to remain honest with the choices you had made now and forever before the gods, so as not to be judged with resentment when your time would come.

It was different from the kiss of that evening, there was not that thrill of the forbidden nor the fear of being so intimate with Aerion, you felt safer, not because you thought you were- no woman was ever protected, but because every step taken beside what had become your husband was another key to be able to read him better. It was chaste and quick, accompanied by the applause of the crowd, but it still made you tremble.

Stepping back from that copper-tasting touch you saw from the corner of your eye Daeron staring at you with a sinister light in his gaze, he seemed asleep on his feet, with his eyelids wide open as if he were trying to stay upright.

You found him truly strange, but perhaps it was just another of his odd dreamer habits and you moved on. Perhaps with time you would become friends, throwing your mother’s harsh words into the wind when she told you to manipulate him, you still wanted to believe that it was possible to be friends with a man without ulterior motives.

For a moment you felt positive and wanted to enjoy the moment.

The lunch surprised you in ways you could not imagine. You had dined the night before on dishes that were unfamiliar to you, but the celebration was on a whole other level and every course seemed more exquisite than the last.

Musicians and jugglers had been called to entertain the guests, every now and then you cast glances at your sister to make sure she was at ease, she seemed to have befriended one of Aerion’s younger sisters and they chatted pointing at jewels and dresses with a carefree air.

In all honesty you had hidden your face a little in your plate to avoid the long looks from Aerion beside you who had eaten very little so far and preferred to spend the time letting his gaze wander over the guests and his brothers a few seats away. You should have been more far-sighted about the actual atmosphere at the table, but you were still not able to predict in the long run when your husband’s most destructive needs would appear and you realized that perhaps just like a child there was no way to predict when he would throw a tantrum, they would appear with a snap of the fingers.

He suddenly stood up drawing your attention before clearing his throat, striking with a utensil the rim of the cup he held, within moments the murmur ceased and all eyes were on him.

“I do not want to take too much time from this excellent lunch, but as some of you already know we have organized some small games to entertain ourselves throughout the day.” The news sparked various applause and cheerful noises that ceased at a gesture from Aerion before he resumed speaking “I want this marriage to be a date to remember for better years, I could not have imagined I would be the first of my brothers to marry, but it is no surprise, after all I am the first with the nose out of alcohol.”

More laughter came out, a bit more embarrassed, but you fought to keep your smile seeing how Aerion had turned toward Daeron who in the meantime had his face lowered into his glass and judging by how he rested his head on one hand he was already tipsy.

Feeling indirectly called out he too turned to look back at his brother and a shiver ran down your spine, if looks could speak theirs would have screamed loud enough to make the earth tremble, you knew little of Daeron’s drunken state, you had seen him in passing at the estate call rudely to a poor girl who worked there, part of the reason why he had not given you a good impression was that small interaction that had happened before you and in part you read in him the rude manners of your father when he drank too much. He did not seem like a happy drunk and he was clearly not amused at being mocked by his brother in front of everyone.

If outside the main table the smiles had remained, at the head of the table the royal family had frozen recognizing the first signs of some bad scene that Aerion was about to set off, the king had not remained at the table given his fragile health, and the presence of the father was not enough to prevent the prince from speaking, so seizing the moment seeing your husband resume the attack you interrupted him addressing the crowd “Fortunately the negotiations were brief or I too would have arrived at this table with white hair.”

You chuckled along with the rest of the guests deliberately ignoring the violet daggers your husband sent your way not nearly as amused that his game had ended so abruptly, but he raised his goblet imitated by the rest of the guests. “Eat, but for those participating in the games I advise you not to overdo it, I would like us all to survive at least until dinner.”

The shouting returned louder than before, Aerion finished the glass before sitting down again, his free hand naturally rested on your leg and suddenly squeezed the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh.

You inhaled sharply hiding the gasp that rose in your throat, “You must not interrupt me wife.” He smiled politely aware that no one would understand what he was saying to you and would only see two newlyweds chatting, so you imitated him before leaning along the table to move a small plate of potatoes in front of him “You will have to be strong for the competitions husband. Please eat, you have barely touched the meat.” the silent war of glances that flew between you could have unleashed a storm, if that was not confirmation that those bites were punitive then the gods had a terrible sense of humor.

A new theory was forming in your mind, Aerion had used pleasure to punish you instead of striking you directly. You did not know if he was afraid to face you in the light of day, after all he was no fool, but he also knew how to fight, enough to be a formidable opponent. Perhaps just as you did with him he was analyzing you pushing you to show your strengths to understand where to strike, it also brought back to mind what your mother told you about your aunt. The husband was a lord of the worst kind, wealth and appearances to show at banquets and feasts were the only things that mattered to him. The wife was always covered in gold and with clothes of superb quality, especially for a woman who still had to survive the northern winter cold and normally had little time to worry about style. However he was a unpleasant man and he struck her where the marks could be easily hidden from view, when you became old enough to handle a sword you told her you would help her, but she never accepted worried about starting a war and with small children to think of and protect.

That too was a concern you had to start planning, children were always a weapon men used against their mothers.

Anyway.

You poisoned him for a couple of years at the numerous family dinners to which they were invited. The man did not die, but he had become of such fragile health that to this day he was a danger only to himself. You believed your aunt suspected your involvement, but she had never protested.

You had seen her in passing at the tables with her children, of the husband not even a shadow.

The arrival of the cake was the signal for Aerion to leave your leg, which despite not having stopped squeezing had never removed his hand playing with the edge of one of the layers of your skirt completely ignoring the food you had placed in front of him. The dessert was a mix of fruit layers and chocolate and despite you had already given your worst you felt you still had space to try that too.

You stood up together to reach the cart, Aerion with an unsuspecting movement passed his hand over your backside to move the train of the dress to the side so that it was pressed behind your back, he let you take the blade before tightening your hand in his and begin cutting the upper layer, the thinner one where the poor doves were trapped that took flight as soon as they found enough space to slip out.

You left Aerion the task of cutting the cake for both of you instead of waiting for the servants, while you returned to the table you crossed once more Daeron’s gaze who was now undeniably drunk and you hesitated. To distract your husband from an easy target for his pranks you took a small plate from his hands before he could turn, he raised an eyebrow a little offended, but you distracted him dragging him to the table “You know I did not take you for the chocolate type?” he made a face snorting “Actually I do not like anything in particular. We asked your father what you would have preferred for the cake and he answered vaguely- so we made both.”

You found it nice of him, but brushed it off, the small gestures now left much to be desired you had to keep Aerion away from his older brother.

There had been a moment of pause, down in the valley outside the castle the area of the games that Aerion had requested had been organized.

Just to spite him you had decided to actually change dress, if he wanted that thing put on you then everyone would see it well under the sunlight, without the damned cloak on your shoulders. While the rest of the nobles and the crowd had moved or were waiting for the servants’ call you had gone back, along the only corridor that was vaguely familiar to you after asking a boy if he could send at least two of the women from that morning up to help you.

Just before reaching the main stairs to go up to your room Whisha suddenly stopped turning behind you to growl with her fur bristling.

You did not doubt her senses so you turned with a hard look “Who is there?”

From the corner a shadow emerged, you recognized the shape before even seeing the dark curls.

“Lyonel. By the gods- I did not think you would come.” You let out a breath before joining your hands in your lap waiting for him to approach, Whisha reassured by your manners approached the man to receive a scratch behind the ears, she had far too much sympathy for the Baratheon who always threw her snacks from under the table.

“And miss this sight?” He laughed pointing at you before playfully hitting the direwolf on the side with an open hand, he wore the typical tunic of his house, shining with a bright yellow and framed by numerous gold rings on his hands that gleamed dully among all that black stone, everything about him seemed out of place there.

“Tell me you came just to congratulate me please-” you moved your hands through your hair starting to undo a braid, the hairstyle pulled at your head and you would have had it changed anyway you did not want a headache.

“Well. If you want to run away with me through the back door I would not complain-” his gaze dropped lower to your chest, along your hips and then further down before returning to your face “Anyway. No. Between me and your husband there is no good blood- so I wanted to speak to you away from him so as not to ignite his anger.” He moved close enough to be just a few steps away and absurdly that familiarity you had with that man now made you uncomfortable, what you had shared was a weapon that could be used against you and you wondered if Lyonel would make missteps to get what he wanted.

If he truly wanted you at least.

“You are truly the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.”

You involuntarily pulled your hair tighter feeling your cheeks warm, “No offense, but you usually do not attend weddings and the few you have attended I doubt you arrived sober by the end of the evening.” It came naturally to joke, to try to lighten that atmosphere that had already become suffocating, he seized the opportunity and burst out laughing, but it only made you more uncomfortable afraid of attracting someone’s attention nearby.

“Ouch. Hit and sunk. But actually- I- gods. I didn’t want this to become awkward. I- I wanted to apologize.”

You held back an eye roll. Who would have thought that it took getting married to receive so many apologies from men?

He ran a hand through his hair before stepping even closer, you had to lift your head to look him in the eyes, you could not even step back or you would trip on that damned train and your hands were anchored in your hair pretending to be very busy with those strands also to pretend to be comfortable in that suspicious conversation.

“I have been an idiot. I am jealous. I cannot help it, I want you. I had you-” you scolded him with a start “Lyonel-” but he continued “I took you for granted. I was angry because I kept wasting time and meanwhile you were promised to that- guy. And I was furious. And it’s all my fault.”

He smiled sadly, he too seemed for a moment more lucid turning to look behind him, but the corridors were silent “The gods punished me for my sins and took you away from me. But I can still fix things-I can save you-”

The warmth that had begun to grow in your chest froze, like a slap to the face the warm bubble that surrounded you burst in your ears making the same bell ring as that afternoon at Ashford.

“Oh gods- are you serious?! You had almost started well- of course you had to ruin everything-” you struck his chest with open hands in a not too convinced push, but it was enough to make him step back. “You are getting yourself into something far worse than a simple marriage with a Targaryen- I am worried about you, I already spoke with your father-” at that point you let caution go raising your voice “What could you have possibly spoken about with my father huh?! I’m not a child! It is the royal family, of course the problems will not be the usual ones of a bored noble!”

He let out a snort that only made you angrier “I’m not talking about that! I’m talking about men. I’m talking about those four! They look at you like a pig on a spit!”

At that point you felt completely confused and in the heat of the moment you had thrown to the ground the ties that previously held your braids now partly undone “What the fuck are you saying?”

Lyonel turned again toward the corridor before grabbing your arm without much effort and dragging you near the stairs away from the light of the windows, “You know better than me that the kingdoms are no longer stable. No one gives credit to these white heads anymore, but despite everything they are holding. But we know well that the problems of the Targaryens are within the family, not outside. You should have seen how the princes looked at you when you appeared in the white dress-” you freed yourself from his grip with a jerk, Whisha began to perceive that the conversation was not making you happy because she moved between your legs to create distance between the two of you.

“You are blinded by your paranoia-” but he did not let you finish “I know how to recognize an obsessed man damn it! Aerion is out of his mind and it is clear that he likes you. Valarr? If that is a married man then he must have neck problems because he spent the entire ceremony staring at your breasts. Aemon instead was looking at your ass and Daeron?” A bitter laugh escaped him “He got lost in the bottle because he was too busy looking at you the whole damn lunch. I don’t know what you did, but we have already lost him. He looks at you the way I look at you. The way Aerion looks at you- you have been married for a few hours and it is already a disaster. Do you know how many wars were born for money? Or power? And do you know how many still for the hand of a woman?”

You pressed your lips together in an almost childish pout, he made you feel as if it was your fault, scolded like a child who had done too big a mischief and was now being reprimanded by her parents, you would have wanted to send that beautiful dress to hell and punch him, your hands were so tight you could feel your nails pressing into the flesh of your palms.

“And what fault is it of mine if you’re all pigs?! Are you accusing me of having seduced them? Are you not even a little ashamed to speak to me like this?! I have become a Targaryen, you should bow at my feet damn it!” you had to take deep breaths to recover a minimum of clarity, you were afraid that if you pulled the rope you would burst into tears right there victim of your anger.

Even Whisha lost her sympathy for the man beginning to silently bare her teeth, but Lyonel did not seem impressed not even giving her a glance. “No! I’m worried! Tonight come away with me- a war will begin, but it will start anyway. I will take your people away from here, you will be safe and then we will marry and I will make you happy. By the witnesses I will do everything for you.”

Whisha’s bark bounced along the walls, but it was not as loud as the slap that hit Lyonel square in the face making him flinch in pain.

“You are- you are… you are- you are such- a fucking man!” You burst out.

“Happy? What happiness could you ever give me during a war caused by me! I can already imagine what everyone will say! The whore who could not have the crown and ran away after the ceremony! My life will be ruined forever!”

He seemed to think about it, still in shock from the blow before speaking in a lower tone “We will say that I kidnapped you. That I threatened you and you had no other choice. I want to give you the life you deserve, I will never force you-” but at that point you were a flood of anger and did not allow him to say more.

“Force? Do you mean in giving you an heir? Or being Lady Baratheon following you in those stupid hunting contests? You’re a fool if you think it would work. Look at you. Look at us.” You waved a hand between the two of you “How old are you huh? Twenty-five or something like that? If I had reached your age without marrying they would have already taken me for an old thing to throw away. Marrying without producing an heir within the first years of marriage then? Who do you think would take all the shit? Me damn it. Not you. Never you! Never a man!”

Tears filled your eyes as you watched him burn from within, you regretted every bite you had eaten at lunch because now you would have gladly vomited “they would say that I deceived you and seduced you to escape the mad prince. That I’m a whore and a liar who manipulates men for her own affairs. I would immediately be labeled as unfaithful. They would drag my sister into the mud and also my mother, after all it is her duty to raise her daughters, they would say it was she who taught us to be whores.” You had to wipe away a couple of tears that tickled your cheeks before catching your breath and continuing “You say you would never force me, but it is not you. It’s this city. The region, the kingdoms. I will always be a woman in the eyes of this world. I am the one who is given around like breeding cattle, I am the one who must accept the abuses of men, I am the one who will never be able to wear armor because I will always be too stupid or too weak, too much a woman! Nothing will ever change what I am because I will always be judged for what I do not have between my legs!”

You trembled with anger, your makeup now ruined as you rubbed your cheeks “And you’re no better than them! Because you don’t understand that the problem is not one, but all of them. You would make a war to take me away from the arms of another man, but in all these years that we have known each other you have never lifted a finger to try to change things for women. If you love me so much should you not want the best for me? Do you perhaps think I am a pet? Putting me in a golden cage well knowing that outside the house everyone expects me to bow my head like a dog? You’re just a fucking hypocrite.”

You took a step toward him who looked at you with his mouth slightly open, his cheek now reddened where you had struck him “And you know what? Absurdly perhaps Aerion will be a better husband than you. Because he does as he pleases playing on the edge of traditions to bend things to his advantage. He perhaps more than you would be able to set the council on fire if it went against me, unlike you who keep living your days attached to the bottle and with that ridiculous crown of horns.”

You didn’t care about manners grabbing your skirts in your hands to move more easily and reach the base of the stairs “If you really love me Lyonel then become my ally, not an enemy. A friend. And if you want to make me happy do me the favor of marrying a good woman and treating her as she deserves. Move that ass to make our lives less miserable. Then I will believe in the sincerity of your words.”

You rushed up the stairs glad that the clicking of your heels partly covered the sound of your sobs, you stumbled on a couple of steps, but the pain in your ankles was insignificant. You did not even know what excuse to make when you opened the door of the room and found Nina and Meredith in front of you. They didn’t judge, they said nothing, they let you cool off alone in the bathroom for a few minutes in the company of Whisha who had gotten all her fur wet with salty tears, mucus and makeup.

With a bit of warm water you rid yourself of the mess and almost broke down again realizing that you would have to change partly on your own so as not to show the marks on your legs to the women once more, the bitter irony of what you had shouted at the Baratheon just before still burned your throat.

The dress was beautiful, but by now the day felt completely ruined, the two of them fixed your hair again into something less complex and that left a bit of room to breathe, even the makeup was mostly something meant to hide the redness of your eyes and the traces of crying, you didn’t even bother putting on the little crown and hurried back down fully aware that you were much later than you had originally planned, at least the shoes had a shorter heel.

Accompanied by the royal guards you made the way down to the valley, the sound of applause and shouting was already loud, you imagined that even the local workers and their families had been invited, but looking more closely at the crowd beyond the fences you realized there were far more people. You were escorted to your private seat, in the raised space reserved for the royal family, the rest of the non-participating nobles were at the lower sides, you searched for the presence of your relatives not very interested in watching the knights be unhorsed, but you could not see anyone familiar.

“Excuse me-” you turned to your left hearing yourself being called, in front of you the future queen and wife of Valarr smiled at you kindly.

You stood up at once giving a small bow “My lady- it is an honor to meet you in person” her smile only grew brighter before sitting beside you in the empty seat and you imitated her, you knew little of Kiera by reputation, the poor thing was mostly remembered as Valarr’s wife and little else, still you introduced yourselves out of courtesy even though by now you were relatives.

“I wanted to properly introduce myself, we did not have the chance before. Valarr has spoken very highly of you.”

You turned to look at her from the corner of your eye, both of you remained composed in your seats continuing to chat “His lordship has spoken of me to you? I am honored.” She waved the small fan she held in her hand “Please do not be so formal. I am truly relieved to have a woman my age in the family. I barely see my cousins and Maekar’s daughters are very young and not inclined to speak of topics beyond jewels and dresses. You are truly a breath of fresh air.”

You avoided pointing out that soon enough you too would disappear again to the north, but you imagined she knew it well, she seemed sincere nonetheless.

“I can imagine. My sister and I are only a few years apart, but sometimes it is truly difficult to keep up with her.” You exchanged a knowing glance just before the trumpets sounded announcing the entrance of the princes.

With Valarr at the head your heart tightened a little seeing a new helm under his arm, the brief conversation you had had with Baelor still burned, it had had a bitter aftertaste, but also a warm one, a man who truly seemed to care for his family, yet managing much better to be a father and a mentor for his sons.

Although, to break a lance in favor of poor Maekar, Valarr did not seem to be tormented by nightmares of dragons and murderous instincts so the job had been easier.

With their entrance you all stood as the various names were announced, Aerion’s gaze immediately moved to look for you and finding you he gave such a wide grin you could see his canines gleam even across the course of the horses.

Instead of following his relatives to his position he made the mare trot right beneath the private stands and you stepped down the two steps that allowed you to lean below.

“For a moment I thought you had fled by swimming. But now I understand you wanted to surprise me. I am honored dear wife.”

A forced smile escaped you, if Kiera was a light presence and not a tense conversation to face, the one with Aerion was far more complicated, especially after the insane interaction with Lyonel that made you feel dirty under his eyes. Gods, you had not arrived a virgin to the marriage, but you did not even like the idea of betraying your husband because you didn’t love him, plotting behind his back was madness anyway, by now you were bound and if he were to fall you would collapse at his side or worse they would move you into the hands of another man like a broken object, you would remain forever a used thing given as a consolation prize.

Your husband however was not stupid and looking at you a moment longer he lost his smile “Have you been crying?”

You barely held back a surprised inhale, practically confirming his question without speaking “Is it because of that thing at lunch?”

But you shook your head, you leaned over the edge to speak more quietly, after all Kiera was just a few steps behind you “No. I am just tired-” but the lie convinced neither of you.

“You promised me you would not lie to me.”

The accusation came out heavy, rougher and it sent a shiver through you, you felt terribly fragile in that moment, you had kept up a facade until a few hours earlier, but you needed a break. This was not home, you could not simply run to your room without attracting questions or judgment, it was ridiculous and yet that was how it worked, once married you were considered a fully grown woman and therefore old behaviors would be judged and not taken as the need of a young girl, it took only two words and a few hours to completely change every expectation placed on a woman.

“Aerion.” You called him in a faint whisper, letting some of that fragility you felt show, one hand lowered to move a lock from his cheek that slipped from the decorated helm “I have been awake since dawn to make myself beautiful for this day. There has been a constant buzzing in my ears since the ceremony and I climbed I do not know how many stairs just to put on the dress you wanted-” you smiled at him sweetly “Which I really like.”

You grabbed his visor and pushed it down to cover his face, he flinched slightly, but you pretended not to notice “I admit I would like to rest a few hours. But since I am not allowed I will endure-” you lowered your tone even more before leaning to kiss the cold metal of the mask, where the mouth was engraved “And tonight you can take care of me. As a husband takes care of his wife.”

When you straightened again you expected a sharp reply, yet Aerion seemed speechless, because he gave a nod before giving a kick to the mare and trotting away to his place.

Still that small sense of power you had tasted over him lasted only until you raised your eyes to the other Targaryens who watched you like hawks.

You began to feel paranoid because you could not understand if they truly seemed to desire you or simply found you interesting as a new member of the family. Especially after Lyonel’s words about Daeron you felt short of breath.

He believed that poor dreamer was in love with you and it was absurd.

And yet meeting his gaze you struggled to read a clear emotion and he barely held himself on the horse.

He was drunk.

He was drunk on a horse and was about to be struck in the chest with a lance.

You took your seat beside Kiera again and could not help but voice your concerns “Should we not tell someone about Daeron? I do not think it is a good idea to let him ride.”

She replied with an unconvinced grimace “Aerion forced him from what I know. It would not even be the first time.”

You searched for Maekar somewhere behind you, but beyond his usual frown he said or did nothing almost indifferent to the almost certain disastrous fall of his son.

There were a couple of fairly calm rounds, Valarr was clearly trying to avoid hitting poor Daeron who nonetheless (accustomed to high alcohol levels) endured one or two blows before falling to the ground defeated.

Then it was Aerion and Daeron’s turn.

Your husband turned to look at you just before taking position, you shook your head imperceptibly hoping he would read your disapproval, but it seemed you had only made things worse.

Aerion had no intention of going easy on his older brother and you wondered if all of this was not first and foremost an event to humiliate the relative in front of their father.

The first hit was a clash of lances that did not break, but Daeron barely stayed in the saddle, then at the second blow he fell to the ground. He had been struck square in the chest and fell with a bad thud, fortunately he got back on his knees at once, but he abruptly removed his helm before vomiting on the grass accompanied by the disgusted noises of the crowd.

You and Kiera exchanged a tired look.

More than half the day had passed and the dramas had only piled up.

You had managed to escape the parlor chatter while other games continued in the background, Aerion was clearly enjoying himself and at the center of attention to his delight, despite his brother having fled after the embarrassing display taking away his toy, you had been dragged into frivolous chatter with other women and in the end you escaped with the excuse of the bathroom hoping to have a few moments of peace and calm the headache that was rising with the coming of sunset, even Whisha was getting restless and was only too happy to follow you away from the chatter.

To follow the directions to the bathroom that had been given to you, you passed by the entrance of the garden where the wedding had taken place shortly before and from afar you recognized Daeron lying on the ground under the shade of the gazebo.

You stopped abruptly unsure whether to leave him there or reach him, technically he had been taken away accompanied by servants, but he seemed to have chased them off “Daeron? Do you need-” you approached quickly, there were more traces of vomit on the ground and a new bottle at his side, his eyes were ringed with a deep red and his hair completely disheveled, as were his clothes, the armor had been removed only on the upper part and some pieces were scattered, perhaps thrown.

“Daeron?” You called him again receiving no answer, Whisha moved to his side sniffing him all around his face and neck, he stirred in his sleep before opening his eyes confused, with the slowed reflexes of alcohol.

“Am I dreaming?” he murmured confused looking around, you were worried because after seeing him vomit in the middle of the field he had been dragged away even by the royal guards, you thought to be treated, but he did not even seem to have changed. “I do not think so. I am not dreaming at least.” you replied looking more closely at his face bending over him.

He had a yellow bruise developing along his entire neck and disappearing under the thin shirt, he was shiny with sweat that was drying on him.

“I will call the servants and have you taken to your room.”

You stood, but did not go far, because he grabbed your wrist with his sweaty hand. “I am sorry. For everything. You didn’t deserve to marry my brother.”

You cleared your throat uncomfortably, but let him do it returning bent over him, the smell of wine was on the verge of nauseating, he seemed to have drunk multiple kinds because every time he opened his mouth you felt mixed smells sting your nose unpleasantly. “You already said it. It is fine Daeron. I am sorry too for what he did to you today. I will try to… distract him more often. When we go north you will not have him around anymore.”

You did not get the hoped-for reaction because he began to laugh, laugh so hard that he had to turn on his side to cough, he reminded you a lot of your father when he got drunk on evenings after meetings. You had never seen your mother behave in such a caring way with someone, not with you nor your sister. When you were younger you were almost jealous of it. Then growing up you realized that that care was only a lie, a way she had of treating him when he was more loose and prone to being unbearable, violent and irascible.

Perhaps Daeron was made of the same cloth and in all honesty you felt sorry to chase him away like a beast. He had already had enough.

“Let go of my wrist Daeron. I will help you up to your room” even if the grip didn’t loosen it allowed you to move and you shift some blonde strands stuck to his forehead, he pushed his head into your palm like a wounded animal, he reminded you of his brother.

“You know-I had seen you in my dreams. Months and months ago. Before our father even announced the engagement. I dreamed of you in that dress- that white one. Not this one.”

He curled into a ball while speaking in a whining, childish voice, with his free hand he grabbed the dark fabric of your skirt with a bit too much force so you met him halfway holding his fingers in yours for fear he might get some foolish idea in his confused state “Yes? You dreamed of my wedding?”

You didn’t understand much about dragon dreams, you thought that whatever went through his head was tied to his blood and his family, but they were all assumptions. Perhaps it was foolish to believe him at his word, but seeing him in this state, with eyes glossy with alcohol and tears you didn’t want to waste time hesitating. Did they not say that wine made men speak truthfully?

“No. I dreamed of our wedding.”

The hand that was caressing his forehead faltered, you opened your mouth to reply, but didn’t know what to say.

“I saw you right here, in that fur dress swearing your love to a red dragon. I was watching you from above- I thought I had lost my mind.” He pushed his head back against the stone with a dull thud “And now I understand, that I was looking through Aerion’s eyes. He was the dragon, not me-”

He let go of your dress to move his arm around your legs, sliding one hand under your skirt to grip your ankle, Whisha murmured her disapproval with a growl behind him, but did not act without your consent.

“I believed it until the very end you know? I prayed to the gods that my brother would die from the wounds of the tournament and that they would give you to me. Until the last day- I delayed telling him he would be sent north with you because I hoped he would die.” His words flowed far too clearly for his state, tears fell along his cheeks, his violet eyes were surrounded by a red ring.

“But the dream was exactly of this day. Every image I saw was of today. I was seeing everything through his eyes, not mine. I believed it until the very end you know? I truly hoped it- you are so beautiful and I wanted you before even knowing you.” he finally released your ankle to rise on one elbow, taking your arm with both hands he hid his face in your palm “I dreamed of you so much. I desired you so much. I wanted you to be my wife. I wanted you for myself- I want you- it is not fair-”

You didn’t know what to do and an endless discomfort was devouring your insides, you could hear Lyonel’s voice like a distant echo repeating those vile words from a few hours earlier, perhaps you were shocked by such madness (after all you were not a Targaryen) and were letting yourself be carried away by the theories of a madman who had simply drunk too much, easily giving him credit still hurt by the Baratheon’s accusations, perhaps you were letting yourself be manipulated by the pathetic state of the prince before you who had been beaten and humiliated pushing you to feel empathy toward him since you were in a similar situation. Or perhaps again, you thought of what you had said that morning, when you had asked him in horror about dreams and your husband. You were a flood of thoughts and paranoias blending memories with theories and theories with hypothetical futures that you could not truly dream.

You had to bite your lip hard not to burst into tears again.

You were so tired, the sky was darkening and you just wanted to go to sleep.

You just wanted to rest a little, away from this madness.

“I am so sorry Daeron- but it is better this way-” oh you didn’t know what you were saying, you were not as good as your mother at consoling a man, you had never cared and perhaps that was what was betraying you, that you truly wanted to reassure him.

“Please kiss me. Kiss me just once and I will never bother you again. I swear- I will let you go-” when he tried to move closer however you startled to your feet slipping from his grasp as if burned “No. I will call your father- the servants. They will help you back to your room, we will see each other as little as possible and you will forget me after a few years- I and Aerion will be miles away, meanwhile they will probably have you marry one of your cousins and you will fall in love-”

The smile he gave you as you stepped back was bitter “I am coming north with you.”

He shrugged “My father wants to punish me for once again delaying my duties. He said you are going to a refuge of a lord inside a village- so I will have little alcohol at hand or something like that.”

You looked at him shocked.

Maekar had lost his mind and had mistaken your role as a wife for that of a mother or that joke could not be explained.

And yet- thinking about it- that was marriage for men. Not a duty, not an honor, but a contract with a woman who would take care of them like their mothers when they were little. But this one, besides taking care of their adult figure, would also have to bear children.

It was a damned curse and now you truly felt all its weight like a tidal wave. Lyonel was right, you had already become a pawn for the childish needs of at least two men and merciful gods you hoped he was wrong at least about the other two, but at this point you had to expect the worst.

“I will call someone to come get you.”

You said coldly almost running away from the garden ignoring Daeron’s drawn-out voice calling your name.

You alerted a maid about the prince passed out in the garden, you lied about his condition saying you had found him in a state of semi-consciousness and you were worried about his health and that was enough to make her move. With the orange sky there were only a few hours left of that terrible day, in order you still had dinner, dances, some chatter and finally the consummation that would make the marriage official in every respect. Your eyes felt swollen with exhaustion, that knot in your chest that now shortened your breath, you wanted to close your eyes and wake up at home far from everyone.

But you had a better plan to get some peace and rest.

A more realistic one.

The indoor hall for dinner was already buzzing for the second round more based on wine than food however at your entrance many heads turned and applauded the arrival of the bride, but you walked straight toward the main table where the royals and some nobles were chatting merrily. You also saw your sister beside another Targaryen, absurdly she seemed terribly at ease in that family of madmen.

Aerion instead had a dark look and when he saw you he did not seem particularly happy, once within earshot you recognized the Lannister heir speaking loudly to Valarr flanked by his wife and your husband in front of him.

“The north is not where I would go on vacation, but at least your wife is a beautiful woman, I saw her at the hunt two summers ago, a lady who gets her hands dirty will be a great fu—” you slammed your fist on the table making everyone within two seats jump and cutting off the beginning of a probable argument.

You exchanged a disgusted look with your sister who seized the moment to stand and make room for you, but you did not move from your place, hands in your lap while you signaled Whisha to go to Alice.

“Oh there she is, we were just talking about you-” another man whom you recognized only by the Martell sigil raised a glass in your direction “We were asking for more information about the place where you will go after the marriage, we were curious.” Oh yes, you could well understand how annoyed Aerion was in that conversation speaking of the place of his future imprisonment.

Daeron’s face appeared before your eyes for a moment and you swallowed a bitter lump.

Valarr tried to calm the growing discomfort perceiving his cousin’s annoyance, even if curiosity was in his eyes like in the others “I knew it is a place you know, where you have already stayed.”

You nodded walking to the head of the table beside your sister to place your hands on her shoulders, massaging her muscles to keep your hands busy with something. “Yes. It was the house of a local lord far from the main territory. It was invaded a few years ago by a band of mercenaries who locked themselves inside the walls plundering the poor people.”

Everyone’s attention was on you like a snap of fingers, even Aerion let go of some of the hostility to listen.

“Did you go there with your father?” the heir to the throne asked again, but you shook your head leaning to steal Alice’s glass, you would have wanted to scold her when you realized it was full of sweet wine, “No. I went with a small guard. About ten people. My father had better things to do than deal with that man.”

The Lannister waved his hand “So? Did you talk to him?”

You swallowed the wine before answering “Talking is something for women. It is already a lot if men listen.” The sentence sparked various chuckles, but you did not feel as amused and the look you gave Aerion seemed to make him understand something because he set his cutlery down starting to wipe his mouth.

“He had a daughter. Who hated him. The mother had taken her and brought her away from him. He was locked inside the walls with many supplies and with the servants hostage, I wanted to avoid innocent deaths. So I found daughter and wife.”

Valarr nodded clearly impressed by your choice, nobles tended not to care about common folk after all.

The Lannister nodded thoughtfully “Ah I see, he came out of his own will and you gave him a trial-” but you clicked your tongue “Please. I would never have left those two in his hands. As soon as he came out we killed his men. That evening I hanged him on the tree in the center of the villa in front of the whole village and his family.” A tight smile lit your face.

“Women must protect each other.”

You moved behind Aerion as the table fell into an awkward silence, “I am very tired. If it is not a problem for you, I would like to go to bed.”

He didn't make you repeat it twice. He stood from his seat with an irritating smirk looking down at the others at the table before placing an arm around your waist, one hand rose to hold onto his garment in a desperate search for an anchor. If he wanted to act like a man that evening you would allow it. There was nothing better than a fuck and an orgasm before collapsing asleep.

You pointed a finger at your sister “Enough wine. I will ask in what condition you returned to your room tonight, so weigh your choices carefully.” Those were your last words at the table before you walked away together, the crowd noticed you heading toward the main doors and the murmur was replaced by whistles and obscene shouts, not even Aerion’s violent reputation was enough to restrain that pack of beasts at the tables (who were probably too drunk to care about the Targaryen) and finally you both let out a sigh when the guards closed the doors behind you.

Your heart was in your throat when you turned to look at him, after all you should have gone to his room and you didn’t even know where it was, his behavior worried you even more when he looked at the guards at the door before grabbing your arm and dragging you down the corridor with little grace- once you were away from prying ears he released you again to face you with a dark look. “Do you want to tell me in the name of the gods what happened today?”

You let out another sigh, it had been too good to believe he would let that go so easily, you felt completely defeated, all that day had been a slow descent into that chaos that was your new life, and you had given everything losing in the end. Your feet hurt- your legs hurt, the evening cold was seeping into your bones pulling your shoulders, you just wanted to be bent over that damned bed and collapse asleep.

“I will tell you tomorrow. I am tired- Aerion please-” you tried to convince him placing a hand on his chest to move it lower, but it was the drop that made his patience overflow.

With a sudden movement he gripped your throat with one hand to slam you against the stone wall, Aerion was not particularly big or tall compared to you, but he had a simple yet great advantage- shoes without heels. And trousers.

You had no grip on the ground so even raising your arms to defend yourself your heels slipped on the floor and you stumbled on the long train of the dress almost making you fall, it took his leg between yours to stop you. It felt like repeating the scene of the previous day, but if the wall was a salvation compared to an open window it was also a condemnation because he could grab and hold you much better. You pressed your thumb into his bicep where the nerves overlapped and he flinched in pain, still you added it to the list of bad choices of the last twenty-four hours because he grabbed your hair slamming your head against the wall.

For a moment you saw white.

“Last night we made a promise and you did not even wait a day to break it.”

You waited a moment to gather your thoughts after the blow before answering through clenched teeth “Do not speak as if you were a saint. I suffered all day from the burning on my legs. Or would you dare deny you did not do it on purpose?!” You hated how your voice sounded broken, you felt yourself slipping further and further down the well of sanity you had left, you had not even retrieved the dagger in your room and perhaps it was for the best, you would have stabbed more than one man that day.

“Well I made up for it did I not? Or would you dare lie saying you did not come on my tongue?” The sneer in the question made you burn with resentment, you thought of all the ways you could strike him, but struggled to see a way out, if he reacted well you risked falling to the ground and that would truly have been the end of any attempt to escape.

“You’re an asshole! It'ss all your fault!” You were breathing with difficulty with your chest burning for air, he was not squeezing particularly hard, but with your heart in your throat and the anger twisting your stomach it felt like you had just run a race, in comparison Aerion instead was fresh as a rose, in full control of the situation and with a far too focused look for a man who hypothetically should have been drunk on his wedding day. “You will have to be more specific dear, because apart from the vows we have spoken very little today and done even less. Is it the squeeze at lunch then? Just say it. Do you want an apology? For the gods woman- talk to me.”

You shook your head trying to catch your breath, from under the skirt you silently slipped off your shoes to be able to place your feet on the ground, moving away the gathered fabrics of the skirts to regain balance “Why would you apologize?! After you attempted my life and laid hands on me already twice?!”

The accusation seemed to hit the mark because the fingers around your throat faltered and finally released their grip moving to hold your arm still, his gaze dropped between you then he looked around the corridor, he was trying to buy time searching for the right words to answer you, he knew you were right, but for a man who considered violence a solution that stalemate in which he had put you trapped him, Aerion Targaryen did not apologize and did not bow his head to anyone like an untamed stubborn beast, you did not understand where you had ended up in his imaginary hierarchy and what it meant consequently, but it was clear that keeping his hands to himself was not an option.

“You know what? You were right.” He burst out with an angry grimace, “I need this marriage. I need this. And you-” he pressed his lips into a hard line, you could see how he was fighting behind his eyes even if it was hard to understand where he wanted to go, “you turn me on like hell-”

He suddenly let you go to grab you under the thighs and press you against the wall with his body, even through the skirt you could feel his arousal, it made you shiver with need and reminded you why you had gone looking for him in the first place, to fuck the stress out of your body.

“I thought I would marry one of my cousins, I would give an heir and I would spend my life trying to awaken the eggs. But for one night- my nightmares were not about- about my family. They were about you, laughing with another man, kissing another man, I am tormented by the night you were in my bed and I cursed myself for not having been able to keep you the way I wanted. I don’t know what sorcery you practice, woman, but it works on me.” His hips rubbed between your open legs making you gasp, the madness that was that man was dragging you further and further down, shifting from violence to pleasure in the snap of a finger, you felt deeply hypocritical, you thought of Lyonel and his desperate words or of Daeron and the crying with which he had clung to your feet, how you had refused them, but now you writhed in the arms of an unstable and cruel man.

Maybe it was the marriage that made you feel safer, after all you had married him so officially there was nothing wrong in what you were doing, (as much as being caught making out in the corridors was still embarrassing) at least you didn’t have the weight of judgment on your head that would have labeled you a whore for being so close to a man, it was what you had wanted all your life after all, all the hidden kisses, the touches in the dark- the first time you had given yourself to a man you hadn’t disliked it, but then you had cried for days, humiliated for having lost your virginity outside of marriage. It had been a long and winding path that had stabilized after a year at the walls and only then did you learn to live with yourself and your choices. But as you had said that afternoon to the Baratheon, despite the secrets you kept well hidden in the recesses of your memory the world kept moving and every judgment was a push along the path created to make you falter and fail.

Now instead you were married. You could suck your husband’s cock under a table and you would have every right to.

Of course- maybe still avoiding telling it around, those foolish ideas about the values of a married woman would never die, but Aerion was the kind of beast that would allow you something more than marital duties, even if it meant dealing with his more violent outbursts.

You brought your hands to his face, caressing his hard cheekbones, going down to his thin lips- if there was a dragon under those clothes you wanted to taste it.

“Fuck me on the painted table, Aerion Targaryen.”

You had seen the birth of a flame many times.

Camped in the cold and under storms, with stiff and cracked fingers, bodies that trembled endlessly in search of warmth, some strand of hair always escaped from the clothes ending up soaked with snow when you went to touch it. Finding dry wood, peeling off the damp bark and rubbing the sticks together, better still thanks to the use of a string, the first sparks are the ones that draw cries of joy, then with the first flame you ran to shield it from the wind and fed it, adding one piece at a time, the orange that illuminates faces and warms noses, fire was life in the north, more than in other parts of the world- where everything is blue and white, cold and frozen, fire always brings comfort.

That was the first time you saw the birth of a violet flame.

Maybe it was the tiredness and the darkness playing tricks on you, but you swore you saw fire dancing in those irises, lit like a flare it managed to warm your stomach with just as much need, there wasn’t the warmth of life though, it was a blaze that burned you and made you cry with need.

He leaned in to kiss you and in the clash hitting against teeth your cut lip reopened, your hands got lost in his hair pulling whatever you could- one of his went down to grab your ass hard drawing a whimper of pain mixed with pleasure, there was no solemnity of the ceremony, there was no discomfort of his wounds, Aerion was at his best physically and finally wanted to prove it.

When he moved back you whimpered needy, his lips were stained with blood and the sight made you fold with need.

“We have to cross the bridge through the gardens. Come.”

He set you down and you almost stumbled on your shoes, when he grabbed your wrist to drag you away you called him back to point out your bare feet, you had had enough of the cold floors of the place, your toes would fall off if you walked to the tower.

He rolled his eyes and took the shoes with one hand before lifting you up into his arms without effort, “Remind me to make you a less annoying dress next time.”

He darted along the corridor taking turns that all looked the same except for some singular statue, you hid your face in his neck when you crossed a patrol of guards along the corridors, who moved aside with a small bow at your passage, only to finally be set down in front of a lacquered red door.

He entered quickly motioning you to follow him and soon you realized you were in his chamber.

You weren’t too surprised by the sight. The canopy bed was not too different from the one you had slept in, it was everything else that screamed “Aerion” in every corner.

On the walls large paintings of excellent quality showed dragons flying and breathing fire, on the furniture numerous trinkets of various materials decorated every corner, but what truly caught your attention was the cradle next to the bed, inside velvet the color of blood spilled over the edges and at the center a dragon egg.

You cast a quick glance at Aerion who had his head in his wardrobe, pulling something into a bag so you moved closer to the cradle touching the cold scales, it was hard to believe that stone once contained such a destructive life, seeing it abandoned in the cold- dead in that refined cradle made your chest tighten. It would have been nice to see a real one, though probably if the Targaryens had still had those creatures you would never have been there in the first place.

You startled when you felt two hands on your hips, his chin rested on your shoulder as he murmured in your ear “This was my cradle. And this is my dragon.” The words had a bitter aftertaste, but you let him continue as he moved a hand to touch the egg, near yours “We will bring both to the north with us. And we will soon fill the emptiness with our son-” he pressed his arousal against your ass without ceremony and the heat mixed with his touch made your nipples harden under the dress.

If he didn’t hurry you would beg him to take you right there on the floor.

He left a couple of sloppy kisses on your neck, then- of course- a small bite before pulling away again “Let’s go. I’ve taken everything.”

He bent down without ceremony and slipped a pair of his shoes onto your feet, you would have liked to joke about how easy it had been to make him kneel in two days, but you kept the remark for another time. Then he took a heavy cloak and placed it over your shoulders before grabbing the bag and dragging you out again.

You recognized from afar the arch that led to the garden, by now it was night outside and the sky was covered with clouds, the trees shook in the wind and the torches struggled to stay lit, passing near the gazebo your gaze fell to the ground where hours before Daeron had given his best. You could see a faint stain where he had probably vomited lunch, but the thought alone made you quicken your pace, you had had enough of his image for that day.

The stone bridge was not particularly long, but the tower was a black figure that cut the sky like a sword, the small stairs inside it were narrow and tight, you waited behind Aerion while he pulled out two flints to light one of the torches near the door.

“No one comes here?” you asked casting a glance behind you, anything to avoid looking down anyway.

“No. Maybe sometimes the king- and mostly to the rooms below, the table is painted with the settlements of the continent from the beginning of Aegon’s conquests, it doesn’t even have borders so it’s quite useless nowadays.”

You followed him holding onto the walls with no small anxiety, passing a few floors before finally entering the large room.

Drawn like a moth to light you approached the table curiously even if you had to wait for Aerion to light the various braziers to understand something of the painting. Walking all around to see its design until you reached the raised seat from which it was possible to see its full length better.

“Maybe someone will notice we’re here with the braziers-” you suggested uncertain seeing him finally close the door, the four windows were shut, but so high up the wind was even stronger slamming against the glass like in the middle of a storm, you tightened the cloak on your shoulders glad to have it- of course it was freezing. You regretted a little suggesting it, but you were still worked up and you wouldn’t go down from there without fucking.

“Had you ever come up here?” you asked leaning from one of the windows.

“A couple of times. With my mother.”

You turned surprised at the mention of the woman, you knew little and after meeting Maekar you struggled to picture a woman at his side, yet the children were many, it was hard to say if it was a positive or negative sign.

Aerion had sat on the small carved throne, with his head resting on one hand he looked along the table, his gaze resting on every corner perhaps lost in childhood memories before raising his head to speak to you.

“What?”

You held back a smile. “You look like a king my lord.” You approached facing him from the other side, that room like the rest of the castle was terribly gloomy, maybe if you had been at the two ends of the table you wouldn’t even have been able to see each other in the dark.

The smile he gave you was enough to send new shivers through you, he was definitely in his element and he liked it, even if you didn’t take him for one who planned for the crown, you were still firmly convinced that he had strangely made peace with his fate far from the throne and you could only be glad, it would be a lot less trouble to deal with.

He gestured for you to come toward him, but instead of going all the way around you pushed yourself onto the hard surface, climbing up backwards, then sliding forward and letting your legs dangle over the edge, stretching one you could reach his knees where you rested on your toes, unfortunately the seat was not very close and carved into the rock there was no way to move it.

“Do you say it to make me happy or because you would like to be queen?” he asked amused moving a hand under the skirt to grab your ankle. The memories of Daeron’s touch were a constant annoyance at the back of your mind that you wanted to get rid of. “I say it because you look like it. I am already the queen of the north.”

He chuckled- with your immense surprise he actually laughed, looking like a normal boy for a moment, it made your fingertips tingle wanting to pinch his cheeks, you wanted to believe that you would manage to make him smile more often, that you would distract him enough to make that marriage one of joys and pains, but- it was too early to say, and hope was a thing for little girls, you were a married woman.

“I can call you my queen if you like. But we should keep it in the bedroom if we don’t want to risk accusations of high treason.” his hands focused on one foot massaging the ankle and slowly higher reaching the calf “But we are not in the bedroom my king.”

The atmosphere became crackling like it had been in the hallway before, Aerion for being a dragon was easily won over- not that it was a bad thing.

He stood up stepping down the two steps to align himself with the table, his hands flew to your hips making your pelvises collide, you gasped feeling the inner thigh brush against the rough fabric of his trousers, the skirt had ridden up and slipped past your knees exposing much of your legs, even with the poor visibility all the various bite marks could be recognized. You shivered from the cold and without thinking too much you wrapped your arms around his neck in search of body heat.

He was warm as you remembered.

“You really like opening that mouth to say nonsense huh?” He leaned over you pushing you back onto the surface, your noses brushed in a strangely tender gesture, “I like kissing you my king.”

Oh it was terribly amusing, you could feel his muscles tense for a moment, as much as he tried to pretend not to be affected his body spoke more sincerely than his words and playing dirty on your new royal position excited you as much as it seemed to interest him.

“Then why do you keep talking?”

You murmured a meaningless answer before kissing him, the rhythms changed once again- chaotic and without apparent logic now instead you kissed like two lovers. The metallic taste was still present, but the wound hadn’t bled much and you were more focused on remembering how to breathe. One arm held you tight to his chest keeping you tilted back while the other hand from your hip had gone down between your legs caressing the wounded skin, the sloppy sound of your tongues filled the room in a comfortable make-out, you were honestly surprised he didn’t just take you right there on the edge of the table, you had imagined the wedding night over and over and nothing came close to that situation. Beyond the absurd place you were in, or the exhausting day you had, you thought he would just take you and that was it. The idea didn’t displease you- it was what you had sought when you had run from the gardens, a quick and rough fuck to make you lose your head and pass out on the mattress.

You wouldn’t complain anyway. Again.

You kept holding onto his back, but with one hand you opened the first buttons of the jacket, he trembled when with the tips of your cold fingers you pushed the fabric along his shoulders, that was the signal for Aerion to throw patience to the wind because he released your leg to grab the edge and pull the cloth, the buttons broke falling on you before sliding on the table and finally wavering to the ground, you slipped your hands beyond the collar holding onto his back and to take advantage of more warmth.

“Your hands are always so fucking cold-” he murmured on your lips before moving the hand lower then with a fluid motion he tore your skirt.

“But-the dress-” you stammered caught off guard- after all you had liked it and even more that he had asked for it for you, but while you tried to complain (uselessly) he had gone down to kiss your neck, moving from the side more forward, open-mouthed kisses, partly brief suckles that allowed him to lick your skin, reaching the curve of the breast pressed by the bodice he gave a moderate bite to the soft flesh that protruded.

“I’ll buy you as many dresses as you want, and soon it would have been tight anyway.”

The shiver of need that ran through you was revealing as it was embarrassing, especially feeling his smile on your skin, you moved to untie the bow behind the bodice, but Aerion laid you completely on the table, With the cloak partly shielding your body from the cold surface and him above you, a faint inner warmth lingered within that small bubble of sexual tension, despite the chill on your legs that instinctively made you tighten around his hips.

He moved a hand into his pocket and in the dim light it took you a moment to recognize the edge of a sharp blade, you held back a small cry when the dagger was pressed on the lower edge of your side, where the decorated front part met the thinner sewn edge and with a fluid motion he cut the rest like butter. That damned weapon was terribly sharp and you got confirmation when he stuck it point-first into the wood not far from your head.

“Aerion-was there really a need to-” you murmured irritated before your gaze fell on the dagger again.

The dagger.

The one with the finely decorated and gold-lacquered hilt.

The one he had threatened you with the day before.

The one that technically should have been safe in the bathroom drawer of your room.

The question came out as naturally as it was faint.

“When did you take it?”

You tried to cover yourself clinging to what remained of the dress, but Aerion pulled away the fabrics leaving you only in underwear and shoes. Ah- and the cloak, which however lay like a blanket so it didn’t help much.

He pushed himself up holding onto your hips, the cold became more present away from his body and you hugged your arms to your chest more for the pain of your nipples in the open air than for modesty, the darkness and the glow of the brazier were partly a cover under those violet eyes.

“I don’t know. Why were you crying this afternoon?”

You barely held back a weary sigh, you didn’t want to go back to the starting point, and gods you desperately needed that evening to end with an orgasm, you already felt wet anyway, it wouldn’t take much if only he focused on you as you wanted.

“Aerion-please-” you murmured unable to hold back rolling your eyes, he made again that terribly funny pout that made him look like a duck, his hands moved to open his trousers, his head nodding mechanically.

“You don’t want to talk about it I get it. Then I’ll ask you another question, then I’ll turn you around and fuck you like a bitch okay?”

You were suspicious of that strange shift in his tone, somewhere you thought you should show yourself offended for how he had called you, but you didn’t have the energy and you propped yourself on your elbows to look at him better, you noticed the beginning of light hair peeking from the edge of his underwear which made you bite the inside of the cheek instinctively, the bulge seemed to announce a nice cock, one you would feel until tomorrow morning if he knew how to use it well and gods- you throbbed with need, but you had a bit of pride that prevented from begging him to fuck you.

The second question almost made your heart stop in your chest.

“Why did my brother come into your room this morning?”

Oh it was truly a terrible feeling. That hateful knot in your chest came back heavier than before as if emerging from your ribcage hidden somewhere under the heart and now it rose to your throat threatening to make you vomit in a handful of seconds.

You began to tremble like a leaf in a mix of cold and nerves stretched to the limit reacting making you feel like an animal under aim, but Aerion had already shot the arrow and you were alive only by miracle.

You tried to stammer out some excuse, but you barely got the first word out before your husband’s hand shot forward, grabbing your jaw hard enough to nearly make you bite your tongue in the process.

“I’m really starting to get pissed off, my queen.”

The nickname, once a joke, now sounded like something cruel on his lips. You felt stupid for having asked him to bring you up there- questions and doubts flooded your mind like a raging river. Had he planned all of this somehow? How long had he known? If you had been in his room, would he have asked you anyway? After all, if he attacked you now, no matter your skills, no one would hear you. No one.

But then… did it even matter?

No one in that castle would defend you. No one would come running to protect you from your husband. It was probably what everyone expected when they saw you leave that hall with him- a sadistic man mistreating his wife, and the wife expected to stay silent. You had a bed, a house, and now a royal title on your head; the blows were simply the price to pay. Complaining would be seen as hypocrisy, and no one would dare tell Aerion Targaryen how to treat a wife, a woman. No one wanted to stand against him for your sake.

Only

Maybe

Daeron.

Daeron, who had begged you to kiss him and who had believed for who knows how long that you would be his wife. Daeron, who had seen you come undone the night before. Daeron, who had taken a lance to the chest, maybe because of you, and had vomited his lunch in front of the entire court.

Daeron, poor drunk, whom your mother had told you to manipulate to save your own skin.

Gods, why the hell didn’t you listen to your mother?

“Aerion. If you’re angry because I didn’t tell you- it’s because I didn’t know what to make of his words, I swear.”

You were lost, unable to think clearly. He had cornered you and you were exposed- and naked. And gods, part of you still craved his touch, an animal need to be used until your body gave in to release. The rush of fear felt so close to that of a powerful climax- you were still an animal like all the others. Unfortunately, you were one of those who froze instead of running. You weren’t used to being at a disadvantage, and that blade so close to your head felt like the only way out.

“Angry? Do I look angry?”

You placed a hand on his chest when he leaned over you again. His gaze was a silent fury, his tone so formal it only made you tenser, like you were bracing for a blow that had been coming from far away.

“You don’t look happy,” you murmured, abandoning any attempt to shield yourself from the cold just to prop yourself up on one elbow. Lying down like that made it hard to breathe.

He made that same expression again, leaning over you, keeping his eyes locked onto yours as one hand slipped between your open legs. You jolted when two fingers began rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear. Once again, you felt punished beneath his touch, playing that thin line between pleasure and humiliation with unsettling skill.

“How do you think I felt when the maids came to tell me Daeron knocked on your door to speak to you alone?”

You tried to lift yourself, to get some air, maybe close your legs, but Aerion didn’t allow it. He dragged you down with your hips hanging over the edge, one hand holding your leg high, bent toward your stomach, while the other kept rubbing you through the fabric. You clung to the edge beneath you for something to hold onto.

“Then you disappear for a while after lunch and come back with red eyes-” he tore the fabric without ceremony.

“I changed for you-” you tried to explain, but he pinched your inner thigh, making you jolt.

“I was told you went upstairs with your face full of tears. Do you really think no one told me anything? They were worried about you- seeing how you looked. So-” his fingers slid along your wet folds before pushing deep inside you.

You whimpered, your hips jerking awkwardly- without anything to brace your legs against, you clung to him instead, impaling yourself further on his fingers as they moved steadily and slowly inside you.

“I went to the room hoping to find something useful. I turned everything upside down. Found nothing. And you keep lying to me.”

Suddenly his fingers stopped, still buried inside you. “Or when you came back for dinner? Looking like you’d seen a ghost?”

You sniffled without even realizing you were crying again. Hard to say exactly why.

“I’m just so tired-I swear-” you realized too late you’d said the wrong thing, because Aerion pulled his fingers away from where you needed them most and flipped you over onto the table. The cold hit you immediately, especially your chest, your nipples tightening painfully. You tried to move, to escape that position, but his hand pressed down on your lower back. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him take the dagger again, lodging it into one of the chair’s arms. Then he spoke. Few words. Final.

“If you move, you’ll regret it.”

The first slap didn’t hurt. It was the shock that made you groan in confusion. Not even your mother had ever spanked you as a child. It was such a violent yet intimate act you didn’t know how to react. You found yourself moving your hips as he struck the soft flesh, again and again. You might have said it was to escape- but if you really wanted to, you could have.

Even when the blows came harder, landing punishingly across your thighs, over ten, fifteen strikes- old bite marks taking the hits- the sound echoed through the walls like a bell.

And yet…

It wasn’t the pain. It was the insane sensation that- somehow, you could focus entirely on that single act and let everything else fall away into nothing. Like when men went to war and you were left behind, waiting for them to return, licking their wounds and regretting their choices. A brief moment of peace in a woman’s life you had learned to savor.

You could have told Aerion everything.

About Lyonel. About Daeron. About your fears. And he would have reacted like any other man- with a blade, with shouting- leaving you in the shadows to rest for a while. But the consequences would have been war, and likely murder within the family. He couldn’t put a knife to his brother’s throat not even a month later his uncle's death.

The surface beneath you had warmed, but the air was still freezing, the cloak barely covering your back, your sweat cooling against your skin in an unpleasant ache that settled into your bones.

“Aerion-” you murmured, exhausted after another blow. Maybe he had passed twenty. You weren’t counting. Behind you, you could hear him breathing heavily. He wasn’t even holding you down anymore. He knew you wouldn’t move. That, somehow, was the worst humiliation of all.

“Aerion- please fuck me.”

He stopped. Silence reclaimed the room. You whimpered when he spread your legs and pushed three fingers inside you, the wet sound shattering whatever pride you had left. Your arousal coated your thighs, your pubic hair slick with it- you couldn’t even pretend you hadn’t enjoyed it. You had spent all that time studying the dragon’s weaknesses, not realizing he had been doing the same to you- and had figured you out far sooner.

You were a filthy whore. And he knew it.

“I’ll fuck you when you tell me who made my wife cry.”

He leaned over your back, covering you with what little warmth he could offer. He brushed your hair aside, kissing your neck, his fingers still working inside, curling against that spot that begged to be hit, Between the uncomfortable position and the blows on your flesh, you could barely feel your legs except for a strange tingling that at this point you couldn’t even describe.

“Maybe it was you!” you shot back breathlessly, turning your head just enough to look at him.

Your cheeks were wet with tears, your nose runny. He leaned closer to see you better. The fire in his eyes hadn’t faded- yet he let it go.

He kissed your forehead. A tender gesture. Or a mad one.

His fingers slid out, still teasing your outer folds, “What did Daeron want from you?”

Gods, if you could have, you would have smashed your head against the table.

“He came to apologize to me.” You went over all the madness he had told you, taking advantage of the moment of grace he was giving you to come up with a decent excuse, one that wouldn’t get heads rolling “He told me he’ll come north with us. That your father is angry with him because he lied or something-” he seemed already aware of the news because he didn’t react, letting you speak, continuing to leave kisses along the side of your face and your shoulder, he adjusted the cloak better over your back, rubbing your side and building a bit of warmth “Only that?”

You shook your head.

Gods, if you had been played that night, you might as well dance until the end.

“I asked him about his dreams. If you had them too.” You finally regained a bit of lost ground in that battle when you felt him falter against the sensitive flesh of your cunt, “You could have asked me.”

You shook your head messily “He was there. I asked without thinking.” Which wasn’t a complete lie.

There was a moment of silence before he scoffed, he pulled you lower and you finally managed to rest your feet on the ground, which were tingling like crazy, placing the sole against the surface you almost slipped, your legs were jelly and you had nothing on the table to hold onto, the only thing keeping you up was Aerion’s arm around your waist, you could feel the hard bulge between his legs pressing against your ass, there was an unmistakable smell of sex and sweat in the air and you needed that orgasm.

“Sometimes. It happens.” He moved his hands to stroke your legs and help the blood flow back, you felt a dull ache in your pelvic bones that had been pressed against the rounded edge until then.

“What does it change?”

Finally, with an annoying creak, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, stretching the muscles of your shoulders and back, you used the edge of the cloak to wipe your tears.

“Isn’t it my duty to take care of the family? As a wife- as a mother-” a grimace pulled at your lips, you put all your effort into those gestures, into those words, you could focus well and deal the final blow balanced between your real fears and a lie that served to save far more than a couple of lives from your husband’s wrath. “I thought about our children. About the fact that I will never be a Targaryen. Blessed by the blood of Valyria, they will always be a step above me. With problems I will never understand. I’m afraid of being a terrible mother. Of not being ready if one night my children ran to me crying, screaming that they had dreamed of dragons flying in the sky and people burned alive.”

For once you swore that Aerion truly had no answer to your doubts. No joke, no insult, no clichés or even violent reactions. He stayed there, speechless, pondering something.

“It is the husband’s duty to take care of the family.” He finally snapped, “You just have to be pretty for me. Nurse our children, stay by my side- and maybe hang a few men in times of war.” he smiled, regaining some of that brazen confidence that defined him.

“I will pray to the gods that you do not become pregnant with my offspring right away-” his hands moved down to free his erection from his undergarments “I would like to have you by my side in battle. To terrify anyone in our path. I want to see you kill men alongside your beast. In any case… I want to be the husband my father was to my mother.”

Again the mention of a woman you did not know, but who seemed to be a positive memory in his mind.

You flinched when the tip of his cock was rubbed along your folds, wetting itself with your juices, with your feet more stable on the ground you pushed your core against him, after all that chaos you craved that burn more than anything else. “And you don’t have to worry about my brother. He will stay away from you. I’ll make sure of it.”

You didn’t have time to tell him that you weren’t really worried from that point of view, but rather that the combination of the two of them was what worried you in the long run, about what the two could do to each other between spite or worse, but you shut your brain off the moment Aerion’s throbbing cock slid back inside you with a smooth thrust.

Your walls contracted, pulling him in and drawing a groan from him, it was perfect, reaching deep where you needed it most, burning just enough to make you feel fuller than any tongue or fingers. You had wanted that cock for at least two days, maybe much longer, and finally you could moan at full breath how much you had desired it.

You pushed yourself up so you could hold onto the lower edge of the table where your legs slammed with each thrust, Aerion’s hands gripped your hips tightly, still wet with your arousal he slowly pulled back, you saw him lost watching your bodies joined, with only the tip held inside your channel he murmured a couple of words in High Valyrian before thrusting back in forcefully.

Every movement of his hips was a spark of burning on your ass, you didn’t think twice, using one hand to move as much as you could the sore part and give him more access to your channel, the sight drew a groan from him, the sound of wet flesh slapping only increased both your arousal, you had been so close to the edge of stimulation that you felt near orgasm in just a few thrusts, with your mouth half-open whimpering his name like a chant.

“Harder. Harder-” you mewled with your eyes closed to focus on the sensation of his cock hitting fast where you itched the most, Aerion for his part kept repeating words you had never heard before with a tone so hoarse it sounded like a growl, (or maybe it was the ringing in your ears confusing your senses, but it didn’t matter), he leaned down to rest his chest against your back and reach a hand between your legs, rubbing your clit with uneven movements.

“Since Ashford- when I kissed you in that bed- I was too tired to hold you-” he panted at your ear before leaving a bite behind your neck drawing a moan mixed with a cry from you making you tighten around his cock that kept thrusting more and more erratically “But I could smell your wet cunt from a mile away.”

He left your hip, lifting your leg from behind the knee, pushing it onto the table leaving you open at an uncomfortable angle, but one that left you completely defenseless to his assault “I understood right away you were a whore- say it, say you are my whore-”

You pushed your head back onto his shoulder, loudly panting the sounds of pleasure he tore from you with the rhythm of his thrusts, with your cunt trembling needy under his fingers and his cock pounding tirelessly, you cried those words one last time “I am a whore- a slut for my lord-” Aerion bit the hollow of your shoulder thrusting a couple more times before that bubble of stress fell from your chest to explode between your legs making you sob with joy. With the man behind you chasing his pleasure- reaching you almost immediately, spilling deep inside your sloppy cunt, his hips trembled as he made sure every drop ended deep in your womb, before letting go of your poor sensitive clit and placing his hand on the surface of the table so as not to collapse on top of you.

A long silence accompanied you as you caught your breath, placing your foot back on the ground you grabbed the edge of the cloak gathered to one side to cover yourself from the cold that you were starting to feel again, more painful than before, Aerion took it as a signal to move, pulling out of your core and then hastily pulling his trousers back up, aside from the broken buttons he was still fully dressed while you trembled like a leaf under the cloak, the scraps of your dress lay useless on the floor to your deep dismay.

You watched him as he approached the bag he had brought with him and pulled out a pair of trousers and a loose red shirt which he tossed onto the table. You quickly removed the last piece of clothing to put on the shirt, you slipped your foot into the first leg losing your balance and almost falling to the ground, but Aerion caught you in time to keep you from kissing the three-hundred-year-old painting.

“I can’t believe you tore that dress like that. I liked it. Really.” You complained while he bent between your legs to help you put on the trousers “In my defense, I hadn’t planned it. You make me lose my head and I act on impulse. It doesn’t matter, Yours suited you better.” He muttered, finally more relaxed, in part also consumed by the exhaustion of that long day.

“Do we have to go back to the room now?” You asked him looking at the distant window, by now everyone was probably asleep and you wouldn’t meet anyone in the hallway, Aerion didn’t answer immediately, holding you under the thighs before pushing you to sit on the table, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders for a moment before looking at him confused, he pointed at the door with his thumb before raising his eyebrows “Would you be able to do all the stairs now? Because I don’t think I can carry you in those narrow passages.”

You shook your head.

You were so tired that even sleeping on the table didn’t seem like such an absurd prospect, and you pulled the cloak around yourself again like a blanket, curling up on your side, Aerion instead returned to the small throne where the dagger had been left, taking his seat in a careless manner, he stretched his body before letting out a tired sigh, his eyes fell on your figure, that violet fire had gone out leaving only a cold echo of the passion that had overwhelmed you in that tower.

“Sleep a bit. I’ll wake you before dawn and we’ll go back to the room without getting caught.” He let his head fall back against the backrest and, crossing his arms over his chest, closed his eyes.

You lost yourself watching his sculpted profile in the glow of the embers, wrapped in his clothes and with his release still trickling between your legs, one last shiver ran through you, even if you didn’t know what caused it this time. “Can’t- can’t you come here?” you asked in a low voice as if not wanting to disturb him, he didn’t move.

“No. I don’t want to- sleep. I’m not tired.”

Oh it was a terrible lie, you could read it on him, but you didn’t find the courage to say it, with far too many unspoken things and more lies piling up you let it go, allowing yourself to close your eyes for a couple of hours.

In the end when you returned to the room it was still the dead of night, or at least it seemed so, and with Aerion’s knowledge of the knights’ patrols you avoided any risk, throwing yourselves into the room where the candles had now completely burned out. You were so devoured by sleep that you threw manners aside, leaving the cloak on the ground and hiding under the covers, letting out a sigh of relief against the soft mattress, Aerion joined you shortly after, pulling you against his bare chest, he had undressed down to his undergarments and the warm flesh against your cheek was a comfort for the rest of your nerves, melting you like wax in his arms.

For a few hours in the darkness of the room you could pretend that this marriage would work, that you loved each other and that life would be kind to you.

Hiding in his neck, while with one hand he undid the few braids in your hair, you locked away in a drawer all the worries waiting at the door, every family drama just waiting to be uncovered, the days of joy and anger and Daeron who in your unawareness had dreamed of you that night, bent over the table moaning the name of the younger brother.

A problem for another day.

After all, you had just married Aerion Targaryen. The gods understood that you needed rest.

[theflowersflame]

The Dragoness and The Dragonless 2

Aerion Targaryen X Valyrian!FReader

Summary: You arrive at Summerhall with Rhaefyre… and Aerion caught within her claws. Or are you caught in his?

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, canon divergence, lowkey violent behaviour, Aerion lol (kinda ooc but he still mean asf), typical GOT-verse things, Reader is described with Silver hair and purple eyes but nothing else specific, sprinkles of fluff and angst and a sprinkle of smut at the end, there will be SMUT in future parts!

Author's Note: MINORS DNI!!! Hi lovelies!! this blog is new so please be kind lol I haven’t written any fics in a long time but this idea was so stuck in my head. any comments, reblogs and feedback are appreciated, thank u! lmk what you guys think of part 2 <3

Part 1 , Part 2

“That’s not fair!” Egg shouted through his pouty lips. “Aerion’s going to ruin it!” 

The young prince was thoroughly stressed, with frustration etched onto his childish face. And you could not help but fail at suppressing your light laugh. He had returned to Summerhall with his large friend, The Hedge Knight who he squired for, only this morning. 

“I want to see the Lady’s dragon! If Aerion stays, he’s going to try and shove me in front of it with a few sheep so it mistakes me for a sheep and EATS ME TOO!” Little Aegon was howling at his father, pleading to send his cruel older brother back to King’s Landing so he could meet your dragon in peace and with utmost safety. 

You had come to learn that Aerion ‘Brightflame’ Targaryen, was a mad menace amongst his family. The arrogant, entitled young man was continuously attempting to provoke you after what you had put him through at your initial meeting. It was clear to you that whilst he had a cruel and vain nature, his behaviour towards you must have stemmed from some feelings of inadequacy. You also knew that your refusal to yield before him, only spurred his rage on which you took slight satisfaction from knowing you were also getting under his own skin.   

Maekar was beyond his limits, after years of herding his unruly flock of children. He was tired. So tired and lonesome. And itching to keep his disorderly children contempt so that he may find some peace for himself. And it was going well… until you dropped his second eldest son into the gardens of Summerhall by the foot of Rhaefyre. 

Out of all the Houses in the Kingdom, of course the mysterious silver-haired lady and her dragon showed up to his home first. Fifty-six years of extinction and the first Dragon to be alive, swoops down near the grounds of Summerhall with one of his fuming sons caught between its sharp, gigantic, white claws.

You were having a marvelous time, you admit. Seeing the fear and chaos that flew around you and your dragon, did elevate your internal pedestal. You couldn’t help but enjoy the power that came with your dear Rhaefyre and your pure Valyrian blood.

A few days had passed since you met Aerion and dropped him into his home gardens. The memory of his vexed shouts echoing through your memories. Of course, you weren’t going to kill a Targaryen princeling you had just met, you had authority and power to inflict. To ensure the stability of House Alaerys. To ensure that your House does not die with you. To ensure that Dragon’s once roamed this world again. To have a home.  

𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Does this satisfy you for ‘real enough’, My Prince?” Your taunting flowed through the winds as Aerion’s shouts bursted out like a ship’s cannons. 

“PUT ME DOWN YOU BASTARD! FUCKING NOW!!!” He was thrashing and wriggling between Rhaeyfyre’s large, sharp, white claws. His strong arms held tightly at Rhaefyre’s claws as he looked down at the soil of Westeros from the height above. 

This was incredibly amusing. You couldn’t help but giggle along the ride to Summerhall. What a sight this would be to those already on the castle grounds. What an enjoyable entrance for you to make! 

“Please!” Aerion shouted, frustration and something along the lines of embarrassment bubbling up his throat. 

“Once you are well reassured that I am in fact, no witch and that I possess the only living Dragon with the roots of Old Valyria in my blood, then we shall return to your palace.” Your voice was firm but teasing and it was driving his outrage like nothing else. Rhaefyre circled the grounds of Summerhall four times after that. 

You sat pleased on your great She-Dragon with a swirl of emotions running around your chest. Ignoring the curses which the Targaryen Prince spewed towards you, it was a rather nice evening-fall. The sun was setting over The Red Mountains near the palace grounds and the warmth of it was refreshing. Summerhall was quite a beautiful place. At least, from the outside you assumed so. Floral’s bloomed within the surrounding gardens and water fountains and ponds were scattered around the property. 

“Alright!” Aerion huffed out, enraged and tired from everything that occurred within the past few hours, finally gave in. “I will introduce you to my family, Lady Alaerys!” 

“Pykās (Let go/Release)!” The Valyrian word, softly spoken from your plush lips, brought relief to Aerion’s struggling body before panic quickly rushed over him. Rhaefyre was still too high from the ground. Before he could rectify anything, Rhaefyre’s large claws loosened their grip around him. He had attempted to cling on, however the sheer force of Rhaefyre’s flight had him quickly stumbling down through the air straight towards the ground.

You weren’t stupid. It just seemed as if this rude, arrogant Prince was in need of a reality check. It is laughable that this Dragonless Prince dared to insight his entitlement over you. 

Your Father has taught you to be strong. He had taught you that you would be able to grow yourself and resurrect House Alaerys into something mighty and utterly compelling. Mayhaps not in the same manner as House Alaerys was before The Doom, but certainly exceeding the majority of the Houses in Westeros. But, you needed The Crown’s aid for that. And The Crown needed you too. You just needed to express your potential in a somewhat less violent and hostile way than you had heard of King Aegon ‘The Conqueror’ and his Queens. You were one with Rhaefyre, not three with three dragons. There was only so much you could do with no formal title in Westeros, yet. 

So, Rhaefyre was above a small pond in the gardens of Summerhall when you made the command and Aerion’s yells rang through your ears. 

Aerion’s body was enveloped by the cool waters with a colossal splash that shot water droplets in all directions. Spent and exhausted, he hauled himself out of the pond. He was groaning in pain as his body ached from the movements. He was drenched, dripping everywhere with water running down him and through his soaked clothing. 

He screamed your name, lividness consuming him as he limped through the once peaceful gardens. He saw Rhaefyre land and perch on the expanse of grass nearby. He watched as you elegantly slid down your She-Dragon’s shimmering wing and stroked her scales, muttering something that he couldn’t hear before you dropped your bags and began to walk in his direction.

He was storming over to you, red faced, drenched and breathing harshly. 

“Did you enjoy the ride?” The question rang through the air amongst the sloshing of his wet steps and heavy breaths. You approached him with a small grin, Rhaefyre now far back in the distance from you with her attention turned to the trip of goats residing near the Red Mountains. 

Even after the treachery which he had endured from you, you were still smiling lightly. Silver hair flowing with the evening breeze, skin radiating under the golden glow of the sun setting, lilac eyes darkening to match his lavender ones, and a certain gracefulness with your body language. Something dark, destructive and desirable stirred within him. Who the fuck does she think she is?

You awaited his response, lips in a slight tilt as his visible outrage.

Unexpectedly, Aerion surged forward. Despite his injuries, he was still incredibly fast. Gripping your wrists with his large hands and pushing you back into the nearest wall of the Castle which extended around, blocking Rhaefyre’s vision of you. A choked gasp escaped you as the Targaryen Prince caught you within his strong grasp. The strength he exuded, muscular arms powering over your smaller form, as your back hit the stone wall was nearly enough for you to forget where you were. 

“Do not,” he seethed through pointed teeth, his tight grip crushing you further against the wall with your own arms. Your elbows were bent and your wrists were being roughly pushed against your heaving chest. “Do not ever do that again! Putting a Prince of the Realm in harm’s way is treason.” His arms flexed as he spoke, his body was feeling heavier on yours as his wrath fuelled him further into you. His words spat at you like flames. “Play like that again and I will take your pretty little Valyrian head myself, Lady Alaerys. Learn your place here or I will teach you.” 

You inhaled sharply, heart jittering in anticipation. You didn’t yet know what he was capable of right now. His lavender eyes were set alight with fury. 

“One word,” you muttered, chest rapidly rising and falling against your arms and Aerion’s weight. “One High Valyrian word and Rhaefyre will come and turn you to ashes to protect me. Threaten me and you threaten her also. She will not take kindly to anything happening to me.” 

His hard grip loosened slightly at this. The rest of his wet clothes were starting to seep onto your own due to the close proximity of his body nearly flush against yours. The strength and heat radiating off him mimicked your own Dragon and it was becoming too much. 

At his loosened grip, you raised your leg and your boot went straight into his shin, effectively kicking him away from you. He groaned and grunted as the pain hit him, releasing your wrists from his hold, nearly folding over until he steadied his stance. The corners of his lips quirked up and low chuckled left his mouth. His tongue dragged along his inner cheek, then darted out across his lips, slowly swiping across his lower lip. His silver wet hair dripped down his forehead and he swiped some drops away with his damp doublet sleeve. His lavender gaze focused on you, burning with flames. He breathed deeply, torso expanding with each breath as his soaked clothing clung tightly to his form.

“You need to be humbled.” You explained with venom laced between your teeth, rubbing your sore wrists, in an attempt to sooth them. “Too much fire and not enough Dragon in you.”

𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Since then, you have been staying in Summerhall. The poor staff were petrified once they saw Rhaefyre on the grounds and over these few days, you had met Aerion’s Father, Prince Maekar, his brothers and sisters and even the Heir to the Iron Throne. 

Prince Baelor was evermost kind, yet he remained apprehensive which you ultimately understood. You assured him that you were only here to raise your great ancient house back up. A high and noble place in court is what you wanted for now. And a property where you can live comfortably with Rhaefyre. However, you can not receive in this world without giving too. You offered yourself and your Dragon to aid any battles or political matters in the name of The Crown. You swore fealty to The Crown and were now a guest at Summerhall until your own future home was to be established, after much debate. 

You offered coin to the Iron Throne Heir and his brother to help pay for your stay at Summerhall which Baelor politely refused, expressing his appreciation for that to be of your concern. Honestly, you had two pouches of gold dragons and silver stags filled to the brim with the circular metals, stashed away in the same satchel that you stored your dragon eggs in. 

They couldn’t have Rhaefyre in the capital so suddenly without official announcements first. So you were to stay here until the King’s Small Council prepared some arrangements for you… they couldn’t really say no to a Valyrian girl and her living Dragon. They needed you. They needed Rhaefyre. Having you there with Rhaefyre benefitted the Targaryen’s, this you knew well and weren’t ignorant to. Everybody was playing to get what they wanted. 

You knew why they were keeping you there and being a ‘guest’ was a kinder word for it. Baelor assured that he had no plans to discourage your wishes of residing in Westeros, yet he wanted you to remain in sight, with his family and away from plenties of the smallfolk. You were told that the King was sick and dying and that is why he did not come to Summerhall with his sons. But the King still wanted to meet you and your darling She-Dragon. After the public announcements are made, of course. Baelor appeared for a day and then disappeared back to King’s Landing. 

Egg was still moaning about not wanting to meet Rhaefyre with Aerion near. 

“Nobody is feeding anybody to Rhaefyre.” Your lilac eyes narrowed towards Aerion as he sat, opposite of you, across the dining table. He had boredom plastered on his Valyrian features and you fought the urge to roll your eyes before you faced his younger brother next to you. His stubbly silver-haired head was reflecting the candlelight. You’d have to ask him why he wished to be rid of his Valyrian hair. “I’ll introduce you after dinner if your Father allows it, Egg.”

Maekar paused the movement of his knife and fork scraping across the fine plate. He raised his brows. “If he must.” He straightened himself, posture tight as he loomed over the head seat of the table before proceeding to announce. “Now, this goes for all of you, my children. Do not step a single fucking foot near Lady Alaerys’ Dragon without her present. Do you hear me?”

To approach a dragon without its rider was a near death sentence. As magnificent and loyal as Rhaefyre was to you, she was still wild and unpredictable around others like every Dragon can be. Or at least, that’s what you were told by your Father. And it seems that knowledge was well known as Maekar ordered his children not to go near your dragon, unless they were with you. 

A murmur of excited responses rippled through the dining hall from the younger children. Aerion turned, leaning down to his youngest sister beside him and whispered. “Maybe the Dragon will eat you first because your name is like hers.” 

Rhae, the youngest Princess, panted and let a small shriek fill the room as she shoved her small arms onto her larger brother in an attempt to push him away. Aerion barely shifted. 

“Aerion, enough!” Maekar’s raspy voice commanded. “Or you’re coming back to the Red Keep with me, boy!” 

Aerion sighed. He did not wish to go back to King’s Landing now. Perhaps a few days ago, but now? He didn’t want to even consider having you out of his reach. Purely tactical, he reassured himself. Somebody had to keep a watch on you. You could betray his Family and the Realm at any time!

“My apologies, Father.” Aerion tucked his head back onto the high back of the dining chair, his eyes dancing around the sight before him. Your silver hair was braided up, leaving your jaw and neck bare and the new dress which adored your figure was rich and deep with red and black. The neckline dipped slightly into your cleavage but he did not stop himself from staring. The colours of His House. The last dragonrider of an ancient Valyrian House, wearing his colours. 

Your lilac irises caught his lavender ones and the tip of his tongue swept across his lips like a serpent. Like he was tasting the air. Like he was trying to taste you. 

“Lady Alaerys,” Daella’s sweet voice interrupted your thoughts. “What was it like in Asshai?”

“Well, I was the only babe ever born there. Living in hiding was easy until Rhaefyre grew bigger. The Shadow Lands are exactly as they seem. Lawless and filled with many magics, chaos and somewhat scary at times. I had never been around children until you and your siblings, My Princess.” Addressing the Princess, you looked towards her younger siblings too, Egg and Rhae. A smile graced your lips. 

There were still lots which Baelor and Maekar did not know about you. Of course, you enlightened them with the vague story. They still did not know that you had three dragon eggs within your possession or the extent of the full prophecy which your ancestor dreamt of. There were certain things you had to keep close to you, for your own self preservation. You were still unsure whether to fully trust these dragonless dragonlords or not. 

But sitting here, amongst this dysfunctional family, this was the first time in your life where you were surrounded by an actual family and you didn’t know any difference. You never knew what it was like to have siblings, to grow up with someone around your age. You never interacted with children until these past days at Summerhall. 

The Princess listened to you, purple eyes growing wide with your words. “Are there sweet cakes over there at least?” 

“Always about the cakes.” Egg huffed at his older sister as he stuck his fork into the cooked vegetables on the sharing platter in the middle of the table.

“Only if you find the right person to whip some up for you.” You grinned at the older Princess.

“And who was that for you?” Aerion interjected, his stare heavy on you. Unsettling. 

“My late Father,” exhaling calmly, your gaze lifted to meet him. He was watching you. Waiting. Looking for a point to crack between. A point of weakness. A point where he could get under your skin, just where you were consistently getting under his. “My Mother taught him before I was born… It was a family recipe.”

As if Daeron felt you trying to strongly, not falter in front of his cruel brother as you spoke about your deceased parents, he joined the conversation. “Our Mother used to bake us sweet treats from Dorne. She was Dornish.”

Daeron went on to swallow his cup of wine, whole. “If it wasn’t a day for Dornish treats then it was sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night for a midnight feast in the gardens.”

The mention of Prince Maekar’s dead wife and the children’s Mother, made the table grow silent. Maekar and his children, visibly not over the loss, all lowered their heads or shifted anxiously. Grief was a strange thing, but Aerion kept his sight steady on you. 

Your expression softened. “I’m sure that you all miss her dearly.”

“How would you know?” Aerion scoffed, rolling his shoulders casually as he played with the slab of bloody steak on his plate with his knife. “You cannot miss something you never had.” 

SMACK!

Before you even had time to react, Maekar’s hand met the polished wooden table in a fist with a loud thud, shocking everyone at the table.. 

“Aerion, I have fucking had enough of your behaviour! She is of Old Valyria and has a bloody Dragon! And dragon or not, you will respect and show honour to Lady Alaerys. Unless you suddenly raise The Black Dread from the dead to claim him yourself, then we can dismiss your fucking manners!”

Biting your lip, you now lowered your own head. 

Maekar’s defence of you made something swell within your chest despite the beration of his son. The latter was well needed and supposedly an ongoing concern that has only grown in recent years, you had gathered. Maekar’s gaze moved onto you, easing off as he gave you an apologetic look. He knew how his son could be and he knew that you had been the one to put up with it in recent days. 

Maekar’s words rung through your ears loudly. As they also did through Aerion’s. 

𓏲ּ𝄢*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

A long couple hours later, post dinner, after taking Little Egg, Daella and Rhae to meet Rhaefyre in the Gardens, you excused yourself once you had safely made sure of their return to their bedchambers. 

Sighing, your sore feet carried you through the grand halls of Summerhall. You had grown so used to wearing your boots that these new slippery turnshoes were uncomfortable. The hallways were dimly lit now as night had fallen. Flickers of candle flames danced along the walls in shadows, over paintings and many various extravagant household objects. 

There were few guards littered around the halls as if patrolling but one stood out to you in particular. He was not dressed like the other Knights and serving guards. He was also absurdly tall and large, but his face was kind. His nervous gaze fixated on you as you drew further down the hall until you reached him.

“M-my Lady.” He greeted you and fumbled to bow with his large build. 

“I think the young Prince told me about you. Ser Dunc, is it?” Your tired expression passed over to a small smile as you looked up at the man.

He nodded, nervously shifting on his legs. “It’s an honour to meet you, My Dragon Lady.”

A small laugh escaped you. Maybe that is why he was nervous. He knew of you and your dragon. “I believe the honour is mine, Ser Dunc. Egg has told me of some of your adventures together.”

The hedge knight’s face flushed with warmth. “Only the good ones, I hope.”

A small giggle escaped your mouth. “They were all good! Worry not, Ser Dunc. My favourite in particular is when you met at the Ashford Tourney.”

“O-oh! But, My Lady, that was a mess.” He gazed down at his shoes, shame and embarrassment consuming him.

“Not from how Egg tells it,” you grinned. “And I enjoy that you beat Aerion at his own game. May the Gods bless us for no tremendous injury that day.” It was true. How a Trail Of The Seven left all participants alive, you could not believe. Surely, it would have ended with at least one death. 

Dunc let out a small, awkward chuckle. “Yes, it was a blessing.” He paused for a moment, lips faltering as he hesitated on his next words. “My Lady, I hope this is not too forward in asking b-but P-prince Aerion… is he not harming you? I have noticed the way he talks to you, it is not nice nor how a Lady should be spoken to.” 

This you had grown accustomed to since you met Aerion. You had learned of his brooding and cruel temperament. He yearned for his own dragon for many years only to start believing that he himself is a dragon. And when Dragons are raised in royalty with everything but one thing at their spoon, entitlement and arrogance ruled over. It was just him. Some of his Father you could see but other parts of him remained enigmatic. Aerion had you in a constant state of whiplash with his moods already and it hasn't even been a full week since you arrived at Summerhall.

“He can be cruel, I’m aware. But I can handle myself,” You began smirking up at the tall knight. “And I have a Dragon. I know how to tame them.” 

Dunc flushed further, his cheeks now bright red at the insinuation of your tone. 

“Ser Duncan!” A deep, smooth voice rippled through the near empty halls. 

Dunc quickly jumped back into a well-postured stance, away from you. You fought off rolling your eyes at Aerion’s interrupting voice but stilled, watching as Dunc’s easygoing expression fell. His heavy steps appeared closer, louder. And suddenly, they stopped behind you. 

“I think our Lady has gotten lost, I shall escort her back to her chambers.” Aerion’s presence loomed over you, the warmth radiating onto your back. His breath, hot by your ear. 

“I am quite fine conversing with Ser Dunc. Thank you.” Holding your ground, you stepped forward and turned to face the Targaryen Prince. 

Aerion’s gaze floated between the large hedge knight and you. His eyes were scanning over your Targaryen dressed figure and then a distasteful expression appeared on his features when he stared at Dunc. Clearly, a grudge was still held. 

“I have been waiting for you, Lady Alaerys. You must come.” Aerion lifted his chin, catching the curiosity in your lilac irises as he waited for your response. 

A sigh escaped you before you turned to the kind knight and bid him goodnight. You wished that you could keep speaking with him. There was something endearing surrounding him and you felt his good heart. He flashed you a quick smile and waved goodbye after Aerion began walking away, to which you quickly waved back at the large man before following the Targaryen Prince. You didn’t want to follow Aerion right now but as you were in his home, under his family’s care until you had your own home, you were obliged. 

Although, there was an intense burning within you, wondering what this was leading to.

The hallways became larger as Aerion stalked through Summerhall, heading for your chambers which were located in a separate section of the Palace. Children in the North Wing, adults in the East Wing, guests in the West Wing and staff in the South Wing. Your chambers were in the Guests wing of course, to the West. Opposite to where Maekar, Daeron and Aerion resided. 

As of now, Rhaefyre was currently lurking around the grounds of Summerhall, resting in the expanse fields next to the Palace and feasting upon the goats of The Red Mountains.

“What is this regarding?” You asked, anxiety beginning to bubble through your veins at being alone with him. He was too unpredictable, you had learnt over these last few days and it set you on edge. 

“I have a gift for you, My Lady.” The latter words tasted mockingly to you. 

“A gift?” You questioned him, his pace still slightly ahead of you. 

“Yes, which I had been waiting for hours in your chambers with.” His tone was irate, dark and dripping with irritation. “Only for me to later find you giggling away with that stupid hedge knight.” 

“Aerion, I apologise. I did not know.”

“No!” His sudden outburst had stunned you as he spun around to face you with a hard expression. Your legs stopped moving and you froze. His shout echoing off the stone amongst the soft fabric of the house banners hung along the walls. “You will call me, My Prince.”

“When you earn it, Alberzeys (Brightflame).” You calmly repeated your words from when you met, holding your head upright as you stared up at him. His lavender gaze darkened further as he clenched his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck rippling as he moved toward you.

“You are insufferable,” he sneered, taking another step closer. “Zaldrīzītsos (little dragon).”

“And you are nothing but a vengeful Dragonless Prince,” frustratingly, you huffed out whilst placing your hands on your hips. His face flashed through something unidentifiable for a mere moment before he was clenching his jaw again and his fists were balled up at his sides. “It is pitiful that your ancestors would ruin such great creatures with your own fanciful family affairs. And I will not continue to entertain you with the idea that I will simply bend the knee to you because you are a Prince in this realm. You claim yourself a Dragon Lord but you have no Dragon. I will not bow to a lesser Dragon Lord who consistently disrespects me.”

It felt like fire was coursing through your body. The heat, about to make you succumb to something much less tamed. You hadn’t realised how much anger had been pent up within you these last few days. 

Aerion was eerily still, listening to your words. His focus was sharp as you stood there, eyeing you through narrowed brows. Your chest was heaving from the words which shot out of your mouth. You hadn’t realised how loud you were either. 

His fists relaxed and his jaw went slack, providing the perfect escape of his serpent-like tongue to slowly stretch across his lips. His long, muscular legs stalked over to you like a Dragon would swoop down to catch its prey between its claws. And you were between his claws.

Aerion’s large hand lifted to your face, fingers resting under your jaw whilst his thumb steadied your chin. You tried to shake your head away from his hot grasp but it only tightened as he forced you to look at him. 

“I may have no dragon,” he began, vocals low and scarily calm. “But I am The Dragon. And dragons do as they please. The blood of old Valyria runs through me.” 

“But more so in me,” you spit out, swatting his hand away from your face. He only gripped your forearms instead, manhandling you to stay in position in front of him as you squirmed under his hot touch. His hands burned on you, like fire dancing with smoke. And it was illuminating. “You are jealous of that, Aerion. Yes, I will call you so. Aerion. You wish to be of blood as pure as mine and you wish to ride with your own Dragon. But you were dealt in the wrong path. And now that I’m here, you will constantly be reminded of that as if you weren’t already before.” 

Aerion sighed dramatically, fanning your face as he still held you close. It was as if he was expecting some of those words on your part to be spoken. “What a sad evenfall this has become.” 

“I’m glad you see it too,” you exhaled deeply, responding to his latter words. His expression only hardened with his grasp on your arms. You attempted to pull away, eyebrows furrowing as he refused to release you.

He opened his mouth, poisonous words on the tip of his tongue before you cut him off. 

“Do not make me kick you again, I will aim higher this time!”

Aerion begrudgingly released you from his hold. The loss of warmth from your body, striking him back into the cool air of the night. He pivoted on his foot, contemplating his next steps. You expected him to raise his voice again, in a fury at the words you had spoken to him, spat at him. But instead of fighting with you, he stood back, elegantly gesturing down the hall to your chambers. Like a noble prince would if escorting a Lady.   

“The gift is on your bed, Lady Alaerys.”

Your eyes drifted down the dark, dimly lit hall. And when you turned back, Aerion was gone. 

You felt like you wanted to hit your head against the stone walls of the hallway as you strode through, heartbeat bouncing against your ribcage. Why would he just disappear like that? Why was he so cruel and mean? And why is he always still so composed after such outbursts?

His behaviour made your head spin. Head pounding from the questions you had and the heightened emotions you just experienced, your body shook with relief as you swung the door open to your chambers. 

It was a large space, a huge four-poster bed, luxurious furnishings scattered around, a marble wash basin, a lounging area and a dressing area. At the edge of the bed, nestled a big chest with a lock, holding your possessions inside. And on top of that bed was a small stack of three very old books, wrapped together neatly by a piece of string and a piece of parchment beside it. The gift.

Sitting into the soft, comfortable edge of the bed covered in various fur blankets, you reached for the books and untied the string.

‘House Alaerys of Old Valyria’

‘The History of Westeros’

‘A Dragon Lord’s Claim’

It was happening before you realised it. Tears rolled down your cheeks. Hot, salty and unforgiving. Your fingers drifted over the syllables etched onto the leather binding of the first book. It was written in High Valyrian and about the history of your house before The Doom. The second book was written in Westeros’ native tongue, revolving around Westerosi history. And the third book was something that you had never expected. A Romance, written in High Valyrian, about a Dragon Lord in Valyria who falls in love with an already betrothed Princess. A tale of passion and affairs.

You wiped your tears away with the backs of your hands and picked up the note which was left next to the books. You unfolded the small piece of parchment and began to read. 

“ For you, zaldrīzītsos (little dragon).

One for your birthright.

One for your new home.

Another for your own pleasure.

Your Prince, Aerion Brightflame ”

His voice rang through your brain as you read his words and for some reason, you found yourself wishing to rectify your recent argument despite everything. Empathy began to seep through you. You couldn’t imagine being born into this, being promised a life with a bonded dragon and the greatness of your House ruling over Kingdoms, only to be left a dragonlord with no living dragons due to ancestral fighting. You suppose that must have been some motivation for his unstable temperament, which you certainly were not helping. A small part of you began to regret your words spoken to him. 

Groaning in annoyance, you fell back onto the overwhelmingly soft bed. Has he really picked these books out for you? Where did he find them?

‘Another for your own pleasure.’ Shivers went down your spine. A romance book? What in the world was he thinking? You couldn’t help but wonder if there was some secret implication until you flicked through the pages to land on some very vulgar and inappropriate High Valyrian language that made heat rise to your cheeks. 

A woman moaning, a man burying himself inside her as he bent her over a balcony overlooking the Old City of Valyria where Dragons constantly roamed the skies. Whimpers and pleasured grunts filling the air.

‘His hands were gripping my hips tightly, pulling me back onto his thick length as a mixture of wetness met us both where we connected. “You will take what I give you, little dragon.” He whispered heavily, panting between thrusts.’

Zaldrīzītsos. Little Dragon. What he had begun to call you… You slammed the book shut, flushing at the heat pooling between your thighs. 

A jest, it must be.