MINI ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁✰ | twenties, she/her, sun libra, fall bunny at heart ☆૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა
˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰MASTERLIST꒱ .ೃ࿐ ˚ · .
˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰Fic Recommendations .ೃ࿐ ˚ · .
˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰The Reader/OC Paradox꒱ .ೃ࿐ ˚ · . ⇒ Read this VERY carefully before you decide to engage in any dialogue regarding the reader/oc tags with me. This is my ONLY rule for engagement.
current obsession⇒ spy x family, blue lock, jujutsu kaisen, demon slayer, love & deepspace (video game), stranger things, a knight of the seven kingdoms♡‧₊˚
manwha recs ⇒ who made me a princess, positively yours, beware of the villainess, 19 days, papa wolf and the puppy, the pharaoh's concubine, turning the mad dog into a genteel lord, how to survive as a maid in a horror game ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ
This blog interacts with nsfw and 18+ content/blogs so follow/interact at your own risk. I am not responsible for your choices. Also, dni if you fall in the general dni criteria.
warning ⚠: untitled blogs will be blocked immediately. DO NOT FOLLOW!
the purring attempt and then the tags on the bikini post of bobby telling him to chill out and stop making alien noises in public got me thinking about poly au. both her AND bobby trying to purr(maybe even arguing over who gets closer to the proper noise or who’s technique is better) meanwhile bb blue screens cause he’s got two loveable idiots trying to communicate his happy noise back at him. i love the poly au cause like yay everyone is happy. the idea of them eventually being comfortable enough to be sweet and goofy as a trio is so cute.
i’m torn on if bb would pick a fav, be a proper judge and list the pros and cons of each attempt or if he would just pull a “ur both lovely” to avoid the wrestling match that would follow picking a fav
sorry for the jumble speak i just thought both those moments were so cute
bobby makes it a competition because bobby makes everything a competition.
he's sitting on the couch practicing his rumble. this low, chest-deep vibration that sounds like a lawnmower trying to seduce someone but y'know, sexy. and you're cross-legged on the floor doing your chipmunk-engine impression and both of you are glaring at each other between attempts.
"mine's closer."
"yours sounds like a garbage disposal."
"yours sounds like a broken washing machine."
"at least mine has BASS—"
and BB is sitting between you on the couch with his hands in his lap, looking back and forth with that slow bewildered head tilt.
because you're both making sounds at him. with your human vocal cords. sounds that are almost words in his frequency. garbled, clumsy, adorable approximations of the noise his body makes when he's happy. and his borrowed brain is trying to translate and failing and trying again and the processing face he's making is the funniest thing either of you has ever seen.
"what is—" he starts, his head tilts further. "bobby, are you trying to say—"
"shh, i'm concentrating. this is hard work."
bobby tries again. deeper this time, more controlled. he's actually been practicing in the shower and the refined version is genuinely closer. close enough that BB's pupils dilate, and his head tilt shifts from confused to interested. his own purr kicks in, answering bobby's rumble with the real thing, and the resonance between the two of them makes the couch vibrate.
"oh," BB breathes, his voice dropping, his eyes going half-lidded. "oh, that's—you're saying—" his gaze locks onto bobby with a predatory focus that was not there three seconds ago. "do that again."
bobby, who has no survival instincts, does it again. louder.
BB's jaw tightens, his pupils blow wide. the purr coming out of him shifts register (from happy to hungry) and you watch him lean toward bobby with that coiled, intent stillness that you both know means someone is about to get pinned to a surface.
"bobby," you drawl. "I think you just said something dirty in entity."
"what? no, I was just—"
"you should both do it," BB suggests, his voice silk, looking between you. "at the same time."
you look at bobby. bobby looks at you. BB is looking at both of you like you're a meal he hasn't decided how to eat yet.
and no one could have predicted that refining the technique would flip a switch in BB. that getting closer to the real sound would register in his frequency as flirtation. as proposition. as two mates calling to him in his own language. nobody could have seen that coming. certainly not bobby, who's now pinned to the couch cushions by an entity who is purring so hard the windows are rattling and murmuring, "say it again, say it again" against his throat while you watch from the floor in delight.
Goofy ass thought but it possesses me: huffing and puffing your cheeks out in the nest or poly au or wherever bc sometimes you just wanna purr back at BB and you can't 😩😖
you try so hard. puffing your cheeks out and making this low rumbling sound in the back of your throat that sounds absolutely nothing like a purr, and everything like a small engine failing to start. your face is scrunched. you're concentrating. you're giving it everything you have and the result is a noise that a generous person might describe as a hum and a more honest person would describe as a broken refrigerator.
bb goes still. head tilted. eyes wide. processing.
and then the grin splits his face so wide the bobby-suit nearly cracks and he's on you. both hands on your cheeks, squishing your still-puffed face, pressing kisses to your forehead, your nose, your scrunched-up eyes. “you're trying to purr,” he says, breathless with delight. “you're—oh, my love is trying to communicate with me—”
“i'm not trying to—it's just—I wanted to—“
he doesn't hear you. he's too busy smothering your entire face with kisses, cupping your puffed cheeks in his palms and pressing his forehead to yours, the purr rolling out of him is so loud and so happy it vibrates against skin. because you tried. you tried to speak his language. you sat in the nest and puffed your cheeks out like a chipmunk and made a noise for him. the cuteness aggression is hitting him so hard he might actually bite you.
he does bite you. your cheek. gently. then kisses the spot. then bites the other one.
you never live it down. you do it again next week because his reaction is worth the humiliation. every single time.
Summary: A noble lady from a disgraced house that supported Blackfyres is married off to Lord Bloodraven as a reward for his loyalty and prowess in battle. But he prefers to occupy his time with duties as the Hand of the King. Comfortable but lonely, she befriends one of his ravens.Warnings: arranged marriage, yearning, angst, fluff, Westeros politics, Shiera.
King Daeron's court was full of whispers, and the whispers about the Hand and his lady wife were among the most persistent.
You heard them, of course. You could not help but hear them. The serving girls who thought you out of earshot, the lords who forgot you were standing in the shadow of a pillar, the ladies who smiled at you sweetly with acidic eyes. They spoke of the Oakheart girl who had married the sorcerer, who had been given to the one-eyed bastard as punishment for her family's treachery. They pitied you, mocked you, or marveled at your composure in the face of such a grotesque match.
What they did not know, what they could not see from their distant tables and their whispered huddles, was that you were quite happy.
It was an odd thing to admit, even to yourself. Brynden Rivers was not a man who inspired joy in the hearts of maidens. He was strange and secretive, pale as a corpse, with his missing eye and his wine-stain birthmark and his unsettling habit of knowing things he should not know. He did not dance, did not laugh loudly, did not shower you with the flowery compliments that other lords bestowed on their ladies.
Yet you woke each morning in his bed, your head pillowed on his chest. He rarely slept, you had learned that his strange nature included an ability to go for days with only the briefest snatches of rest, but he would lie still for hours in the darkness, one hand resting on your back, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear. Sometimes you would wake in the small hours and find his single eye open, watching the ceiling. You would murmur his name and feel his hand tighten on your shoulder in wordless acknowledgment.
"Am I keeping you?" you would ask, in the early days.
"No," he would answer every time.
This morning was like the others. You woke to dawn light filtering through the narrow windows of the Tower, to the familiar scent of old parchment and candle wax, to the gentle rise and fall of your husband's chest. His arm was around you, his long fingers splayed against the curve of your waist. His eye was closed, his breathing even. He looked, in these rare moments of counterfeit sleep, almost peaceful.
You propped yourself up on one elbow and studied his face. The birthmark that others whispered about, the blotch of deep red that climbed his neck and pooled on his cheek, no longer seemed odd to you. It was simply part of him, like the silver of his hair or the pale arch of his brow. You traced a finger lightly along its edge. His eye opened.
"Good morrow," you said.
"Good morrow." His voice was rough with disuse. "You are staring."
"I am admiring."
A faint crease appeared between his brows, his version of a puzzled expression. "There is little to admire."
"There is everything to admire." You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, then to the scarred hollow where his missing eye had once been. He held still for this ritual, as he always did, and when you reached his mouth, his hand came up to cup the back of your head and hold you there for a moment longer.
"You are very odd," he said when you pulled back.
"I am your wife. I am allowed to be odd."
"Hm." The sound was almost amused. He released you and sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. The morning light caught the pale angles of his torso, the lean muscle. "I have something for you."
"You always have something for me."
He rose from the bed and crossed to his desk, where a small wooden box sat beside a stack of parchments. You watched him, the way he moved with that uncanny grace, the way his silver hair fell across his bare shoulders. When he turned back, the box was in his hands.
"For you," he said, placing it on the bed beside you.
You opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, lay a necklace. The chain was white gold, so fine it seemed spun from spider silk, and from it hung a pendant of deep green emerald, carved into the shape of a leaf. Oak leaves. Your house sigil.
"Brynden." Your voice caught in your throat. "This is…where did you find this?"
"A craftsman in Myr. I commissioned it some moons ago. It arrived by ship yesterday."
The emerald caught the light, flashing green fire. You lifted it reverently, and the chain slithered through your fingers like water.
"It is beautiful," you breathed.
"You said once that you missed the Reach. The trees, the green." He was standing awkwardly now, his hands clasped behind his back, his eye fixed on your face with slight anxiety. "I thought perhaps you might like to carry a piece of it with you."
"I love it." You rose from the bed and went to him, the necklace clutched in your fist. "Put it on me please."
He took the chain with careful fingers and fastened it around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone, a small green anchor to the home you had left behind.
"There," he said. "It suits you."
You looked down at the emerald leaf, then up at your husband's pale, strange, beloved face. "You give me so many things," you said. "The ruby bracelets, the sapphire hairpins, the pearl drop earrings. The ivory comb from Volantis, the silk shawl from Yi Ti. My jewelry chest is overflowing."
He tilted his head, that familiar birdlike gesture. "Do you not like them?"
"I adore them. Every piece." You reached up and touched his cheek, the smooth skin beside the birthmark. "But you do not need to bring me treasures every week, Brynden. I am not Shiera."
The name hung in the air between you. It was the first time you had spoken it since that night in the solar, the night everything had changed. You watched his face carefully, looking for the flinch, the shadow of old pain. It flickered there for a heartbeat, and then it was gone.
"I know you are not," he said.
"I only mean that I do not require rare jewels to be happy. Shiera collected beautiful things. I…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "I collect moments."
He was silent for a while, his eye searching your face. Then, slowly, he leaned down. It was a gesture he had developed in the first weeks of your true marriage, when he had noticed how you stretched onto your toes to reach his mouth. So he had taken to bending toward you whenever you were close, a small, unconscious courtesy.
You kissed him. When you pulled back, he looked thoughtful.
"I see," he said.
"I am not ungrateful…"
"You are not." He touched the emerald leaf at your throat. "But I have been foolish. I have been courting you with the wrong currency."
"Brynden…"
"I have a meeting with the Master of Coin this morning." He was already turning toward his wardrobe, reaching for his doublet. "It will be tedious and I will likely have to threaten someone before it is done. But afterward…" He paused, his shirt half-buttoned. "Afterward, I have no obligations. The afternoon is clear."
You blinked at him. "It is?"
"I have ensured it." He finished the buttons. "I thought we might take a walk in the gardens. I have heard there is a new fountain, some ghastly thing from Braavos with mermaids. I would like to hear your opinion on it."
A walk in the gardens. Such an ordinary, unremarkable thing that any husband might do with any wife. Yet your eyes stung with sudden tears, because you understood what he was offering. Time. His time, which was the rarest treasure of all.
"I would like that," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "Very much."
He nodded, a crisp, businesslike gesture, but you had learned to read him now. The faint relaxation around his mouth, the slight softening of his red eye. He was pleased.
"Good," he said. "I shall send for you when the meeting is done."
He crossed to the door, then stopped, turned, came back to you and leaned down again, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
"Wear the necklace," he said. "It truly does suit you."
True to his word, Brynden sent a servant to fetch you in the early afternoon. You had dressed with care, a gown of pale cream silk, simple in cut but elegant in drape, the emerald necklace displayed against the bare skin of your throat. Your hair you had left loose, the way he seemed to prefer it. When you descended the Tower stairs and found him waiting in the courtyard, his single eye swept over you with an intensity that made your cheeks heat.
"You look lovely," he said.
"You look like you have just threatened the Master of Coin."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I did. He was most cooperative afterward."
The gardens of the Red Keep were beautiful in the afternoon light, the roses in full bloom, the lemon trees heavy with fruit, the sea breeze carrying the salt-tang of Blackwater Bay. Lords and ladies strolled along the gravel paths, their silks and velvets a shifting tapestry of color. As you walked at Brynden's side, his arm tucked through yours, you felt their eyes on you. The whispers, too, rising like the hum of insects.
"…the Oakheart girl and the sorcerer…"
"…look at his face, gods be good…"
"…she seems happy enough, poor deluded thing…"
You had learned to ignore them. More than ignore them, you had learned to pity them, for they could not see what you saw. They could not know the quiet sweetness of the man beside you, the way he described the Braavosi fountain in a dry, precise deadpan that made you laugh aloud. The way he paused to point out a particularly clever raven perched on a fig tree, explaining how it had been trained to deliver messages. The way his hand tightened on your arm when you stumbled on an uneven stone, steadying you before you could fall.
"That fountain," he said, gesturing to the marble monstrosity ahead, "The mermaids were supposed to spout water from their mouths. As you can see, they are spouting from their…elsewhere."
You clapped a hand over your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway, bright and startled. The mermaids were indeed spouting water from anatomically dubious locations, their stone faces frozen in expressions of eternal surprise.
"Who commissioned this?" you managed.
"Lord Redwyne, as a gift to the king. I suspect it was revenge for the wine tariffs."
You laughed again, and the sound drew stares from a nearby cluster of ladies. You did not care. You were walking in the gardens with your husband, your arm in his, he was making you laugh, the afternoon sun was warm on your face, and the emerald leaf was a cool weight against your skin.
"Brynden," you said, when your laughter had subsided.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For this afternoon."
He was quiet for a moment, his eye on the fountain. The mermaids continued to spout water from various unseemly places.
"I have been thinking," he said, "about what you said this morning. About collecting moments. I have realized that I do not know how to be a husband. All of my tools are wrong." He turned to face you. "I gave Shiera jewels because jewels were what she wanted. I gave you jewels because I did not know what else to give."
"You give me plenty," you said, touching the emerald. "I was not complaining."
"But you were teaching me." He took your hand, his cool fingers wrapping around yours. "And I am a quick learner."
He lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the garden path, with half the court looking on. The whispers rose to a crescendo, but you did not hear them. You only heard the beat of your own heart, the soft intake of your husband's breath, the rustle of the wind through the trees.
"Come," he said, releasing your hand but keeping your arm in his. "There is a bench by the sea wall. I am told the view is tolerable."
It was more than tolerable. It was magnificent, the bay spreading out before you in a sheet of hammered gold, the sails of ships glinting in the distance, the sky a pale, washed blue. You sat together on the stone bench, your shoulder brushing his, and watched the waves.
"May I ask you something?" you said after a while.
"You may."
"What do the ravens see? When you look through their eyes?"
He was silent for a moment, and you worried you had overstepped. But then he spoke, his voice low and contemplative.
"It is difficult to describe. It is like…being in two places at once. I am here, with you, but I am also above the city, riding the wind. I see the rooftops and the streets and the people going about their lives. I see ships coming into harbor and carts rumbling along the roads. I see a thousand small moments that no one else notices, all happening at once." He paused. "It is overwhelming, sometimes. It is why I do not sleep well. There is always something to see."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. It is simply…much." His eye found yours. "Does it frighten you? Knowing that I can see through them?"
You considered the question. "It should," you admitted. "But I have grown rather fond of ravens."
"One raven in particular, I suspect."
"Pebble is a good friend."
"Useless creature."
"You could stand to be kinder to Pebble."
Brynden Rivers laughed. It was a small sound, rusty, as though his throat had forgotten how to make it. But it was unmistakably a laugh, and it transformed his face. For a moment he looked young.
"I shall endeavor to be kinder to the raven," he said. "For your sake."
"Thank you."
A raven fluttered past, disappearing into the dusk sky towards rookery. You slipped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.
"Bad news?" you asked.
"No. Merely information." He turned in your embrace, his hands settling on your hips. "Lord Butterwell has been buying up land. I will need to look into it."
"Tomorrow."
He blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw. "Tonight, you are mine."
His eye softened, the red dimming to something warmer. "Am I?"
"You are." You tugged gently at his collar, pulling him down. He leaned obligingly, bending to your level, and you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "We are going to have supper. You are going to eat more than three bites. And then we are going to sit by the fire, and you are going to tell me about the most ridiculous thing you have seen through your ravens this week."
"The most ridiculous thing?"
"Surely there must be something. Courtiers are absurd creatures."
He considered this. "Lord Bracken was seen attempting to serenade a milkmaid last Tuesday. He fell into a cow pat."
You laughed, delighted. "There. That is exactly what I mean."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Very well," he obliged. "Supper. And cows. And…being yours."
"Good." You kissed him again. "Brynden."
"Yes?"
"I am happy."
"So am I," he said, and there was wonder in his voice, as though he had only just realized it was true.
The hour was late, and the Tower of the Hand was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the distant cry of gulls over Blackwater Bay. You had retired to your chambers hours ago, leaving Brynden to his endless parchments and his murmured consultations with agents who came and went like shadows. You had grown accustomed to these nights, they no longer stung the way they once had, back in the cold early days of your marriage, when every empty hour had felt like a rejection.
Now, you simply waited. You knew he would come to you eventually.
You were half-drowsing when you heard the door open and close, the soft tread of boots on stone. The mattress dipped as Brynden sat on the edge of the bed, and you heard the familiar sounds of him undressing: the rustle of his doublet, the soft thump of his boots hitting the floor. You kept your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips, savoring the anticipation.
He slid under the covers beside you, and his hand found your hip in the darkness. His touch was urgent in a way it rarely was. Usually, he came to bed with a kind of restrained gentleness, as though he were still learning the language of intimacy and wanted to pronounce every word correctly. Tonight, his grip was firmer, his body pressing closer, his voice was rough with a weariness that went beyond the physical.
"I need you," he muttered. "Today was…I need to not think. I need to be here. With you. Only you."
Your heart clenched. You knew his burdens, the weight of a kingdom pressing down on his shoulders, the endless schemes and counter-schemes, the dark whispers that followed him wherever he went. You opened your eyes to tell him that you were here, that you would always be here, that he could lose himself in you as much as he needed…and then you remembered.
"Brynden," you whispered carefully. "Wait."
His hand had been sliding up your thigh. It stopped. "What is wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong. It is only…" You bit your lip. "There is something under the covers."
He went still. You felt the shift in him, the instinctive alertness of a spymaster who had survived a dozen assassination attempts. "Something," he repeated.
"A friend."
"A fr…" He stopped. His eye, adjusted to the darkness, dropped to the lump in the blankets between your bodies. A small lump.
From beneath the covers came a soft, contented squawk.
Brynden reached over and pulled back the blankets with a sharp flick of his wrist. There, sprawled across the soft mound of your stomach, wings spread as though drunken, lay Pebble. The raven's eyes were closed, his beak slightly open, his round belly rising and falling with each tiny breath. One of your hands was still resting on his breast feathers, frozen mid-stroke.
There was a long silence.
"My lady," Brynden said, in the tone of a man who was choosing his words with extreme care, "why is there a raven in our bed?"
"He was lonely."
"Lonely."
"He was tapping at the window. It is cold outside tonight. And you were working so late, and I was alone, and he looked so sad with his little beak pressed against the glass…"
"So you brought him into the bed."
"I put down a towel," you said weakly. "In case of…accidents."
Brynden stared at Pebble. Pebble, perhaps sensing that he was the subject of discussion, opened one bleary black eye, regarded the Hand of the King with casual insolence, and closed it again.
"He is lying on your stomach," Brynden said.
"He likes to be close to me."
"He is lying on your stomach in our bed, where I was about to…" He stopped himself, took a breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My love. You have made my raven into a lapdog."
"He is not a lapdog. He is a raven."
"A lapraven, then. A creature that does not exist in nature. You have invented it." He reached down and scooped Pebble up with one hand. The raven let out an indignant squawk, his wings flapping uselessly. "This bird was bred to carry messages across the Seven Kingdoms. To fly through storms and evade hawks. To serve as my eyes and ears in places no man could reach. And now he sleeps on silk sheets and eats from your fingers."
You sat up, clutching the blankets to your chest. "He still carries messages."
"Once a fortnight. To the kitchens. Begging for scraps."
You tried to look dignified. It was difficult when your hair was mussed and your husband was holding your pet like a naughty child. "I will put him back on his perch," you offered.
Brynden sighed. It was a long, tortured sigh of a man who had spent the day dealing with treasonous lords and bickering councilors and who had come to bed wanting nothing more than to bury himself in his wife's warmth, only to find a plump bird in his place.
"Stay," he said. He crossed to the perch near the window and deposited Pebble onto it with more gentleness than you had expected. The raven ruffled his feathers, gave Brynden a reproachful look, and tucked his head under his wing with the air of a monarch who had been grievously insulted.
Brynden returned to the bed. He did not lie down. Instead, he sat on the edge, his back to you, his silver hair catching the firelight. The scars on his shoulders, old and pale, traced patterns you had memorized with your fingertips.
"I am not angry," he said, without turning around.
"I know."
"I am…concerned."
You crawled across the bed and knelt behind him, wrapping your arms around his chest and pressing your cheek to his back. He was tense, the muscles hard. "Concerned about what?"
"Pebble is not a pet. He was never meant to be a pet. He is a tool that has forgotten its purpose. And you…" He paused, and his hand came up to cover yours where they rested on his chest. "You have made him forget. With your kindness, with your attention, with your need to nurture something."
"Is that wrong?"
"It is not wrong. But it is…misdirected." He turned, shifting so that he faced you, his single eye found yours in the dim light. "A raven cannot love you back. Not truly. It can only take what you give and grow lazy on it. You deserve something that can return your affection."
"Pebble returns my affection."
"Pebble returns to anyone who feeds him. I have seen him beg from the kitchen maids."
You wanted to argue, but the image of Pebble waddling after the scullery girls, croaking pitifully for bacon rinds, was unfortunately vivid. "I like ravens," you said instead, a little defensively. "They remind me of you."
Brynden went still. "They remind you of me."
"Your eyes. Your cleverness. The way you tilt your head when you are thinking." You reached up and touched his cheek. "When you are away, which is often, Pebble is…a piece of you that stays with me. A small, feathery, ill-behaved piece. But a piece regardless."
"Then perhaps," he said slowly, "what you want is not a raven at all."
"What do you mean?"
He took your hand from his cheek and held it in both of his.
"Perhaps what you want is a child."
The word hung in the air between you. A child. Your breath caught, your heart stuttered, and you felt the blood rush to your cheeks.
"I…" you started, and stopped. "I did not mean to suggest…"
"You did not suggest. I am suggesting." His thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. "You have made this Tower warmer than it has ever been. You have filled it with your laughter and your gentleness and your stubborn insistence on loving things that are not easy to love." His eye met yours, and there was something almost vulnerable in its depths. "A child would be lucky to have you as a mother. And I…" He hesitated. "I would be honored to give you one."
Your throat tightened. "Brynden, you do not have to…you said once that you were not a man given to tender feeling. That you were strange and secretive and cold. If you do not want children…"
"I did not say that."
"Then what are you saying?"
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I am saying that I have spent my life serving the realm. I have given my eye, my youth, my conscience, everything I have, to the Iron Throne. And I would do it again. But there is a part of me that is tired. A part of me that wants something that is not duty." His hand tightened on yours. "Something that is ours."
Your eyes were burning. You blinked rapidly, but a tear escaped anyway, tracing a hot path down your cheek.
"You want a child with me?" you whispered.
"I want a family with you." He said it simply, as though it were a fact he had long since established and was only now reporting. "I want to see you holding our son or daughter in your arms. I want to teach them to read and to shoot a bow and to understand the language of ravens. I want to watch you be the mother I know you will be: patient, kind, fierce when you need to be." He paused, a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "And I want to stop finding birds in my bed."
A laugh burst out of you, wet and startled. "That is what this is about? You are jealous of Pebble?"
"I am not jealous of a raven."
"You are. You are jealous of a useless raven."
"I am not…" He stopped, his smile widened involuntarily. "Perhaps a little. He sees more of you than I do, some days. And he is always on your stomach."
You laughed again, it the tears spilled over. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. He caught you and kissed you back with a fervor.
"You are a ridiculous man," you murmured against his mouth.
"I am a pragmatic man. I see a problem, I propose a solution."
"A child is a solution?"
"A child is many things." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his red eye bright in the firelight. "A legacy. A hope. A piece of us that will outlast all the schemes and wars. A child is the one thing that matters more than the realm." He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "You asked me once what I wished for. I told you I had wished for foolish things. But this…this is not foolish. This is the wisest thing I have ever wanted."
You kissed him again. His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer, and you felt the tension drain from his shoulders as he let himself sink into you.
"What about Pebble?" you asked breathlessly as his lips traced a path down your throat.
"Pebble," he said between kisses, "can sleep on his perch tonight. And every night hereafter. Our bed is about to become considerably less accommodating to ravens."
"That seems unfair to him."
"I will buy him a larger perch. The finest perch in the Seven Kingdoms." He lifted his head and looked at you, his expression was serious now. "But this is not about the raven. This is about us."
Part 3: coming soon...
a/n: Please don't let this flop guys, I have an entire series planned out. Comments, reblogs and likes are appreciated! <3
a/n: Voluntary donations are accepted on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the series taglist.
⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ a/n: found this small piece in my drafts that has been sitting there for literal months
the clicking sound of your steps on the stone floors of the red keep echoed throughout the corridor, as your stride quickened. you were annoyed. irritated. on the verge of exasperated anger, even. it wasn’t your fucking fault that your pathetic, so called husband, didn't even bother to show up at the feast. not to mention that he was barely ever at the castle at all. how could it be your fucking fault? what do they think you were, a nanny for a drunken moron? no fucking way. you pulled the door to your chambers open and slammed it shut behind you.
“someone is in a good mood.” a mocking voice snapped you out of your fury. you turned suddenly, a mix of surprise and further irritation on your face. it was quite an unexpected sight. prince aerion sprawled on your bed, shirt unbuttoned, hands behind his head, the smug smirk on his face. his eyes lazily looked you up and down as if you came in here with a sole purpose of entertaining him.
“what are you doing here?” you asked sternly, brows furrowed.
“my prince.” he murmured lazily.
“what?”
" ’what are you doing here, my prince?’ royalty should be addressed with proper respect.” his tongue flicked, brushing his bottom lip. “be careful, or I will think you have forgotten your place.”
you fought the urge to curse him out.
“what are you doing here, my prince?” you repeated, voice filled with venom.
“just wanted to see you.” his smirk widened. “aren’t you honored?”
“who let you in?”
“some trembling wench. does it matter?” his hand reached out to the bedside table carelessly taking a strawberry from a bowl and into his mouth. “my favourite girl isn’t happy to see me?”
you decided to ignore his presence and approached a mirror to adjust your gown, trying to appear composed. aerion sighed irritably before putting another strawberry into his greedy mouth. you felt his hungry gaze even without needing to turn your head, his eyes roaming over your forms with torturing slowness.
“they are implying that it is my fault daeron isn’t showing up in court.” you huffed, staring at your reflection in the mirror as you twisted a few unruly strands of hair around your fingers. “saying i can’t keep the prince interested enough.”
aerion shifted and lazily lounged across the bed behind you.
“oh, you surely can keep the prince interested enough… just not the one they are implying.”
you turned sharply, shooting him a hateful look. “you think this is fucking funny.”
“i think…” he shifted slightly, pushing himself up on his knees on the mattress. “…you are being rather too bitchy with me.” his head tilted, studying you. “that’s not very polite, is it?”
“you broke into my chambers,” you said sternly.
aerion lifted one hand and crooked a finger, silently beckoning you closer. when you didn’t move, holding his gaze, he clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes with annoyance.
“don’t make me stand up, sweet thing,” he said suspiciously calmly. “it would be such a shame to disfigure this pretty face of yours.”
you rolled your eyes at the empty threat but finally stepped toward the bed. the moment you reached the edge, his hands were on you in an instant. one fist closed roughly in your hair while the other slid more gently along your collarbone. he pulled you forward, leaning in until his breath brushed your throat.
“i don’t like it when other people ruin my precious girl’s mood,” he murmured against your skin.
his mouth drifted along your jaw. “i am already spoiling you rotten, aren’t i?” his grip tightened, tugging your hair back sharply and forcing your head to tilt. “so i don’t want my sweet little creature coming back to me acting like a brat, because another man said something.” he looked up at you. “understand?”
you managed a small nod and aerion clicked his tongue again.
“i don’t hear you. what should a good girl say?”
“yes, my prince,” you mumbled. “thank you, my prince.”
a slow grin spread across his face.
“good girl indeed.”
then he pulled you down and captured your lips in a brutal kiss. His grip in your hair tightened, keeping your head tilted exactly where he wanted it. the kiss was wet, rough and filled with teeth, his greedy mouth pressing hard against yours as if he meant to silence every complaint with his tongue. your hand snaked to the back of his neck, skin warm beneath your fingers.
aerion finally broke the kiss just enough to breathe, though his hand remained tangled in your hair. his other hand slid from your collarbone to the curve of your waist, holding you firmly in place. he studied your face for a moment, his grin still lingering, eyes sparkling with hunger.
“who dared to say that to you, hm?” he murmured, trailing light kisses along your neck. “i need their names.”
“i don’t know their names.” you huffed, annoyance now mixed with arousal.
“you don’t?” he murmured against your skin, nibbling lightly at your neck.
“some minor lordlings,” you said. “from the south, i think.”
“if you cannot name the particular ones, i suppose i will have to cut out everyone’s tongues, won’t i?” he chuckled softly against your throat. “show everyone you belong to the dragon.”
“you are forgetting I am not your property,” your hand shot into his hair, gripping tightly and forcing his head back so he had to look up at you. “want everyone to fucking find out that i am sleeping in your chambers more often than in mine?”
aerion winced slightly, more in surprise than in pain.
“you are reckless,” you hissed, your other hand sliding up to seize his jaw between your fingers. “last week that tantrum with the mummers, now this?”
for a moment he simply stared at you, then his expression twisted.
“tantrum?” he spat.
his hands flew to your wrists, gripping them tightly, half trying to pry you off and half dragging you closer at the same time.
“you—”
you leaned into him, pressing down your knee to his crotch, forcing a gasp out of him. hand on his pretty throat.
“one day, your insolent behaviour will get us in serious trouble,” you said coolly. “so you better stop testing your luck, my prince.”
“how dare you?” he breathed, stunned.
for a heartbeat he simply stared up at you, squirming under your touch
“you vicious little—” he snapped, voice pitching higher with indignation, but he was forced to choke on his words as you pressed your knee harder.
“vicious little what? i can’t hear you.” you mocked, lips hovering over his. he groaned in desperation and helplessness, hands clutching your dress.
“you—hah—you witch,” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “do you truly think you can tame a dragon?”
his defiance was pitiful, undermined by the way his hips eagerly bucked back into your knee.
“a dragon must control its silly impulses,” you said, tightening your grip further. he let out a moan that made you smile. his forehead pressed against your shoulder, face contoured in humiliating submission. truly pathetic.
“you will behave during today’s feast and furthermore. understand?” you said, nipping at his jaw. his hands trembled against your waist, torn between shoving you away and dragging you closer. “and if I find out that you are overstepping again…”
aerion sucked in a sharp breath, fingers clutching at your waist as though it were the only thing keeping him anchored to reality. he bristled at your words, it looked as if he’d protest. but with your knee still pressed between his legs, he could only manage a strangled sound.
“fine.” he mumbled, averting his gaze in shame.
you smirked cupping his cheek gently but still keeping your knee firmly planted on his crotch.
“that wasn’t so difficult, was it, my prince?” you purred mockingly.
his jaw flexed in irritation, eyes flicked back to yours, burning with wounded pride and embarrassment.
“no,” he admitted through gritted teeth, fingers flexing restlessly against your waist, almost bruising.
aerion tilted his head and pressed his lips to the inside of your wrist in a soft kiss.
summary: your husband pushes you further, and you near your breaking point
tw: abusive marriage, heavy violence, dubcon, child abuse
wc: 12.5k
********************************************
Your father often told you stories of his friendship with the Targaryen prince.
Prince Maekar, the extra spare, the fourth son of King Daeron II, the prince who would most likely never inherit the throne.
Because of his birth circumstances, Prince Maekar was not required to remain in the Red Keep the way his older brothers were. He was given free reign on where to receive education, and entertainment. He often wandered outside of King’s Landing during summers.
The Prince became especially fond of Duskendale.
Your father, Robert Darklyn II, was born the same year as Prince Maekar. More so, he was born the same month, as well as the exact same week. During Maekar’s summer trips to Duskerdale, your father was placed along with him as his companion. Their friendship grew stronger every year.
“A brother through everything but blood,” is how your father described him.
During your childhood, Maekar continued to visit House Darklyn each summer. You would see him often, though you did not speak to him. Your mother was very diligent in keeping you and your siblings away.
“He is a prince,” she would say to you, “He has no time for entertaining an unruly child such as yourself.” Your mother would say these things with a laugh, but you did not think they were a joke. She did find you unruly. Out of all your siblings, you were the one scolded the most often.
“Sometimes, it is better to listen than to speak,” she would tell you, over and over. But it is a lesson you were slow to learn.
Maekar brought his sons to visit Duskendale very few times. Around the age of eleven, your mother tried to merge the families together in the dining hall for their visit. But your father decided your siblings were too disruptive, so you did not communicate with the princes any further.
When Maekar’s wife, Lady Dyanna, began declining in health, he requested your father’s presence at the castle, desperate for the company of the only man he knew he could trust. He spent several months as a guest at the Red Keep. You and the rest of your family would visit him for two days at a time every three weeks.
You did not care to keep royal company. Your mother let you wander outside if you had a guard with you, saying it was easier to keep you out of trouble if you were out of the castle.
As a girl, you enjoyed fishing. Most afternoons in Duskendale you spent near the water. During your trips to the Red Keep, you found yourself often seeking out the lakeside.
“It is not good for a girl your age to still be interested in these activities,” your mother would tsk. “It is high time you began learning embroidery.”
But sitting by the lakeside kept you quiet and out of the way, so when the family visited the Red Keep, they would allow you to do so.
Most days, however, you didn’t even try catching fish. You just wanted to linger by the water instead of by the royals. They made you wary. Especially the boys.
You did not like Maekar’s son.
Daeron Targaryen was the eldest of all the children. He made you feel unwell when he was around. His eyes tended to...linger. Though, he was quick in his looks, and part of you would always convince yourself you imagined it.
Until once, during a feast held to celebrate the birth of Rhae Targaryen, Daeron sought you out in a way that could not be ignored.
You had been standing behind your family’s table when he found you. You had neither seen, nor heard him. It felt like he had appeared out of nowhere.
“You are the only one of your family members to not be dancing.”
His voice started you, causing your shoulders to flinch. He laughed at it.
You smelt alcohol on him. He was only five and ten, four years your senior, yet he smelled like an old drunkard.
“I am not good at dancing,” you said to him, hoping that would send him off.
“Perhaps you should give it a try with me.”
You felt put under pressure. You were shy to answer, “Thank you, Prince Daeron, but perhaps another time.”
You felt wary when he didn’t make any move to leave.
“I insist.”
Your stomach dropped.
…Could he do that? Could he insist?
“I feel unfit for dancing at the moment,” you say, slow and unsure. “But thank you.” You shuffle back a step.
His hand falls on your shoulder, “I will help you.”
You pull yourself from his touch. “I must repeat my refusal, Prince Daeron.” You step back again. “Perhaps one of my sisters-”
His hand reaches out and latches onto you. A sharp gasp leaves your lips.
“Allow me just until the end of this song.” He pulled on you. “Try it with me.”
You panic, trying to push his hand off, “Wait-”
He yanks you, his drunkenness causing him to use more strength then he intended, making you stumble forward. “You will have fun, I promise.” A laugh. “I’m sure you will enjoy it.”
You try to pull away, but it only results in another yank. This time, you stumble so hard you almost fall. “Prince Daeron!”
“They are playing music from Darklyn, haven’t you noticed-?”
“Let go of her this instant,” a voice spits.
You are quickly released.
A hand darts out and grabs Daeron from the back of his collar, tearing him away from you.
“Dismiss yourself from the hall,” came the swift and stern voice of Prince Maekar, whose fist shook his son by the back of the shirt. “Take yourself to your chambers. Now.”
“Father, I was only hoping for a bit of fun-”
“Remove yourself immediately before you embarrass me any further.”
“No one is even looking this way-”
“Which I am lucky for. I would hate for more whispers of my drunken son being overly abrasive to our guests. Go wallow over dreams in your private chambers.”
Daeron ripped himself from his father’s hold. His face was tinted red from embarrassment. His eyes fell to you, then back to Prince Maekar.
“Worry not, father. I am done here anyway. Your guests are very...” His eyes fell on you coldly. “…unentertaining. I will take my leave.”
Daeron exits the hall. As he does, you feel he is too close. You take a step to the side, barely missing a brush of his shoulder.
“Lady (Y/N).” Prince Maekar’s voice is still stern. “Go find your mother. Do not loiter alone.”
“I did not mean to loiter, Prince Maekar,” you are quick to say. “My-My father said to remain at our table, so that is where I have stayed.”
He exhaled loudly, like he was annoyed. You were not sure if the annoyance was at you, or his son. “Regardless, it is time to find your mother.”
Your eyes fell to the floor. You give an obedient nod. “Yes, Prince Maekar.”
You hurry to find your mother, but you feel too embarrassed to explain what happened.
At the end of the night, Maekar called a meeting with your parents and explained things himself.
After that day, you were kept at home with your young siblings when your family went to the Red Keep during the summer.
********************************************
There is a specific sound your husband makes when he is displeased with something his father has told him.
It is a low grunt, mixed with a scoff.
You hear this noise at breakfast the next morning, as food is being served around the table, and wine is already overflowing for the men.
“Daeron has been spotted,” Prince Maekar announces to the family.
Aerion was audibly disappointed.
Valarr frowns, leaning forward. “Spotted where?”
“At a tavern. It was a brief sighting from a guard. They claim the moment Daeron saw them, he took off, and they were unable to catch him.”
Baelor asks, “What of Aegon?”
“No sight of him yet.”
Aerion let out a low hum, bringing his third cup of wine up to his lips. “Perhaps Daeron killed the little rat and that is why he’s hiding.”
It is hard, but you manage to control your face from physically reacting to his words.
Maekar glares. “You will hold your tongue from making any further comments.”
“Apologies father, I am only trying to soften the blow for when Aegon’s body is found.”
You have never seen someone rile up another person the way Aerion riles up his father.
Or, perhaps you have. Perhaps this is what it looks like when people say you push Aerion to the point of striking you.
The maids whisper of your ‘uncontrollably tongue’. Just this morning, when Aerion ordered them into the tent to apply your makeup and hide any lingering bruising, you heard them gossip about you beneath their breath. “She enjoys his rage,” you heard one say. “She does not care who pays for it.”
You hate them, you realized just today. You hate the serving girls. They pull your hair too hard when braiding, they yank the brush too hard when brushing, they pull your corset too tight because they are angry with you.
They take their anger out on you, yet they do not dare harm a single hair on Aerion’s head.
Aerion, the one who sliced one of their faces open. He is not punished for it, you are punished for it, even though you have remained merciful to them. You do not make sounds when they hurt you, because you know Aerion would react badly to it. You let them mistreat you without complaint, because you know he would strike them if you made a complaint. You have protected them, yet they still lie about you, spreading rumors that you are as sadistic as your husband.
Even here, in the breakfast hall, you notice the way the cupbearer refuses to meet your eye as she pours more water into your glass, yet she smiles at the Princes when she fills theirs. You wonder what lies Madam Pricher has fed her.
“The entire kingdom holds its breath for the safe return of Aegon,” Valarr says to his uncle. “I am sure if anyone finds him to be in trouble, they will give him shelter and food.”
“Yes, because Ashford is so respectful towards royalty,” Aerion hums. He holds his glass to be filled. Another cup of wine. His fourth. You become nervous. It is his fifth glass that brings out his more horrible behaviors. “The same animals that stormed the arena.”
Valarr eyed his cousin. “Hm. If only it were Prince Aerion who went missing, they would have stormed the streets in celebration.”
A small chuckles leaves Baelar. You quickly bite the inside of your lip. You glance at Aerion for his reaction, only to see he is again staring directly at you, his eyes casing your face. You wonder what would have happened if you had smiled. You recall his earlier threats of whippings, and pulling nails off. You recall the way he held your hand to a desk, and tried to cut your finger off. Your body turns cold, and you turn your eyes to your lap.
“I will not joke about the health of my sons,” Maekar grunts. “The guard who let Daeron out of his grasp has already been reprimanded. I have all others on high alert looking for them. They’re believed to both be in the city.”
You risk looking at Aerion’s cup. He is halfway though with the wine. You realize you may have less than an hour before his mood turns drunk and violent.
“(Y/N),” Maekar calls out.
Your eyes snap his way, startled by being spoken to.
“You have been wandering the city. Have you heard any whispers about the boys?”
You cannot help but look to Aerion, as he has specifically told you not to say a word during meals.
“She has heard nothing.”
“I did not ask you,” Maekar quipped.
“Have you heard anything?” Aerion tests you. “Speak if you have.”
You imagine answering him, and being punished with a breakfast plate being smashed over your head. You keeps your mouth shut.
“There,” your husband says. “She has heard nothing.”
Valarr scoffs. “Has anyone checked to see whether or not Lady (Y/N) still had her tongue? Or has he cut it out already-?”
Baelar makes a small tsking sound, and Valarr quiets.
Aerion straightens in his seat, his eyes narrowing the slightest on Valarr. “My cousin worries for you, (Y/N),” he tells you loudly. “Aren’t you lucky, to have the future king so concerned for your wellbeing?”
You try to take yourself out of your body. You clasp your hands together, and you try to think of how nice the day is outside. How the wind keeps it from being too hot. How the flowers are all in bloom-
“Show him there is nothing to worry about,” Aerion commands you. “Stick out your tongue for him to see.”
Your face flushes hot, eyes widening at the request.
“Go on,” Aerion says again. “Put his concern to rest.”
Surely, this was only a jest. Your husband would not make you stick your tongue out like some trained animal in front of his family?
Baelar sighs. “Aerion-”
“Valarr is worried, uncle, let us relieve him.” His hand falls to your knee, and he gives it a warning squeeze. “Stick your tongue out. Now.”
Everyone stares at you, even the servants.
Humiliation makes your hands shake. His hold tightens on your knee. Slowly, you part your lips.
“I did not say open your mouth,” Aerion says. “I told you to stick your tongue out. If not, he’ll accuse me of planting a false one.”
“That is enough,” Valarr tells him.
Aerion brings his hand higher to your thigh, and you feel a pinch on your leg.
There is no getting out of this. And you suppose in the grand scheme of things, this is mundane in terms of things Aerion could demand of you to do.
So you obey him. You stick your tongue out, keeping your eyes on the wall to try to suppress some of the humiliation.
You shut your mouth quickly when Aerion begins to laugh. “Satisfied, Valarr?”
You do not look at him, but his voice is softer now. “I did not ask for that.”
Aerion pushes out his chair. There is still laughter in his voice. “Come, (Y/N). We are done here.”
You rise from your seat as fast as you can. You follow after him, face still hot with embarrassment.
When you exit the dining hall, you see Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty standing near the exit. They follow behind you and Aerion as you leave.
Your husband walks with a new strut. He chuckles. “How utterly bashful he became. He should know better by now than to make comments about things that belong to me.”
As a woman, you should have not been offended anymore by being told you ‘belonged’ to someone. Yet, it still irked you. To belong to a man was one thing, to belong to this man was your greatest shame.
A sigh leaves his lips. “At least he decided to hold his outburst until after I was done eating. It’d be a shame if he continued day after day ruining our meals.”
He ruined the meal?
Of course.
Valarr Targaryen. The future king. He was the one who ruined the meal.
You walk under a shaded archway of the castle. You are relieved to be in the cold shadow of the building. You risk wiping the sweat off your brow. Aerion remains walking with a fast pace, and he is hard to keep up with.
When you round a corner, Aerion grabs you and pulls you to a stop.
You quickly shift around, looking for any of the Ashford guards. Aerion has ledged you in a spot that has none. Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty still trail along, but they linger further back as they notice Aerion has stopped.
Your whole body tenses as Aerion brings his hand up to cup your face.
What does he want? What the fuck does he want from you?
“You know that’s what he wanted, don’t you? He wanted to see you open your mouth on command, and that’s why I gave him what he wanted.”
You swallow. You give a quick, obedient nod.
“No,” he drawls beneath his breath. “You don’t see it the way I do. You think of him as the good son. The courageous heir to the throne.” His hand moves to grip your jaw. “He is not as innocent as he pretends. Best believe the only reason he thinks of your tongue is to picture it running up and down his cock-”
You rip yourself from his grip, disgust on your features.
Ha laughs again. “Don’t be so naive to think it false.”
You physically bite your tongue so hard it hurts.
He is quiet, as if waiting for you to say something. When you do not, he presses further. “Unless you know it to be true? And perhaps you find enjoyment in it?”
You grip your skirts in fists, and you glare at him. He waits again. But you know better now. You do not speak.
But is he unrelenting. As if he wants you to speak. Because he wants to correct you.
“It seems my whorish wife gets excited at the thought of other men stroking their cocks to the thought of her.” He notices the way you flinch at the brazen words. He worsens his behavior. “Next dinner, I should give them something to really look at. I should just order you to pull up your skirts and show them your cunt-”
You shove his chest away from you, disgust drenching you.
He breaks out with laughter. His laugh, which you hate most out of anything in the world, is what finally makes you snap.
“How dare you speak to me with such crudity?” you spit at him, unable to handle the seething rage you feel.
“Crudity.” The word amuses him. “My, my, how sensitive you are for someone that enjoys whipping naked women.”
You turn away from him sharply. “Ser Thenty, I wish to be escorted to my tent-”
Aerion grips your upper arm and yanks you back to him. He is still amused. “Settle, woman.”
“You are barbaric,” you spit at him.
A laugh. “Barbaric?”
“I am your wife,” you whisper in a hiss, trying to rip your arm from him. He does not let go.
“I am aware.”
Your rage seeps through your words. “Yet you debase me so openly.” Your fists open and close on the fabric of your skirt. “Is it not bad enough to have me humiliated in front of so many spectators in the city, you must do so in front of the royal family?”
“I forgot how much my cousin’s opinion mattered to you.”
Aerion is jealous of his cousin, you remind yourself.
So you taunt him with the things he envies.
“The opinion of the future king will always matter over yours-”
Aerion hits you so hard that you fly back against the stone wall, barely catching your balance on it. Pain hinders you as you clutch your cheek.
“That is your only warning,” Aerion says to you.
Your hair falls in front of your face. You let it stay so that you do not have to see him anymore.
You make a quick attempt to get to Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher, who stand at the end of the small courtyard, watching. You manage to stumble only a few steps towards him before Aerion’s finger grip around your arm.
“Barbaric,” he repeats. “You find your own husband barbaric. Do you know how barbarians behave?”
“Let me go,” you say, your voice feeling raw as you hold back the tears forming in your eyes from the stinging slap.
“I will show you what it means to be debased so publically,” he tells you. “So that next time you will be more appreciative of the husband you have.”
He yanks you towards the willow tree.
“Stop it,” you whisper. You try to pull back, grounding your feet in the dirt. “Aerion-”
He flings your body towards the tree.
Your blood freezes as you watch his hands fall to his belt, and he unfastens the buckle.
No.
No.
He did not mean to do that here.
He would not abuse your body here. In someone else’s home. In someone else’s courtyard.
He was more than barbaric. He was a barbaric, hateful, spoiled, evil bastard.
You take a quick step back as his belt is dropped to the ground, and he begins to unbottom his britches.
“Behind the tree,” he orders you.
You do not move.
“Or not,” he says. “Who am I to care if we have more onlookers?”
“This is the Ashford’s castle-”
“It all belongs to the Targaryens.”
Your hands are shaking again, and your eyes dart to a single guard you see up ahead. “They-They will not forget this disrespect if word of it reaches them.”
You could picture the gossip now. The uncontrollable Targaryen son fucked his wife publically in an Ashford courtyard.
His whorish wife, they would call you.
Your eyes sting as you imagine what else they will say. You look back at the guard. Will he watch?
“They will survive.”
“It will reach your father,” you tell him, flinching as he steps closer.
His voice remains uncaring as he unbuckles his top coat, carelessly letting the jacket fall to the ground. “Gods, whatever will I do if my father hears?”
This could not happen. Not out in the open. Not in such a beautiful place. “No, Aerion, this-this is unacceptable-”
“I know. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?” he taunted with another short laugh.
You are desperate as you call, “Ser Thenty!”
“They will wait behind the gate of the courtyard.” Aerion shoos them away. “Go. A husband requires privacy with his wife. You will wait beyond the gate.”
They obeyed. They both stepped on the other side of the stone wall as if you were not begging for help.
“Behind the tree. Now.”
“Okay,” you whisper, taking a cautious step back. “Okay. Okay.”
He nears you. You wait for him to come closer, and the moment he steps behind the tree with you, you dart out the small opening behind it. You force your feet against the ground and try to run to Ser Thenty.
Aerion snatches you fast, gripping your hair and yanking you back behind the treetrunm.
He is laughing still like he is having the time of his life. “How pitifully slow you are.” With a firm shove, you tumble to the ground. Aerion kneels over you. “The more noise you make, the more of an audience we will have-”
“Get off of me!” you scream at him.
You writhe on the ground, using all your strength to try to get out from under him. He pins your hands down with ease, and amusement covers his expression. “You can either give me your body, (Y/N), or I will take it. And believe me, I would have much fun in taking it.”
It was all just a game to him.
Your torture was a game to this horrid excuse of a man.
Fire burns in your veins. You spit in his face.
You hear half a laugh before you feel the blow to your face.
You shut your eyes tightly, the slap causing your head to spin.
Aerion’s hand moves down your legs, which you writhe and kick with all your might. He grabs your skirt and lifts it to your waist.
Aerion frees himself from his trousers, and with abruptness, and no thought to your dryness, he shoves himself into you.
The pain of the harsh intrusion causes you to cry out.
Your brain tries to shut itself down. Your mind tries to leave this place.
Your husband makes a low groan, his hands tightening on your dress, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
You should be protected. That is what Prince Baelor promised you. He said you would have a knight that protects you.
But Ser Thenty is useless.
You have no idea as to why he is not serving his purpose, so you flood your mind with ideas as to how to make him.
You can do nothing but scream. So you scream.
You open your mouth and scream as loud as you possibly, possibly can.
It works in the smallest of ways. It catches Aerion off guard, making him pull his face back. He reaches out and grabs a broken tree branch, snapping off the top, and shoving it against your lips to force you quiet.
An idea sparks immediately. Your hands flies out to feel the ground beside you. You find a different branch, smaller, but enough to grip onto.
You recall exactly where you stabbed Aerion nights prior. So you grab the small stick, and you jam it in the exact same spot.
“Ah!” Your husband hunches back. “You fucking whore-!”
You rip the stick from your mouth, and slam the pointed end against his face. You hit his cheekbone, and you see the blood as you shove him back from you.
Flipping over, you try to crawl out from under him. He grabs you, yanking you back to him. You reach for something new, and you find grab a rock this time. You turn and slam it against his forehead. You hope it kills him.
But he only hisses in pain, his hand finding your throat, squeezing it so hard you see stars. He lifts you up by the throat, and slams you back to the ground.
Your hand flies out again feeling for anything you can teach. Your luck reappears as you feel a large, fallen branch. It is almost too heavy to lift with one hand, but you are able. You bring it up and slam it against his face. Once. Twice. Three times.
He screams louder.
One hand still pins down your shoulder, so to get it off of you, you turn your head and bite his arm as hard as you can.
Aerion rips his hand away, and you force yourself out from under him. You snatch the large branch off the ground, and you slam it down to his body. Then again, and again.
You hear him laugh. A long, elated laugh. “I am going skin you alive, you stupid whore-”
You slam the branch down against his head. You scream as you do so.
Aerion catches your wrist, yanking you down and knocking you off your feet. It does not make you stop. You grab his hand, and bite his wrist once more, as hard as you can. When he rips it away, you raise the branch as high as you could and bring it down on his head.
You want him dead. You hit him again. You want him dead. And again. You want him dead and gone and burning in hell-
“Lady (Y/N)!”
The scream was so loud that your whole body jolts, your heart sinking to your stomach.
“Get off of him now!”
You flinch so violently the tree branch drops from your hands. You fly to your feet and whip around.
Ser Donnel of Duskendale stands with a face red with anger. “Get away from him, you stupid girl!”
Your body quivers as you grip onto your dress, patting yourself down and making sure you are not exposed. “Ser-Ser Donnel-”
“Step away from the Prince!”
You take fast steps away from your husband.
Aerion had been right, your screaming had eventually drawn a crowd. There are more than a dozen guards near the entrance of the courtyard now, Ser Donnel’s harsh command the only thing keeping them from entering.
Your body stays tense with panic, but a different kind now. You are no longer fearing for your safety, you are fearing your punishment.
They are going to punish you for this. Oh god, they were going to hurt you for this. You wanted to burst into tears.
“H-He was-” You gulped. “He was-”
“Quiet, woman!” Ser Donnel hollers at you. He kneels in front of your husband. “Prince Aerion, do you require a maester?”
A lazy smile formed on his face. “Not as much as I require my dagger. Hand it to me so that I am able to slice that bitch’s throat open.”
“Ser Donnel,” you choke, “I was only defending myself-”
“For fuck’s sake,” he snaps at you. “I just witnessed you beating the royal prince with a tree branch. Have you any fucking idea what this will cause for you?” He grabs hold of your husband. “Allow me to assist, my prince.”
He raises Aerion into his feet. Your husband sways, before resting an arm against the tree trunk, leaning over, and puking out red wine. Ser Donnel wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“He forced me behind the tree,” you try to say rapidly. “He-Ser Donnel-He was forcing himself on me, and-” You choke on your own panic. “He would not stop, I did not know what else to do.”
There is a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. You see his anger subside the smallest amount, but his voice stays stern. “Yet it is you who will face punishment for this.”
You fall apart, breaking down right then and there.
“Quiet,” the knight orders you.
Aerion wipes his mouth, but stays resting on the tree with his eyes shut, wincing as he places a hand over his torn stitches. “Shove a fistful of dirt in her mouth to silence her.”
You wish you had the speed to grab Ser Donnel’s sword and kill Aerion with it.
Tears stream down your face. “Please, do not tell his father,” you beg the knight.
Ser Donnel places a hand on your jaw, turning your head back and forth. “Prince Aerion caused these markings?”
You did not know what your face looked like, but you assumed the slap to the face, hitting the ground, and having branches shoved into your mouth did some visible damage.
You shake from your crying. “I beg of you. I beg of you, do not tell Prince Maekar.”
“Prince Aerion, what was the cause of this?”
“My wife is excited by bloodshed-”
“He is lying!” you say to Ser Donnel. “He is a bastardly liar-!”
Ser Donnel hisses, “Hold your tongue!”
You had been trying.
All day, you had been trying your absolute hardest to hold your tongue. You stuck out your tongue on command, in front of the soon to be king.
You tried to hold your tongue but Aerion wouldn’t let you.
He escalated and escalated and escalated and you wish you had the strength to have driven that stick into his skull.
“I must take you to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar at once.”
A sob escapes your throat. “No-”
“You have been warned about this,” Ser Donnel spits beneath his breath. “What did you think would happen?”
“He will not understand,” you cry.
“You will put yourself at Prince Maekar’s feet, and you will beg for his forgiveness.” Ser Donnell snaps. He gestures for the guards to move forward. “And if he is merciful, perhaps you can save yourself from the same fate you saw after your incident with Prince Daeron.”
The incident with Prince Daeron. Your body still shudders at the memory from your maiden years.
“No,” you say again. “Please. Aerion-” You suddenly grasp onto your husband’s hand. “Aerion, do not let your father hear about this.”
Aerion drags his hand over his mouth, and he catches a drop of blood that comes from a cut just above his mouth. “And why should I defend the whore who so viciously attacked me?”
“Please,” you cry again. “I am sorry. I will never dare do something like that again. Aerion-Aerion, I-” You search your mind for anything you think might trigger some form of sympathy.
You recall how calm Aerion was in his armor tent, how tender his words became when you massaged him.
So you force yourself forward, clinging to him, burying your face in his chest. “I beg for you to forgive me.”
You dare not look at his face. You keep your face against his chest, gripping his shirt like he is your hero rather than your tormentor.
“Do not let him force me inside, my prince. Please, I am sorry.”
There is a moment where you hear nothing, and you can only imagine Aerion is exchanging words with Ser Donnell through looks alone.
“Lady (Y/N) is my lawful property,” Aerion eventually speaks. “What she does is no business of my father.”
“Prince Aerion,” Ser Donnel urges. “I must warn you, he may hear about this through gossip either way. There are guards witnessing this, and they will tell tall tales if no disciple is given to her.”
“The disciple comes from me, not my father. She is mine, not his.”
You can feel Ser Donnel’s agitation. Yet he holds back any further comment besides, “Very well.”
“Come, (Y/N),” Aerion commands, pulling you away. “Let us return to our tent.”
You cannot bear to meet Ser Donnel’s eye. Aerion holds your upper arm, and he leads you out of the courtyard.
As you pass the entryway, your blood freezes as you see Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher waiting exactly on the other side of the archway.
Standing there.
As if nothing was happening.
As if they had not so clearly heard you screaming.
They begin to follow after you, as if nothing had happened.
*******************************************
You do not return to the Red Keep until the death of Lady Dyanna.
Your entire family makes the journey as soon as your father hears the news.
Never in your life had you seen a grown man weep until the day you arrive at the castle, and Prince Maekar greets you father with tears still in his eyes.
The Prince loved his wife. And your father loved your mother. You were raised with this belief-that husbands and wives loved each other. It was a kind thought in the cruel world.
“You will be on your best, most respectful behavior,” your mother told you all before the funeral. “The Targaryens are grieving. They should be met with empathy and compassion only. Does everyone understand?”
Your siblings were obedient. You tried to be too.
Yet, when your siblings were sent out to begin their walk to the funeral cathedral, you were the one held behind.
“It is very important to your father that you remain silent today,” your mother tells you with both hands on your shoulders. “Can you do this for him?”
“I do not speak out of turn,” you tell her.
“Yes, but...a proper girl must bite her tongue even when insulted. Do you understand?”
You did not. Yet, you replied, “Yes, mother.”
“Be respectful to the princes. Even Prince Daeron-”
“Prince Daeron is the one without respect-”
“(Y/N),” she criticized. “He lost his mother. The only words you should speak are condolences.”
“…Yes, mother.”
She gave a heavy sigh. “Go and behave. I believe in you.”
The funeral was a somber event. The princes lined the front of the building as people drawled on about the will and plan of the gods.
When it was time to leave, you followed after your siblings to the front of the building. “We will offer our sorrows,” your father tells you.
You walk along with your siblings, each of them offering condolences to the princes as they passed.
Maekar’s children are there, even the babies held by wet nurses. You divert your eyes as you pass the sons, as to not make eye contact with Daeron.
You stand next to your father as he passes his friend. “She was a beautiful, kind mother, Maekar. The kingdom will miss her.”
You do not know how it tumbles from your mouth, yet it does. Maekar stands so tall, so noble like. You are so young, you are not smart or well versed in how a kingdom works.
Stupidly, you try to console him by saying, “She would have been a well loved Queen-”
Your father’s hand clamps down on your shoulder, silencing you. “Forgive her,” he says quickly. “She is ignorant to titles.”
“All is well,” Maekar dismays. “She...would have done wonders as a queen.”
You are pulled away, and your father hisses, “What were you thinking? Maekar is a fourth son, he will never take the throne, his wife would have never been queen.”
“That is not certain-”
“Go to your mother,” he demands. “You will stay by her side for the entirety of the feast.”
“Why is there a feast?” you ask him. “You said the castle is in mourning-”
“Enough. Go with Ser Donnel,” your father commands you.
Ser Donnel, one of the guards from your home in Duskendale, was now a knight of the Red Keep. He was still loyal to House Darklyn and was the escort to your father during his visits.
“Little Lady (Y/N),” Ser Donnel greets you with a short laugh. “Your father has already warned me to keep my eye out for you.”
“Take her to the feast. Ensure she does not linger with any company,” your father commands him.
You are sent away with a knight like you are a criminal at risk of escape.
******************************************
What fucking use is he?
What use is that pathetic, empty-headed, cowardly, bastard of a knight.
There is rage in your eyes as you stare at Ser Thenty from across the room.
The feast was lively tonight. The first week of jousting had officially ended, and there was a city wide celebration thrown.
Aerion forced you along for it, despite your body aching from the earlier incident.
“You had been right not to involve my father,” Aerion had told you when the two of you got back to the tent. “He would have punished you publically. I will not.”
Aerion had settled on a…martial punishment.
It was brutal, but it was bearable. And you were grateful that he did not break any of your fingers as he so often threatened to.
You got off easier then you would have had Prince Maekar gotten involved.
“You were lucky for Ser Donnel arriving,” your husband told you. “I would have walked you back to the tent stripped naked had you hit me one more time.”
No, he wouldn’t have. That was something you were learning.
Aerion could not stand the thought of someone else seeing you naked. Your body belonged to him, and he wanted it to be only for him.
He would even force Ser Thenty to face the wall when he had his way with you.
Ser Thenty, who did nothing.
He was tasked to protect you, yet he would stand by and listen to you scream.
He would have allowed Aerion to continue to rape you right there in the courtyard. He heard you screaming and crying and begging for help, yet him and Madam Pricher stood by as if nothing happened.
You were wrong. Ser Thenty was not a good knight.
He was as evil as every other man.
You hated Ser Thenty.
You hated Madam Pricher.
You hated your husband.
You hated everyone at this feast.
Everyone was dancing and laughing like it was the time of their lives, and you were practically chained to your chair and living on the mercy of a tyrant.
You had nothing to look forward to. Nothing to keep you at peace.
Just...nothing.
Depression hits you with a numbness. You did not think, you only stared ahead, no thoughts in your mind. You sat empty headed and hoped you would die in the upcoming year.
You were numb to the point that when a cupbearer filled your cup with wine, you drank it.
And you kept drinking. You kept your cup to your lips, because it kept your husband from speaking to you.
Until Aerion suddenly snaps at you, “Slow down. You will be sick tonight if you continue that quickly. And I will not have patience with a sick woman.” He takes another chug of his own wine bottle, then wipes his face with his sleeve like an uncivilized child. “Pull yourself together or everyone will think low of you.”
Your insides twist. “They already think low of me for being your wife.”
“They would think low of you for being anyone’s wife, you do a horrible job at it.”
You stare blankly at the dancers that perform in the middle of the room. Aerion seems quite taken with them, yet part of you wonders if he only watches the women because he knows it get under your skin.
Aerion’s family sits far away from you two. You understand why. You take a moment to finally get a good look at Valarr, as you have never been able to before.
He is handsome, and perhaps that is why Aerion is so worried about you speaking to him.
Though, in another life, you would have found Aerion as the most handsome man in the world. But his attractiveness was ruined when he first opened his mouth.
Your eyes dart to Ser Thenty as he circles the room, before coming to Madam Pricher, who rests against the wall behind you.
“I will return in a moment, Madam Pricher,” you hear him tell her.
“Very well. Be swift.”
You glance behind you, and you see him leaving the feast hall.
Your anger blooms once more, spiking your heart rate.
“I feel as if I will vomit,” you tell Aerion.
“Hm.”
“I must step outside for air.”
“Convenient timing,” you hear him say, a hint of irritation in his tone. But your husband is angry about everything, always, so you do not care.
The room spins when you rise to your feet. You hold yourself still for a moment to make it stop.
You walk swiftly after Ser Thenty. He goes outside. In suspected privacy, he begins to lower his pants to urinate against the tree.
“Ser Thenty!”
He flinches, and quickly tucks himself away and recomposes himself. “Lady (Y/N), where is your chaperone?”
Anger bites in your voice, frustration deleting all your hesitation. “Is it not supposed to be you?” you accuse. “Were you not the one Prince Baelor charged with maintaining my safety?”
“What?” Ser Thenty fastens his pants as quickly as he can. “You should not be out here. Return to the feast inside.”
“What purpose do you have?” you drawl, the wine draining you of all common sense you had about decency. “What is the point of you following my husband and I if he is able to do whatever he pleases? Strike me whenever he pleases? Rape me whenever he pleases-”
“Lady (Y/N),” he cuts off sharply. “We are not meant to converse alone.”
“And you are not meant to witness my torture, you are meant to prevent it!”
“I apologize,” Ser Thenty tells you. “But there is little for me to do. Aerion is a Prince of the seven kingdoms. No matter my orders, I am forbidden from harming him.”
“So I was right in my doubt of you? You cannot do anything because you are a small, cowardly man?”
His tone loses patience. “You must return inside. We cannot be caught out here without a chaperone.”
You did not care for a chaperone. The wine gripped your heart and rid you of your common sense.
Your hand shoots out and you grab Ser Thenty, gripping his arm with a tight squeeze. “Are you not ashamed of yourself for this-?”
He shoves you, hard. So hard you stumble, your anger faltering as your mind reminds you this is a man capable of harming you.
“Do not touch me,” he snaps at you. “You know what your husband will do if he sees such a thing.”
“Of course I know what he will do! You are the one who ignores his actions-!”
“You are alive, Lady (Y/N). You are alive, without any broken bones. I am completing my duty.”
“You are a liar as much as a coward!” you scream. “You sat and did nothing as I called to you!”
“I would have went to you immediately if you were in actual distress, my Lady.”
Your heart spikes with blood curdling anger. “You walked away as my husband raped me!”
“He is your Lord husband,” Ser Thenty tells you. “A man cannot rape a woman that belongs to him.”
And there it was.
There was the answer right there, all along.
You do not get protection from a knight like a man would.
Because you are a woman, meaning you belong to someone.
Why would an object be valued over their owner?
Tears sting your eyes at the frustration of this life.
“You are a craven bastard!” you cry. “And I hope you are tortured in the pits of Hell for all you have allowed to be done to me!”
Heads are turning from the guards outside. More eyes have fallen on you too.
Ser Thenty appears flustered now, less bold under the attention.
“I am going back to the feast,” he tells you. “You should try to sober yourself. You are likely to upset your husband this night.”
You suddenly bend down, pick up a rock, and throw it at the coward.
Ser Thenty ducks it, his eyes widening.
You hear the insult he whispers. “Unrestful cunt.”
He leaves you alone with only the guards that pose along the tent.
You do not want to return inside. Inside is Hell. Outside is Hell. Everything is Hell.
So instead, you drop yourself on the ground with your back against the tree.
You hide your face, and you break down.
*******************************************
You pick at the food on your plate boredly as you watch the nobles dance their way around the hall. “Has a fourth son of a king ever become king himself?” you ask.
Ser Donnel stands beside your chair. He gives a nod as his eyes scan the room for trouble. “Aye. A few times in history. Though, is it not too common.”
“Could Prince Maekar be king one day?”
“It is possible. Though, not too likely.” He glances at you with curiosity. “For what reason do you ask?”
You lean back in your chair. “My father is angry that I told Prince Maekar his wife would’ve been a good Queen-”
“He told you not to speak,” came your sister’s voice from beside you. “You always have such stupid things to say-”
“Be silent,” you snap at her. “I am talking to my knight.”
“Your knight?”
You ignore her and say to Ser Donnel, “It would have been possible for Lady Dyanna to have been queen one day. And if she had been, she would have been well loved. What I said was not incorrect, why must I always be punished for speaking?”
“Because you don’t speak properly,” your sister tells you. “Mother says that is why they will have to arrange your marriage. You will never be courted because you are loud.”
“You will never be courted because you are nosy-”
“Girls, settle,” Ser Donnel chides. “We must keep respect on a day like this.”
“How is any of this respectful?” you ask. “People are drinking and laughing. They are meant to be crying.”
Your sister huffs. “You are still so very loud with your opinions-”
“Enough of you.” You push yourself to your feet. “I will be retiring for the night.”
“Your father requests you remain here until the feast is over,” Ser Donnel tells you.
You lean back in your chair with a heavy sigh.
“Prince Daeron is dancing,” your sister comments.
You say, “Prince Daeron is drunk-”
“(Y/N),” Ser Donnel chides again.
“He is stumbling,” you say. “He has stepped on his partner’s feet several times. She looks as if she is in pain from him. Should you not put a stop to it, Ser Donnel?”
“His mother has passed. Let him grieve how he needs to.”
A frown forms. You watch Prince Daeron, unimpressed.
Finally, the song ends and the girl he danced with rips herself from his grip and flees off the dance floor.
He is not able to find another partner by the time the next dance starts. So he returns to his table and slumps down in a chair beside his brother, Prince Aerion.
Prince Aerion is different then the others. There is a glare on his face as his eyes take in the events of the room. You wonder if he finds it all disrespectful as well.
His eyes continue to cross the room. Then, without warning, his eyes dart to you.
Heat rushes to your face and you quickly look away. You wonder if he noticed you staring. You risk a glance back, and see Prince Daeron whispering something to him. Both of them look at you. You quickly stare at the table, and try to convince yourself you did not see them.
But then the horrid unthinkable happens. You hear him.
Coming from your left, you hear his voice. “Lady (Y/N).”
Your head turns. Prince Daeron stands there, drunk as always, a smile too wide for his mother’s funeral feast.
“I was hoping to have that dance with you now.”
You look at Ser Donnel first, and it is clear this has caught even the knight off guard.
“Prince Daeron,” you slowly begin, “I am…still not well at dancing-”
“I do not mind.” He holds a hand out. “Shall we?”
His eyes are glazed over from drunkenness. You risk glancing at his shoes, which look heavy, and you imagine them stepping on your feet.
“I am very sorry, Prince Daeron, but my father has ordered me to stay seated-”
“Dance with the prince,” your sister urges you. Her voice drops to a whisper. “It is his mother’s funeral. Why are you being so cruel?”
You are jolted as Daeron puts a hand on your chair, pulling it out. “Exactly. It is my mother’s funeral. You would not reject me for a dance at this time, would you?”
“I-” Before a word gets out, he grabs your arm, and pulls you up out of your chair.
“Prince Daeron,” Ser Donnel speaks, “You appear unsteady.”
“I am perfectly alright.”
“I think it would be best if you took a break.”
“Your concern is noted.” Daeron’s hand remains on your arm. His head jerks towards the dancing. “Shall we?”
You do not know what to do.
So you try to think of what your father would advise. He would surely tell you to be respectful, and not to embarrass him.
Placing your hesitation to the side, you agree, “Perhaps you can accompany me for…one dance.”
As you are taken to the dance floor, you feel a sweeping nausea that you must suppress.
Daeron is an awful dancer. He refuses to use any proper dance moves, and he refuses to let you do any either. Instead, he pulls you into him. Your body hits his with a startled gasp, and his hands fall to your waist. He sways with you, though his swaying feels more like stumbling.
Your closeness is inappropriate. Your eyes dart around, fearing your father will see it.
At least those around you look sympathetic rather than judgmental. They know you do not want this dance.
“I have not seen you in so long,” Daeron says to you.
You turn your head as you speak, the alcohol on his breath almost too strong to bear. “My father prefers traveling on his own when he visits the Red Keep.”
“No,” he mumbles. A short shake of his head. “I have not…seen you. I saw you so often before. It’s as if you are…hiding from me now.”
You do not understand him, and you do not want to.
Moments pass without anything said.
“I am very sorry about your mother,” you tell him, because you do not know what else to say. “I cannot imagine your grief right now. I will pray that you are able to get through it.”
“Yes, my mother.” A light smile. “She would have made a very good queen.”
Your shoulders slouch, and you think he is mocking you.
Until he says, “One night, I saw my father on the throne with the King’s crown on his head. He did not believe me.”
It confuses you. “You…saw him?”
“Dreamt of him.”
You do not know what to reply to that, so you say nothing.
A larger smile rises to his lips. “You know, my brother-” He pauses, and laughs. He does not continue.
The music comes to an end. You try to take a step back from him. He does not let you.
“Once more,” he says.
It would embarrass your father if anyone saw you argue with Daeron, so you stayed where you were, and allowed him one more dance.
“You are ten and three now?” he asks you.
“Yes. Ten and three.”
“Have you become a woman yet?”
The question startles you. Your face flushes hot. “P-Pardon?”
“Have you bled yet? And entered womanhood?”
Yes. You began bleeding almost a full year prior to this. But it was not his place to know. You refuse to meet his eye. “No.”
“You would not lie to your Prince, would you?”
You glance around the room to try to see if your father is watching. “We mustn’t speak of such things.” Your voice wavers with your desperation to get away from him.
“Why not?”
You feel choked with embarrassment. “It-It is improper.”
Your eyes search for Ser Donnel.
“And what of maidenhood?” he asks. “Are you still a maiden? Or have the men in Duskendale already seen to that?”
You try to rip yourself from his hold. He holds you tight.
“That is an abhorrent, s-sinful thing to ask,” you tell him. “Let me go at-at once.”
“It is a simple question.”
He grips tightens on your waist so hard it makes you shout a panicked, “Ser Donnel!”
Heads begin to turn your way.
Daeron keeps a tight hold on you. “You needn’t be embarrassed. It is only a question-”
“Let go of me,” you try again, but with no resolve. You feel hot and unable to breathe.
He pulls you against him harder. “Take it as a compliment that your beauty has stirred such scandal among royal princes.”
“Please, let me go,” you have resorted to begging. “I do not wish to dance any longer.”
“He speaks as if he already owns you, can you believe that?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yet he mocks me for my behavior. He mocks me as if I do not have the power to ruin what he wants.”
His drunken ramblings mean nothing to you. “Please, my prince, my mother will worry if she-”
Daeron leans down, and he places his lips against yours.
A hard, painful, brute of a kiss. His face slams so hard against yours that the inside of your lip is cut from your own tooth.
You are struck with panic. Instinctively, you stomp your foot down onto his, you shove his chest away, and you slap him in the face as hard as you can.
The hall falls hauntingly quiet. The band has stopped playing, all conversations cease in an instant.
You have struck the King’s grandson, and everyone has seen it.
********************************************
“What has happened, Lady (Y/N), are you hurt?”
It is Ser Donnel that approaches you.
He has heard your cries from his post at the front of the feast, and he recognized them. Hearing you crying so often in your childhood, the tears ring as familiar as your voice.
You hide your face from him.
“Lady (Y/N), please, tell me. Has someone hurt you?”
“You know who hurts me,” you whisper.
“Do you require a maester?”
The words cause you to cry harder. “I require a divorce!”
“Lady-”
“I require a jousting accident that makes me a widow!”
“You should not say these things aloud,” Ser Donnel tells you.
“I do not care who hears!” you weep. You place your face in your hands and cry harder. “I wish for a window to jump out of and end my misery!”
A somber sigh leaves the knight. His hand falls on your shoulder. “The days will get easier, my lady.”
“No, they will not!” Your tears stream down your chin. “They get worse every day that passes! My husband ripped me from my home and forced me into marriage! Then he threw me into solitude for months! Now he has decided to use every waking minute to break my soul!”
You are so swept up in your emotions that for the first time in your life, you have no room to be embarrassed. You are a horrible wreck of a crying woman and you do not care.
“I am doing nothing but awaiting my death!” you scream with hot tears leaving your eyes. “I hate that evil man! I hate him! I-I-!” You cut yourself off by choking on your own son. You bury your face further in your hands. “I wish to never see his face again!”
Ser Donnel is silent. You cry beside him as if he was a confidant. You did know if he was, if anyone was, but you appreciated that he did not force you back to Aerion.
“I will write to your father,” he eventually tells you. “I will have a letter sent this very night, letting him know that there is…concern to be raised about your treatment. I will request his immediate visit to the Red Keep. He is sure to get there by the time we return from the tourney.”
“Aerion will have me dead by then,” you sob. “He will have sliced my throat and thrown my body to the wolves-”
“He will do no such thing, Lady (Y/N).”
“You have no idea what he is capable of.” You choke on your own tears. “He wants me dead, Ser Donnel. He wants to rip me to pieces and burn me to ashes.”
“He does not.”
“He despises me.” Your words are muffled. “And he wants every person to know it.”
“Have I not told you what he wants from you?” Ser Donnel asks. “He wants an obedient woman-”
“He does not!” You finally pull your hands from your face. “He riles me! You do not believe me, but he does! He wishes for me to speak out of turn because he wants to punish me in the most despicable ways!”
“Aerion was most insistent on your wedding. He would not go through such great lengths only to have you die by his hand.”
His words cause a stir in your body. They begin to sober you. “…What great lengths?” you whisper.
Ser Donnel seems to hesitate, as if unsure if he is spilling a secret.
“Aerion claims I was chosen by him,” you say. “But-My mother said it was his father who insisted on such a marriage between houses.”
“Prince Maekar, nor your father, would have ever wanted the houses bridged through Aerion.”
“What?” You do not understand, and the confusion makes your head ache even more. “Why-Why then was the marriage permitted?” Why were you given to that monster?
Ser Donnel glances towards the knights at the entry way. He lowers his voice. “…It was not permitted. Not by Prince Maekar, not by your father. Aerion went to his grandfather, the King, for permission.”
Your blood runs cold. “…The king?”
Ser Donnel seems uncomfortable now. “I fear I have said more than I should have.”
He stands, and you quickly reach out to grab his arm. “No. No, don’t go. Why did he go to the King-?”
“I have no authority to answer such questions,” he tells you.
“My life is on the line, Ser Donnel-”
“It is not,” he insists sternly. “Lady (Y/N), if your husband meant to kill you, do you think he would have spared you from facing his father after your violent actions against him this morning?”
“My violent actions were justified-”
“I have no doubt they were. He has always been a cruel boy, and I’m sure he wants you scared, but he does not want you dead. You will live through this. But be better about it.”
“What am I to do?” you ask him with a pitiful cry in your tone. “What will make him stop?”
“Perhaps obedience is not all he wants,” Ser Donnel tells you. “He is a jealous man, as I am sure you’re aware. He wants a good wife, but perhaps most of all a wife who knows she is his. Let yourself belong to him.”
Belong to him. Belong to Aerion. Is that not death itself?
Another long sigh from Ser Donnel. “I am sorry about this marriage, (Y/N). I warned your father about this. I told him that your sisters were the ones who were wifely, that you were the more troublesome. He had said himself that you were not meant for any marriage, with any man, especially not a man that is so…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But it is done now. And I will ensure your father is made aware of your mistreatment.”
You stare at him, his words falling heavy on you. “…My father said I was not meant for marriage?”
He looked at you as if he pitied you. He probably did. “Do not lament over such things. Come, step inside. It is time to return to your husband before he notices your absence.”
*******************************************
Your mother holds you against her, pleading, “I will send her home immediately, my Prince. You will never see her here again.”
The hall is quiet, sounded by only harsh whispers that have spread through the room like fire.
“I apologize for her, she will be punished-”
Prince Maekar silences her. “Do not speak.”
Your body trembles, and your mother holds you tighter.
Maekar talks only to your father. “Your daughter has struck my son.”
“She will be punished for this greatly.”
“Mama,” you whisper, “He forced a kiss upon me-”
“Do not speak!” Your father shouts at you, his anger louder than Prince Maekar’s.
You hide your face in your mother’s dress.
Maekar’s voice is so cold it gives you shivers. “Your daughter has struck my son on the day of his mother’s funeral.”
Another man steps up to speak. You do not know, nor recognize him. “Perhaps this should be settled privately.”
“Perhaps not,” Maekar spits. “It was done publically.”
“She is a child, brother, and your son is not known for being gentle with girls.”
“The consequences of a woman striking a royal are stated clearly in the law book.”
Murmurs break out in the dining hall.
You’re confused by the voices jumping around. You keep your eyes shut tightly.
“Seven whippings.”
You hug your mother tighter. “I am sorry-”
“Shh,” she shushes.
“Please, my prince,” you hear your father say. “She is a stupid girl, but she is not a traitor to the crown. Give her a chance to correct this.”
There is more whispering done by your father and the prince, but you are too far to hear it.
Finally, Maekar announces, “A compromise has been made. She has the chance to bend the knee to Daeron. Here. Now. Bend the knee and ask for forgiveness.”
“(Y/N),” your mother whispers, pulling you away from her. “(Y/N), go to your father.”
You look around to see the crowded room stares directly at you. You walk to your father with shaky steps. Your eyes clouded with tears.
“Kneel down before Prince Daeron,” your father tells you. “Apologize for your sins and beg him for forgiveness.”
Your lips quiver. “Kneel?”
“Kneel.”
You finally lay eyes on Daeron again. He is slumped along a chair, but rises to his feet with a look of smugness. “Beg for forgiveness,” he says, “And maybe I will give it to you.”
The amount of people watching you makes you feel sick.
Your eyes return to your father. “...He was improper to me-”
“Kneel and apologize,” your father stresses through gritted teeth. “I will not ask again.”
Taking hold of your shoulder, he forcibly turns you and forces you towards Daeron.
“Kneel,” you are instructed again.
You stare at Daeron.
And suddenly, the worry you feel-you fear you feel-is replaced by nothing but complete and utter outrage.
How dare he?
How dare he rip you from your seat, force you against his body, ask about your womanhood, and force a kiss on you?
This drunken, perverted bastard disgraced you.
And you were meant to apologize to this fool?
You would not.
To apologize would mean to say you were wrong. He was wrong. He deserved more than a slap, and you will not claim you are sorry for it.
You whip back around to your father. “I will not bend the knee to him.”
Prince Maekar’s eyes grow wide with anger.
Your father spits, “Get on your knees-”
“He spoke of the most abhorrent things,” you announce. “He asked about my bleeding, and my maidenhood, and he forced a kiss upon me-”
“(Y/N)!”
“He forced his hands on me, and I will not apologize for defending myself against him!” you cried to your father. “He does not deserve any apology! I do!”
Maekar snaps at your father, “She will kneel, or she will be whipped.”
You speak before your father does, “Then I will be whipped!”
And so it was.
Maekar grants his friend the sole favor of allowing your father to whip you himself.
So right there, in the middle of the feast hall, in front of nearly every noble in the realm, you are bent over a table and whipped seven times.
*******************************************
Ser Donnel coaxes you to your feet. He leads you inside, ushering a nearby servant to wipe your eyes and fix your powdered face.
The servant returns you to your seat beside your captor.
“You were gone for a long time,” Aerion comments. His eyes are on the entertainment, but all his attention seems focused on you. “Where did you go?”
“I was only getting fresh air.”
“With whom?”
“Myself. And two guards.”
“Which guards?”
“I do not know the names. I did not speak to them.”
“You were out for so long without speaking?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He snaps a finger in the air. “Madam Pricher.”
You feel a coldness as she steps forward. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
“Who was my wife outside with?”
“I only needed a moment alone-“
“She followed Ser Thenty out, Prince Aerion.”
His eyes finally settled on you. “Did she now?”
The urge to begin weeping fell upon you again.
“Ser Thenty,” he all but snapped. “What business was so important you had to discuss it with my wife?”
The knight’s eyes dashed between the two of you. “She followed me outside, my prince. I did not ask for it. I corrected her immediately and excused myself, reminding her there should never be a time we are alone without a chaperone.”
Aerion’s hand moves towards you. You flinch, even though he merely places a gentle hand on your wrist. “You so often forget the rules I have placed for you.” His thumb brushes your skin. “What was so urgent that you needed to run after him like a whore left unpaid?”
You stared at the table in front of you, wishing you could sink into the floor.
“Answer me or I’ll beat it out of him.”
The threat of harm caused Ser Thenty to quickly say, “She felt I was not doing my job properly. I disregarded her and returned inside immediately.”
Disregarded.
That is exactly how you felt.
And it made you feel so cold.
But the chills truly hit your body when Ser Thenty added, without prompting, “Ser Donnel is the one she was out there with.”
Your heart skips a beat, your head snapping in his direction to stare at him with widened eyes.
“There were other guards nearby, but they were sitting out of range of being heard,” he continued. “I do not know what they conversed about.”
You stare up at Ser Thenty with eyes of horrific betrayal.
He has thrown you to the wolves to save himself.
You watch as your husband’s eyes darken. You try to quickly tell him, “He was only consoling my distraught mood-” You hiss in pain as Aerion’s hand snakes up the back of your head, tugging tightly on your hair.
His thumb brushes the back of your ear, his fingernail pushing deep against the skin. “And what secrets were being whispered into my wife’s ear by dear Ser Donnel?”
“There were no secrets-” You flinch, your mouth shutting as you feel the sliver of something sharp on your skin.
Your husband’s dinner knife. It is in his hand, pressed against the back of your ear. Your hands fly to push him arm away. “Aerion-”
“Place your hands on the table. If you cause a scene, you will not like the outcome you find.”
Your hands are trembling now, yet you force them flat against the table. You look around, desperate for someone to have noticed already, but it seems nobody has.
“Shall I take an ear?” Aerion taunts you. “To punish you for continuously not listening?”
You shut your eyes tightly. “Nothing was done, the-the guards can vouch for me,” you quickly spudder out.
He gives a short, unconvinced, “Hm.”
Your whole body flinches as you feel the sting of a small cut against the back of your ear. Your hand flies out instinctively to try to push him away, “Aerion-”
“Hands flat on the table.”
You force yourself to do so. But he presses harder. Your eyes sting with tears from the sharp pain.
Aerion leans forward, his face painstakingly calm. He brings his lips to your ear. “Was I not the one who saved you from Ser Donnel’s wrath just this morning?” he asks you. His voice mimics being emotionless, yet...something was there. You could hear something in that tone, whether it was jealousy or hatred, you did not know. “He would have ripped you from my hands and delivered you to my father to be whipped.”
You try, once, to get out of the situation. “Ser Thenty, he is hurting me-”
He presses the knife harder. A sharp cry leaves your lips. It turns a few heads of those sitting beside you. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. The small batch of blood you felt now becomes a trickle down your neck.
“You think he wants to spare you from this?” Aerion scoffs. “Do you think Ser Thenty does not see what a disrespectful cunt you are?”
“I am sorry.” You do not know what else to say.
You feel defeated by this world.
There is no more fight left in your body, it is just...pain. It is always pain, and it will always be this way.
The tears in your eyes begin to spill over.
“I am sorry. Please, forgive me.”
That is all you do anymore. Beg for forgiveness.
Your stomach churns with how sick you are of all of this.
“I-I did not call on Ser Donnel.” You try to keep your voice quiet and even. “He saw me in distress, because I was weeping. That is all. We spoke of my father. I-” The blood trickles down to your shoulder. “I would never call on him.”
His hold on you barely loosens. “You will repeat every word that was said when we return to the tent.”
“I will. I will repeat every word.” You are desperate for relief of this pain, so your hand moves to his thigh, and you clutch the material of his trousers. “I am sorry, husband, I did not mean to disrespect you, I-I know better. Forgive me.”
He is quiet a moment, but he finally pulls his hand away, the knife leaving with it. You shudder a long breath of relief.
He places a napkin in your hand, and pushes it against your ear. “Pull yourself together. The tears make you look so ugly.”
You hope you bleed out and die.
The edge of Aerion’s knife is coated in your blood, and it has dripped down to his wrist. He brings the knife to his mouth. You feel sick as you watch him draw the knife along his tongue, ingesting the crimson red until it is gone.
“Go clean yourself off,” he tells you. “The tears and blood will be gone when you return.”
You swallow. “Yes, Prince Aerion.”
You push out the chair quickly.
When you turn around, you see those two bastards just staring at you.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher watch you like nothing has happened. As if they were not your protectors that have been carelessly witnessing your torture.
A rage builds in your soul and you are unable to swallow it down.
You have been held hostage by your husband, living only by his mercy. And this pitiful excuse of a knight seems to think you deserve it? That it is your role of wife, that being beaten without complaint is you staying in your place?
Perhaps Ser Thenty would see his sins for what they were if he were the one forced to survive Aerion’s rage.
He threw you to the wolves. Did he not deserve for the same to be done to him?
“Ser Thenty,” you announce. There is an expression of guilt on his face. But you have seen enough guilt. That will not save him now. “You have failed me.”
His shoulders slouch. You hear the slightest chuckle from Aerion.
You wish to wipe that smile off your husband’s face with violence. But you have no violence that will harm him.
So you aim to harm that pathetic heart of his.
You steady your breath, your hand still holding the napkin to your ear.
“But you are my favorite knight,” you say. “So I forgive you.”
Ser Thenty’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. You can see your husband’s head turn to stare directly at you now.
With Aerion’s eyes on you, you take a step toward Ser Thenty, you raise yourself higher, and you place a kiss on his cheek.
The squealing of Aerion’s chair is so instant and loud it makes you flinch away.
Then you flee. You take off out of the dining hall, walking quickly down the hall as the door shut behind you.
Suddenly, there is screaming. More than one person screaming.
You heard Madam Pricher’s voice. “Prince Aerion! Prince Aerion, please-”
There is commotion so loud that all you make out is more screaming. Then the door slams open again, and billowing footsteps follow as guests storm out of the hall.
People are leaving-no, evacuating.
You walk fast, but there are people running now. They hit your shoulders as the crowd begins passing you.
One hand still covers your ear with a napkin. As the screaming grows louder, you raise your other hand, and you cover both ears.
Summary: Your husband is dead, or so you're lead to believe. Ninety days that his cousin has spent being your shoulder to cry on, ninety days he's waited impatiently for you to forget about your husband and look at him instead
Pairing: Ormund Hightower x F.Reader, Gwayne Hightower x F.Reader
Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Dark fic, non-con, manipulation, possession kink, hair pulling, technically cheating, light choking, rough sex, p in v sex, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, forced creampie, mentions of oral (f receiving), if there's any others please let me know
Disclaimer: this story is made without the use of Al. I do not consent to having my story put into any ai generative software, to be translated, copied or posted elsewhere without my express permission. I do not claim to own the source material this story is based upon and any acts in the story I do not endorse or support!
──── ୨୧ ────
──── ୨୧ ────
The Lord of Oldtown stood upon the high balcony of the tower, his fingers tracing the cold granite of the railings. The salty scent of the nearby ocean and the crisp scent of a coming to an end Summer clung to his nose. To the rest of Westeros, Ormund Hightower was the dutiful Lord of Oldtown, the pillar of House Hightower, gathering his hosts and preparing to march for his sweet cousin against the tyrant Rhaenyra.
But while he awaited the chance to ride out with his men, Ormund found himself consumed by another kind of patient conquest.
A black speck broke the grey horizon, cutting through the low hanging mist. Ormund's eyes were sharp, they tracked its trajectory. It was flying low, aiming not for the top of the master tower, but for the lower, ivy veiled windows of the eastern wing. Your wing.
Silently, he reached for his bow resting against the stone wall, nocking a broadhead arrow with fluid ease. He drew the string back, the wood groaning softly, the feathers grazing his cheek. He breathed in, holding the air in his lungs, and released the arrow.
The raven plummeted, the arrow piercing directly between its lungs as a heap of black feathers folded in on itself, crashing into the soft clover of the courtyard below.
Ormund unstrung his bow, leaning it back against the masonry and climbed down the winding stone steps. His heavy boots made no sound on the damp grass as he crossed the courtyard. He knelt down, his rich cloak pooling in the damp dew of the grass as he scooped up the dead bird. Tied securely to its leg with a thin strap of blue leather was a small, tightly rolled cylinder of parchment.
He untied it, his fingers unhurried, before tossing the carcass into a nearby bramble patch for the hounds to find later.
Unrolling the parchment, Ormund felt a familiar, cold spike of irritation pierce his chest. The handwriting was familiar - slanted, messy, yet possessing an annoying elegance. It was the hand of Gwayne Hightower.
My sweetest heart, the letter began.
Ormund's jaw tightened. He began to pace the length of the garden path, his eyes scanning the ink, his mind reading out the words in Gwayne's arrogant, bright voice.
Ormund stopped walking. He stared at the parchment, a sneer curling his lips. "A heavier weight than any armor," he muttered, his voice low to not be overheard. How utterly pathetic. How predictably soft.
Every night beneath the soot stained sky of the Crownlands, I close my eyes and find myself back in the gardens of our home, holding you against the chill. They tell me the wound on my shoulder will leave a nasty scar, but I care little for the vanity of it. My only grief is that it kept me from writing sooner. The battle was a slaughter, my love. The dragons turned the grass into ash. For a time, as the smoke blinded us and the ground shook, I feared I would never look upon your face again. But the Seven was merciful. I survived. I am healing. I will be coming back to you, even if I must ride through the Seven Hells to do so. Write to me, please. Your silence is heavier than any armor I wear. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you still wait for me.
Your devoted husband,
Gwayne
Gwayne had always been a soft man made for courtly romance and chivalric nonsense. He fought with lance and spoke with a poet's tongue, completely blind to the truth of the world he inhabited. He did not deserve you. He never had. To Gwayne, you were a prize of high birth, a beautiful lady to wear his favor and weep at his departure.
To Ormund, you were an obsession that had rotted his mind from the moment Gwayne had brought you home as his bride.
Ormund remembered the wedding feast. He remembered watching Gwayne spin you across the Great Hall of the Hightower, your laughter echoing like silver bells, your eyes shining with a devotion that Ormund craved for himself. Since that night, a slow poison had taken root in Ormund's chest. He had coveted his cousin's wife with a ferocity that bordered on madness, masking it beneath the stoic demeanor of a protector.
And then, Rook's Rest happened.
When the raven had arrived weeks ago covered in ash, there was fractured reports of the battle; of Sunfyre's fall, of Cole's bloody march, of how many men had given their life for the rightful king who now laid in a bed with cooked flesh, Ormund had seen his window. Gwayne had been gravely wounded, lost in the chaotic retreat, presumed dead by many in the initial confusion. It had been so easy to take the truth and shape it into a lie.
He had gone to your chambers himself. He had worn a face of a grieving cousin, eyes heavy with grief, and delivered the news. "He is gone, my lady," Ormund had whispered, holding you against him, "the dragons have left nothing."
The memory of your grief was still vivid in Ormund's mind. Your shrieks haunted him, a sound that had practically rattled the walls of the Tower, before burying your face in his chest. He had held you. He had stroked your hair, inhaling your scent, whispering empty, soothing lies into your ear while his heart hammered with a dark kind of joy.
He had expected the grief to wash over you and, in time, recede. He had expected that as the weeks bled into months, you would look to him. He was the Lord of House Hightower. He was strong, powerful, and alive. He was the shoulder you cried on.
Yet, three months passed, and the siege was proving far more difficult than he had anticipated.
Ormund folded Gwayne's letter, tucking it into the breast of his doublet, right against his ribs. He walked back inside, the dim corridors of the keep swallowed by shadows. He made his way to his solar, where a fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows along his face as he sat down at his desk.
He pulled a blank piece of parchment towards him. Beside it still sat a stack of letters Gwayne had sent, all intercepted, all read, and all answered by Ormund's own hand.
He picked up his quill. He had spent years studying your script, mastering the lazy loops of your L's and the cross of your T's. He dipped the nib of the quill into the black ink and began to write the forged response to Gwayne.
Ormund blew on the ink, watching it dry. He hated writing those words. He hated putting the endearments of another man into his hand, but it was necessary. Gwayne must believe his wife was waiting, patient and cared for, so he would not ride like a madman back to Oldtown and ruin Ormund's plans. He needed Gwayne kept at a distance, tied to Cole's army, occupied by the war.
My dearest Gwayne,
Your letters are the only light in this dark keep. Hearing of your recovery has saved my soul of its despair. The maesters bid me to keep my letters brief, as the strain of my own grief has made me weak, but know that I am safe. I pray to the Mother every night for your swift return. Do not rush yourself, my love. Oldtown is quiet, and Ormund has been a comfort, keeping the house running while I tend to my sorrow. Ride safely, and return to my arms.
Your loving wife
But what troubled Ormund more than the forgery was who was waiting for him in the eastern wing.
He stood up, leaving the forged letter on his desk to be sealed and sent via a trusted messenger who knew better than to ask questions. He walked down the long, quiet gallery towards your chambers.
When he reached the heavy oak door, he paused. He smoothed his doublet, composed his face into an expression of gentle concern, and knocked.
"Enter," your voice drifted through the wood. It was soft, hollowed out by months of weeping.
Ormund pushed the door open. The room was bathed in the pale, weak light of the afternoon. You were sat by the window, a heavy woolen shawl wrapped around your shoulders despite the warmth of the hearth. In your lap laid a piece of embroidery, a half finished flower you had been working on for months, the threads tangled and dusty. You didn't look up as he entered.
"My lady," Ormund says with a voice soft as honey, like a soothing baritone, "I brought you some mulled wine."
You turned your head slightly. Your face, once radiant and full of life, was anything but. The dark circles beneath your eyes spoke of sleepless nights, of a mind trapped in a suffocating loop of mourning. Yet, even in your sorrow, you were breathtaking. The fragile, ghostly beauty of your grief only made Ormund want to possess you more.
"Thank you, Ormund," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "you are too kind to me. I fear I am a terrible guest these days."
"You are no guest. You are family," Ormund said, walking over and placing the goblet on the table beside you. He stood close, close enough to smell the faint trace of lavender in your hair, close enough to see the slight tremble in your hands, "my home is yours, as long as you need of it. Forever, if you wish."
He waited. He watched your eyes, searching for any flicker of understanding, any sign that his patience, his gentle touch, his support was beginning to wear down the wall of your mourning.
But there was nothing.
"I prayed in the sept again today," you said, your gaze drifting back to the window, looking out towards the sea, "I prayed for him. I asked the Stranger why he was taken, and why I was left behind."
Ormund felt a dark, heavy coil of jealousy twist in his gut. Three months, he thought, three months of my comfort, of my protection, and you still weep for a man that never deserved you.
"The gods are indifferent to the grief of mortals, my lady," Ormund said, his tone softening with a fake, heavy sympathy. He reached out, his hand gently covering yours where it rested on the arm of the chair. Your skin was cold. He squeezed it, feeling the delicate bones beneath, "Gwayne was a knight. He died an honorable death. But you are still here. The living must eventually returning to the living."
You did not pull away your hand, but you didn't squeeze back either. You merely let it lie there, limp and lifeless, like you believed your husband to be.
"How can I return?" You whispered, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracing a path down your cheek, "when the best part of me is dead?"
Ormund's fingers tightened on hers, just a little too hard, before he caught himself and relaxed his grip. His chest burned with quiet impatience. He wanted to shake you. He wanted to grab you by the shoulders, pull you to your feet, and force you to look at him - to see the man who actually deserved you, the man who had orchestrated this entire illusion just to have you.
Instead, he bit down his anger. He leaned down, his breath brushing your ear as he spoke.
"I am here," Ormund promised, "I will always be here to help you. Let me bear your burdens."
You looked up at him, your eyes swimming with unshed tears, filled with a heartbreaking, innocent gratitude that nearly made him laugh, "you are a good man, Ormund. Gwayne was lucky to have a cousin like you."
The words were a dagger in his heart, but Ormund only smiled, a patient smile on his lips. Your fingers were so cold as he knelt down, taking your hand in his. He hated how cold you were now. When Gwayne had been here, you had been warm, always laughing, your skin flushed with life. But now, you were like a corpse in all but breath, and it infuriated him that Gwayne still held the keys to your warmth, even from a distance of a hundred fields.
"I worry for you." Ormund said, his eyes locking onto yours, "I do not wish to see you fade. You do not eat. You rarely sleep. You sit at this window as if you are waiting for him to be returned to you."
"I am," you whispered, your voice cracking as you held back your tears, "I keep thinking...what if the reports were wrong? What if he is lost, or captured? What if he is calling for me?"
A dark thrill ran down Ormund's spine at your words. He is calling for you, he thought, his chest tightening as he remembered the crinkle of Gwayne's letter against his ribs. He writes you every week. He begs for you. And you will never know.
"My sweet girl," Ormund said, squeezing your hand as his thumb stroked the soft skin of your wrist, right over the slow beat of your pulse, "you must not do this to yourself. The reports were not vague. To hold such hopes is just to torture yourself. Gwayne is at peace. He rests with the Father now."
You let out a trembling breath, your head bowing as a fresh wave of tears spilled over your lashes, splashing onto the dark, tangled embroidery on your lap, "it is too quiet without him. The world is too dark. I do not know how to be happy in a world where Gwayne does not draw breath."
Ormund leaned in, his scent of leather, wood, and the ink that he used to forge Gwayne's hand filled your sense. He wanted to fill your world. He wanted his scent, his voice, his touch to drown out every lingering memory of his cousin.
"Do you think Gwayne would want this for you?" Ormund asked, his voice soft, hiding its manipulative purr.
You looked at him, your eyes wide and wet with tears, "what?"
"Gwayne loved you," Ormund lied smoothly, his tongue spinning sweet practiced words with sickening ease, "he worshipped you. You know his heart. He was a knight of chivalry and the realm. Tell me...if he could see you now, do you think it would bring him peace?"
You swallowed hard, your chest heaving as you tried to process his words, "no...no, of course not. He...he always hated to see me sad. He would do anything to make me smile."
"Exactly," Ormund murmured, his hand sliding up from your wrist to cup your cheek. His palm was warm against your cold, tear stained skin. He felt you shiver slightly at the contact, but you did not pull away. You were too weak, too desperate for any kind of human warmth to reject him, "Gwayne's greatest wish was your happiness. If he were here, he would beg to see you smile. He would tell you to let go of his ashes and look to the living. He would want you to be loved, to be cared for. To be happy again."
"I cannot," you sobbed, leaning just a little into his hand, an instinctual need for comfort that made Ormund's heart leap with joy, "how can I be happy? How do I start?"
"By letting me help you," Ormund whispered, his eyes fixed on your trembling lips. He wanted to press his lips to yours, to claim you as his finally and banish Gwayne's ghost once and for all. But he forced himself to hold back. He had to play the long game. If he rushed, he would spook you, and the delicate web he had spent months weaving would unravel.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed a slow, tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering on your skin.
"Let me carry the grief for both of us," Ormund murmured against your temple, his hand sliding down to curl around the back of your neck, gently pulling you closer until your head rested against his shoulder, "let me protect you. Let me bring the warmth back to your life. For Gwayne's sake."
You buried your face in the expensive velvet of his doublet, your hands clutching at his sleeves as you wept, entirely unaware that the man you were seeking comfort from was the one holding you captive in a prison of lies.
Ormund held you tight, his arms wrapping around you like a vice, his chin resting on the crown of your head.
"I don't know what to do, Ormund," you whispered, your words muffled against his chest, your voice a broken sob, "I feel as though I am drowning, and every time I try to reach the surface, the tide only pulls me back down. How am I supposed to wake up every morning knowing he is not in the world?"
Ormund's heartbeat thumped against your cheek, it was terrifyingly calm. It did not race with the frantic grief that consumed you.
His heavy arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him as you felt the hard line of his ribcage. He brought one hand up to your head, his long fingers threading through the tangled silk of your hair, smoothing it down.
"Shh," he murmured against your hair as he slowly inhaled your scent, it made his head spin, "speak no more of drowning, my sweet girl. I am here. I have you. You will not drown while I draw breath."
He realized how close you were, of how you were needing him for your survival, it sent a dark, intoxicating rush through him. He had waited months for this. He had endured your weeping, your distant gazes, and your endless prayers for a man who was nothing but a pathetic knight that never deserved to have you by his side. But now, the cracks in your armor were wide enough for him to slip through.
His hand slid down from your hair to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the delicate skin beneath your ear, "you have carried this sorrow alone for too long, trying to keep Gwayne's memory alive by destroying yourself. But you are alive, my lady. You were not meant for a tomb."
"I loved him so much," you whimpered, your hands tightening on his doublet, your shoulders shaking, "I cannot just forget him."
Ormund's jaw clenched slightly at the mention of your love for Gwayne, a violent flicker flaring in his chest. Gwayne, he thought with a quiet venomous hatred, always Gwayne. Even when Ormund held you in his arms, Gwayne's shadow stood between you. But he forced his anger down, he couldn't scare you away.
He leaned back just enough to look at him, his hands sliding up to cup your face, tilting your head up. His thumbs brushed the fresh, warm tears on your cheeks, his touch incredibly gentle, yet his grip was firm enough to make it so you couldn't look away.
"You are not betraying him by living," Ormund said, his dark eyes locking onto yours, holding you captive. He looked at you with a gaze so intense, so filled with a heavy passion, that it made your breath catch in your throat, "Gwayne's time in this world has ended, but yours has not. Do you think he would want your heart to die with him? Do you think he would want you to spend the rest of your life in sorrow?"
You swallowed hard, your eyes swimming with confusion and sorrow, "no...but..."
"There is no 'but', my love," Ormund interrupted, his voice dropping to a whisper, his face drawing closer to yours. The word love slipped from his tongue naturally, so possessively, that it hung in the space between you heavily, "you must let Gwayne go. You are still living and its the living who need you. It is the living you see your worth."
His hands slid down your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your skin through the fabric of your shawl. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips.
"Let me be your strength," Ormund murmured, his voice laced with a desperate pleading that pulled at your fragile heart, "I have watched you suffer for months, and it has torn my heart apart. I cannot bear to see you look at me with eyes that see only the dead. Let me bring you back to the light, let me teach you to smile again."
"Ormund..." You whispered, your voice trembling. He was so close, he was overwhelming. In your grief stricken state, the lines between comfort and something much more dangerous began to blur. You were so tired of being cold, and Ormund was so warm.
"You must let him go," Ormund whispered. His voice was calm, washing over your fractured mind, "you must bury Gwayne. To cling to his memory is to drown yourself."
You shook your head slightly as one of his hands cupped your cheek once more, holding your face still, keeping you looking at him.
"I can't," you admitted in a whisper, your voice crackign with an exhausting weight of the grief you've been carrying for three months, "I can't, Ormund. He was my husband. Gwayne was...he was everything. A wife is not supposed to be without her husband. The gods...the septons...they teach us that we are one soul. How am I supposed to exist as only half of a whole?"
The sadness in your voice would've moved a lesser man to pity, but Ormund wasn't a lesser man. He felt no guilt as he looked at your tear stained face, only a cold resolve. He had spent ninety days preparing for this moment, carefully intercepting Gwayne's desperate letters, rewriting your words and your mind stroke by stroke until you had no one left to turn to but him.
"Then do not be without one," Ormund said.
The words fell between you like a heavy stone into still water.
You stared up at him, your eyes wide and clouded with confusion. For three months, Ormund had been your stability. He had been the cousin who held you while you wept, the Lord of House Hightower who ensured your rooms were warm and your stomach was full, your protector who spoke of Gwayne's death with a careful reverence. Your mind, sluggish and worn thin by months of sleepless nights and despair, struggled to comprehend the shift in his tone.
"What?" You breathed, the word barely escaping your lips.
"I can be your husband," Ormund spoke calmly. He did not flinch, nor did his gaze waver. He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm against your cold skin, "I can give you the life you think you've lost. I can be what you need in your time of grief."
You blinked, looking up at him as if searching his face for a jest, or perhaps a sign of madness. But he held a terrifying sincerity in his eyes. You were too lonely. Too deeply entrenched in your mourning to fight back. The energy it took to protest, to feel outrage, had long since drained away from you. Instead, you felt a cold numb in your heart.
"Ormund...you are his cousin," you whispered, your voice trembling with a fragile, almost childlike confusion and fear, "Gwayne...Gwayne is...how could you say such a thing?"
"Because Gwayne is dead, and I am alive," Ormund answered smoothly, his thumb stroking your cheek in a slow, soothing rhythm that felt more like a stain than a comfort, "because House Hightower must remain strong, and you cannot be left to wither away in his memory. Think of it. It is what Gwayne would have wanted. He would have wanted you protected, cared for, loved."
His hands on your face felt warm, so incredibly warm compared to the icy chill that haunted you since Gwayne had been ripped away from you over a senseless war. You were so tired of being alone. You were so tired of the empty bed, of the silent corridors, of the crushing weight that squeezed your heart.
"Is this...is this what I must do?" You asked, looking up at him with a passive, heartbreaking submission of a lamb that accepted its fate. You did not push his hands away. You did not recoil. You allowed him to hold you, your spirit too broken to offer any sort of resistence.
"Yes, my sweet girl," Ormund whispered, a satisfied triumphant feeling blooming in his chest as he felt the final walls of your resistance crumble. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft kiss that tasted of salt. Your body went rigid. The sensation was entirely wrong - the shape of his mouth, the rough texture of his barely grown stubble, the way he held you possessively. You had kept this sanctuary locked for Gwayne, he had been the only one with the key but it seemed Ormund possessed his own.
Your mind screamed at you to recoil, to push against his chest and flee into the cold safety of the corridor.
But where would you run?
To an empty bed. To another sleepless night staring at the rafters, listening to the hollow sound of the wind. To the agonizing, endless silence of a widow's life. Ormund had spent three months draining the world around you until he was the only thing you had left in your life. You were starving, and he offered a feast, even if the meat was poisoned.
With a soft, shuddering gasp against his mouth, you let your eyes flutter shut. You kissed him back.
Your lips hesitated as you tried your best to match him. The moment you did, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from your throat, a quiet sob caught in the middle of the kiss. You parted your lips to breathe, and Ormund immediately claimed the space, deepening the kiss with a slow, possessive hunger that made your stomach twist.
You kissed him a second time, your hands weakly clutching the heavy velvet of his shoulders. This is wrong, the quiet voice in your mind wept. Gwayne. Gwayne, forgive me. The memory of your husband's soft, laughing kisses; kisses that smelled of summer wine and a promised lifetime together, flashed behind your closed eyelids. Gwayne's love had been light, easy and sweet.
This kiss was anything but.
You pulled back just a little, your chest heaving as a shudder ran through your skin. "Ormund...I...I cannot," you whispered, your breath hot against his chin, "it feels...this is a sin. Gwayne is barely cold in the earth."
"Gwayne is at peace," Ormund murmured, not allowing you to argue. He did not let you pull away either. His hands that had been cupping your face slid downward. His thumbs traced the sensitive column of your throat, his fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your neck, tilting your head back up, "and you are alive. There is no sin in surviving, my sweet girl. There is no sin in letting the man who loves you protect you."
He leaned in again, his mouth more demanding. You met him with a third, desperate kiss, your mind turning numb. You didn't want him. You didn't want his heavy hands, his suffocating scents, or his touch. But the terror of the alternative, going back to the bottomless abyss of loneliness, was a monster that clawed at your back. Ormund had convinced you that Gwayne would've thought this better for you. He would have wanted you protected, cared for, loved. Ormund's voice echoed in your mind.
If Gwayne wanted this for you...if your sweet, chivalrous husband would have truly desired for you to be spared the agony of a wasted life...then you had to endure it. You had to let Ormund take the reins.
Ormund drank in your reluctant surrender like a starving man. He felt the tremble of your lips, the shuddering, broken breaths you gasped between each touch, and it only fueled the dark fire in his chest. He did not care that you were weeping. He did not care that you were kissing him out of a desperate, fake necessity rather than for love. To Ormund, this was the natural order of things.
He deserved you. He had always deserved you.
In his mind, Gwayne had been a boy playing at being a man. Gwayne was soft, pliable, and easily led by the romantic notions of courtly love and songs. Gwayne would have marched into dragonfire with a smile on his face and your favor on his sleeve, completely oblivious to the brutal reality of the world. Gwayne could not protect you from the coming winter. Gwayne's softness would have only dragged you down into the dirt with him.
But Ormund? Ormund was the rock upon which House Hightower was built. He was ruthless, calculating, and strong enough to bend the world to his will. He was everything Gwayne was not, and therefore, he was everything you truly needed to survive the bloody years ahead.
Ormund's hands slid down from your neck, slowly tracing the line of your shoulders, pushing the heavy woolen shawl aside. It pooled at your elbows, leaving your bare collarbones exposed to the cool air. He pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth, tracing a slow kisses to the line of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.
"You are safe now," Ormund whispered against your skin, "let Gwayne rest. You belong to the living now. You belong to me."
You closed your eyes tightly, trying to squeeze out the images of your husband's face. You did not want Ormund but you could not bear another night alone. You did not want to be cold anymore. Ormund was warm. Ormund was alive. He had spent three months making himself the only pillar left standing in your ruined life.
His hands, which had been soothingly tracing the line of your shoulders, slid down the curve of your spine. There was nothing gentle in his movements now. His fingers, calloused and heavy, found the tight, intricate silk laces running down the back of your mourning dress.
With a sudden yank of his wrists, Ormund pulled the laces apart.
The sound of silk tearing echoed through the quiet room. The back of your gown split open, the sudden rush of the cool air hitting the bare skin of your spine turning your blood cold. The shock of it cut through the numb fog of your grief. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, and with a burst of sudden strength you didn't think you still possessed, you wedged your hands against his chest and shoved.
You stumbled backwards, your breath coming in frantic pants. The loosened fabric of your dress slipped precariously off one shoulder, exposing your skin to the light as your heart hammered against your chest so loud that it felt deafening in your ears. Your hands flew to your chest, clutching the torn silk to your front to protect yourself.
"Ormund-" your voice was higher than you expected it to be, laced with a sharp panic, "what...what are you doing?"
Ormund did not recoil. He did not look apologetic, nor did his stoic, chiseled expression waver. He slowly straightened himself, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow that seemed to swallow the weak light of the room. He stepped towards you, his movements slow and predatory.
"Shh," he soothed as he raised a hand, his fingers gesturing for you to be still, "calm yourself, my sweet girl. There is no need for fear."
"You tore my dress," you whispered, backing away until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the velvet settee. You felt trapped, the walls of the room closing in on you, "why would you...we cannot do this. Not like this."
"To be my wife, you must be claimed," Ormund said. The words were spoken with a chilling, matter of fact simplicity, as if he was explaining a simple law to a child. He closed the remaining distance, his hands reaching out to gently but firmly grasp your waist, ignoring the way you flinched at his touch, "a marriage is not made of empty promises and tears in a chapel, my love. It is forged in the flesh. If I am to protect you, if I am to carry your grief and make you whole again, we must seal this covenant. You must let me take what I am owed."
You shook your head frantically, the tears that had dried on your cheeks now flowing anew, hot and bitter.
"No, please," you whimpered, your hands grabbing at his wrists, trying in vain to pry his iron grip off of you, "I am not ready, Ormund. I cannot. I...I have only ever laid with Gwayne. The thought of...of anyone else..."
The mention of Gwayne's name in this context sent another dark wave of jealousy straight through Ormund's veins. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath the skin. In his mind, Gwayne's touch on you was a stain, a lingering mark of a lesser man that he was eager, almost desperate, to wash away. He wanted to overwrite every touch, every word, and every memory Gwayne had ever left upon your body.
"Gwayne is gone," Ormund said, his voice harsher than he intended. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes burning with an intense, needy hunger, "he is dead. He cannot hold you when the night is cold, and he cannot shield you from the storm that is coming to Westros. I can."
"But it is too soon," you sobbed, your body trembling violently, your knees begging to give out under you, "please, Ormund. If Gwayne truly wanted this for me, he would not want me forced. Give me time. Just...a little more time."
Ormund stared at you, taking in the sight of your undone hair, your tear streaked face, and the exposed skin of your shoulder. You were at his mercy. He had spent three months isolating you, weaving a web of lies and false grief, ensuring you had no family, no allies, and no hope left but him. He had not come this far to be stayed by the ghost of a soft hearted boy.
He slid one hand up from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to firmly tilt your head back, forcing you to look at him.
"You think Gwayne would want you to wait?" Ormund asked, his voice softening into a soft manipulative, hypnotic tone that had slowly eroded your sanity over the past ninety days, "do you think he would want you to spend another night weeping in an empty bed, torturing yourself with what cannot be? No, my sweet girl. Gwayne loved you too much for that. If he was here, he would tell you to yield. He would tell you to let me give you the peace you deserve."
"I...I don't know," you cried, your mind spinning, unable to separate his honeyed lies from the truth. You were so tired. The exhaustion of your grief had rotted your defenses, leaving you vulnerable to his will.
"I know," Ormund whispered, his lips brushing your forehead, then trailing down your temple, "I know what is best for you. Trust me. Lay down your burdens for me."
He slid his other hand to the front of your dress, his fingers brushing against yours where you still weakly held up the torn fabric. He slowly began to pry your fingers away, peeling down the ruined silk to expose the soft curve of your chest to the firelight.
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your lids together so tightly that it started to hurt. You had to go back. If you did not find a way to leave your body now, your feared what Ormund was doing was going to fracture your mind entirely. So you retreated, fleeing down the long, shadowed corridors of your memory, desperate to find the warmth you had lost.
In the dark behind your eyes, the smell of Ormund began to fade, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating sweetness of Oldtown's summer blooms.
Suddenly, you were back on your wedding night.
The chamber in the High Tower had been a soft, flickering gold of a hundred candles. The air was warm, carrying the soothing breeze outside of the window. Gwayne stood in front of you, but not as a looming shadow, but with a look of a boy in love, his reverence for you making your breath catch in your throat. He still wore his fine doublet of cream and gold, though he had discarded his heavy cloak, his golden orange hair slightly damp from the heat of the feast.
When Gwayne's hands had found your dress, they had not torn. They had hesitated.
"You are so beautiful," Gwayne had whispered, his vocie soft as he slowly worked each silk lace of your dress free. His fingers had brushed against your bare skin like a summer draft, hesistant, like he feared a single movement might startle you away, "my wife, I swear by the Seven, I will spend the rest of my days making you smile, sweet girl."
And then his lips had drifted down to the crook of your neck, his breath warm and tickling against your collarbone. You had gasped, a soft, involuntary sound, before a bright, genuine laugh bubbled from your chest. Gwayne had laughed too, a joyful sound, his chest rumbling against yours as he teased the sensitive skin of your throat with his lips until you were squirming in his arms, entirely safe, entirely loved.
A cold, sudden draft shattered the memory.
Your eyes flew open, but the gold of the wedding chamber was gone, replaced by the grim shadows of your bedchamber. The laugh that had lingered in your memory died in your throat, replaced by a weeping gasp as the truth of your reality crashed back down onto you.
Ormund's heavy hands were not trembling. They were steady, efficient, and devoid of hesitation as he stripped the ruin silk of your gown from your body.
He did not ask for permission. He simply let the heavy fabric drape down your hips, leaving you standing before him in nothing but your thin, sheer linen slip. The cool air of the room clung to your bare shoulders and arms, making you shiver. You felt exposed, stripped of your safety, standing in a shift that did nothing to hide the frantic, terrified beating of your chest.
Ormund's gaze darkened as he looked at you. In the dim light of the hearth, his eyes raking of your shivering form with a hunger that made your stomach twist into tight, painful knots. To Ormund, the sight of you in your shift was a victory long overdue.
He believed, with an unshaking conviction, that he was saving you. Gwayne had been a boy who played at love with sweet words and soft laughter. Gwayne's touch had made you laugh, made you soft, made you weak. Ormund's touch would make you survive. He would bind you to him so tightly that even if Gwayne was to walk through the door tomorrow, you would no longer know how to belong to anyone else.
"Look at you," Ormund murmured with a low growl of satisfaction.
He stepped closer, his boots pressing down on the discarded silk of your dress. He did not ask if you were cold as his hands grabbed your waist, hoisting you just enough that your feet barely brushed the stone floor as he carried you towards your bed. The hangings were a deep green pine, casting a sinister glow over the mattress. When he laid you down, there was no gentle pause that you were used to when with Gwayne. Your back went the soft feather mattress with a hollow thud that seemed to knock the remaining air from your lungs.
You squeezed your eyes shut once more.
You pressed your eyelids together until they burned, trying with every ounce of your fading strength to lock yourself away in the deepest parts of your mind. You did not want to see the heavy oak beams of the ceiling. You did not want to see the flickering firelight casting long, monstrous shadows across the tapestries. Most of all, you did not want to see Ormund hovering over you, his dark eyes burning your skin.
But your body could not hide.
The mattress sank as Ormund climbed onto the bed, his knee pinning the portion of your thin linen slip against the sheets. He hovered over you like a bird of prey, the heat from him suffocating.
"Open your eyes," Ormund commanded softly. When you only squeezed them tighter, a quiet sob escaping your throat, he let out a disapproving sigh. He reached down, his hand grabbing your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into the soft skin of your chin to force your head back, "stop crying."
You shook your head against his grip, your chest heaving beneath the slip, the fabric damp where your tears had fallen, "I can't...Ormund, please...I feel like I'm dying."
"Don't be dramatic, you are not dying," he whispered as he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot, making your skin turn bumpy and a chill run down your spine, "I have tolerated your weeping for ninety days. I have let you mourn a ghost. But Gwayne is gone. I am here. Look at me."
You kept your eyes shut, desperately trying to summon the memory of your wedding night, the sound of Gwayne's soft, sweet laughter and his hands. But the memories were too fragile: they shattered under Ormund.
Ormund let go of your jaw but he didn't move away.
His palms, calloused and heavy, settled against your ribcage before sliding downwards. The thin fabric offered no protection against his touch. He ran his hands over the curve of your waist, his fingers digging slightly into your soft flesh, staking his claim. He traced the curve of your hip, his touch possessive and heavy as he took his time, he had spent ninety days to get here, he was going to enjoy his prize.
"You're so soft," Ormund murmured, his hands sliding up to rest against your stomach, feeling the frantic hitch of your breath. He pressed down slightly, making you gasp, "so fragile. Gwayne never knew how to keep you safe. He left you to go to war. I would never leave you."
A fresh sob tore from your chest, your hands clenching into fists on either side of your head, burying themselves in the heavy sheets. You felt defiled, the thin slip between your skin and his hands offering no comfort, only making you feel more naked, more vulnerable. Every touch felt like you were being branded, searing his name into your skin, rewriting Gwayne's memory with his own.
Ormund's hand slid up further, tracing the swell of your breast through the fabric. He felt the erratic pounding of your heart beneath his palm, a trapped bird fluttering desperately against its cage. The panic radiating from you didn't deter him, if anything, it only urges him more. You were his now. The lies had worked. The forged letters, the intercepted ravens, the carefully calculated words of comfort, they had all led to this.
His breathing grew heavier as his hands grabbed the delicate, ivory linen of your slip.
The fabric was thin, already worn fragile by your restless, tear soaked nights. He pulled, listening as the linen screamed as it gave away, tearing down the center with a loud, sharp rip that seemed to echo off the walls like thunder.
In an instant, the last barrier between you and him was gone. The slip hung open in tattered rags at your sides, exposing your breasts, your stomach, and how your skin shivered in the dim light of the hearth. The cool air hit you like being slapped, making your skin break out in gooseflesh.
A soft whimper broke from your throat. You weakly crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself from his heavy gaze, but Ormund easily captured your wrists and pinned them above your ahead against the pillows.
"Ormund...please," you gasped. You looked up at him, your eyes finally flying open, wide with a desperate, pleading terror, "please, I beg of you...have mercy on me. Just...just give me time. I will be your wife. I will share myself with you, I will learn to love you...just let me grieve. Just give me some time to heal. Please..."
Your voice was ragged, begging with all you could, trying to reach just a little bit of Ormund's humanity. You were offering him a compromise, a surrender of your own terms, willing to give up your body if only he would grant you a temporary reprieve from the suffocating moment.
Ormund looked down at you, his face carved of stone. For a long moment, he simply stared at the tears spilling over your lashes, tracing the pale, wet paths down your cheeks. He down at your trembling lips, your exposed breasts rising and falling with your frantic breaths.
He let out a slow sigh, like he was disappointed in you.
"Time," Ormund murmured, his voice sending pure dread down your spine. He leaned down, his chest pressing hard against yours, his face so close to yours that you could see the dark, shifting blue in his eyes. "I have given you three months, my sweet girl. Three months of silence. Three months of waiting while you worshiped a ghost."
He tightened his grip on your wrists, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones like iron bands.
"For the last time," Ormund whispered with a chilling certainty, "Gwayne is gone. He is in the dirt. He is never coming back to you. He cannot hold you. He cannot feed you. He cannot protect you. I am all you have left. I am all that you need."
He leaned in close.
"So stop crying for him," he commanded softly, "stop wasting your tears on a dead man when a living one is holding you in his arms."
A small, broken whimper escaped your lips the last fragile pieces of hope died in your heart. You closed your eyes again, your head turning to the side against the pillow, your body going limp beneath him. You were a prisoner in your own bed, stripped of your clothes, your dignity, and the memory of the husband you loved.
Ormund felt the surrender of your body. The siege was over, and the castle walls had finally crumbled.
His demeanor shifted, his touch softening as he began to soothe you in the manipulative way he had perfected over the past ninety days. He released your wrists, but before you could pull yours arms down to cover yourself, he slid his hands down to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping the fresh tears from your cheeks with a gentle touch.
"Do not weep, my love," Ormund whispered softly, a comforting noise that had once been your only solace. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then another to the bridge of your nose, his lips warm and dry against your cold skin, "I am only taking what is ours. I am only loving you, and in time, you will learn to love me."
The sick genius of his words laid in how they twisted your reality. He was not the monster stripping you of your dignity, in his carefully crafted narrative, he was the savior enduring your hysterics, the patient protector waiting out the storm of your broken heart. He was making you believe that your reluctance was merely a symptom of your mourning, a sickness that only his touch could cure.
While his left had remained anchored on your cheek, his right hand reached down to his own chest.
You heard the heavy scrape of his belt buckle. The sound was horribly loud in the quiet of the room that signaled a point of no return. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, afraid to have your eyes prove your ears right. You could hear the leather of his doublet as he unlaced it, the rustle of his fine linen shirt being pulled over his head, and the soft slide of his heavy boots being kicked to the floor.
With every layer of clothing he discarded, the radiating heat of his bare skin grew hotter.
"You are so cold," Ormund whispered, his bare chest finally coming down against yours. He was massive, his skin slightly rough and smelling of the cedarwood chest where his clothes were kept, mixed with the musky scent of his own sweat. He pressed you deep into the featherbed, his weight heavy, trapping your lungs until you could only draw shallow breaths, "I will make you warm, my love, let me in."
"Ormund, please..." you wept, the words faint and useless. You weakly brought your hands up, your palms resting flat against the hard, muscular expanse of his bare chest. You didn't have the strength to push him away - you knew it be of no use - but you held your hands up as a pitiful barrier, "it hurts. My heart...it hurts so much."
"I know," he cooed, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. He shifted his weight, using his knee to part your legs. He did not rush but there was a terrifying speed to his movements, you knew you had no hope of stopping him, "the heart is a stubborn thing. It clings to what is gone because it is afraid of what is real. But I am real, my sweet girl. Feel me."
He captured your weak hands, lifting them from his chest and pinning them once more above your head, his fingers interlocking with yours. Ormund shifted his weight, his heavy hips settling between your thighs. He lowered his body just enough to feel the first contact; the head of his cock brushing against your sweet, warm cunt.
A jolt ran straight up Ormund's spine, making his breath catch in a ragged hiss.
He froze, hovering over you, simply relishing in the sensation. He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching so hard that it started to hurt. Finally. After years of silent, agonizing torment, you were finally his. He was touching the sanctuary that he had been forbidden from even imagining.
He had fantasized about this precise moment since the very day Gwayne had brought you back to Oldtown as his bride. Ormund remembered the suffocating rage that had boiled in his chest during the wedding feast, watching Gwayne's soft hands rest on your waist. He had lain awake for coutless nights in his own cold bed, listening to the quiet of the tower, tortured by the knowledge that Gwayne was waking up next to you, sinking into your warmth, claiming the sweetness that Ormund knew, in his very bones, that Gwayne was too weak to deserve.
And then there was the letters.
The intercepted correspondence from the front lines of the war had only fuled Ormund's disgust. In those rare, frantic dispatches Gwayne had managed to send before Ormund took control of the ravens, his cousin's longings had been laid bare in a way that made Ormund's stomach turn with contempt. Gwayne had written with desperate, vulgar poetry, weeping into the parchment about how he missed the taste of your lips, how he missed the soft heat of your cunt more than anything else in the realm, begging you to remember the nights you had spent together locked in your chambers.
It had been embarrassing. A knight of the Realm, a son of House Hightower, reduced to a weeping, lust crazed boy on paper. Ormund had burned those letters with pleasure, watching the words turn into ash in his hearth. Gwayne did not deserve to speak of your body. He did not deserve to possess the tight, sacred warmth that Ormund had coveted like a religious relic.
Now you were his, finally his. It didn't matter if Gwayne returned, you would remain his.
Ormund began to slide his cock with a shuddering breath inside of you.
The tight, dry friction of your walls resisted him for a second before giving way, wrapping around him like a glove of fire. It was extremely warm, nearly driving him to madness. He let out a low groan against your shoulder, his eyes snapping open. He felt every inch of his cock being squeezed by your cunt, a sensation so sweet, so perfect, that he wondered how he had survived all these years starving for it.
The shock of the feeling caused a sharp cry to tear from your throat. Your eyes flew open, wide with panic, and you instinctively started to thrash beneath him, your hips twisting in desperate, yet futile, attempts to escape him.
"Ormund-no! Please!" You shrieked, your voice cracking, "stop! please, I beg of you, stop! I can't...I can't do this! I only want Gwayne! Gwayne, please, I want Gwayne!"
The sound of his cousin's name escaping your lips in the middle of his triumph was like a drop of poison in a cup of sweet wine.
Ormund's expression darkened instantly, his features showing his displeasure. Without a word, he released your left wrist and brought his hand down over your face. His palm clamped firmly over your mouth, instantly cutting off your screams and muffling your desperate, choking sobs into weak muffled whimpers that vibrated beneath his skin.
"Be quiet," Ormund hissed, his voice a threatening growl. He pressed his hand down harder, ensuring you could only draw a shallow, panicked breath through your nose as you looked up at him with terrified eyes, "I told you to stop speaking his name. Gwayne is dead. He is nothing and he is never coming back to you."
He began to move.
Slowly he pulled his hips back until he was nearly free from your cunt, only to drive himself back in, deeper this time, his hips becoming flush with yours.
Beneath his palm, you let out a muffled wail, your eyes squeezing shut as tears flooded down your cheeks, soaking the skin of his hand. You tried to fight, your fingers clawing weakly at his shoulders, your nails leaving thin, red lines in his skin, but your strength was nothing compared to his. He was too strong and you had been weakening yourself in your grief.
Ormund relished in the struggle. He relished in the way your tight cunt clutched at him, trying to reject him even as it was forced to accommodate his size. Every shuddering sob that was muffled by his palm, every desperate, muffled plea you made, only made the feeling of being inside of you sweeter. He was breaking you. He was branding his name into every inch of your body, ensuring that from this night onward, your body would only know his love.
The wet, suffocating heat of your cunt was everything Ormund had promised himself in the lonely, silent hours of his sleepless nights.
He closed his eyes for a second, letting out a shuddering breath as his hips bottomed out against yours once more. The perfection of being inside of you, of finally occupying the sweet, soft space that Gwayne had so casually bragged about in those embarrassing letters was almost enough to drive him to the edge. He had won. You were finally his.
But the constant, muffled whining beneath his hand began to grate on his nerves.
Your tears were endless, soaking his palm and the frantic thumping of your heart against his chest felt less like you coming to terms with your new situation and learning to love him, and more like an annoying, lingering defiance, trying to still cling to a ghost. Even with his weight crushing you, even with his cock filling you, your mind was screaming for Gwayne.
With an impatient growl, Ormund suddenly pulled out of you.
You let out a sharp, gasping breath of cold air as his hand left your mouth. But before you could ask what he was doing or roll away or cover your shivering body, Ormund's hands grabbed you.
He flipped you over onto your stomach.
Your face was shoved brutually down into the soft, tear dampened mattress, the heavy smell of the feathers and your sweat filled your nose and mouth. Before you could struggle, Ormund seized both of your wrists, pulling your arms behind your back in a tight knot. He pinned them against the small of your back with a single iron gripped hand, rendering you helpless against your bed, your hips forced up by his knees.
You let out a muffled shriek into the pillows as he aligned his cock with your cunt once more.
Without a drop of hesitation, Ormund drove himself back inside of you again.
The entry was rougher, sharper, and unforgiving. A strangled cry was swallowed by the mattress as you writhed against his grip, your fingers twitching uselessly against his iron hold on your wrists. He began to thrust into you with a hard, relentless momentum, his hips slamming against yours with a dull thud that made your entire body jolt.
"You need to forget him," Ormund growled against the back of your neck. He leaned his upper body down, pressing his chest flat against your back, pinning you down. His breath was hot and demanding against your ear as he drove deeper, "forget Gwayne. He is nothing to you now. He is dirt. I am the only Lord you answer to. I am the only man who will touch you again."
You whimpered into the sheets, your body shaking violently with every thrust, the pleasure he was forcing from your body feeling like a disgusting betrayal of the husband you still loved. You wanted to scream for Gwayne, to beg him to ride through the night and tear you out of this nightmare, but the mattress choked your voice, leaving you to drown in your own agony.
Ormund looked down at the smooth expanse of your back, at the way your waist curved into your hips, completely exposed and yielding to his cock. What if I fill her? The thought whispered, sending a dark thrill down his spine. What if I put my seed so deep inside her tonight that her belly swells with my heir?
The perfection of the idea made him drive his cock even harder into you now, a low groan escaping his throat. If he got you with child, the trap would be sealed forever. It wouldn't matter if Gwayne somehow survived the bloody war. It wouldn't matter if his cousin eventually crawled his way back to Oldtown, scarred and broken, demanding his wife back.
If you were carrying Ormund's child, you would be ruined in the eyes of the realm. Gwayne's precious pride would never allow him to take back a wife who bore a bastard of his own cousin. You would be bound to Ormund. You would have no choice but to stay at his side, to let him claim you as his lady, to let him raise his child in the very halls where Gwayne had once hoped to build a life.
The thought of Gwayne returning only to find you pregnant, your body marked forever by Ormund's, made his blood run hot. It would be the perfect prize to his victory. He would not just steal Gwayne's wife; he would destroy Gwayne's legacy, replacing it with his own.
"Yes," Ormund whispered, his grip tightening on your pinned wrists until your knuckles turned white, his hips driving into you with a desperate urgency as he felt the tension of his own climax begin to build, "yes, my sweet girl. Let me give you a child."
The dark fantasy of you months from now, your skin glowing under the soft candelight of this very chamber, your belly rounded and heavy with his child flooded his mind. He imagined Gwayne finally returning, limping through the heavy doors, only to find his wife he had wept for was with another man. He pictured the horror on his cousin's face when he realized the soft, tight cunt that he had bragged about in his pathetic letters was now owned by the Lord of Oldtown.
His rhythm lost what little restraint remained. His hips became bruisingly rough, slamming against yours with a hard momentum that caused the massive wood frame of the bed to shake.
You let out a muffled sob into the tear dampened mattress, your fingers clutching weakly at his as you tried to reach any sort of morality inside of him, begging him to reconsider. Your mind screamed for Gwayne, weeping for the gentle, sweet husband who had been stolen from you. You felt defiled, your spirit fractured into a thousand useless pieces.
Yet, even as your heart broke and your throat turned raw from your crying, your body betrayed you.
For ninety days, you had lived in a cold, barren desert of grief. Your body had been lonely, neglected, and starving for touch, locked away in a tomb of mourning that Ormund had carefully created. Now as the heavy feeling of his cock filled you to the very brim, stretching you past the point of endurance, the instincts of your body overrode the agony of your mind.
Your tight, slick walls, starved for warmth for so long, began to react. Involuntarily, your cunt began to quiver, pulsing and squeezing around him.
Ormund felt the sudden contraction of your cunt wrapping around him and a low groan of ecstasy was ripped from his throat.
"Yes," he groaned against the back of your neck, "yes, feel me. Feel how perfectly you fit beneath me."
The feeling of your body giving up for him, at your tight cunt begging for his release even as you wept into the pillows, brought him to his peak. The pressure in his loins grew unbearable, a throbby ache that demanded to be unleashed. He locked his iron grip around your wrists, pulling your arms back a little more to arch your spine, forcing your hips to meet his final, desperate thrusts.
With only last, bruising thrust, Ormund buried himself completely inside of you, the head of his cock brushing against your cervix.
He froze, his entire body locked up, his muscles turning to solid stone as his climax tore through him. He let out a long groan against the back of your neck, his fingers digging into your wrists with a crushing force as he began to pour his hot, thick seed deep into your womb.
He held himself deep inside of you, pulsing heavily, ensuring that every drop of his seed was deposited exactly where it needed to be to seal your fate. He wanted to fill you so completely that there would be no room left for Gwayne, no trace of the husband who had come before him. In his mind, he was sowing the seeds of his own victory, planting a permanent seed that would keep you tied to his side for the rest of your days.
You laid beneath the dead, suffocating weight of him, your face still buried into the damp indentation of the mattress. The heavy green wool of the bed hangings seemed to press inwards, shrinking the chamber down to where you laid with him on top of you.
Ormund didn't move as he remained draped over you, his chest rising and falling in slow breaths that pressed your ribs hard into the bedding. The heat radiating off of his bare skin made you feel sticky, but beneath it, deep within the trembling hollow between your legs, you could feel it, his seed.
It was a heavy, foreign warmth pooling deep inside of your womb, a slow spreading disease that felt thick, sick, and wrong. You could feel everything, your stomach twisting in disgust and horror.
It should have been Gwayne's.
The thought arose from the shattered ruins of your mind, a fragile specter of the life that had just been stolen from you. You remembered the quiet hours you would spend in this very bed, those precious, golden mornings when Gwayne would lie with his head resting on your chest, his long fingers tracing patterns on your skin. You remembered the way his voice would soften, dropping all of his knightly bravado, when he spoke of the future, his future, your future.
Gwayne had yearned to be a father. He had spoken of it with a sweet, almost breathless reverence that made your heart ache. He wanted a daughter. "A little princess," he had whispered against your heart, his eyes shining with love, "a girl with your eyes, with your laugh. I would build a fortress around her. I would spend every day of my life keeping the world from hurting her." He had wanted to wrap his love around a child of your making, to protect her, to watch her grow in the safe gardens of Oldtown.
But there would be no little princess. There would be no knightly father returning from the war to hold his child.
Instead, you laid motionless on the mattress, your body feeling like a hollowed out shell, a vessel that had just been seized. The well of your tears had finally run dry. Your eyes wide and staring blankly at the dark wood of the headboard, felt scratchy and burned. The frantic panic that had clawed at your throat only moments ago had vanished, replaced by a terrible ache, a hope that this had all been a nightmare that you would eventually wake up from. You couldn't feel anything. The edges of your mind had gone grey, retreating into a silent void where the touch of the living could no longer reach you.
You hated yourself.
You hated the body that laid limp and heavy beneath Ormund, the body that had betrayed your heart by quivering and yielding to his touch. Why hadn't you fought harder? Why hadn't you screamed until the guards broke down the door? Why had you let his manipulative words erode the only joy you had left? You had allowed him to stirp you of your mourning, to strip you of your fidelity, to drag you into your own bed and allow him to defile you. You had tried to survive, you tried to seek comfort from the only person who offered it, and in doing so, you had betrayed the love of your life.
You felt cheap. Defiled. A traitor to the husband who had died with your name on his lips in the ashes of Rook's Rest.
Above you, Ormund let out a long, satisfied sigh, the sound cutting through the silence.
He shifted, his heavy thigh sliding off of yours as he slowly pulled his cock out of you. It was a cold, wet sensation, but you didn't react. You laid perfectly still, your limbs loose and lifeless, staring at the wall as he rolled off the bed.
The mattress rose with a soft creak as his weight left it. You heard the rustle of his clothes, the dry slide of his linen shift over his broad shoulders, the heavy clinking of his belt buckle as he began to dress himself. He was your new "husband" now. He had taken what he was owed, he had sown his seed, and now he had to go back to being the Lord of Oldtown as if he had done nothing more than sign a treaty.
You did not look at him. You did not move to cover yourself.
The torn, ruined mess of your shift laid twisted around your waist and thighs, a useless heap of linen that did nothing to hide your bare skin from the drafty chill of the room. And then, you felt it.
A slow, warm trickle began to slide down the inner curve of your thigh. Ormund's thick, sick seed was slipping out of you, dripping slowly onto the fine sheets Gwayne had once slept on. A dirty stain that you could never wash away, marking the bed, marking your skin.
The bed creaked, sinking once more as Ormund's weight settled onto the bed one last time.
He did not lie back down beside you. He sat near the pillows, positioning himself just behind the crown of your head. You could not see him, only able to see the long casting, dark shadow of him across your face and stretching along the bed. You did not turn to look at him. Your neck felt too heavy, your chin locked in place as you stared blankly ahead, your eyes fixed on the hairline crack on the wall.
You watched that crack, tracing its jagged path in the dim light of the hearth, finding a strange, numbing solace in how broken the stone was. It was split open, just like you.
Ormund's hand descended onto your head.
His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they threaded through the tangled, sweat dampened silk of your head, smoothing the strands away from your forehead. The gesture was meant to be tender; the act of a husband soothing his bride, but to you, it felt like the possessive pat of a master claiming a broken hound. His hand slid down, his thumb brushing against your cheek, tracing the track of your dried tears.
"It is better this way," Ormund promised with a sickeningly sweet tone, "a ghost cannot love you, my sweet girl. You were drowning in your own mind, you needed me to pull you out."
A cold wave of self hatred washed over you at his words. Pulled me out, you thought, the words repeating in the hollow chamber of your heart like a mockery. He hadn't saved you. He had merely dragged you from one abyss into another, deeper one, and the worst part, the part that made you want to claw at your own skin until you bled, was that you had let him.
You hated your body. You hated the heavy, aching space between your thighs where his sick seed was still slowly dripping, proof of your submission. Your body had betrayed Gwayne. When Ormund had pinned you down, your neglected body had reacted to the intrusion, tightening and yielding, craving the warmth of a touch even when your mind was screaming in agony. How could you have let that happen? How could you have let another man's hands tear the shift that Gwayne had so reverently undone on your wedding night?
You had desecrated your husband's memory. You had let his cousin ride you like a conquered beast in the very bed that should've been only for Gwayne's love.
"In time, the pain will fade," Ormund continued, his hand coming back up to continue petting your hair. He leaned down, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek, "you will see the truth of what I have done for you. You will learn to love me. I will make you a proper husband, and you will bear me strong children to secure our house. You will learn to be happy again."
Happy.
The word felt like a foreign language, a sound that no longer carried any meaning. You would never be happy. You would spend the rest of your life carrying a heavy, rotting corpse of guilt, walking through the halls of your home as a prisoner wearing the crown of a wife. If a child grew inside of you now, it would not be the beautiful daughter that Gwayne dreamed of protecting. It would be a bastard of deceit, the living proof or your betrayal.
You wished to weep, but the well behind yours eyes had dried up. Your eyes remained open, unblinking, and vacant, staring at the crack in the wall as the silence stretched between you.
Ormund waited. His hand paused in your hair, his fingers lingering against your scalp as he listened for any sound, any whisper of agreement or surrender from your lips. He wanted you to speak. He wanted you to validate the illusion he had spent ninety days creating, to tell him that you were happy, that you understood why this had to happen.
But you gave him nothing. You laid beneath him like a corpse - perfectly still, cold, and silent.
After a long, heavy minute, Ormund let out a disappointed sigh. He pulled away and his hand left your hair, the sudden loss of his touch leaving a freezing chill against your skin.
He stood up, the mattress rising with a dull creak as his massive weight finally left the bed. He smoothed out the front of his doublet, the fine velvet rustling in the quiet room as he adjusted his belt. He looked down at you one last time, his eyes taking in the sight of your unmoving body, wrapped in the ruined, torn rags of your shift.
"Rest now," Ormund said, his voice regaining its usual authority, "I have duties to attend to, I must go send a letter."
A letter.
The word didn't even register in your mind. You didn't know miles away, Gwayne was sitting in a soot stained tent, holding a forged scrap of parchment in his own hands, believing his beloved wife was praying for his safe return. You didn't know that Ormund was walking out of this room to seal your fate in ink, ensuring the husband you wept for would stay dead a little longer, fighting a war that would keep you from ever discovering the truth.
Sent to the Hightower to serve as a companion to Lord Ormund’s motherless daughter, you expected a quiet life of duty and the chance at a modest marriage. You did not expect to catch the eye of the Lord of Oldtown himself.
pairings: Dark!Ormund Hightower x Lesser Noble!Reader
warnings: dark!Ormund is a warning in and of itself; psychological manipulation and gaslighting; extreme power and status imbalance; age gap; forced marriage/entrapment; obsessive and possessive behavior; mild physical aggression; physical coercion; unwanted physical advances; non-con elements (no smut, just a heads-up for sensitive readers)
words: ~4k
Part 2
author’s note: I have so many ideas for what happens next, and I really want to write their wedding night to see how that dynamic plays out behind closed doors. But let me know if you guys actually want more of him!
tag list: @yerhina @alaeratrrn @exxotiic
The carriage ride leaves your bones aching, but as soon as the colossal shadow of the Hightower falls over you, all your exhaustion is replaced by an overwhelming dizzying anxiety.
You step out onto the ancient cobblestones of Oldtown, the salty sea breeze immediately clinging to your skin. Above you, the tower stretches so high it seems as though it pierces the heavens, a monument to a family whose wealth and piety are unmatched in Westeros. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, clutching the small lavender sachet hidden in your pocket. It is one of the few comforts from home you brought.
Your father’s parting words still echo in your ears: “You are eighteen now. A woman grown. Serve Lord Ormund’s daughter well, keep your head down, and pray that the Maiden smiles upon you enough to catch the eye of a wealthy knight or noble.”
You are a lesser noble, born to a house with a proud name and beautiful lavender fields but empty coffers. You are here under the guise of an honour; to be a companion and caretaker for Lord Ormund’s toddler daughter, a child tragically left without a mother, since birth. But you and most likely everyone else knows, that you are here to secure a good marriage, completely at the mercy of the Hightower’s hospitality.
A stiff-lipped steward leads you through the winding, cavernous halls and never-ending stairs. The sheer opulence of the keep is suffocating, tapestries woven with gold thread, braziers burning with expensive incense, and statues of the Seven watching your every step with unblinking stone eyes.
You are escorted into a grand, sunlit solar to await the Lord of the house.
The heavy oak doors open, and Ser Gwayne Hightower steps in first. He offers you a warm, handsome smile. "Welcome to the Hightower, my lady. I trust the journey wasn't too punishing?"
Before you can offer your curtsy and reply, the air in the room suddenly grows heavy.
You smell him before you see him. The overwhelming, but soft scent of crushed clove, and citrus oil sweeps into the room, overpowering the gentle warmth of the solar.
The guards at the door snap to attention and Lord Ormund Hightower steps over the threshold.
He is a striking, formidable man, a decade and a half your senior, wearing a pristine doublet of dark grey and forest green. In his left hand, he holds a silk handkerchief pressed lightly beneath his nose, his eyes narrowed in a faint display of distaste, as if the very air of the world outside his tower offends him.
"Cousin," Ormund says, his voice rich and confident. He barely looks at Gwayne. His pale, calculating eyes are fixed entirely on you.
You drop into a deep, immediate curtsy. "My Lord. Thank you for your gracious hospitality."
Ormund steps closer. You keep your eyes trained on the stone floor, but you can feel his imposing height looming over you. He stops just a fraction of an inch too close. You tense, waiting for him to speak, but instead, you hear the softest intake of breath. You stay frozen, extremely aware of the clean, soothing scent of lavender and rainwater clinging to your own skin, praying he doesn't find it offensive, but slowly, Ormund lowers the handkerchief from his face.
"You are a welcome sight," Ormund finally says, as he takes a step back. "And a welcome presence. My household has been... bereft of gentle graces since my wife's passing."
He smiles, a perfectly gracious, lordly expression that soothes your nerves. He gestures to the shadows near the door, and a boy steps forward.
"This is my ward, Daeron," Ormund says, his tone shifting instantly from soft to sharp, expectant.
You look at the boy and your breath catches. It was Prince Daeron Targaryen almost your age, with silver hair and violet eyes. But despite his royal blood, his posture is rigid, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He looks at Ormund with a need for approval, before turning his gaze to you. In his eyes, you see the exact same anxiety you feel twisting in your own stomach.
"It is a pleasure, my lady," Daeron says, his voice polite but strained.
Gwayne steps forward then. "She must be exhausted. The nursery has been prepared, and I am sure little Lady Bethany will be thrilled to have a new companion,”
"Of course," Ormund murmurs, his eyes dragging over your face one last time. "See that you settle in well." He turns mid-sentence and sweeps from the solar, taking the heavy scent of cloves with him. The moment the doors click shut, the suffocating pressure in the room vanishes. Daeron's shoulders slump in relief, and Gwayne lets out a quiet breath, offering you a sympathetic smile before guiding you away to your new quarters.
The next few weeks slip into a quiet, unexpectedly gentle routine. The nursery quickly becomes your sanctuary. Little Lady Bethany is a sweet, lovely child who latches onto you almost immediately, burying her face in your skirts and finding comfort in the soft scent of lavender you bring.
Every afternoon, the heavy oak door opens to welcome the Lord of Oldtown, and every time, you prepare yourself for the imposing, arrogant man you met on your first day. Instead, you are met with the picture of a devoted, grieving father.
He sits in the plush chair by the window, lifting little Bethany onto his lap with a startling gentleness. While she plays with his signet ring, Ormund talks to you, he asks about the songs you hum to his daughter, which leads to long, surprisingly deep conversations about the old ballads of the Reach and the histories of the First Men.
During these visits, you often notice him closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. But in truth you think nothing of it. The nursery always smells of clean linen and the lavender oil you dab on your wrists and neck. To you, it simply seems that the heavy burden of lordship exhausts him, and he finds peace in the innocent, sweet-smelling quiet of his daughter’s room. You begin to admire him, seeing a gracious, intelligent man who deeply loves his family beneath his imposing exterior.
Daeron also makes a habit of slipping through the door, when Ormund is occupied with duties of his court. Without his guardian’s looming shadow, Daeron is entirely different, he is quick-witted, kind and funny. Your friendship with him blossoms effortlessly.
You sneak down to the kitchens to steal warm lemon cakes and spend hours wandering the library, stifling giggles as Daeron dramatically recites terribly written poetry he finds in the dusty archives. Ser Gwayne often catches you both in your mischief. Instead of reprimanding you, the handsome knight always covers for you two, offering a quick wink or even distracting the guards so you and Daeron can make an escape to the gardens.
For the first time since arriving, you begin to believe you might actually be happy here and the anxiety that you felt on your arrival has almost completely melted away. Until one night on your fourth week you were walking down one of the grand corridors, carrying a mended cloak for Bethany, when you heard footsteps.
Lord Ormund is walking ahead of you, deep in conversation with a steward. From a side passage, a young, nervous servant girl hurries out. She is carrying a heavy basin of hot water mixed with strong, pungent pine oil and vinegar for scrubbing the floors. In her haste, she trips. The basin clatters loudly against the stone, and the hot, sour-smelling liquid splashes directly onto the hem of Lord Ormund’s velvet cloak.
Ormund stops. The silence that falls over the corridor is freezing. The steward immediately takes three steps back.
"Forgive me, my lord!" the girl sobs, immediately dropping to her knees in the puddle, her hands shaking violently. "Mercy, please, I tripped…"
You freeze a dozen paces away, hidden in the shadow of a stone pillar. Ormund looks down at the weeping girl. His handsome face contorts into something monstrous. His eyes darken and his lips pull back in a sneer of pure, unadulterated disgust. He kicks the bucket at the girl cowering on the floor, who lets out a pained sob when it hits her.
"You ignorant, clumsy little rat," Ormund hisses. His voice is cold, it carries a venom so potent it makes your stomach turn. He steps closer to the cowering girl, looming over her. "I will have you stripped and thrown into the harbor to wash the stink from your skin…"
You take a tiny, involuntary step backward. Your shoe scuffs softly against the stone.
Ormund’s head snaps up. His pale eyes lock onto you in the shadows.
For a terrifying heartbeat, you see the monster looking right at you. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the cold fury vanishes. His features smooth out into a picture of polite grace. The vicious lord disappears, replaced instantly by the gracious, smiling patriarch.
"Ah, my lady," Ormund says smoothly, stepping neatly around the trembling, sobbing servant without a downward glance. He pulls his clove-scented handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his nose with practiced elegance before offering you a warm smile. "Minor clumsiness. Nothing to fret over. Come, walk with me away from this dampness. The air here has grown terribly foul."
You take his offered arm, your hand still trembling slightly. For days after the incident, you cannot shake the image of the weeping servant girl and the monstrous, flat look in Lord Ormund's eyes. It haunts you. Yet, every time you see him in the nursery or the great hall, he is the very picture of grace. He asks after your health with genuine warmth, and he listens to your thoughts with rapt attention. He is so perfectly gracious, so attentive, that you begin to doubt your own memory. Perhaps you misunderstood the situation. Perhaps the overwhelming stress of ruling such a massive city and lordship had simply caused a momentary lapse in his otherwise noble composure.
You try to push the lingering unease away and focus on the real reason your father sent you to Oldtown. During the evening feasts, you make polite conversation with a few eligible knights. One of them, a charming third son from house Rowan, even asks you for a dance and promises to call upon you the next day in the gardens. But the next morning, he never arrives. When you see him across the courtyard later that week, he averts his eyes, and quickly turns in the opposite direction. He is not the only one. Any suitor who shows even a flicker of genuine interest in you soon finds an excuse to keep their distance.
You assume it is simply your lack of a substantial dowry, but the isolation soon begins to spread into your daily routine.
Your joyful afternoons with Daeron are suddenly cut short. Just as you are settling under a tree in the gardens, a steward will appear, bowing deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, my Prince, but Lord Ormund has ordered an urgent review of your High Valyrian translations.” Gwayne, too, finds himself unexpectedly burdened. Whenever the knight stops by the nursery to share a joke and a lemon cake, a guard inevitably arrives to summon him to the armory or dispatch him on a patrol of the city gates.
You never suspect that Ormund is orchestrating it. How could you? He is the Lord of Oldtown, his mind is occupied with trade routes and the Faith, not the social calendar of his daughter's companion.
Yet, as the keep seems to empty around you, you increasingly find yourself alone with him.
It begins with small gestures that leave your head spinning. You tell yourself you are simply unused to the customs of such a big court. He is a powerful lord and you are a lesser noble in his care. It is only natural he checks on you.
One afternoon you are sitting on the rug, humming softly as you braid little Bethany’s hair. You know Lord Ormund has entered the room, but you are so focused on the child that you do not look up at him until he is kneeling right beside you.
"She loves you dearly," he says, his deep voice vibrating in the quiet room.
You look up, startling slightly. A loose strand of your hair falls across your face. Ormund lifts his hand. His knuckles are warm and slightly calloused as they graze your cheek, gently tucking the stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against the shell of your ear for the briefest heartbeat before falling away. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on your face. But when your breath hitches in panic, he merely smiles, a soft, paternal smile and turns his attention back to his daughter. The warmth of the touch remains long after his hand has withdrawn. You felt foolish for the way your heart had begun to race.
You were in your chambers, brushing out your hair and preparing for sleep one night, when a sharp, heavy knock rattles your door. A guard stands in the dimly lit corridor, his face unreadable. "Lord Ormund requires your presence in his office, my lady."
Your stomach twists into a tight, cold knot. It is far too late for a proper visit, and inappropriate for an unwed maiden to be summoned to a lordly office at this hour. But you have absolutely no power to refuse the Lord of Oldtown. You pull a modest woolen shawl over your thin nightgown and follow the guard through the dark, echoing halls.
When the heavy oak doors of the solar close behind you, the silence of the room is suffocating. Ormund is pacing behind his massive carved desk. The usually pristine lord looks unraveled. His dark velvet doublet is unclasped at the throat, his brown hair is slightly disheveled. Scattered across the desk are crumpled pieces of parchment bearing the broken wax seals of the Tyrells.
"Fools," Ormund mutters, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates in the quiet room. He doesn't even look at you as you stand frozen near the door. "Surrounded by ignorant, grasping fools who cannot see past their own miserable, petty ambitions." Then he finally looks at you with hard eyes and takes you in. "Pour me a drink," he orders, gesturing tightly toward a silver flagon and jeweled goblet resting on a side table in the darkest corner of the solar. "The Arbor Red. And be quick about it. My patience has been thoroughly bled dry tonight by fools."
You swallow hard, keeping your head down as you cross the room. You can feel the crushing weight of his stare tracking your every movement. You reach the table, your fingers shaking as you lift the heavy silver flagon. The red wine sloshes slightly, threatening to spill over the rim of the goblet. You are so focused on keeping your hands steady that you don't hear him move.
You don't hear his footsteps on the carpet. You only realize he is there when the overwhelming heat of his large frame radiates against your back.
You freeze, the flagon suspended mid-air.
Ormund steps flush against you, entirely eradicating the distance between you. His chest presses heavily against your spine, solid and immoveable. You are trapped between the edge of the table and him. Your breath catches in your throat, a quiet, terrified sound, but you are too paralyzed by the sheer power imbalance to pull away.
Slowly, deliberately, Ormund lowers his head. You feel the faint scratch of his jaw brush against the shell of your ear. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing into your hair.
He takes a long, shuddering intake of breath, inhaling the clean, soothing scent of the lavender oil on your skin. His broad chest expands against your back. As he breathes you in, the rigid, tension in his body seems to melt away, leaving behind something far heavier.
"My lord…" your voice comes out as a breathless, panicked whisper.
"Hush," he commands softly. "They suffocate me with their stench," Ormund murmurs, his lips brushing right against your fluttering pulse point as he speaks.
He lets out a low, rough sigh that vibrates against your collarbone. "Seven hells," he murmurs, his voice stripped of all its polish reduced to a dark rumble. "You are the only clean thing in this rotting, foul-smelling city."
You try to shrink away, to slide out from between him and the table, but the moment you move, his large palms grip your waist with bruising, possessive force, halting your escape instantly. He easily holds you in place with just his hands on your hips, dragging you backward until your lower half is pulled flush against him. You can feel every hard line of his body pressing into yours.
His right hand slowly releases your waist, sliding upward. His long fingers drag possessively over your stomach, the searing heat of his palm burning through your thin nightgown. His hand moves higher, spreading wide as his thumb deliberately brushes against the soft underside of your breast.
"Lord Ormund, please," you plead, your voice shaking. "This isn't proper."
His hand tightens slightly and he turns his head, pressing an open-mouthed, wet kiss against the column of your neck.
Panic finally shatters your paralysis. With a sudden, desperate surge of strength, you twist your body to the side. Your arm strikes the silver flagon of Arbor Red you had just poured. It tips over with a deafening crash, sending a wave of wine splashing across the polished oak table and down the front of Ormund’s doublet.
Ormund flinches, his grip loosening for just a fraction of a second, but it is enough and you rip yourself away from his warmth. You do not look back to see his reaction. You run.
You do not sleep that night. You sit on the edge of your bed, shivering in your thin nightgown, watching the moonlight slowly turn to the grey light of dawn.
As soon as the sun breaks over the horizon, you drag your worn leather trunk from beneath the bed. You are leaving. You will face your father’s wrath and return to the beautiful lavender fields of your home. It does not matter that your family has empty coffers, you cannot stay in the shadow of this tower a moment longer.
A sharp knock at the door makes you freeze.
"My lady?" It is the cheerful, airy voice of a senior handmaiden.
You hesitate, your heart hammering against your ribs. You slowly pull the door open to reveal not just the maiden, but a steward and a household guard. In the maiden's arms is a breathtaking gown of smoke grey velvet, intricately embroidered with the emerald green flames of House Hightower.
"What is this?" you ask, your voice hoarse and broken.
"A gift from the Lord of Oldtown, my lady!" the handmaiden beams, entirely oblivious to your horrified face. "And my deepest congratulations! The entire keep is celebrating."
The floor seems to tilt beneath your feet. "Celebrating?"
"Lord Ormund announced it at the break of dawn. His mourning is over. He has sent his swiftest raven to your lord father and already spoken to the Septon." The steward steps forward, bowing deeply. "You are to be wed before the moon turns."
The breath leaves your lungs. He bypassed you entirely. As the absolute authority in the Reach, where the Tyrells aren’t concerned, his word is law. Your impoverished father will surely accept a massive dowry and from the Lord of Oldtown no less, who he holds in such high regards. You are utterly trapped.
Before the maiden can step into the room to dress you. The familiar scent of crushed clove and citrus sweeps through the corridor.
Ormund steps into the doorway. The servants immediately bow and scatter like frightened mice, leaving you alone with him.
He is perfectly composed. The monster from last night is completely gone, replaced by the immaculate, gracious lord you have come to know in the sunlit nursery. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back, making him appear open, unthreatening.
His eyes sweep over your terrified frame, taking in your trembling hands and the worn leather trunk dragged halfway across the floor. A look of sorrow crosses his handsome features.
"My lady," Ormund murmurs, his voice rich and soft. He does not approach you. He purposefully leaves a wide, respectful distance between you. "Did I frighten you so terribly?"
You swallow hard, unable to find your voice.
Ormund sighs, a heavy, weary sound, and lowers his head. "I came to offer my most sincere apologies. When I woke this morning the shame I felt was devastating." He looks up, his eyes meeting yours with such vulnerability that it knocks the breath from your lungs. "The letters from Highgarden, the endless demands of the Faith... the crushing weight of this lordship had utterly broken my spirit. I poured cup after cup of the Arbor Red until my senses were clouded.."
He takes a single, slow step forward. You stiffen, but he immediately stops, raising a hand in a calming gesture.
"I meant you no disrespect. I swear it by the Seven," he says, his voice thick with what sounds like genuine emotion. "You must understand, you have been such a comfort to me since you arrived. You quiet the noise in this keep. Last night... I was a drowning man, and you were the only solid ground. I allowed my desperation to overwhelm my manners. I was a fool to let my affections frighten you."
You stare at him. The sincerity in his voice makes the room spin. Affections? Last night, his large palms had gripped your waist with such force. He had backed you against a table, his voice completely stripped of its polish. But looking at him now, a powerful lord humbling himself before a girl of a noble house of no real consequence, speaking of his burdens with such openness, and a terrible seed of doubt begins to take root in your mind.
Was he truly trying to hurt you? Or was he simply a lonely, exhausted man who had momentarily lost control of his heart?
"I realized this morning that my actions had compromised your honour, and my own," Ormund continues smoothly, his tone shifting into one of noble resolve. "And I could not bear the thought of you fleeing Oldtown in fear, returning to a life of hardship when I could offer you everything. I wished to show you that I do not view you as a fleeting comfort."
He offers you a small smile. "You will never have to worry about your family’s empty coffers again."
Ormund bows deeply to you, the absolute picture of chivalry and grace, before turning and sweeping from the room.
You sink slowly onto the edge of your bed, your legs no longer able to support you. The familiar, overwhelming scent of crushed clove and citrus sweeps through the room, wrapping around you like an invisible chain. You look at your half-packed trunk, then at the magnificent velvet gown draped over the maiden's arms.
tumblr won't let me post it directly @gauntletgirlie so i gotta put in a screenshot!!!
wow! those guys sure are staying true to their world👀
i can't get over how the scenes will play out when the guys get to know crime shows were a comfort watch for lelca, especially marion, considering how their interactions played off when the wolf baby (i forgot the name) was killed by him. especially because women are supposed to be more vengeful when pushed and extremely innovative/creative with killing methods, compared to men who generally prefer violence or outright manipulation aka victim blaming.
Home renovation, did melkor allow lelca to renovate her room or wardrobe differently from his vision (apart from what we've already read)? or was that a strict no-no?
honestly can't wait for lelca and ulmo to interact again!! <3
summary: there were many things you expected when you got into a relationship with aerion targaryen. of course, none of those included his youngest brother, aegon — or egg, as he liked to be called — and how he began interrupting any sort of alone time you had with your boyfriend, all because he ended up liking you so much.
w.c.: 3,6k
c.w.: no use of y/n, aerion is always two seconds away from kicking egg's ass bc he doesn't leave you alone, probably (definitely) ooc aerion and ooc egg, egg is an ipad kid, not rlly a serious fic I wrote this for gits and shiggles
a.n.: first fic on tumblr so im intimidated lol. english is not my first language so forgive any mistakes and typo. not proofread.
THE MOMENT YOU GOT INTO A RELATIONSHIP WITH AERION TARGARYEN, you knew what it would involve, more or less. More than one of your friends and acquaintances — some of his, even — had reached out to you to ask if you were sure of what you were doing, and saying he wasn't exactly... well, the most gentle person.
As much as you appreciated their worry, it was unnecessary, something even they had come to realize after seeing how Aerion was with you.
He was as loving to you as he was not to everyone else, and though you somehow tamed the rushes of anger that always coursed through him, he still had a rather minimal tolerance for the rest of the world. Including his brothers. Especially his brothers.
Especially Aegon.
The youngest of his brothers had become an issue neither of you had expected prior to him meeting you.
It had taken some time before Aerion decided to introduce you to his family, and seeing as you weren't one to push, the most his brothers knew of you for exactly four months after you officially got together was your name — after Aerion accidentally left his phone on the table, and a notification from you revealed your name to Daeron, who saw no appeal in protecting his brother's privacy.
And when Aerion texted you one night, asking if you'd be okay with meeting his family — so they'll finally get off my ass about this, he had said —, you saw no issue with it, and thus a dinner was planned.
The instant the two of you entered his dining room, your eyes had gone over each attending member of his family: his three brothers, his two sisters, his father, his uncle, and his two cousins. And the air was knocked out of your lungs.
They all had an unnatural kind of beauty to them. Most of them shared Aerion's silver hair and purple eyes, but even those that didn't appeared to come from another world.
Aerion had cursed under his breath, muttering about how if he had known half the family would be called, he'd have bailed on this whole thing. But you had maintained your composure, painted a smile on your face, and met his family with forcibly-steadied hands and a thumping heart in your chest.
In retrospect, there really had been no need for you to stress over this so much. As intimidating as the Targaryens were, they were all mostly nice and very charming to be around, and in the blink of an eye, you'd found your place among them.
But credit must be given where it was due. If it hadn't been for the youngest boy, Aegon, you would have taken a lot longer to get comfortable.
His seat had been directly to your left, and he had chatted your ear off all through dinner. All the names, relations and little fun facts you knew about the Targaryens came from him. He had even ended up pulling his iPad beneath the table to show pictures of the events he was telling you all about.
Aerion hadn't shied away from expressing his annoyance at the extravagance of the dinner, which nobody showed any surprise to. He mostly stuck to your side, chatting with you in the brief moments Aegon's attention was elsewhere.
Regardless, the dinner had gone well, and with this particular milestone out of the way, the two of you could finally relax and enjoy each other's company the way you so loved: privately and without shame.
However, Egg didn't seem to have gotten the memo.
"Oh, not this again —” Aerion hissed as he returned to the large living room of the Targaryen home — castle felt more accurate to you, but oh well — with a bowl of popcorn in one hand and two drinks in the other. He stopped in his tracks right at the doorway, when his eyes found the little figure sitting next to you, which had not been there when he left five minutes ago. "What the fuck is he doing here?"
Your eyes widening at his words, you opened your mouth to scold him for swearing in front of the nine year old, but said nine year old merely perked up at his brother's voice and turned his head around to look at Aerion from where he sat on the couch.
"Did you bring my chips? I left them in the fridge."
"No! Get out!"
Even you flinched at the volume and tone of his voice, so it was no surprise when Egg leaned back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, a sad pout twisting his young features. And in spite of how much you enjoyed being alone with Aerion, you felt a tug at your heartstrings from the sight of the expression on his face.
Wincing, you glanced at your boyfriend, a pleading look in your eyes. "Well..."
"No."
"Just this time."
"You said that last time."
"He's already here."
"He's always here!"
"Aerion."
"No. Not happening."
Silence fell upon the living room, your eyes meeting Aerion's purple ones with determination. Obviously, you understood where he came from, but you couldn't help it. Egg was such a sweet little boy, and he was always so nice and adorable that you couldn't help but cave to his every wish.
And five minutes later, the three of you sat in front of the TV, Egg in the middle happily munching on the popcorns from the bowl on his lap, often turning to you to share his thoughts about the movie.
"Why Egg?"
"It's short for Aegon," he nodded vigorously and looked away from you.
"Yeah, I figured that part out —”
Like any normal person with a functioning brain, you loved making out with your boyfriend. He was hot, and you were in love with him, so it wasn't like it was a chore for you. Nor was it for him, based on the blurry, heated memories that suddenly came to mind.
Maybe doing it out in public was less understandable, though. But after he had placed all the shopping bags you'd handed him over the afternoon in the backseat of his car, he had pulled you into short kiss, which then became a long one, and somewhere between that and now, it had turned into something else.
Neither of you noticed when Aerion's phone began vibrating in his pocket for a couple of minutes. And when he finally did realize, he had to pull his hands out from under your shirt to declined with an irritated huff.
Then he paused, glanced at his screen for a few seconds, huffed again and answered the phone.
"No fucking way," he ended up spouting after a few back and forth between him and whoever was on the other side of that call.
"He'll be fine there for a few hours." He argued again, "There's all the teachers, and toys, and all the shit kids play with."
Oh, it had to be about Egg.
“Dad —! Can’t you ask Daeron—?” He paused again, listening to his father, and without another word hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket once more.
Holding back a laugh at the sheer rage painted on his face, you leaned against the car and cocked an eyebrow. “So? What was all that about?”
“My father’s meeting ran late. He’s asking me to pick Aegon up from school.”
“Okay, then.” You nodded, your body shifting to reach for the handle of the passenger door, but Aerion grabbed your wrist before you could do so.
“It’s Aegon.” He insisted, as though it would somehow change something about the situation.
You frowned, slowly nodding. “Tiny nine year old boy, silver hair, purple eyes, looks a lot like you? Yeah, I know the one.”
Rolling his eyes at your tone, Aerion let out a breath filled with annoyance. “I don’t have time to drive you home before picking him up.”
“I know.”
“So he’ll be in the car… with us… for the whole journey back home.”
“I also know that.”
And then his patience ran out, and he groaned, narrowing his eyes at you. “I’m saying the little shit will be glued to your ass.”
Which… yeah. True.
You didn’t mind, because Egg was still as sweet as he was when you first met him. Aerion did mind, however, since he was the one left out whenever the two — three — of you hung out together.
“You’re not jealous, are you?”
“Of him?”
“Yes, Aerion, of your nine year old brother.” You giggled, crossing your arms over your chest. “Seriously, though, you don’t have to be so mean to him. We’re always together. What’s the issue with him sometimes crashing with us?”
To this, he had no answer. He just rolled his eyes to the sky in this irritating yet charming way he did and released your wrist. He opened your door without a word, closing it behind you before walking to his side of the car.
“If it hadn’t been for that bastard, I would’ve won the game.”
Choking on your water, you turned to Egg with wide eyes, “Aegon!”
“What? The bastard cheated! All facts.”
“Oh, do you think they have the lemon sweets? You know the ones.”
Aerion frowned, briefly glancing at you before looking back at the road. “I don’t know, I’ll check when we get there.”
“Ooh, can I come?” Egg peaked his head in between both of yours, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion grumbled before using his hand to press against Egg’s face and push him back in his seat. “Shut up.”
Relentless, Egg turned to you. “Please?”
“No.” Aerion answered in your place.
“I didn’t ask you!” Egg scoffed from the back, glaring at the back of his brother’s head.
“I’m driving, and if I have to drag your puny little ass home by the ear, I will. Now shut up.”
Perhaps the whole reason the Targaryen house sat surrounded by gates and greenery was so strangers wouldn’t witness Aerion dragging Egg by the arm across the driveway, the young boy having planted his feet in the ground and screaming bloody murder for the whole world to hear, the way you did right now from the passenger seat of Aerion’s car.
You hadn’t gone to Aerion’s house in quite some time, you realized. There was no need to ask Aerion why he suddenly insisted on sleeping over at your place, or going home to yours, or him crashing over in your bedroom whenever he was free.
Were you complaining about your Egg-free life? Not really. Or at least, not right now, when Aerion lied on top of you, stealing your words with his mouth, barely letting you come up for air.
Definitely not right now.
You could've stayed there, in this situation, until the world imploded on itself. Nothing could bring either of you out of this bubble you'd formed around yourselves; that was how good you currently had it.
But right as his touch left flaming paths on your flesh as his fingers mapped out every inch of your skin, your phone began vibrating.
Not once.
Not twice.
But repeatedly, until you couldn't discern one notification from the next.
"Damn it," you sighed, closing your eyes as the moment between the two of you slipped right through your fingers. Aerion didn't raise his head higher than an inch above yours, but the annoyance coming from him was almost palpable.
You reached your arm out towards your nightstand, where you could vaguely remember having dropped your phone on some time ago. The light that suddenly blinded you as you lifted it from where it sat face down made you wince, and you used your free hand to rub your eyes.
do you want to play with me?
i'd ask daeron but he's asleep on the rug
he's boring also
you're nto
not
are you sleeping?
you haven't been at the house in a long time
did you breka up with aerion?
break
"Why the fuck do you have his number?" Aerion breathed out, exasperated at the texts. "Since when does he even have a number? He's nine."
Shrugging, you began typing a reply on your phone. "He got my number from your phone. And he just likes telling me about his day. He complains a lot about the kids in his class. Doesn't like them much."
With widened eyes and a raised eyebrow, Aerion sat up on your bed, letting the coldness of the room rush to you now that he wasn't acting as your personal blanket.
"What? So this is a common thing?"
"It's not that bad. He FaceTimes me on his iPad mostly, then he'll talk about his day while I do my homework, that's all." You told him, lifting yourself up on your elbows.
"Does my dad know about this?"
Nodding, you shrugged again. "Yeah, Egg's iPad uses your dad's phone number. He doesn't mind, so long as Egg doesn't uses it too much. He even says it's safer that way, since he doesn't have to watch him to make sure he doesn't sneak out again."
“I... don't know how I feel about this whole thing.”
“Well it’s not just him. I play online scrabble with your dad sometimes. and Aemon sends me book recommendations every other day.”
Aerion paused, "What?”
"Why is he bald, by the way? Can I ask?"
"Daeron drunkenly shaved off half his head one night. Then it looked awful, so we had to shave off the other half. Look."
Unsurprisingly, the boy displayed in the 0.5x pictures didn't seem to car about the admittedly horrifying hairstyle he currently had. With Maekar looking exasperated in the background, Egg smiled and gave a thumbs up to the camera.
Aerion woke up to find your half of his bed empty. No sound came from the bathroom, and with the sheets being cold, he assumed you must've been out of bed for some time.
While part of him felt something akin to relief from how comfortable you were with his family and in his home — sometimes too much, he thought to himself as he remembered you admitting to playing online scrabble with his father —, it also came with the borderline hatred from how comfortable they were with you.
People usually don't have to share their girlfriends with their families, do they? Why does it feel more like they tolerate him just so they can spend time with you.
Especially the youngest, insolent rat whose face had brightened up when Aerion had asked if you could spend a week here while your building was being fumigated. He hadn't even cared when Aerion roared at him to stay the fuck away.
As expected, it had been hard to find some alone time with you, because wherever you were, your shadow was not far behind. You didn't mind, of course, because the little rat turned into the sweetest, most innocent boy that's ever lived whenever you were in the vicinity, which immediately made Aerion out to be the bad one of the story.
The tiny fucker was a manipulative little shit, and Aerion will find a way to prove it to you.
After a brief shower to wash the night away, Aerion made his way down to the kitchen, hoping you'd be there. Fortunately for him, the first thing his eyes latched onto upon entering the room was your figure.
You sat at the counter, back to him, eyes on your phone.
Approaching, he hummed and wrapped his arms around you, leaning down to bury his nose in your hair. "How long have you been up? I thought you'd be worn out after —”
Eyes going round, you jammed your elbow into his gut, immediately shushing him. Aerion groaned, one arm flying to press against his stomach, where he'd taken the brunt of your strength. "What the fuck?"
Without a word, you nodded towards the fridge, and he could only follow your gaze. The fridge was open, which he hadn't noticed, and —
"Ugh, why is he here?" The words came out in unison from the two boys as soon as Egg peeked his head from behind the fridge's door and met his gaze.
Pinching your lips to hold in a laugh, because surely Aerion would hate you if you pointed out just how similar the two were, you merely lowered your phone to watch whatever was about to unravel.
"I was here first!" Egg countered, closing the fridge with a pie in hand. "Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
"I will stab you—"
"You can't keep letting him stick to you. Be on my side for once. Otherwise he'll never leave you alone."
"He just likes me because I play video games with him and I buy him food. He's not a bad kid," you laughed, but made a mental note to try and be less indulgent to the young boy.
As good as your relationship with Aerion was, it was bound to come to an end. You had been broken up for a week when the knock at your door came.
A week of lying in bed with a gaping hole in your chest.
A week of scrolling aimlessly through the pictures of the two of you on your phone.
Mostly a week of mourning how good it had been, and how good it would've been if only the two of you didn't argue so often.
The idea of interacting with a Targaryen for the time was so far out of mind that you didn’t expect the sight that befell you upon opening the door. Though, maybe you should have.
“Egg? What are you —”
“You can’t break up.” He hurried out, as though if he didn’t say everything at once, he’d never be able to. “Please, you have to come back. The house is so boring without you, and Dad says I’m not to contact you because Aerion is my brother and I have to stick by him. But I don’t want to stick by him!”
“Honey, it’s one in the morning, how did you get here?”
“I took a cab.” He panted, swallowing his saliva.
Later on, he gulped down his second glass of water as he sat on your couch. Your eyes hadn’t strayed from him at all, except for the brief moment you had used to text his brother. Of course, you knew he enjoyed your company and he thought of you not as his brother’s girlfriend but as his sister. But to come knocking at your door in the middle of the night to beg you to stay with his brother…
Yeah, you hadn’t fathomed he’d ever consider doing that. And yet.
“I didn’t think you cared so much about Aerion and his feelings.” You let out, part of you wondering if you should ask Egg how Aerion has been this past week, though you decided against it. You weren’t about to pull a nine year old boy into your issues, no matter how hard he tried,
But Egg just frowned, confusion filling his features, “Aerion? What are you talking about?”
No, you were the one frowning. Thinking back to his rapid little speech when you opened the door to find him, you questioned him again. “What were you talking about?”
Egg raised both hands as he shrugged, the way he always used his entire body to react. “I don’t care about Aerion. I just don’t want you to leave the family. But don’t worry about it. Even if you don’t want Aerion back, I’ve got a plan. What do you think about Daeron?”
Somehow, you were even more confused than you thought could be possible.
But independent as he was, Egg didn’t need a reply from you to keep the conversation going. “Father said I have to take my brother’s side now that you’ve dropped him. But if you got with Daeron, then I wouldn’t have to choose Aerion, because you’d still be in the family. Get it?”
Again, no reply from you apart from the gaping expression you gave at his words.
“If the drinking bothers you that much, I’m sure I can set you up with Valarr.”
And thank God for the sudden, incessant knocking at the door. Aerion was here, evidently, and he seemed pretty pissed.
“You fucking rat!” Aerion roared when his eyes found his brother sitting on the couch. “How did you even get out of the house? How did you get here?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
Wrong thing to say, because Aerion’s eyes widened before he started making a beeline for the couch.
As the boy screeched and jumped behind the couch, you grabbed Aerion’s arm to pull him back, wincing at the situation. God, you should be sleeping right now. “No violence inside, please.”
“My dad’s livid!” Aerion added loudly, anger seeping through his voice. “His room was empty, and the window was wide open. He thought someone had taken him. Unfortunately not!”
Egg peeked his eyes from behind your couch, glaring at his brother. “Hey, I’m doing you a favor! I was trying to get her back for you!”
“What?” He turned to you, but you only shrugged. Though you did notice how Egg’s explanation wasn’t entirely truthful, you didn’t point it out to Aerion. He was mad enough at him already without the knowledge he was trying to set you up with other people.
Growling, Aerion reached out and grabbed Egg’s collar, dragging him towards the door while mumbling an apology to you under his breath. The only thing you could hear as you closed the door was the two boys arguing.
But truth be told, if the young boy hadn’t found his way to your place and forgotten his jacket, you likely wouldn’t have called Aerion again, which led to the two of you sitting down and talking about your relationship, and if you got back together some time later… well, Aerion didn’t like the reminder it was all thanks to Egg.
this idea was stuck in my head for so long I'm just glad I got this out lmao. I also had no idea how to end it so the ending is lowkey rushed sorry
please let me know if you enjoyed this, I rarely post the fics I write so I'd love some feedback!!! and also let me know if you can see that my knowledge of how romantic relationships work is limited lmao
summary: you have been told your service is needed to help aid young prince daeron, but there are whispers that ormund hightower has kept you in oldtown for another purpose
tw: mentions of child abuse
wc: 6.7k
********************************************
People whisper of a beast that lives in House Hightower.
A beast that bludgeons men who anger him, destroys rooms, and burns down buildings.
You hear the servants warn each other of it, their whispers reaching your ears during quiet spells in the night.
During your first months at House Hightower, you wondered if this beast actually existed, or if it was a mere horror story told between serving staff to keep them on their best behavior.
But slowly, as more time passed during your stay in Oldtown, you began to hear it.
Shouts carry through the hallways. You hear screaming from areas you did not know existed. You see servants running from something that you have not witnessed yourself.
Prince Daeron is the one to finally explain it to you.
The two of you sit together in the Hightower library reading through histories of the Gardening when you hear the sound of glass shattering on one of the floors above you. You then hear heavy footsteps, and a crash that is so loud it makes you flinch.
Two guards run past the library doorway, and you begin to fear something is wrong.
“It is only my Uncle Ormund,” Prince Daeron tells you, noticing your expressions. “You needn’t worry, he will not come down here.”
“Lord Ormund?” Your shoulders jump as you hear another crashing of glass. “Is he okay?”
“He must have received a letter he did not like.”
“It sounds worse than an ill-received letter.”
“It is actually quite tame for him.”
You don’t understand it.
Lord Ormund Hightower appears to be the very definition of prestige and class when you are near him.
He is a man that never slouches, never curses, never complains. He is a compass of what a good man should be, and he carries himself as if he is the role model for the world.
“He hides that side of himself from you,” Daeron once confessed to you. “He is easily angered, and is quick to react with violence. He tries to pretend he is well tempered but he is not.”
“I have seen him angry,” you tried to reassure him. “You have not seen him angry. You have seen him upset. He is different when he is angry. He will break everything in his path. He will destroy an entire room. He will wound servants that are near him.”
“It is a sin to harm an innocent in anger-”
“He is different,” Daeron insisted. “That is what I am warning. He believes you to be too gentle to see such a thing, so he hides it, but he is a beast at times. You must be careful.”
A beast. His word choice set you on edge.
It was difficult to believe the almighty Ormund Hightower was the beast everyone spoke of, and not the dragon that lived in the lowest level of the tower.
Even after all the warnings, you still thought people must have been exaggerating to scare you. For months you lived in Oldtown, and you never once saw Ormund raise a hand to anyone.
Until you reached your second year with the Hightowers.
That was when you first saw him physically punish Daeron with a slap to the face. It had been a petty crime Daeron committed, being caught having a taste of his uncle’s wine when he thought he wasn’t looking. It scared you so badly you could not look the Lord in the eye for a week.
By the time your third year here came around, Ormund would frequently discipline the Prince by striking the back of his hands with a leather rod.
Seeing such things made you…wary of him. But he never placed an unkind hand on you.
Daeron says he’s soft for you.
Now, as you neared your fourth year in Oldtown, you find yourself unsure of your attitude towards Ormund. He was a Lord, so you respected him. You try to remember how you have been raised, all the politeness you must show, so you put your personal feelings aside so that you can do your duties properly.
Your duties, which involve the education and faith of Prince Daeron, are difficult at times.
Especially today.
You have sat Daeron down in the library, and you are attempting to get him used to more diligent notetaking, yet he is fighting back with everything he has.
“We spend so many hours in this library,” he complains. “Can we not go somewhere else?”
“We can visit the Sept.”
He lets out an uninterested grunt.
“We can take a break once we reach mid-hour,” you offer. “We’ll take a walk through the gardens.”
Daeron fidgets in his seat. “I wish to visit Tessarion.”
“You know that is not allowed.”
“It’s not recommended. I am the Prince, I can order you to take me anywhere if I really want to.”
“It would be much easier if you just finish your notetaking.”
He sighs as he looks down at the paper. His quill finally starts moving again.
“Perhaps we can ask your uncle at dinner if he can take you down to Tessarion.”
“He would never agree to that, he dislikes her.”
“There is no harm in asking him. The worst he can do is say ‘no’.”
You hear Daeron chuckle, like you have made a joke. “Only you would say such a thing.”
You place down your book. “And why is that?”
“Because you are the only one he does not throw a fit in front of. He’ll hold his tongue for you.” Daeron risks another smile as his quill scrolls across the paper. He uses a mocking voice. “Uncle Ormund says that you are a proper woman, and should not have to bear witness to such foul, abhorrent language.”
You straighten yourself to better posture, surprised by the comment. Lord Ormund was one of the most prestigious, well-classed men you have ever met. To hear such a compliment from him was beyond meaningful.
“Well, that is true,” you say. “Foul language should not be said around ladies.”
“And what of your foul language?”
“I do not use foul language, it is a sin.”
Daeron’s smile turns to a smirk. “You do not think of the word ‘bastard’ as foul? Or do you assume your context of calling the street merchant a ‘bastard’ acceptable?”
Your shoulders slouch, and you feel heat rush to your face. “That was a moment of wrongfulness, and you heard me pray for the Mother to forgive me for it.”
“Perhaps I should tell Uncle Ormund all the words I’ve heard you use so that he is less worried about exposing you to such language-”
“You will not.” Your words come out flustered. “I hardly ever use such language and-and if I have it was well deserved.”
Daeron is even more amused. He leans closer, and fakes a gasp. “You dare believe someone deserves such a name? And here I thought you were supposed to be aiding me in my ethics of the Seven.”
“You stop it,” you tell him. “I have prayed for my wrongdoings. But even if I didn’t...that merchant ripped my coin pouch right from my hands. Had you not retrieved it, your uncle would have never allowed us back to the market again.”
Daeron chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Alright, I agree. The bastard was deserved. And I have to admit it was quite humorous to hear my proper teacher shouting that word across a crowd.”
“You should be finishing your notes, not trying to rile me up,” you tell me. “Let me see your paper so I can be sure you complete your studies before dinner.”
“Let me see your paper,” Daeron counters.
He reaches over, but you quickly flip the book over. “I am not the one who needs to take notes.”
“But let me see yours, so I know I am taking notes correctly.”
You pull your book away.
He smiles wider. “Unless, perhaps, my teacher has not been taking notes. Perhaps she has just been drawing.”
Your face grows hotter in embarrassment. He knew how to get under your skin so easily.
“As the teacher, I am asking to see yours-Daeron!”
He reached over and snatched your parchments from you. He laughs, flipping it back towards you to say, “It is a beautiful flower you have drawn.”
“I have learned these lessons before, I can draw if I wish.”
“Shall I tell Uncle Ormund that you are wasting time in the library with such drawings?”
“You will do no such thing.”
You would be humiliated. You could picture it now. His stern stare looking down at the stupid flower, and then back up at you, silently labeling you as incompetent for the rest of your time here.
“I will keep my mouth shut if we end lessons early today,” Daeron says. “And you allow me to visit Tessarion.”
“Lord Ormund is displeased when you visit her.”
“He would also be displeased by this,” Daeron countered, waving your drawing in front of him.
You are tired of the library anyway, so you figured there was no harm in a quick visit downstairs. You sigh. “Fine. But you must wash before dinner so that he does not smell her on you.”
Daeron smiles again, like he tricked you into giving him the upper hand. Though, in all honesty, he was the Prince. He could have left the library at any time, and you had no true power to stop him.
“May I at least see that you have taken notes?” you ask.
He flips his book around to show you his parchment.
There were no notes. There was only a drawing of you sitting in front of him, drawing a flower.
You open your mouth to lecture him, but quickly shut it. “We will be going to the Sept tonight, and we are going to pray about your lack of enthusiasm for your education.”
He paid no mind to your words. “Come on. I’m sure Tessarion had been missing me greatly.”
The days are always like this with Prince Daeron. Amusing. Frustrating. Happy. Exciting. Nerve wracking. You feel every emotion with the boy everyday.
And it brings you more joy than anything.
When you first arrived at House Hightower, nearly four years prior, Daeron hardly spoke to you.
He had recently turned the age of ten, and at the time you were barely ten and six. He was a quiet boy, and you were a quiet girl. It was extraordinary to see the difference in him now.
Originally, you had been sent to Oldtown by your father, who was a strong believer in the Faith of the Seven. He wanted you to learn how to pray from the Septas of Oldtown, the most devoted women in the realm.
It was Gwayne Hightower that offered for you to stay in House of Hightower, your mother having been a dear friend to Alicent and him in their younger days.
You were meant to be in Oldtown for one month, and then you were to be sent home.
But the gods had a different plan for you.
It was Ormund Hightower that spoke to your father about you becoming an aid for the young prince.
Lord Ormund was a man of religion. He visited the Sept every morning and every night. He was quick to notice, staring on the morning of your arrival, that you did as well.
He admitted to your father that he was impressed with your faith, and even more impressed with how often you partook in prayer.
“Daeron has become very lonesome being so isolated from his siblings,” Lord Ormund had said to you. “It would be beneficial for him to have the company of a girl as mindful as yourself. A girl proper in her ways, and a devoted servant to the Seven.”
When the offer of a more permanent stay was first given to you, you were wary of it. “This is the first time I have been away from home,” you admitted. “I do not know if I would be able to assist the Prince as well as a Septa could.”
“Septas know only scripture,” Ormund reasoned. “They are the education of the spiritual world, and you will help teach him the ways of the physical one.”
In honesty, you felt too young for such a position. Ten and six, you still felt like a child. You were frightened to be so far from your mother, and even more frightened to be in a position responsible for royalty.
And in the beginning, you were frightened of Lord Ormund as well. You had been so scared to talk to him the day he brought his proposal up to you. You had never spoken to him prior to it, and the only reputation you knew was that he was a serious man who was easily disappointed.
So you try to be honest with him, hoping he would understand your hesitancy. “I do not know if I am equipped to handle such a task, my Lord.”
He had smiled at you. A warm smile that made him appear as such a kind and considerate man.
Placing a hand upon your shoulder, he told you, “You are a good girl, (Y/N). All I need is your help in raising my nephew to be just as good.”
Now, nearly four years later, Oldtown feels more like home than your homeland ever did.
Because your brother is here.
Daeron Targaryen, Prince of the realms, will always be the brother you never had. Not a blood brother, like the ones from your homeland, who were cruel to you in your childhood and would throw things your way when you became bothersome. Daeron was a real brother, and seeing him grow up to be kind was the best gift the Mother could ever give you.
“Come,” Daeron hurried you as the two of you descended down the staircase to where Tessarion was kept. “She has been alone for so long, she must be dying for company.”
You disliked the way the Hightowers treated Daeron’s dragon. But you knew it was not your place to interfere with such a thing.
Daeron’s face lights up like the boy he is as he sees her. You stay back against the staircase as Daeron jogs down the steps and over to the creature. “Here I am, girl. I promised I would return to you.”
The sight of the large dragon always makes you wary. Even as she makes screeches of joy as she sets her eyes on her rider, you feel yourself fearing for him.
Yet, he nuzzles his head against hers, and she appears to nuzzle him back. “There you are,” Daeron whispers with a laugh. “Shh. Shh. I told you, I can come down here more often if you are quiet.”
“Be cautious of her claws,” you say as she paws near his feet.
“She knows her strength, she will not harm me,” Daeron assures you.
You rest against the wall, and listen to him whispering soft words of admiration to her.
You are patient as he takes a brush to draw over her scales, grooming her body. He glances over to you. “She is not a monster like they say,” he tells you. “I have raised her to be good.”
You give a soft nod. “She is good, I know.”
“Would you...” He hesitates. “...Would you like to pet her?”
You take a quick step back, shaking your head. “I will keep my distance.”
“She will not harm you, you have my word.”
“Lord Ormund warns they are unpredictable with those that do not have the right blood.”
“Please,” Daeron says. “She sees you so often. I want her to actually meet you.”
Your eyes take in the creature. You stiffen as she stares right at you.
Daeron holds a hand out. “I will be right beside you.”
“What if she dislikes me-?”
“She will not. I promise.” Daeron steps close to you with his hand out. “Trust me, Lady (Y/N).”
It takes a moment of contemplation before you finally decide you do trust him. And if your trust gets you burnt, so be it. You take his hand, and he leads you to the dragon.
He lifts your arm and slowly places it on Tessarion’s head. The texture catches you by surprise and you flinch back.
He chuckles. “It is an odd feeling, isn’t it?”
You choke back a scream when Tessarion moves her head against your stomach. You stumble back, but Daeron places an arm out to steady you. “Daeron-”
“It’s alright. She just wishes to feel you too.”
You force yourself still. The dragon runs her head along your abdomen. Slowly, you lower your hand back onto her. The scales are not so frightening now.
“See,” Daeron smiles. “She likes you.”
“That is very relieving,” you laugh.
“Sometimes I think she can sense how I feel about people,” he tells you. “And that’s how she judges them.”
“Does that mean if you decide you hate me, she will eat me?”
“I would never hate you,” Daeron says. His voice grows more somber. “You are the only true companion I have ever had.”
“For now,” you say. “I am sure you will gain allies over time.”
“Allies,” he repeats. “Not friends.”
“I have no other friends either,” you tell him. “It is not so bad.”
As an aid to royalty, you are secluded from the outside world. Lord Ormund has insisted on it.
‘There is no room for distractions when it comes to your care of my nephew,’ he told you when you first arrived. You were just a girl then, so it made sense to you. But now, nearing your twentieth summer, you feel the seclusion is less necessary. Yet, he still insists on it.
It does matter your opinion, however. It never does with him.
Lord Ormund is the man of the house, so you must bend your knee to his orders.
Daeron is quiet for a moment. He brushes along Tessarion’s back.
“...I wish you were my true sister,” he whispers. “So that I did not have to fear you leaving.”
He has said this before. It makes you feel sympathy that he is so far from his real family, he sometimes forgets he actually does have a true sister.
“I would not leave,” you quickly insist. “I promised I would remain at your side for the rest of your youth.”
“And after?” he asks.
You sigh. “I do not know the plans my father has for me after.” You look again at the creature that has settled comfortably with leaning against your body. “But Tessarion will be here forever, at least for that you are certain. So be good to her.”
“I am,” he swore to you. He leaned his head against the dragon’s once more. “Aren’t I good to you?” he whispers to the dragon.
A few weeks pass, and the weather becomes warmer. It causes Daeron to lose energy in the day.
“It is shameful to sleep in the Sept, Prince Daeron,” you chide softly, “It is best you wake before someone else sees you.”
The boy barely stirred. Head resting on the pew in front of him, arms folded beneath him, he muffles, “I am not sleeping, I am praying.”
The yawn was still in his voice, and it made you chuckle. “You’ve been unmoving for fifteen minutes.”
“Deep in prayer,” he insists.
Another laugh. “It is almost time for dinner, Daeron. Come. Raise your head, and pray with me once more before we go.”
Daeron slowly lifts his head. He rises from the bench, and comes to kneel beside you in front of the candle altar. He clasps his hands together, and waits for you to begin.
You let your eyes flutter closed and pray, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
Daeron repeats, “Mother, please grant us peace of mind in these upcoming weeks. Give us honor in what we do.”
“Warrior, please send strength to King Viserys. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
Again, Daeron repeats after you. “Warrior, please send strength to my father. Please give him health and extend his kingdom.”
“Crone, please give Prince Daeron wisdom in his studies, and the foresight to see the consequences of laziness-”
“I am not lazy.”
You laugh, and continue, “Please make him into the best scholar he can be.”
Daeron eyes you, before praying, “Mother, please give (Y/N) a kinder heart that is less overbearing-”
“Shh,” you laugh, sticking out your hand to cover his mouth. “Do not say that to her.”
Daeron smiles as he continues, “Crone, give her the wisdom that reminds her I am her Prince, therefore I am in charge-”
“Daeron,” you scold with amusement, “We do not play with the gods.”
“I am not lazy. Take it back.”
“You were sleeping in the Sept.”
“Exhausted, not lazy.”
You huff, yet a smile still plays on your face. “Fine. You are not lazy. But you better be careful. What would you have done had Lord Ormund heard you snoring?”
“I do not snore.”
You shrug. “You would not know.”
You catch him rolling his eyes, to which you criticize, “Do not roll your eyes in the house of the gods.”
“Then let us leave the house of the gods. I am starving.”
“In a moment,” you tell him. “Allow me to do a prayer for our food.”
He sighs, but he stays kneeled beside you. He is patient with you in the Sept, just as you are patient with him with his dragon.
When you two are finished, the guards escort the two of you to Lord Ormund.
It became customary over the last few years for Daeron and yourself to have dinner with Lord Ormund in his private study. The Lord often complained that the Hightower dining hall was unappealing, that it was too close to the kitchens, the aromas were too strong, and he was unable to eat there. The difference in rooms mattered very little to you. You did not mind eating in his study. In fact, it felt like a compliment that you were even invited. It made you feel more valued that your company was enjoyed by both the Lord and Prince.
You are still laughing with Daeron over mundane things as you make your way through the halls.
“What brings such laughter from my nephew?” Ormund asks as the two of you arrive at his study.
You greet the Lord with a curtsy of respect. “Good evening, Lord Ormund.” You rise and smile, “Daeron speaks of plans for his fourteenth nameday.”
“Ah,” he grins. “Yes, that is arriving soon.”
As always, Lord Ormund stands as you enter, and he pulls out your chair for you. You take it with a gracious, “Thank you, my Lord.”
“What kind of celebration would you like?” Ormund asks as he takes his seat. He sits at the head of the table, as always. You take the left side of him, Daeron is sat on the right.
The prince smiles shyly. “I need nothing extravagant. I only wish to have a feast with the three of us, as always. With cake. Perhaps Uncle Gwayne can be here.”
“I can prepare you a cake,” you tell him. “It would be my honor.”
“You need not do it,” Daeron quickly says. “We will pay a baker.”
You tilt your head. “You do not trust my cooking?”
He chuckles. “No offense, my Lady, but I have yet to see you in a kitchen. It seems you do not get much practice at it.”
You let out a laugh. “Is that so?”
“Careful, Daeron,” Ormund chides. “Insulting a woman’s cooking is as if she were to insult your sword fighting.”
“She knows I jest,” Daeron says. “But either way, you should not waste time on such things, Lady (Y/N). Any day that honors me should honor you as well.”
The words warm your heart, and you wonder if this is what motherhood is meant to feel like. “You flatter me.”
“It is true. I feel I am becoming a great man due to your teachings. You as well, Uncle Ormund. I believe I am growing into my strongest self here in Oldtown.”
Ormund smiles proudly at his nephew. He reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder. “The Father smiles upon you, Daeron. You are a blessing to us all.”
“My father sends coin on my nameday,” Daeron says. “I would like to purchase gifts for the two of you. As well as Uncle Gwayne.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, Prince Daeron, but it is not a day you must buy gifts for others. Others should buy gifts for you.”
“I want to,” he says. His tone becomes shy. “I…would like to show my appreciation. With something you will be able to cherish.”
The idea warms your heart.
“Besides, I need nothing,” Daeron says. “And I want for nothing. I would donate my coin rather than hoard it.”
You smile wider, and you meet Lord Ormund’s eye. “He is a very noble boy, your nephew. You should be very proud of him.”
“I am,” Ormund smiles. “My nephew is growing to be flawless.”
“Flawless.” Daeron chuckles. “Except for the snoring, I suppose.”
You laugh. “Yes, except for the snoring.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lord Ormund lean back against his chair.
“I am very much looking forward to hearing from my mother,” Daeron continues. “She writes to me an especially long letter on my name day each year. My father as well.”
“Perhaps you can have a portrait made to send them,” you suggest. “I’m sure your mother misses your face dearly.”
He lights up at the idea. “A portrait. Yes. I have not had one of those done in a few years.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “I fear my mother has not seen a new portrait of me since I was the age of ten and seven.”
“Then we could all have portraits done. Uncle Ormund, do you think you could call upon an artisan to-” Daeron’s smile drops and his words cease.
Your attention turns to Lord Ormund. A pit forms in your stomach.
He is not looking at either of you. He is simply staring ahead, silent.
Daeron becomes tense. “…Uncle?”
Ormund continues staring ahead, only his finger moving as he taps upon the table, quickly and precise, as if counting the seconds.
“I need no portrait,” Daeron quickly says. “It was only an idea.”
Lord Ormund is angry. You do not know why, or over what, but you know that this is his first stage of anger.
He stares.
He stares, and it gives him time to think. And the more he thinks, the angrier he gets.
Daeron becomes a shade paler at the lack of response. “I-I do not look forward to hearing from my mother as much as I look forward to seeing you, Uncle,” he spurts out, going through every last word he said to think of what could have angered him. “I do not take my place here for granted.”
Ormund’s head tilts to the side, his stare still blank and ominous.
When his eyes land on you, his gaze is so piercing that you flinch.
“My nephew snores?”
You blink, caught off guard by the question.
His hands open and close. “How would you know my nephew snores, Lady (Y/N)-?”
“I fell asleep today,” Daeron quickly cuts in. “I apologize for it. I drifted off, and she-she merely teased me for it.”
Ormund’s eyes don’t leave you.
You have been scolded by Lord Ormund before, plenty of time in fact. But there is something different in his voice now. Those scolding were small corrections, his voice never, ever rose at you. Even now, he speaks calmly. But the look in his eye makes you feel cold.
He does not speak again, simply waiting and watching for you to answer.
“It was only for a moment,” Daeron repeats with worry. “No wrong was done.”
Ormund continues to wait for your response only.
You swallow before speaking, “The Prince drifted off today, as he said. I allowed him to rest for a few minutes because he was tired. I should not tease a Prince about such things, I am sorry.”
“Where did he fall asleep?”
Daeron’s posture is rigid. You bite your lip, considering the consequences of your answer.
“Lady (Y/N).” He speaks your name softly, but there is an edge to his voice that you did not want to press.
You look again at Daeron, and feel as if it would be against your faith to tell on him. Daeron must’ve seen it in your eyes that you were unwilling.
Internally, you make the decision not to answer. You did not fear his uncle harming you for your silence.
But Daeron feared it.
Daeron quickly answered for you, “It was in the Sept.”
His uncle frowned. His head slowly turned to his nephew. “In the Sept?”
“Yes-”
“In our most sacred place of prayer?”
His voice is only a whisper. “I am sorry.”
Ormund slowly pulls his napkin off his lap, folding it and calmly placing it onto the table. He stands to his feet, his boots heavy on the floor as he walks to stand behind Daeron’s chair. He asks, “Did you pray for forgiveness before you left?”
“I...” He swallows. “I did not think to pray for that specifically-”
“Both hands flat on the table.”
Daeron’s face goes completely pale.
Ormund crosses the room to his bookshelf.
Your heart slams in your chest as you rush to your feet, hurrying over to Ormund’s side, trying to match his quick strides. “He said prayers before leaving, my Lord.”
He ignores you. He grabs the leather strapped rod he keeps on the shelf.
The sight of it surges your panic. You struggle to remain by Ormund’s side, placing a hand on his arm to slow him. “He did not mean to offend the gods. He was only tired from the heat of the day-”
“If he did not pray for forgiveness, I will administer punishment.”
“He will not commit the offense again.”
“Spare the rod, spoil the child. He will receive seven lashes. One for each god he offended.” He snaps at Daeron, “Both hands flat on the table. Now.”
Daeron shuts his eyes tightly, doing as told.
You run forward and force yourself in front of your prince. “The lashes should be mine,” you tell Ormund.
Daeron tries to push you away. “No-”
“I was in charge of him, the fault is mine. Allow me the lashes, not him.” In a surge of protectiveness, you try to hide Daeron behind your body. “I offended the gods, not him.”
Lord Ormund watches you with critical eyes.
You knelt down, and place both hands flat on the table.
Daeron’s voice is a quiet whimper as he says, “(Y/N), get up, this is not your punishment.”
You physically push his hands back to his lap, and lay yours flat on the table once more. You stare up at Lord Ormund, whose eyes are still so meticulous.
He stays staring at you a moment longer, and every second that passes, you feel your heart will give out from beating so fast.
Finally, Ormund drops the rod onto the table. Slowly, he kneels beside you and rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Lady (Y/N), lead us in a prayer of forgiveness for Daeron’s offense.”
A shaky breath of relief escapes your lips. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”
Daeron quickly kneels beside you as well.
“Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Daeron quickly repeats, “Mother, please forgive my transgressions. I have committed an offensive act that I shall commit again. Please, allow me grace and hospitality.”
Ormund speaks next. “Mother, please forgive the transgressions of Daeron. He has committed an offensive act that he shall not commit again. Please, allow him grace and hospitality.”
Another nervous breath. “Mother, please-please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Daeron hesitates, his eyes shooting to his uncle, as if terrified of the consequences of this prayer.
“Daeron,” his uncle urges.
Daeron follows, “Mother, please put mercy in the heart of Lord Ormund. Please allow him to grant us the patience and grace that you would.”
Ormund finishes, “Mother, please put mercy in my heart. Please allow me to grant them the patience and grace that you would.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.”
“And so it is.” Ormund rises to his feet. “Let us finish dinner.” He pulls out his chair for you to sit.
The rest of the dinner is silent. You have lost your appetite, but try to finish the plate anyway. Lord Ormund is strict with your diet, and if you do not eat now, you will not be allowed food again until morning.
The time ticks by slowly. Daeron fidgets more and more as each minute passes.
“Daeron, you are excused,” Ormund speaks after he is finished with his own meal.
You see in the prince’s eyes that he does not want to leave you.
“Go on,” you tell him. “I will see you in the morning at the library.”
He hesitates only a moment longer. Ormund clears his throat, and he finally goes.
You are left alone with Lord Ormund.
“It is not your place to stand between that boy and his punishments,” he tells you.
You stare down at your hands. “I apologize, Lord Ormund.”
“You apologize, yet if it came down to it, you would do so again.”
You do not lie. “I would.”
Ormund sighs. He rises to his feet. He walks to you, and leans upon the table beside you. His fingers ghost your chin, and he tilts your head up to face him. “I hope you are not allowing your loyalty towards him to cloud your judgement.”
“I am not.”
His fingers graze the side of your face, pushing your hair behind your ears. “I do not only feel responsible for Daeron, (Y/N), I also feel responsible for you. I want what is best for you, I hope you know that.”
“I do, my Lord.”
His hand brushes down the back of your hair. “You have always been such a good girl for me.” His hand stops on the back of your head, and you flinch as his hand suddenly grips your hair. “But I need you to remember that your obedience is to me before my nephew.”
His grip does not hurt, but it frightens you.
You force your hands to remain in your lap. “Y-Yes, my Lord. I remember.”
“The next interference, I will not spare the rod on you.”
You swallow. “I understand.”
Ormund smiles at your agreement. His hand loosens on your hair, and he cups your cheek instead. “I have been told I have a weakness for you, Lady (Y/N). That I am too lenient when you are around, that I lack appropriate sternness.”
You have been told the same thing about him. That he is fond of you, that he treats you kinder than others, that your faith in the Seven makes him more gentle.
Ormund’s hand lingers on your cheek a moment, before he turns your head to the side, and reaches out to wipe away a bead of sweat that began to form on your temple.
“You would not dare use that against me, would you?”
“Never, my Lord.” You realize your hands are forming sweat as well. You open and close them to try to release the nerves. “I-I appreciate your mercy, but it is never expected.”
“Good.” He turns your jaw to face him head on. “Because my patience is not limitless.”
You do not know what he wants you to say. You wonder if he even wants you to say anything at all, or if he just wants to frighten you so you do not interfere again. You simply repeat, “I understand, my Lord.”
You think he will let go of you, but he does not.
Instead, he leans closer, and you hear his long inhale. It is what he does whenever the serving boys bring him new scented powders.
“You smell of candle smoke,” he tells you.
“From my prayer in the Sept, my Lord.”
Your answer satisfies him.
Another moment passes of uncertainty for you. You have never been alone with Ormund for this long before. Your mind goes back to Daeron, and where he might be.
“I think it is time we find a perfume for you.”
The comment catches you by surprise. “A perfume, my Lord?”
“Noble women choose perfumes for themselves. Ones they reorder time and time again. They spray it upon letters when they send it away, and sometimes gift small portions of it to women in their service. It will help mask the scent of the other tasks you attend to during the day. You are old enough now to go and choose your own.”
The idea uplifted you. “I will be able to choose?”
“You will be taken to the market tomorrow. You will pick three scents you like, and I will make the final decision on which one will be yours.”
“Any perfume?”
“Any you desire. There is no budget when it comes to a woman’s cleanliness.”
You feel yourself getting excited over the prospect of shopping. Lord Ormund usually hand picks everything for you, without your opinion on things.
Your excitement makes you bold. “May I choose a new dress for myself as well? It has been a long time since I have had myself fitted.”
His eyes flicker over your face. “You push your luck.”
Your heart drops, and you think you have angered him.
But he merely asks, “What would it be for?”
“For my visits to the Sept,” you quickly tell him, because you know he will not refuse this. “A dress with a thicker skirt so that my knees do not ache at the end of the day.”
Ormund leans back and contemplates. “You recall the rules of modesty for clothing?”
“Of course, my Lord. Neckline higher than the collarbone. Skirts passed the ankles. Arms to the wrist.”
He reaches down and drags his hand up the side of your arm, feeling the material. It was as if he was imagining something new. “Very well then. You may pick up a new dress.”
Your smile grows. You lean up, and you place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Lord Ormund.”
His smile warms, and his expression turns kind. He is happy with you, and you hear it in his voice as he relents, “I will allow two dresses, if it pleases you.”
“Yes.” Your spirits raise even higher. “Yes, it pleases me greatly, thank you.”
Ormund chuckles at how elated you have become. He leans down and places a kiss onto the top of your head.
He lingers for a moment. You hear his gentle inhale, his quiet judgement of what he smells.
“What oils are used for your hair?”
“Roses, my Lord.”
“Do not choose roses tomorrow. This scent is tied to your girlhood with Daeron. You must find a new scent for womanhood.”
You find the comment odd, so you risk a laugh. “I am already a woman, Lord Ormund.”
His response is just a repeated, “No roses.”
Your laugh goes away. You shake your head. “No roses.”
“You are excused, Lady (Y/N). The guards will escort you to your chambers.”
the thought of playfighting with bb 🤤🤤🤤 he seems so serious about attacking entities and it’s such a job for him that i think he’d adoreee getting all silly and touchy with companion 🙏 and imagining it after he’s been chasing her too !!!
the first time you shove him he doesn’t move. obviously.
you put both hands on his chest and push and he just stands there, blinking at you with that confused furrow. because you’ve applied force to him, and the force was not effective and he’s now concerned you might be malfunctioning.
“fight me,” you demand.
“…no?”
“BB. fight me.”
“I don’t want to fight you.” genuinely distressed now. his eyes scan you for injuries, for signs of possession, for any reason his beloved might be requesting combat. “are you—is something—“
and you have to explain. it takes a minute. you have to walk an ancient predator through the concept of roughhousing. play. physical affection disguised as aggression. like pack animals.
you shove him again for emphasis and bb’s hands come up automatically to catch your wrists and you grin at him, and go “see? like that” and something clicks behind the blue eyes.
and then he loves it.
because you’re so cute. that’s the core of it, really. you’re slapping at his chest and biting his arm, squirming in his grip like you could actually get free if you tried hard enough and you can’t (you absolutely can’t) he could hold you still with one hand and a passing thought. but your face is scrunched up with real effort, and you’re growling at him, you’re actually growling, and his chest is so full of adoration he could choke on it.
you catch on fast that you can weaponise this.
you learn where the line is between play and play, and you get mean with it on purpose.
you bite harder. you scratch. you lean up and hiss something sharp against his ear, a taunt, a challenge, and you feel it happen… the shift. that low rumble replacing the purr. the frequency dropping from amused to older and heavier, the vibration changing texture in his chest. and the loving softness melts off his expression like frost off a window and underneath it is that predator shine, that flat black-edged stare, the grin pulling too wide.
there you are, you think, and it thrills you. every time.
you two wrestle through the nest like animals. blankets everywhere. pillows destroyed. he lets you win for a few seconds at a time, lets you pin his wrist or straddle his chest, crow about your victory snugly before he flips you like you weigh nothing and pins you flat with both wrists above your head, his body heavy on yours. his face is inches away. and the mockery on his tongue is soft, that low, amused murmur: “oh, you almost had me that time. so close. very scary.”
and you lift your chin. wrists pinned, chest heaving, completely trapped. and you stretch up and press the softest, sweetest kiss to his mouth. barely a brush. just your lips on his and the grin dissolves and the black bleeds out of his eyes and BB flooding back in, all warmth and want. that needy, desperate rush of tenderness crashing through the predator like a wave through a sandcastle.
his grip on your wrists goes slack. his breath stutters. his whole body softens against yours because you kissed him and the kissing is always his undoing, every single time, the gentleness after the roughness short-circuiting every ancient instinct he has. because you’re his love, and your mouth makes all the loving, protective instincts flare to life.
and in that half-second of melted composure you twist free. roll out from under him. hit the floor running top speed.
you’re through the apartment door and sprinting down the corridor barefoot, cackling before he’s even lifted his head, and behind you there’s a beat of silence, just one, and then that low, dark chuckle rolling down the hallway after you like smoke. pleased. impressed. delighted.
“oh,” he says, and you can hear the grin in it. “oh, that was good.”
his footsteps start. slow. unhurried. that casual lethal stroll.
you’re not going to make it far. you never do. but the chase is the whole point and you both know it, and somewhere in the nest behind you there’s a pile of destroyed blankets and a dent where you were pinned and this, this, this stupid silly reckless game of bite and shove and run and catch…. this is the happiest he’s ever been.
not the quiet adoration or the worship. this. you choosing to play with the thing in the dark. you teaching it that teeth can be gentle and fighting can be a love language and the corridor doesn’t always have to end in fear and death.
he’s going to catch you in about thirty seconds and the catching is going to involve pinning you to the nearest wall and kissing you until your knees give out, then he’s going to carry you back to the nest like his greatest prize.
-ANGST!! character death (you die), aerion loves loves you very much!! emotional breakdown, unhealthy coping mechanisms....(wine/wildfire), hallucinations/delusions, possessive attachment and major obsessive love!! mentions of children, implied suicide?? grief-driven insanity. basically a tragic romance!! ᥫ᭡
from the moment aerion targaryen met you, he was ruined for everyone else.
he had known it immediately, which offended him greatly.
you had stood in the great hall beneath streaming banners and candlelight, speaking softly to some elderly lord whose name aerion could not remember now, and he had stared at you with the unnerving certainty that his life had just divided itself into before and after.
he had wanted you at once.
not simply for your beauty, though the gods knew you possessed enough of it to make men foolish.
no, it was worse than that. it was the way you smiled when spoken to you. the way your voice softened around frightened animals. the way you listened carefully to him, as though every word mattered.
you were gentle and yet you were smart. unbreakable.
and aerion, for all his arrogance, for all the monstrous streak that lived comfortably beneath his skin, found himself following that gentleness like a frightened man following candlelight.
once he married you, he became unbearable about it.
he could not go anywhere without you.
court meetings became impossible unless you sat beside him. feasts irritated him if you were seated too far away. he would find excuses to leave conversations midway simply because he had caught sight of you across the hall and suddenly needed to hear your voice more than whatever tedious noble was speaking to him.
people noticed, of course they noticed. it was impossible not to.
aerion targaryen, proud and cruel and impossible, followed his wife around like a man enchanted.
and he did not care.
when your gown fittings were scheduled, he attended them as though invited personally by the gods. he would lounge dramatically across velvet chairs in the corner while seamstresses fluttered around you adjusting hems and sleeves. a goblet of wine would rest lazily in his hand while he watched you with shameless devotion.
“you are staring at me again,” you would murmur, smoothing your hands down the front of some pale silk gown.
“you mustn't blame me wife, for you are simply beautiful,” he would answer easily. “we both suffer from consistency.”
the seamstresses would blush furiously. you smiled every time.
sometimes he would rise simply to touch the fabric himself, rubbing it between long fingers before looking at you critically. “no,” he would decide. “this color does not suit you.”
“it is blue.”
“it is horrid blue.”
“you said yesterday that blue was my color.”
“that was a better blue.” then he would press a kiss to your inner wrist as though that settled the matter entirely.
often the two of you escaped to the gardens whenever court became too suffocating. hidden away beneath twisting vines and dragon roses, you would spend hours tangled together beneath the shade.
you liked adventure stories, romance too. aerion preferred gruesome histories filled with betrayals and executions and bloodshed. he would read them aloud with disturbing enthusiasm while you laughed softly beside him, your head resting against his shoulder.
“it is educational, wife, it is not a laughing matter.”
“it is horrifying!”
“that as well.”
you smiled and stole the book from his hands. “then i shall save your soul with something gentler.”
“my soul is beyond saving.”
“mm. i have hope.”
he watched you read the same way he watched flames, utterly entranced. your voice drifting through the gardens became one of his favorite sounds in the world. sometimes he stopped listening to the actual story entirely, too distracted by the shape of your mouth around certain words.
he would kiss you slow and lazy beneath flowering vines while the world continued without you.
everywhere in the red keep there were glimpses of you together. your arms linked through endless corridors. his hand possessively at your waist during feasts and parties.
his favor wrapped around your wrist during tournaments because he insisted his colors belonged on his wife and only his wife.
and you understood him.
you understood the sharpness in him. the cruelty. the terrible anger he carried like another heartbeat. you never excused it, but neither did you recoil from it. you saw all the ugliness inside him and loved him still.
it made him worship you for it.
so when you fell ill, it destroyed him slowly.
you would smile and insist you were well enough, brushing it aside with gentle reassurance whenever his expression darkened with concern. a cough lingering too long after the autumn rain, a fever that came and went in waves, exhaustion settling into your bones until even simple things began to tire you.
but aerion noticed everything about you.
he noticed when you stopped finishing your meals. when your hands felt warmer than usual curled inside his. when you leaned more heavily against him during long walks through the gardens. he noticed the shadows beginning to gather beneath your eyes no matter how carefully you tried to hide them.
and selfishly, desperately, he had hoped it was something else.
he had hoped you were with child.
the thought had rooted itself in him almost immediately, growing quietly into hope before he could stop it. he imagined your sickness explained away by life instead of illness. a babe. your babe. his hands resting against your stomach while you laughed softly at his unbearable protectiveness.
he clung to the possibility with frightening intensity.
“you have been tired for weeks,” he murmured one evening, sitting beside you near the fire while you leaned sleepily against the cushions. “and sick in the mornings.”
you looked up at him over the rim of your cup. “are you attempting to diagnose me yourself now?”
“i am saying there may be another explanation.”
the faintest smile touched your mouth then, soft and knowing. “you think i am carrying your child.”
“i think it would explain things.”
“and if it does not?”
his expression shifted immediately, the fragile hope there dimming just slightly. “it will.”
you reached over to touch his face gently. “aerion.”
“you would tell me if you thought it possible.”
“i would.”
his hand slid over yours quickly, holding it there against his cheek. “i want it to be true.”
you softened instantly, your thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “i know you do.”
for a little while, the possibility sustained him.
he became almost absurdly attentive after that. hovering constantly. insisting you rest. arguing with servants if meals were not prepared exactly right. pulling blankets over your lap himself with quiet irritation whenever he thought you looked cold.
“you need not be so concerned aerion,” you teased weakly one afternoon as he adjusted the pillows behind your back for the third time.
“you are coughing again.”
“it is one tiny cough.”
“it was a terrible cough.”
you laughed softly despite yourself. “you would make a dreadful maester.”
“i would make an excellent husband.”
“that much is true.”
he kissed your forehead immediately at the praise, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. “then obey your excellent husband and sleep.”
you smiled but closed your eyes obediently anyway, too tired to argue much anymore and that frightened him because you were never this tired.
weeks passed.
the sickness did not improve.
the fevers worsened instead.
and slowly, horribly, the hope inside him began to rot into fear.
the maesters stopped speaking optimistically when he entered the room. their careful expressions told him everything long before their mouths did. he hated them for it. hated their silence. hated the medicines that did nothing. hated the smell of herbs and boiling tinctures that now permanently lingered in your chambers.
most of all, he hated the growing weakness in you.
one evening he found you asleep by the window, a book fallen forgotten in your lap. the sight should not have broken him the way it did. fear struck him so violently, he crossed the room immediately, sitting beside you with his hands wrapping tightly around yours.
“you should rest,” he told you quietly when you stirred awake.
a tired smile touched your lips at once. “i am resting.”
“properly.”
that woke you more fully. your expression softened immediately as you looked at him there beneath you, still dressed in dark court clothes he had evidently never bothered changing out of. his silver hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging frustrated hands through it. shadows lingered beneath his eyes now too. had he slept at all recently?
“aerion,” you whispered gently.
his grip tightened unconsciously around your hands as he stared down at them, his throat working once. when he finally looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes that made your chest ache.
“i do not know what to do,” he admitted quietly.
aerion hated helplessness. hated uncertainty. yet here he was before you like a man praying at an altar, unable to fight the thing slowly stealing you from him.
you lifted one hand carefully from his grasp just to touch his face. “you are already doing it,” you whispered.
“that is not enough.”
“it is for me.”
his eyes closed briefly at that, leaning instinctively into your touch. for a moment he simply stayed there, holding your hand against his cheek like something precious.
then, very softly, almost angrily, he murmured, “i am going to grow old with you. hear me. i will."
he rarely left your side.
meetings were abandoned midway. letters unanswered. duties forgotten entirely. he remained beside you obsessively, sleeping in chairs when he refused to leave your bedside, holding cool cloths to your skin with hands more accustomed to swords than gentleness.
his patience disappeared entirely. goblets shattered against walls when maesters offered uncertain answers. servants flinched when entering the room because even the scrape of shoes against stone seemed enough to provoke him now.
then came the anger. not at you, never at you. at the maesters who could not heal you. at the gods who would dare touch what belonged to him. at himself for being unable to stop it.
“you said the fever would break,” he hissed at one trembling maester after another miserable night left you barely conscious. “you assured me she was improving.”
“she did appear stronger yesterday, your grace-”
“do not lie to me.”
the old man visibly faltered beneath the fury in aerion’s voice.
“she needs rest,” the maester managed carefully.
“she needs curing.”
silence.
aerion’s expression darkened into something terrifying. “get out.”
no one argued with him anymore after that.
the servants cried quietly outside the doors sometimes. you could hear them if the hall fell silent enough. the sound seemed to haunt aerion more than anything else because people only cried like that when hope was beginning to die.
then came the night everything changed.
the room was dim besides the fire and a handful of dying candles. rain struck softly against the windows while thunder rolled somewhere far over the bay.
aerion sat beside you holding your hand tightly between both of his as though warmth alone might anchor you here.
“you will get better,” he told you hoarsely. “you must.”
your breathing caught unevenly before settling again.
“aerion- husband-”
“no.” his voice cracked violently. “do not speak like that.”
you looked at him with unbearable softness. “my love,” you whispered.
“you are not leaving me.” tears filled his eyes instantly, furious and helpless all at once. “you hear me?” he said desperately, leaning closer. “you cannot leave me here. i do not know how to-” his voice broke entirely.
your trembling fingers brushed weakly against his cheek, even now, you were comforting him.
“aerion,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”
and he did immediately, like he always would. your eyes searched his face slowly, lovingly, memorizing him the same way he had memorized you a thousand times before.
“i loved you very much,” you breathed.
“no.” he shook his head instantly, panic rising sharp and ugly in his chest. “no, do not say it like goodbye.”
“you made me very happy.”
“stop.” his grip tightened painfully around your hand. “please.” aerion targaryen did not beg. not kings, not gods, not men. but he begged you.
your eyes softened immediately at the sound of it, filling slowly with tears that slipped silently down into your hair. even now, with death hovering so terribly close, you looked at him with nothing but love.
“do you understand? i cannot- i cannot sit here and listen to you speak as though this is ending.”
your breath trembled faintly. “aerion…”
“no.” his voice cracked violently again. “no, you listen to me now.”
his free hand cupped your face desperately, trembling hard enough that you could feel it against your skin.
“you will stay,” he said, the words frantic now, like if he spoke them firmly enough the world would obey him. “you will survive this. the maesters are wrong. they have been wrong before.”
you gave the faintest shake of your head.
he looked suddenly furious at it. “at least pretend to believe me.”
a weak little smile touched your mouth then, heartbreakingly gentle. “you sound angry.”
“i am angry.”
“at me?”
“no- no my love, never at you. at everything.” his voice splintered on the last word.
the fire crackled softly somewhere behind him, rain tapping against the windows in uneven rhythms. the room smelled of wax and herbs and sickness. aerion thought suddenly, wildly, that he hated every part of it. hated the candles. hated the storm. hated the bed beneath you because it had become a place of dying instead of sleeping beside him warm and laughing.
most of all he hated how cold your hands had become.
he brought them closer between his own instinctively, rubbing warmth into your fingers as though he could force life back into them through sheer desperation.
“you promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly.
your lashes fluttered weakly. “i meant it.”
“then do not leave me.”
you looked at him for a very long moment after that and something in your expression changed with acceptance.
“no,” he said again, harsher this time. “do not look at me like that.”
you had never seen him like this, not truly, not stripped this bare. aerion had always loved fiercely, possessively, almost violently in the depth of it, but he rarely let anyone witness the rawness underneath. he hid softness behind arrogance. devotion behind sharp words.
but there was nowhere left to hide now not while you were dying in front of him.
“you cannot leave me alone here,” he whispered suddenly. the confession sounded childlike. small.
“my husband,” you breathed gently.
his face twisted instantly at the title, grief ripping visibly across it. “you said we would grow old together,” he murmured. “you said we would have children.”
tears slipped harder down his face now. he did not even seem aware of them.
“i bought that little carved dragon you liked in the market because you wanted to have it for our child.” his voice shook violently. “it is still sitting in gift velvet because i thought-”
his breath broke. “i thought there would be time.”
you began crying then too, silent tears slipping into your hair as you watched him unravel before you.
aerion pressed your hand desperately against his lips.
“there is still time,” he insisted suddenly, like he could force the truth backward if he spoke quickly enough. “tomorrow you will wake and i will carry you into the gardens again. to roses near the fountain, you always say they smelled sweeter after rain.”
“aerion…”
“we will read together.” his words tumbled over each other now, frantic and disjointed. “and i will complain through your ridiculous romance stories and you will laugh at me and-”
his voice snapped apart completely.
you gathered what little strength remained in you and brushed your thumb weakly against his cheek. “i need you to be brave for me. my brave dragon.”
“no.”
the answer came instantly like a child refusing.
you tried to smile through your tears. “you are a dragon prince.”
“i am also your husband.” the words came out fierce and broken all at once. “i love you,” he whispered desperately. “do you hear me? i love you so much i cannot breathe when i think about losing you.”
your eyes closed briefly at the pain in his voice. “aerion…”
“i should have loved you less.” but even as he said it, both of you knew it was impossible. he had loved you from the very first moment. too much. too fiercely. with every ruined part of himself. and now the gods were tearing you away from him piece by piece.
“i do not regret loving you,” you whispered. you were breathing differently now. slower. weaker.
panic flooded his face so fast. your fingers tightened faintly around his once. “i am- tired now. aerion.”
“no.”
“i love you- so- aerion-”
“no, stay awake my love. stay with me. look at me.” his voice broke into something desperate and terrified.
you tried. gods, you tried. your eyes found his one last time, full of love so deep it nearly killed him on the spot.
then your breathing faltered.
every part of him seemed to stop existing except for the hand clutching yours.
another breath, still shallow. then another, smaller still.
“no,” he whispered again, tears falling freely now. “please. i love you.”
and then-
nothing.
silence. complete and horrible.
aerion stared at you waiting. waiting for your chest to rise again. waiting for your fingers to twitch in his hand. waiting for the impossible. but you stayed still. and slowly, horrifyingly, your warmth began to fade beneath his hands.
the sound that left him afterward was raw enough to tear through stone.
he folded over you instantly, clutching your hand against his mouth as violent sobs ripped through him hard enough to leave him breathless. his entire body shook with it, years of pride and cruelty and arrogance collapsing into grief so enormous it hollowed him out completely.
“no, no, no-”
he kissed your cold knuckles desperately between broken gasps of air. “you cannot do this to me,” he choked out.
the gods, cruel as they were, had finally taken the only thing aerion targaryen had ever truly loved.
the silence afterward nearly drove him mad.
he had not cried like that since childhood. since lonely nights hidden away in dark chambers where no one came looking for him. he felt small again suddenly. helpless. frightened.
they had given him an hour to calm down, and when his tears subsided and all that was left was anger, grief, and longing, the maester quietly began to approach the bed before aerion turned with such horrifying fury that the old man stopped instantly.
“get out.”
“your grace-”
“get out.”
the room emptied immediately and no one dared argue.
aerion was alone with you. alone in the suffocating silence of your shared chambers while candlelight flickered softly against your still face. he loved you more than he knew what to do with, and now there was nowhere for that love to go.
hours passed before anyone dared enter again. even then, aerion refused to let go of you. it nearly killed him when they tried to take your body from the bed.
“no,” he snarled hoarsely, gripping you tighter. “do not touch her.”
“prince aerion-”
“do not touch her.” his voice barely raised, yet stern. frightening.
they had to pry his hands away, hold him back. he looked- no, he was- half-mad, watching them place you inside the coffin, his face white with horror like he could not comprehend how the world expected him to survive such a thing.
afterward, he refused to clear your rooms.
your gowns remained hanging exactly where you left them. your oils and perfumes stayed lined carefully along the vanity. books remained half-open where you had abandoned them.
your side of the bed stayed untouched.
every now and then, late at night, standing in front of your grand dresser, he would hold one of your dresses against his face, breathing in the fading trace of your perfume with devastated desperation.
the gardens became unbearable to him. the reading alcoves remained empty. and aerion wandered through the red keep like a ghost haunting a life that no longer existed.
people feared him more after your death. he grew colder. crueler. quieter.
but worst of all were the nights.
because sometimes, very late, servants passing your chambers would hear him speaking softly into the silence as though you were lying beside him still.
“i told you to listen to me,” he would murmur. then, quieter, “yes, i know. you are cold tonight.”
there would be the faint sound of movement. a chair dragged closer. a goblet set down. and then, gently, almost tenderly, “you should sleep now.”
no one ever dared open the door. because sometimes they also heard him laugh softly, as though you had answered.
he began to drink heavily.
wine at first. then stronger things brought in quietly by servants too afraid to refuse him. the maesters warned against it, cautiously at first, then more urgently as the pattern worsened.
“your grace,” one of them said carefully one evening, “this will not ease your suffering. it will only deepen it.”
“i am not suffering,” he said. “you are mistaken.” aerion continued calmly. “my wife is simply away. that is all.”
the maester exchanged a look with another before bowing stiffly and retreating.
he began speaking of you in the present tense.
“my wife prefers the roses after rain,” he told a bewildered servant once. “do not cut them yet.” another time, he stopped a maid in the corridor and snapped at her, “have you seen my son?”
she froze. “my prince…you do not have-”
aerion’s expression sharpened instantly.
“see to it that he is with his mother,” he said firmly.
no one corrected him. it was easier not to.
he began to see you again. at first it was fleeting. a reflection in the mirror that was not his own. a flicker at the edge of his vision when he turned too quickly. a warmth in empty chairs.
then it became clearer. you were in your chambers again. sitting at the vanity. adjusting your hair. looking at him as though nothing had ever gone wrong at all.
“aerion,” you would say softly. “must you stare at me, my love? it is quite jarring.”
and he would believe it. he would believe it completely. there was no longer any separation between memory and reality. only you.
until even that began to fracture.
the night he drank wildfire.
he believed it would truly take the pain away, turn him into something different. into a dragon.
maesters agreed, because no one truly denied a targaryen anything for long, suggesting it might “calm the mind” if handled carefully, and with all of aerion’s temperaments they agreed to add in a little something extra, something that might ease the sleeplessness, the agitation, the grief that had begun to consume him.
that night, after drinking, he stood alone in your chambers, holding one of your gowns again. when suddenly his grip tightened violently around the fabric.
“i cannot do this,” he whispered. “i told you,” he murmured hoarsely into the empty room, “i told you i cannot be anywhere without you.”
his vision blurred and he felt a sharp burning sensation from inside himself. the wildfire had burned him, saved him from the madness and grief that had been burned into him long ago.
aerion targaryen could not bring himself to let go of the one thing he had ever truly belonged to. because aerion targaryen, in the end, was exactly what he had always been.
a man who could not exist anywhere without his wife.
-after many many letters sent to aerion in lys, he returns to find things are not in fact as he left them...angst angst (you die) ᥫ᭡
the first letter was written with tears blurring the ink, your hand trembling so violently the words were nearly illegible. it was a litany of grief and fury, a desperate plea to a sleeping god.
they have taken you. taken you from me. your father calls it a punishment, a cure. i call it a cruelty that eclipses even your own. i will write every day, aerion. i will fill the narrow sea with my words until they carry you home to me. do not let lys make you forget.
the ship sailed on the morning tide. you watched from the highest tower of maegor’s holdfast, a small, stone figure against the grey sky, until the speck of his ship vanished into the mist. the red keep felt like a tomb.
for weeks, the letters were your lifeblood. you wrote of the stifling silence of your chambers, of the cold politeness of the court. you wrote of your dreams, always of him, of his sharp, cruel smile and the surprising gentleness of his hands when he thought you were asleep. you poured all the love you had into those scrolls.
the first replies came, carried by raven, his familiar, sharp script a balm to your soul.
they were short, always. lys is a cesspit of perfumed lies. the wine is watered. the women are tiresome. i think of you.
it was enough. it was a thread connecting you across the sea, proof that the man you had painstakingly uncovered was still there, buried beneath the weight of his exile.
but the sea was vast, and lys was a paradise built to ensnare the senses. you knew what your husband was like. you knew the allure of easy pleasure, the thrill of a fight in a pleasure house, the ego-stroking adoration of courtesans who saw only a prince’s purse and not the fractured soul beneath. it was an inevitable current, and you feared he was a man who could not resist it.
the replies grew shorter. the heat is oppressive. then they grew longer, but the content changed.
i won a duel today. a braavosi with more coin than sense. he cried like a child.
he spoke of battles, of wagers, of the quality of the steel, but no longer of the quiet moments, of the thoughts that kept him awake at night.
you wrote on, your own letters becoming more desperate. and the replies that came were from a stranger.
lys agrees with me. i am thinking of staying. the climate is better for my health.
your heart froze in your chest. you wrote back, your hand shaking with a new kind of fear.
what do you mean, staying? your place is here. your duty is here. i am here.
he never answered that letter.
months turned into a season. the ravens from lys stopped coming altogether. you told yourself he was busy. you told yourself his duties kept him from writing. you told yourself anything but the truth, which was a cold, creeping vine around your heart…he was forgetting you. he was caught up in the fighting and the fathering of bastards, and he kept telling himself he would respond tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.
the quill felt like a lead weight in your hand, but you lifted it. the ink in the well was as dark as your despair. you wrote until your soul was hollow, scraped out, leaving nothing but an echoing cavern where hope used to live.
then came the spring. the spring sickness.
it started as a whisper, then a crash. it swept through the city like a scythe, reaping a harvest of the young and the old, the strong and the weak. you locked yourself in your chambers, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and fear. you had prayed for a child for so long, a living, breathing piece of the man you loved, a tie that might bind him home. and now, it seemed the gods had answered your prayer with a cruel joke.
the labor was short, brutal, and silent.
he was tiny, so terribly small, but he was perfect. a tiny, silver-haired babe, with the faintest, shimmering scales on his skin that caught the candlelight like dragon's glass. he had his nose, you thought, a small, delicate thing. and he had his father's eyes, you were sure of it, even though they would never open to see the world.
he was a poor, silent babe who never drew breath.
they took him from you, and the silence that followed was louder than any scream. it was a physical weight, a pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. you lay in your bed, your arms empty, your body aching with the phantom weight of him, and you felt as though you had been split in two. there was the you that existed before, and the you that existed now, a gaping, bleeding wound where your future had been.
and so, you wrote to him of your grief.
aerion, you began, your hand steady, betraying none of the tremor that shook your entire body. i write to you with the heaviest heart a woman can bear. the spring came, and it brought a gift, and it took it away in the same breath.
you told him about his son. you described the silver hair, the scales of a stillborn that marked him as targaryen. you wrote of the eyes that would never see his father’s face, of the tiny hands that would never grip his finger. you wrote with a cold, dead precision, as if you were dictating a report from a battlefield.
he was beautiful, aerion. he was our son, and he was gone before he could even be named. i held him for hours, waiting for a miracle that never came.
you paused, the quill hovering over the page. the pain was a physical thing, a beast clawing at your insides, trying to tear its way out. it felt as though your very bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice.
the grief is a pain so profound it has split me in two. i walk through the castle and i see his face in the flames of the torches. i hear his cry in the wind. i reach for him in the night and my hands find only empty blankets. they tell me it will get easier with time, but they are fools. it steals the memory of the warmth, the memory of the weight of him, until all i am left with is the shape of the loss.
you signed your name, the scratch of the quill the final, pathetic testament to your love. you sealed the letter, the wax a red, angry wound on the parchment. and then you waited. you waited for a reply that would never come, for a comfort from a man who had already forgotten you. you waited for a ship on the horizon, for a word, for a sign. but the only ships that came were bearing more corpses, and the only word from lys was silence. you had written to him of the greatest loss of your life, and he had been too busy, too distracted, too far gone to even read it.
the last of your strength ran out, and as spring sickness swept through the city, in your fevered delirium it took you.
you called for him. for your son. your last thought was not of anger, but of a profound, heartbreaking sorrow. he would never know.
two years later.
the ship that bore aerion targaryen back to king’s landing was a warship, sleek and black, a stark contrast to the gilded pleasure barges of lys. he was a man changed. he was harder, leaner, his face etched with new scars and a cold, cynical ennui.
lys had been a paradise, and like all paradises, it had rotted from the inside out. the fighting had grown dull, the women tiresome, a nagging reminder of a life he hadn’t truly wanted. he thought of the wife he had left behind with a pang of guilt that he had long since learned to ignore. he would see her. he would make it right. eventually.
he strode through the corridors, his purpose hardening with every step. he would find her. he would go to your rooms, and he would find you there, perhaps reading by the window, perhaps angry with him, but you would be there. he saw ser gerold hightower at his post outside the king’s solar.
"ser gerold," aerion bit out. "my wife. where is she?"
the lord commander of the kingsguard was a statue carved from stone and duty. his grey eyes met aerion’s without a flicker of emotion. "prince aerion. you have returned."
"do not mock me," aerion snarled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "where is my wife?"
ser gerold’s expression did not change. "i serve the king, my prince. and the king has no daughter-in-law."
the cold dread turned to ice in his veins. this was not just a lie…it was an erasure. were they pretending she never existed? playing a stupid joke? he turned on his heel and marched towards your chambers, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. he remembered the way perfectly. third floor, overlooking the godswood, the door with the carved silver dragon on its surface.
he reached the corridor. it was just as he remembered. but the door was wrong. it was plain, unadorned dark oak. the dragon was gone.
he threw it open.
the room was not yours. it was a generic, sterile guest chamber, smelling of beeswax and disuse. the furniture was all wrong. the bed where you had lain together, where he had held you, where he had woken from nightmares to find your hand in his, was a plain, four-poster monstrosity. the tapestries you had chosen, the ones depicting the conquest of old valyria, were gone. the desk where you had written your letters was missing. the scent of you—of lavender and skin and home…was gone, replaced by the stale air of a room long abandoned.
he took a step inside, his boots loud on the stone floor. he ran a hand over the mantlepiece. it was bare.
"where is it?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "where are her things?"
he spun around and stormed back into the hallway, his eyes wild. he saw a chambermaid, linens piled in her arms. "you!" he roared, grabbing her by the shoulders. "the woman who lived in this room! where are her things? her gowns, her books, her jewels! where did they go?"
the woman looked at him with genuine pity, and that was somehow worse than the fear. "my prince," she said softly. "no lady occupies this room. this room is kept for visiting lords!"
the pity in her eyes was the final straw. he shoved her away, her pile of linens tumbling to the floor. he didn't care. he was already moving, his long strides eating up the stone corridor, his mind a maelstrom of denial and fury.
his father, maekar, stood by the map table, his back to the door. he didn’t turn. "is she at her family’s home? she would never go there without word from me. she would never abandon me. you will not lie to me. where. is. my. wife?"
maekar turned slowly. his face was a mask of grim resolve, his eyes tired and heavy. "she is gone, aerion. she is gone, and you will let her be."
aerion stared at him, his chest tight. he wanted to believe it was a lie. "gone?" aerion advanced into the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "you erased her! you took her room, you have everyone in this cursed castle lying to my face! what did you do? did you have her killed? did you ship her off to some silent sister convent to be rid of her? answer me!"
the control he had been clinging to shattered. the rage he had felt in the empty room, the fury at the chambermaid’s pity, the cold fury at aegon’s lies, it all coalesced into a single, white-hot inferno. he slammed his fist down onto the map table. the intricate carved wood of the westerosi map splintered under the force. he grabbed the heavy iron figure of the iron throne and hurled it across the room, where it crashed against the wall with a deafening clang.
he swept his arm across the table, sending scrolls, maps, and inkwells flying. a pool of black ink spread across the floor like blood. he was a whirlwind of destruction, a dragon loosed in a stone cage, smashing and tearing at everything in his path. he stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. he stared at his father, his vision blurred with a haze of tears and fury.
maekar had not moved. he had simply watched his son’s rampage, his expression unreadable. when aerion finally fell silent, the king spoke, his voice quiet, but carrying the weight of absolute authority.
"she is gone, aerion," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow so deep it was almost worse than anger. "you will accept this, as you accept my command. it is done."
he saw it then, in his father’s eyes. it wasn’t just command. it was pity. and it was the final, cruelest blow. "where did she go then? taken her things with her?"
"no," maekar said, his voice dropping to a low, solemn tone. he took a deep breath, as if the words physically pained him. "she is dead, aerion."
the world tilted on its axis. "what?" he whispered, the word barely audible. "dead? what nonsense is this? she was…she was healthy when i left."
"the spring sickness," maekar said, his gaze unwavering. "it took her last year."
aerion stared at his father, his mind refusing to process the words. last year. she had been dead for a year. while he was drinking and whoring and fighting in lys, she had been dying. the guilt he had so expertly suppressed came rushing back, a tidal wave of crushing, suffocating force. he felt the air leave his lungs, his vision swimming.
"no…" he choked out, shaking his head in denial. "no. i would have known. i would have been told. the letters…"
"the letters stopped, aerion," his father said softly. "she wrote to you every day. until she couldn’t."
he couldn’t breathe. he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his chest as if to physically hold his heart together. he remembered the letters. he remembered the stack of unopened scrolls on his desk, the ones he kept telling himself he would get to. he remembered the last one he had received, the one he had thrown into the fire without reading, her frantic script a tedious reminder of a life he was eager to escape.
"i have to…i need to see her things. i want to have my wife’s things…" he rasped, turning and fleeing the throne room, not caring about the protocol, not caring about the shocked whispers of the court.
maekar only nodded and provided aerion with the location of where your things were stored, up high in a cellar with all of the past heirlooms of the targaryen wives and husbands.
he threw the door open. he searched through the room and found your desk and a carved wooden box that belonged to you. his hands trembled as he opened it. it was filled with letters. dozens of them. all in her elegant, familiar script.
he sank to the floor, pulling them into his lap. he read them one by one, his vision blurring with tears he hadn’t shed since he was a boy. he read of her loneliness, her love, her desperate hope. he read of the child he had never known about, a son, lost to the fever. he read of her final, heartbreaking plea for a word, any word, from the husband who had abandoned her.
he reached the bottom of the box. there was one last letter. it was thicker than the others, sealed not with her personal sigil, but with the official wax seal of the red keep. his heart hammered against his ribs as he broke the seal.
it was not a letter. it was an invitation—a notice to attend the funeral services for prince aerion targaryen’s late wife.
he couldn’t breathe. the words on the page swam before his eyes, the elegant, formal script blurring into a meaningless smear of black ink. the invitation was dated from over a year ago. it was an invitation to her funeral. a funeral he had missed, because he hadn’t bothered to open a letter with the king’s landing seal.
a sound tore from his throat, a guttural, animalistic noise of pure agony. it was the sound of a man being ripped in two. he dropped the invitation as if it burned him, his hands flying to his hair, his fingers tangling in the silver strands as he rocked back and forth, a meaningless, desperate rhythm.
the box of letters lay scattered around him on the floor, a paper graveyard of her love, her hope, her pain. each one was a knife twisting in his gut. he had replaced her memory with cheap wine and the hollow laughter of courtesans, with the fleeting thrill of a duel and the meaningless siring of bastards who would never carry his name. he had traded his wife, his child, his honor, for a gilded cage of hedonism, and now the door had slammed shut, and he was trapped inside with nothing but the echoes of his own colossal failure.
he had chipped away at the fortress he had built around himself, and she had been the one to do it. she had endured his rages and his coldness, had seen the monster and loved the man trapped within. she had dismantled his walls, brick by painful brick, and he, in his infinite arrogance, had walked out of the ruins and left her there, alone. he had been so desperate to prove he didn’t need her love that he had thrown away the only thing that had ever made him whole.
the silence in the room was a physical weight, pressing down on him, crushing him. it was the silence she must have felt in her last days. he remembered her voice, the way she used to whisper his name in the dark, the way she had defied him, her eyes flashing with a fire that matched his own. he remembered the feel of her hand in his, the scent of her hair, the way she looked at him as if he were not a monster, but a man worthy of being loved.
he found the last letter she had written, the one about their son. his hands shook so violently he could barely hold it. he had a son. he had a son, and he had let him die without ever knowing he existed. he had let his wife face that alone.
he was a monster. not the one people whispered about, the arrogant, cruel prince. this was something far worse. he was a man who had been given the greatest gift in the world, love, and had thrown it away for nothing.
he stayed there on the floor of the desecrated room, surrounded by the evidence of his love and his loss, until the sun rose and set, and rose again. he did not eat. he did not sleep. he simply held her letters and read them, over and over, until the words were seared into his memory, a permanent, painful brand on his soul.
he would read them for the rest of his life. he would carry her words, her memory, as his penance. it was a punishment, his father had said. and now, finally, he understood. it wasn’t the exile to lys. the punishment was this. the punishment was coming home to find that the only person who had ever truly seen him was gone, and that he had no one to blame but himself.
he gathered the letters into his arms, clutching them to his chest as if they were her. he pressed his face to the parchment, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of her perfume, a ghost of a scent that was already fading.
In which Aerion’s wife is the opposite of him in all aspects, her gentle nature is less of something to break, but rather protect. Like a dragon guarding his plunder.
word count: 1,366
cw: 18+ mdni, talks of toxic relationships (not readers), consented biting, this is just pure fluff, sexual themes, characters are adults always - YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
Ashford tourney was supposed to be for mending long lasting alliances with the houses of the Reach. Instead, your father-by-law had lost two of his son’s on the journey, and the one that remained had managed to kill a horse during his first and now only joust. He had been banned from competing for fear the small-folk would try and pelt him to death with stones in the arena. You had been there all of three days, and you were all as sick of it as the people were of you.
Therefore when the evening jousts commenced at sunset, you had urged your husband to join you on a walk in the meadows. No one else will venture there you had said, they are preoccupied with the tournament.
And your words rang true, the meadow was deserted. Insects flew freely, birds sung loudly, an orange glow cast across the entire scene. It was picturesque. Utterly beautiful. That’s where you led amongst the flowers of the field, your head resting in your husband’s lap as his fingers fell idly through your hair.
“You are going to get filthy led down there.” He uttered, fingers tangling several strands together in a pattern which slightly resembled that of a plait. “You worry too much about things that do not matter my dragon.” You reached up a hand, pressing your two central fingers against his lips as he parted them, welcoming their taste against his tongue before biting down lightly. A pout fell across your face as you yanked your hand back, little red crescents bled across your fingers from the rawness of his touch. Biting was a known affection of your husband. He did it playfully, he did it endearingly, he did it in bed, he did it when he thought you needed a reminder of to whom you belong. You had grown used to it being a silent form of I love you, this makes you mine.
In retaliation to his brute touch you kissed his palm tenderly, pressing his fingers flat against your cheek as your lips caressed his callous hands. “You do not always have to be so gentle.” He murmured, his unused hand resuming its place at the crown of your head, massaging gently. “I do not seek to hurt you, husband.” It was true, did his immature actions like killing a horse in a friendly tourney make you want to suffocate him with your pillow? Yes. Would you ever do such a thing? No. Because you maintained impulse control, something your husband feverishly lacked. “People talk of our marriage you know.” It felt like a confession from his lips, he desired to be feared but he hated the whispers that carried pity in your direction, that he would dare lay a hand to his own wife, he would sooner cut it off himself than do such a thing to you. He was rough when he knew it brought you pleasure only, never would he strike you down for merely existing, why would he have taken you to wed if your thoughts and feelings deserved to be silenced at his hand? But he knew what people thought, he was publicly careless in his actions, he hurt others without thinking twice. They pitied you publicly, his own family even contributed.
The Mad Prince’s Poor Wife
Brightflames caged dove
The living ghost of Summerhall
They truly believed you to be so unseen. Sure you were quieter than most, but your husband was devoted to your every need. They did not see his affection, they had not earned it. You had never had to, but to hear the whispers on the wind of their blatant pity was painful. You were not ignored, far from it. But in Summerhall there was few that made good company, you often found yourself wandering the halls late at night when sleep would not find you, resulting in the living ghost becoming an unwanted nickname - because the servants truly believed you were wandering due to the fact your husband was bedding whores in your shared bedchamber, another misconception, he just snores very fucking loud.
“I know of what they say.” You looked up to meet his eyes lightly, his contrasted your own heavily “but again, it does not concern me for they do not know me.” He scoffed, untangling his fingers from your hair “Yes but maybe it should, they speak as if I hate you, I bed whores in our shared bed, I make you suffer when I do bed you.”
“Maybe they think that because you make me scream.” You giggled, you caught the amusement flash across his face in a subtly proud smirk before he shook his head “That is absolutely beside the point. Do not be so vulgar, it is not befitting of a Lady.” He was teasing, abundantly so, he lowered his face until he was inches from your own, upside down from your perspective. The tip of his nose brushed against the bridge of your own, however in his distraction you placed several kisses to his taught jaw. His eyes fell shut with a hum, you tangled your hands in his hair, pulling his face as close as you could get it to your own, kissing his forehead to his cheek tenderly, before releasing him and turning onto your stomach, resting your arms in his lap. You were propped up that way, giving him better access to the entirety of your face. He seized the opportunity to entwine his hands with your hair full, locking them at the base of your scalp so that you were forced to maintain eye contact with him. “Look at this dress. Have you any idea the coin I spent on it?” He tutted, the once flush pink skirts were saddled with marks of dusty mud - it would undoubtedly brush off but he enjoyed the game of making a fuss. “Probably more than was necessary.” You smiled, meeting his lips in a devastating kiss as he groaned into your mouth.
“It is growing late, we should return to bed.” He pulled away ever so slightly but you chased his lips with your own, “I do not wish to depart yet! No need to stay in that dreary place when this is the view.” He groaned against your lips before he was silenced by your tongue fighting its way back into his mouth. You settled yourself into his lap now, allowing you a better reach to his face as he chuckled quietly at your desperation for closeness.
“Do not laugh at me.” You whined, his hands settled to your hips in an attempt to settle your dispute. “You are desperate.” He titled his head, a lazy smile planted onto his face, such a vast separation from the brute man that held his own on a tourney field. “I am allowed to be desperate you are my husband.”
“Yes well, if you would come with me to bed I would be able to satisfy your desires.” He raised an eyebrow, a kiss pressed to the side of your face. “I desire your company and your affection and I want it here in this field.” You demanded, maybe it did sound a bit desperate in hindsight but you didn’t have the care for it. He only laughed louder as you pouted at him, “you sound childish. Lose the attitude my flame it does not best suit you.”
“Childish! How dare you!”
“Oh how dare I? Gods I do forget myself.” His lips joined to your neck in a flurry of hurried kisses that only forced your laughter to join with his. “There, is my wife now satisfied?”
A hazy smile joined your face, you adored your husband more than anything because to you this was who he was. It brought you pain more often than not to know how those around you viewed your relationship. They did not see his affection, they saw your withdrawal from public affection. You did not hold hands, you did not kiss or even touch where others could see. Because it was not for them to have. What you shared was gentle and sacred and entirely your own.
A/N: shorter and entirely out of character for aerion i know, but i couldn’t resist. sometimes i forget im literally writing fanfiction and i can write whatever i want however i want so yes this is not who aerion is as a character but i had a lot of fun so i hope you all enjoyed.
as always: likes, comments, reblogs + any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone!!
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
The man, as grown as he was, was unbelievably clingy.
The same way lint stuck to your clothes, Hugo's presence remained tethered to you — an unforgivable force of attraction stubborn against all odds.
He clung to you, from daylight to daybreak, without a moments rest. Requiring abnormal amounts of physical contact to 'physically function' or whatever bullfuckery he blabbered on about.
The athlete followed you everywhere. Like a little duckling running on instinct to chase after its mother, Hugo was attached to your hip and unwilling to let go.
It was much worse when nature called you in the middle of the night.
Hugo absolutely refused to let you leave his embrace when you needed to take an urgent piss.
Throwing his thigh possessively over yours, locking you in place with his arms tight around your waist, and nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a goddamn house cat.
The city could be consumed in flames, and still, Hugo was against detaching himself from you. Going as far as whining into your hair about feeling cold and lonely, anything to convince you to stay and cuddle with him just a little while longer.
But alas, your needs took priority over his pathetic wailing.
And yet, even then, Hugo was right behind you. Standing by the bathroom door, arms crossed, foot tapping restlessly against the floorboards and expression contorted with impatience as you took 'way too long' to do your business.
Seriously! How the hell were you supposed to take a shit or piss in peace when he chimed in every two seconds to hurry up?
And if that wasn't bad enough, away-nights without him might've single-handedly taken the cake for being even worse.
What was finally supposed to be your time to relax without a koala latched onto you became a pipe dream.
The difference in time zones, that was meant to act as a natural divider between the two of you, was of no help. If anything, it quickly became your biggest nemesis.
Because how the hell were you supposed to sleep at peace when Hugo blew your phone up with his incessant whining at the heinous hour of three in the morning?
One moment you would be trying to fall asleep, and the next, Hugo's calling to ask if you would hypothetically love him had he been born a worm.
No amount of reassurance from you could satisfy him either, none. Which then led to him demanding that you stay on call with him and listen to his endless rambles on whatever book he recently read.
It quickly put you to sleep. And surprisingly, or not so surprisingly, Hugo would remain on call all night till you woke up. It was a rather endearing habit he had, making sure that he was the last thing you saw before sleeping and the first thing you saw upon awakening.
Well, it was.
Until he then had a go at you for falling asleep on him.
But nothing— absolutely nothing, came close to the utter disaster he was when he trailed a phantom step behind you in the kitchen.
Arms bound around you, hanging low down on your hips and chin tucked snugly into your shoulder as his movements synched with yours.
Hugo's intense desire to melt into your proximity was just out of hand. Especially when he slumped his weight down on you, hindering your mobility which led to the nasty burn on his arm.
"Hugo! What are you going to do when I'm no longer alive?!"
He stilled at your unsolicited comment, blinking slowly at the way you bit your lip with evident guilt and fretted over the scalding burn blemishing his arm.
It didn't even hurt, well, maybe just a little bit… nonetheless, it really wasn't a big deal. At least not to him.
But… to see concern weave effortlessly in your contorted expression as you muttered curses under your breath at his lack of care, his heart could only soar with unbridled warmth.
Hugo pulled you in again, as he always did. Your fury going unheard in his moment of glee. And then, biting back the small smile that threatened to leave him, he pressed his nose against your jugular.
"You can't die before me, okay?"
Your heart rate hiccuped beneath his breathy whisper, a chain of goosebumps growing from the area of ghostly contact.
"You— you," you stumbled on your words as he pressed a chaste kiss above the skin now marred with your fluster.
"You stupid man!"
And in spite of your many scolding, in spite of it all, Hugo was a persistent stain that refused to budge under your whims. After all, he simply couldn't get enough of it— of you.
clingy hugo who loves your personal space… lwk this feels so basic 😭
@allieluvsh hope you did well on your exams! here's your reward nephew!
An email is forwarded to you at 11:47 PM, the exact time your family’s lawyer reminds you how disappointed she is in you two. It was after hours, so no chance anyone was up to scold or be upset at the two of you.
You read it twice before groaning, picking up your phone to call Aerion. He picks it up on the first ring as if he has been waiting. “They bought it,” you said.
“Obviously, they bought it,” you can hear him grinning through the line. The same snarky grin that's been plastered on his face since you could remember.
You and Aerion believed it was wise to pay Raymun to write your final essays for your business class, as well as giving him total free rein on the subject. You promised him some cash and to go on a date with one of his friends. Aerion promised a free drink next time at the pub and his pocket change.
Aerion’s hasty words reminded you of how he convinced ten-year-old you to jump off the boathouse roof at Summerhall, swearing the water was not shallow. It was not even close to deep. You ended up breaking your wrist and wearing a cast for half the year. You did it again next summer.
“80% is a joke, though. We should have asked for a 90%,” he hissed. You rolled your eyes, then rubbed them from your tiredness. “We got caught having Raymun write both our theses and our essays, Aer. Be grateful it’s even a number at all.”
He just scoffs, low and unbothered, which has gotten girls to do considerably more interesting things than write a thesis for him. “So. Banned from campus for the rest of the semester. How will we ever survive?” he emphasized the last word. His faux groan made you smile.
You already knew how you were going to live out the last month of university. You’ve known since the review board’s letter mentioned “a family residence” as your assigned suspension location, as if it were assigned to some lazy location. Summerhall in June. The beach manor was off the coast of Westeros and housed the family every summer. But for two weeks, it would just be the two of you, and however much distance the house’s forty rooms can put between the rest of the world and your cousin.
You bit your lip in an excitement that couldn’t be spoken yet, “I’ll see you Friday, Aerion.”
“You’ll see me tomorrow,” he corrects. “No way I’m waiting three more days to get out of this city.”
🪽
Summerhall smelled of sea and hydrangeas, as well as the fresh laundry the maids were doing when you pulled up on the driveway. You loved every inch of it, no matter how much you said you disliked being stuck in a house with your entire family for at least a month.
You and Aerion have the run of the manor for exactly fourteen days before the rest of your lineage arrived, and you spent them disgraced and carelessly. You slept til noon, raided the wine cellar Uncle Baelor swore he hid well, and raced on jet skis that you were too drunk to operate.
You’re both spraying wakes at each other across the water, shrieking with laughter and cackles that only someone like him could have with you. Rivalry has been a common denominator between you– whoever got better marks, who got the better allowance, who Grandfather Daeron liked most. Somewhere within the last few years, it curdled into something else, something more vile and gritty.
That night, you stole a shirt from his room because you were tired of wearing bikinis and tank tops all day. The two of you take a blanket down to the private section of the beach behind the house, the one that the servants and groundkeeprs don’t bother turning the lights on for because anyone rarely comes down.
The tide is far out, rinsing the shore of its sins. The sand was now cooled and pale under the moonlight as Aerion sat beside you, elbows on his knees. For once, he was watching the waves rather than you.
“We’re so stupid,” you coughed out, inhaling the fat rollup. Aerion huffed out a laugh, taking the blunt from you. “Raymun had a typo in the title page. Targeryen. With an E.”
You groaned excessively, pulling a hand down your face. “Don’t.”
“The review board didn’t even catch it. They put it in the proofreader and didn’t catch the most prominent thing?”
“Don’t,” you repeated, laughing so hard you had to press the heel of your palm against your mouth. Aerion finally looks down at you, and something in his face goes silent in a way it never does.
The laughter dies out slowly, the way it would always fizzle out between you two. The air was going thick and close despite the wide, open sky above. He reaches over without saying a word, tucking a loose strand of hair back from your face. He dragged his thumb along your jaw, unrushed, like he had all the time in the world. You let him.
“C’mere,” he whispers, low enough that it's essentially a breath, and you do, because you always do. His mouth tasted of smoke and a certain sweetness– maybe the pressed juice from dinner. His hand slides to the back of your neck as if he has done it a hundred times before, primarily because he has, because you’ve been doing it since you were sixteen.
You pretended numerous times that it didn’t count, that it was just a thing that happened between cousins who grew up closer than siblings. You acted like Aerion would grow out of his teenage hunger, and you two would stop overstepping with one another.
Aerion’s other hand finds your waist, fingers pressing into your his shirt as if he’s trying to feel the shape of you, like he didn’t memorize it the second time you did it. You sink into the sand and into him in the same motion, with no hurry to go to bed just yet.
You haven’t grown out of it. Neither has he. Lying there with the tide washing away and your weight settling over him, content with your academic probation.
🪽
Everyone else arrives on the fifteenth day, and Summerhall has now been taken over by the loudest and largest family in Westeros.
Valarr arrives first, at ease due to his top marks during finals week. Rhaelle and Daeron were trailing behind him, slinging and dragging their bags in because the servants were not set to arrive until noon. The three were already exhausted, hearing about your suspension from three separate relatives, until they got the full story from you.
Valarr finds the two of you in the back, on the veranda. Your feet were propped up, day-drinking like the last two weeks were a vacation rather than house arrest. Valarr’s face swirled into a mixture of confusion and disappointment. “You two are unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” Aerion replies, raising his tumbler to his cousin.
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“I’m taking it as one anyway.”
Valarr’s jaw stiffens up, the same way it did when he was holding something back. He exhales and says, “Just.. don’t make this worse.” He goes inside to find a drink of his own, because he is going to need it. Valarr doesn't clarify what “this” was. He never had to.
Valarr had known since you were both seventeen, when he was looking for you and found Aerion in a compromising position above you. Over the past five years, he hasn’t brought it up directly to you once. However, he weaponized the information whenever Aerion bickered with him and needed to put him in his place.
Daella corners you in the kitchen later that night while you are making tea that neither of you will drink. “You’re being obvious,” she notes, not unkindly, but more so, watching out for you.
“Think so?” you asked, steeping the tea leaves in.
“A little. It’s worse than usual.” She studies you over the edge of her mug. Daella was the only person in the family who looked at you and Aerion and acted like it was a normal thing, because to her, it was no issue. It had been a tradition for decades and sees no reason for it to die out. “Just be careful, will you? My dad’s still in a mood about the whole thing. The suspension, I mean. Not–not the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
Daella just smiles in her mug of tea and says, “That’s why I love you.”
🪽
Two days later, after early morning pickleball games and beach bumming, Maekar drops the news at dinner. A dinner that was going splendidly until he spoke up.
“You’re both going to Lys.”
Aerion sets down his fork with a clatter. You swallow your food, not chewing enough, making it go down in a chunk. “Where?”
“Lys. A month. I have had enough of the two of you treating Summerhall like it is some– some holding cell that you are clever enough to escape to.” Maekar's eyes remain on the platter as he says it, as if you were not worth the effort of giving eye contact. “You’ll go somewhere with actual consequences for your poor behavior, and you’ll get whatever this is out of your system before the next semester, because I am not allowing this next year.”
“But Uncle, Summerhall is the consequence.”
“Summerhall is where you have spent the past two weeks racing jet skis and raiding my wine cellar,” Baelor adds mildly, not caring so much about the wine. “Lys will be different, believe me.”
Valarr, who, to your surprise, is the one who pushes against it hardest. “This is a terrible idea! They’re already–”
“Nobody asked you, Valarr,” Aerion spat.
“Hush. You both are reckless enough with supervision. Sending you somewhere with none is asking for a debt you cannot repay,” Valarr justified.
“It is for a month, not a war deployment,” Maekar clarifies, unmoved by all but his own words. “Baelor has found them a place, an Airbnb. It has been decided.”
Valarr looks like he wishes to say several more things, all of them directed towards Aerion, none of which he can announce at the table. He settles his grievance with a long, flat stare down the length of the table. More so at Aerion, because Valarr would never blame you for this, because he thinks that Aerion started your taboo affair. He goes back to dinner without another word.
“A damn Airbnb,” Aerion mutters to you later, in your room. He was acting as if Baelor had reserved a park bench for the two of you. “We’re being sent to Lys and stuffed up in an Airbnb. Like tourists.”
“I believe that’s the point, Aer.”
“Who said I had to like the point?”
🪽
Airbnb is an insult to your collective upbringing and usual choice of living, as you both thought. It was three bedrooms, as if you were going to use the other two, a large air conditioning unit, and a kitchen that looked nothing like yours at Summerhall. You stand at the doorway, shoving your duffel bag inside. You start to laugh out of spite, because it was either that or cry about the loss of 24-hour, 7 days a week service staff.
“There’s no pool,” Aerion whimpers, wandering the length of the living area as if he were inspecting for damage. “There’s no– Uncle Baelor is punishing us. This is punishment.”
“I think that’s the goal here, yes.”
“I liked Summerhall’s version of punishment better,” he sighs with pursed lips.
But it takes less than 48 hours for the “terrible” accommodations to stop mattering, because Lys has not a single clue of who you both are. Nobody here has grown up, heard the Targaryen name, and trembled with fear or intimidation. No scandal, no long dynasty that took over Westeros with three blondes, just two fair-faced rich kids with an accent that read money and a black card. Bottle service appears without asking; a corner of the club opens up its arms for you. Nobody here would report anything back to Maekar. Nobody was going to look at the two of you standing too close and imagine that there was something wrong.
It was the most freedom either of you has ever had.
You learned quickly that Aerion has never once in his life understood decorum or restraint in public, and Lys only made it worse. You were stretched out on a towel at the cove beach two streets down from where you were staying. The sun shone brightly everywhere but the space under your umbrella. Aerion props himself on an elbow beside you and starts pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your sternum, right in broad daylight. As if the string of families and tourists a couple of feet away didn’t exist.
“Aerion,” you swat at his shoulder, laughing. You glanced around on instinct, even though not a single person had an idea of who either of you was. “There are people here!”
“There are,” he agrees, unbothered by such unnecessary information, and he does it again, mouth trailing lower and drifting back up once he hears a hum from you. “Someone’s going to look over, Aer.”
“Let them.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re ticklish,” he counters, thrilled by your squirming under the kiss at the dip of your collarbone. You swat at him once more, half-heartedly, giggling too hard to actually mean it.
“We are cousins enjoying the beach in public. Aerion, this is not normal person behavior–”
“Nobody here knows we’re cousins,” he points out, which wasn’t a total lie. He was being entirely too reasonable for someone ignoring every faux boundary you set. “As far as they’re concerned, we’re just an extremely good-looking couple who’re in love.” He paused at the last word, strictly by the impact of the word that he never said out loud in relation to you. Well, in a less familial sense.
You just huffed in defeat, lying back down on the towel.
🪽
The club you found was one of the largest ones in Lys. The attitude and air it had would be shunned in Westeros. You felt the bass in your teeth before you’re even through the door, a loud thump inside your cavity. It was threaded under strings of violet and fuchsia lights and the smell of sweet, sharp liquor and floral perfume. You strung through the crowd with Aerion as if you owned the place. His mood was turned up all the way tonight, his shirt unbuttoned way too far down, arm slung around your shoulders.
He bought a round of shots for an entire table of strangers, just to fuel his ego by hearing them cheer his name like they’ve known him for decades.
“You didn’t even ask for their names,” you shouted over the music, staying close by his side.
“Don’t need to. I bought the shots, they drink ‘em. That’s a formal introduction where I’m from.”
“You made that up just now.”
“Did I?” He grins, cheeky as ever, and steals the lime out of your hand before you have the chance to jerk away.
Somewhere around midnight, he talks a stranger’s boyfriend into a terrible bar game, unprovoked and full of ego. He lost spectacularly, mouth tasting of terrible vodka. You laugh so hard that you nearly fall over, dragging him with you so you don’t miss your humiliation on your own.
“That was so bad, you couldn’t find at least one thing that’s blue in the room?” You ask him, breathless, straightening him back upright.
“I found you,” he coos, spinning you under his arm, nearly making you lose your footing.
Later, you drag him into a bet you knew you shouldn’t have made–who can do shots the longest, a rematch of a contest you have lost on numerous occasions since you were nineteen and talked you into at a family wedding. It ended the way it always did, with you both wasted and too disgusted to determine a winner, babbling about rules and cheating.
“We’re so bad for each other,” you tell him, hanging off his shoulder as you stumble outside the club into the humid Lys night. The bass still rang faintly in your ears as you watched the sky’s bruise that was shown an hour before dawn.
“Last summer of this, though,” he says, smiling down at you, gorgeous and entirely yours in every way.
You don’t think it’s the last summer of anything.
🪽
You don’t get back to the Airbnb until it was five, giddy and now a little more sobered up, and you’re almost to your bathroom before you realize the zipper at the back of your top has been wedged at your shoulder blades all night, and you can’t get to it.
“Aerion,” you announced. He was in the hallway, shirt now a faint memory, turning at his name. “Help me with this.”
He makes his way down and doesn’t say anything clever. You knew it was going to be an issue because he always had something clever up his sleeve, except for these moments with you. He crossed to you and his slender fingers found the zipper. Instead of pulling the rest of it up, he tugs it down. Slowly. Unhurried. He knuckles trail the smooth skin as the zipper opens, and you feel every ridge of the metal opening.
“Aerion–”
“You asked for help,” he mumbled, low and close enough that you felt it against your neck more than you heard it. His mouth was just barely at the curve of your shoulder, breath warm against skin that oversensitized. “I’m helping you.”
You don’t stop him. His hand splays flat between your shoulder blades, holding you there like he wasn’t done with you yet. When he turns you to face him, the nonexistent joke between you two disappears. The competition and rivalry you always had are gone.
You let your top drop to the floor before Aerion dives into your lips, full of need and desire. Your hand made way into his silver tufts, pulling at them before he dragged you into his bedroom.
🪽
It was well past noon the next day when you woke up, sprawled over the king bed, an arm behind your head. He was insufferably pleased with himself the way he gets after a good night, a very good night. You climb back into bed after going to the restroom and dig your thumbs into a knot of muscle at his shoulder that he blamed the mattress for. You’ve never once been able to resist taking care of him, especially when you shouldn’t.
His phone lit up on the pillow beside his head, and you tried your best not to look, because you weren’t that type of person to him. It’s in your peripheral, just there where you worked your hands down his shoulder, but the name atop the notification makes you go still.
Valarr.
'Saw a photo from the club. You need to stop this. Whatever is between you two needs to be over. We don’t do this in this family. Not anymore.'
Aerion’s groans stop, and he goes tense under your hands the moment he feels you stop.
“I can explain–”
“We were in the back of someone’s photo,” you simply stated. You already imagined it. You were kissing him on the back of some influencer’s photo, and Valarr just happened to come upon it.
He said your name, sounding full of guilt and remorse for you, never him.
“Sorry,” you apologize, meaning it wholeheartedly. “For reading it. I wasn’t trying to.”
He twists up to look at you properly, searching your face for whatever panic it may have had. But at this point, you don’t have it in you anymore. You spent your entire life being told that what your predecessors did was a door that was closed for generations before either of you was born, a thing that the family doesn’t do anymore. But you spent your whole life loving him first, and so did he. Everything else was secondary.
“You don’t care,” he stated matter-of-factly.
“I only care that Valarr’s going to be insufferable about it,” you rolled your eyes and shrugged, going back to easing the tension in his shoulder. “I don’t care that he thinks we should stop.”
〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
His face breaks at that, relief perhaps, or just the small tenderness he had left in him that was only shown to you. Never his fake girlfriends, not strangers, not even his father. He catches your wrist before you can pull away, and presses a kiss to it as if you were lovers. To him, your blood was thicker than any connection could ever be.
His thumb came up to trace your cheekbone, his teasing self now entirely gone, replaced with something else. "Kiss me."
You needn’t be told twice. He kisses you like he had no choice, his hand fisting into the flesh at your waist to pull you flush against him. The proximity alone was never enough for either of you. You lost track of where the mattress ended and where he began, the drag of his mouth and the low sound he makes against your lips like he’s been starving. Starving for you.
You straddle him softly, moving against his lap. Aerion groans for a moment, something rattling inside him. Suddenly, you forgot everything that you both have done outside your relationship. Aerion throws that boyfriend you pretended to like during your first year of uni out the window. You remain ignorant of the numerous girls he was with, the ones who would brag and openly tell you about what they did to him. You didn’t care that much because, at the end of the day, you both knew it was a cover-up, and he always came back to you.
Your tongue moved inside his mouth, warm and sickly sweet. “Nothing gets to touch this,” he rasps. “Not Valarr, not the family, not anything.” Aerion thrusted into you, your core shaking from his movement. You gasped into his mouth, pulling back for just a moment.
Your brows furrowed, mouth agape. Sure, you and Aerion had snuck away at countless gatherings and events to hump each other like bunnies, nasty makeouts, him eating you out like it was his last meal, but you had never taken him entirely. “Aerion–” you gasped.
“We don’t have to,” he immediately started, hands coming up to take you off his lap, but your hands hold his wrists.
“No, no. I want to. I want you. I want this.”
He gazes into your eyes to look for any form of hesitation, any wanting to back out, because he couldn’t lose you. You were the only good thing in his life.
You let go of his wrists, letting them fall slowly before they made way to your waist. The day glowed through the sheer curtains, a reminder that you’re spending your afternoon basking in the warmth of your cousin in Lys. Aerion flipped you over, so now you were caged underneath him.
He began his usual routine of kissing you deeply on the lips, before trailing down your throat, then your pulse point, then his favorite place– your sternum. The space between your chest, the area that caged your heart, was always his favorite. He swore he could feel the pitter-patter quicken as he made his way down it.
He unclipped your bra and slipped it off you, throwing it on the floor as he did the same with your panties. Aerion wasted no time removing his boxers before lying his body on top of you. His head of silver hair was cradled in the space of your neck, pressing hot kisses to your jugular.
You swiped the hair out of his face, lashes fluttering at the heat on your neck. Aerion pressed against you, but didn’t enter you yet.
“It’s okay, Aer. Go ahead,” you whispered, giving him the clear. He peered up at you, eyes glimmering. He kisses your lips once more before slowly pushing himself inside. A collective groan emerges from the two of you. Another soft sound escapes your lips before he silences it with his, a wet pop sounding.
Aerion’s arms came around to cage your head as he thrusted in, your hand coming to grip onto his bicep. “F-fuck, Aer,” you choked out, throwing your head back from the fullness.
“My girl,” he lowly says, continuing the roll of his hips.
Aerion was always clever-mouthed and a talker, but he was especially talkative in bed. His words were normally sweet remarks or explanations of desire, but currently, they felt like something aligned with a confession. “I used to think we’d grow out of this. I never knew why,” he rasped in your ear. “I could’ve had anyone. Half the girls on campus would die for me, but you’re all I need. They’re placeholders for you, you know that, right? You’ve always known.”
You didn’t know what to say at the vulgarity and sincerity of his words. You always had a feeling deep down that you had to stop your antics, but this only pushed that thought away. He continued, “They think that blood is the reason this is wrong. I think it’s the reason it feels so right.” At the last word, he thrusts harder into you, earning a moan from you.
Aerion sped up, purring into your ear against your skin. You wrapped your legs around him, bringing him in impossibly closer. Your grip now moved to pull your arms around his shoulders, not letting go for a moment. “Please..” you begged, yet you were unsure of what you were asking for. Was it more? Faster? Stop?
Everything was blurred when your tears began to prick your eyes, threatening to run loose before you shut them. Your mouth formed an ‘o’ at Aerion’s desperate thrusts of desire. His grunts and groans were now changing into cries, taking in fully what sin he has committed.
“That’s it, fuck,” he cursed, breathing heavily. You clawed at his back, leaving marks that were sure to be seen at the beach tomorrow. You cried out, signalling how close you were. Aerion sped up, pushing you into the mattress to go deeper inside you. What little dignity and buildup you had before was now gone, totally shattered and ruined by Aerion.
You swore you saw white when the tight feeling in your tummy snapped, a wave of pleasure spilling over you. Aerion was right there with you, groaning loudly before slipping out of you to finish on your waist.
Aerion fell against you, not caring about the mess he made. His toned arms came to hold you, tight and tough. Your eyes were still closed, but you hugged him back, a hand coming to smooth over his head. “Never leave me,” he finally mumbled out.
Your eyes fluttered open at the choice of his words, feeling him come up to lay a kiss on your temple.
“Never,” you replied. “I love you, Aer.”
“I love you more.”
Nothing was said soon after, because there wasn't anything to say. It was barely the first week of your ‘exile’ in Lys, and you still had so much more time to spend with your cousin.
Aerion ended up sending Valarr photos of you shortly after.
"fuck off, val."
🪽
a/n: hi this was sooo fun to write im absolutely obsessed w all of finn's roles, esp in akotsk and black doves!
