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: 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
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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.”
yandere!bully: he wasn't your bully, not at first. You guys only ever got to know each other because your dad was his dad's employee. Such a circumstance—and a few others—granted you the honor of becoming one of the conglomerate's financial-aid scholars. Another charity case to help polish the company reputation.
You attend the same private academy he does. He tried not to care too much at first; you were just among the few others lucky enough to have the kind of intelligence eyed by his father's company. But that was the thing—you didn't. You were ordinary.
He wondered if his father made a mistake, choosing to sponsor some no-use nobody. Maybe you were a coal in the rough yet to be a diamond. But weeks into the first year of senior high and you showed no signs of blooming. Hell, you even placed at the bottom list in academic standing. You didn't fail; everyone else were just children of the wealthy who afforded private tutors. Maybe an appropriate scholar would have caught up just fine, but you weren't one.
yandere!bully who decides to approach you, frustrated with your mediocrity. Who is he kidding? He doesn't give two shits if his father made a mistake, he was fascinated with your mediocrity. Greatness no longer intrigues him, having been surrounded with it all his life.
Wow, is this a joke? You really aren't good at anything. Not at math, science, Latin, nada. You just do enough to get by.
He speaks to you about it, about that mediocrity. You interpret it as a threat. You can't lose this scholarship now, you just got it. You beg for his mercy that you may continue studying in this prestigious academy. The whole "I'll do anything!" "anything?" conversation ensues. Now he's got you in the palm of his hand.
yandere!bully who starts it small. Makes you his little errand puppy. To him you were like a little dog running around doing what he makes you do. It can't even be called bullying, everyone else interprets it as acts of gratitude for his father granted the scholarship to you.
But then it escalates. Soon he's making you do things that you hesitate to do. Sneaking into faculty to take a picture of the test answer sheet. Smuggling a bag of "stuff" in school (you aren't dumb, you know what these rich kids got their hands on). Forcing you to skip a day of school so you can be his little errand pup while he did golf, playing truant with his friends.
One time you're asked to kneel before him, right between his knees. You ask why. He tells you not to question him. He only wants to see you that way. He watches you for a moment, unfazed, before telling you to stand back up.
Enter his friends, and things turn for the worse. It's like they've been itching their whole lives to get their hands on a human being to torment. They've got their butlers and maids but they're paid workers; you aren't. Clearly, yandere!bully is dangling this scholarship thing above your head like a golden apple. It's enough to keep you in your place, make you go against your own survival instinct to retaliate against a threat. They can do things to you and not suffer the consequences, and they intend to take full advantage of it.
It starts small, too, this torment by his inner circle, but soon it evolves more than just carrying their shopping bags or retrieving the tennis ball whenever they go play.
Soon they laugh when one of them extends a foot to trip you. They steal the math homework you worked hard on even though they've already completed theirs courtesy of their private tutors. Pour water over your head, pinch your skin for fun with their filed, polished nails.
They heard him call you "errand puppy" once, so they had a collar custom-made with his name on it next to the phrase property of, its buckle 18k gold, leather lined on the edge with lab-grown diamonds. Then they made you drink milk like a mutt out of the cafeteria's metal tray.
The boys cornered you in the locker room once, made you pull down your bottoms. You were crying while they took pictures of your underwear, wet snotty face too. They shared it to the girls and it circulated within their friend group for a while. The next time that those specific guys encountered you, though, they seemed to hold back from picking on you. No one ever made a comment about that incident, not about the photos, the crying, the cheap underwear, and they grew quieter when yandere!bully entered the room.
With his friends it's always physically violent; never with him. You would argue, though, that he is the cruelest. Because he's got the power to make them stop and he chooses not to. He just watches. You gather that he likes watching you a lot.
yandere!bully plays soccer; he's a varsity player of your academy. Every after training you're tasked to carry his school and sports bag back to his luxury sedan which he drives to and from campus. Tonight he makes you stand in front of the goal net. His friends are lined up some meters before you, having gathered all the soccer balls the academy owns.
You're nervous. You know what's about to happen and you should run, but you don't, because you think the scholarship is worth all this.
"Don't let them score and I'll extend your scholarship to college," is all the warning you get.
You're hit everywhere. The arms, shoulders legs, torso—everything hurts. One ball after the other to your head, and you feel dizzy. Of course, you try defending yourself; you yell at them to stop, that it hurts, and all you get is: "don't you want that scholarship?"
What made you cease is the blow to your chest. It's a strong hit, delivering a pain so hot you think it shifted your ribs, and you cough and wheeze and they're still throwing balls at you until your form is thrashing on the grass like fish on land.
Your head feels so hot and prickly from the lack of air, you're sure it's bound to explode. Black spots your vision and you literally can't breathe but all you can think of is: did I get that scholarship?
You're hospitalized that night. Bandages on all limbs, tapes to hold the cuts produced from the skin being hit too hard. Nasal cannula around your face.
You wake up slowly. There's a mildly comforting heat on your bandaged hand that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. yandere!bully is seated by your bed, watching you as always.
His hand touches your face. He murmurs something, but it's muffled by the bandages wrapped around your head, ears included. Then his thumb tenderly brushes over your busted lip.
Finally, he leaves the room, and you're left to stare at the ceiling.
Upon discharge, you don't hear anything about dues from the hospital—a big relief for you. No warnings from the academy either for having missed a week of school. You speculate he's got something to do with it for the sake of reputation. No one is supposed to know that the son of the chairman of such a conglomerate beat its scholar to death's door.
School is different after the incident. You're no longer abused as much by his peers, although you still do their various errands. He still makes you do naughty stuff, like skipping classes when he feels like it. Only this time it seems only he's around to do errands for.
These errands are different now, too. It's not the typical labor-heavy tasks like before, fetching for his tennis ball or carrying his bags. You're more like an actual pet puppy at this point; he just brings you around wherever he goes. Almost like he has to keep an eye on you at all times.
yandere!bully who finds himself missing you during the summer. Everyone left for their own respective vacations, out of the country to Maldives or Monaco or Switzerland or whatever. You're back with your relatives in that quaint little downtown neighborhood of yours. He would know, having hired private investigators to stalk your ass. He is going with his family to the countryside estate.
Father, mother, eldest sister, older brother. He's the youngest. It's a quiet family. Sister grew up just to be like father, cold and austere. It seems he's on the way to becoming just like that, too. Only brother inherited mother's benevolence.
Father doesn't care about anyone and anything but mother. yandere!bully only ever talks to Father whenever it's necessary. Otherwise, both of them are content minding one's own business.
yandere!bully asks Father about you. As he suspected, Father makes no mistake. He says you were really meant for the scholarship.
"I had a feeling," Father says, "that you two would make very good friends."
yandere!bully who's touchier now, second and final year of senior high. Or he's become touchy, since he never was back then. He drags you by your wrist at short distances, a palm on your nape whenever he tells you to look at something. A hand on your lower back, sliding dangerously low every time before letting go. He also often fixes your collar, fingers always ending up brushing your neck.
He tells you to strip one time at some high-end clothing store. You stare at him, dumbfounded, before he gives some silly excuse that it's for a cousin with your same build.
He makes you try on different outfits. At first it's various tops and bottoms that complement your shape, colors that go well with your skin tone, all the like. You glance at yourself in the mirror and wonder if this is how you look born into that top 1%. You look nice.
Then he makes you strip back to your underwear, and lets you try on the white [dress/blazer]. There's a moment of silence before he tells you to come over to him, and he stands up, towering over you with his gifted height.
He looks down at you, seemingly lost in thought, like he's visualizing you in a certain light...
"Do you like it?" He asks.
You tell him that you think his cousin will. His expression is undisturbed, but he exhales almost like a huff. Quite suddenly he grabs you by the waist, thumb gliding circles.
"I asked if you like it."
You stutter out a pathetic 'yes.' Honestly you don't give a damn but you fear his negative reaction your comment. Although if you had to, you'd say it's a bit too fancy for your liking.
He only hums before letting you go. You proceed to wear the next attire.
You shiver to think about how he views this certain cousin of his, having you wear a bunch of skimpy outfits. Some that showed your stomach too much, others exposing your legs. One top you're pretty sure can rival a tape going around your chest area, covering only what needs to be covered. He stays aloof the whole time, jaded eyes planted on you.
After that, things start to get kind of disgusting.
The touchiness escalates tenfold, and he isn't as insecure about it as you are, showing off to his friends. It's like the roles have switched: now he's the physical one instead of them. You're still a slave to their torment, of course, but only he gets to touch you like this. His friends don't find anything odd about it, in fact they look as if they enjoy your discomfort. They egg him on.
yandere!bully who brings you with him to a speakeasy, exclusive only for students of this certain private members club. The top one percent of the top one percent, they would say. It's like a den of iniquities, these kids doing all sorts of nefarious stuff: drugs, dealings, gambling, and most dreadful of all: whores.
Man or woman, they aren't obvious. You only know because they're distinguishable from the rich clients of the club who dress minimalistic. You suppose a more professional term for these people are escorts. They're conversing animatedly with their young clients, some linking their arms with them, a few already making their way to private rooms.
yandere!bully sits on the loveseat across his peer who's got two escorts in his arms. You only stand behind him, listening in on their conversation. Something about stocks and real estate. Networking. If he knew this, what he thinks about that.
You drone their voices out. The smell of weed is getting to you, making you feel all woozy.
yandere!bully tells you to sit on his lap. Dumbed down by the smoke, you comply a little too easily, like the puppy you are. His peer whistles lowly, eyeing you with a predatory glint.
He doesn't do anything about it because he knows they all can only afford to look. The truth is you belong to him, and only he gets to touch you this way, his hand now shamelessly gliding down your rear while you stay pliant. As long as you're after that scholarship, you belong to him.
He shifts you on his lap, his mouth feeling dry as he feels you press against him. You're really just asking for it, aren't you?
yandere!bully: he finds you in the library, when everyone else is in the school gym for graduation practice. This serves as your only safe haven from him, from his friends, from this whole aquarium filled with predatory fish. Oftentimes it feels like you're the only herbivore out there. The library happens to be the oldest part of this castle-turned-campus, which means: no CCTVs.
You scream when he pins you against the table, cut off halfway when he slams a palm on your mouth. The other hand encases both your wrists in one secure grip as his leg forces your knees apart, and he starts grinding against you like a dog in heat.
His eyes are half-lidded as he's watching you with his mouth parted, a sick grin forming. He thinks it's hot when you cry, if he knew this before he would have done better to get you to cry more often.
"Dumb puppy," he sneers, "dumb little errand pup, you're no good for anything at all, aren't you? Only at following your master and fetching balls."
Your panic discourages you from registering all the painful words he's saying, the names he's calling you. You try your best to escape his coil that only seems to get tighter the more you move like a boa constrictor. Arousal seems to give him inhumane strength.
Having had enough, he lifts you up momentarily, before slamming your back against the table, hard.
"Stop fucking moving, you stupid mutt!"
That does indeed get you to stop fucking moving. You even stop trying to scream, and stop... breathing? He pauses his ministrations and looks down at you. You're staring back at him, eyes wide, lips trembling. Then you start convulsing for air.
He doesn't know what to do, and for the first time in his life of luxury and wealth he's genuinely terrified. He's always seen you suffering, but this time, this time you're suffering and he can't put a stop to it. He can't control it.
You're grasping the sleeves of his uniform, still spasming. He gets the hint and aids you in sitting back upright on the table. He already has half the mind to pull out his phone and call emergency, but you're already breathing fine, trying to catch your breath.
Your hand moves to deeply rub the center of your chest.
Shit.
Was this... was this the soccer injury? Haven't you already recovered from that? The doctors said you'd heal eventually. The cuts, the deep bruises. Did you turn out to have an unattended rib fracture? Is this... chronic?
It's been almost a year since that incident.
Have you always had this pain, and kept it to yourself?
He's never felt this level of trepidation consume him, shaking him to the core. His heart is in his stomach as he looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the damaged he's done. You're tired. You're scared. You're miserable.
You are readmitted to the the same high-end hospital not long after. This time you're scheduled for surgery. He covers all the expenses, makes sure to get the best of the best of surgeons out there. You don't really have a say in the matter, you're not dumb enough to refuse such an offer just for the sake of your dignity. What left of it is there, anyway?
Father visits him during that period, noting the considerable dent in his son's bank account for that big of a purchase. He meets Father shortly after freshening up, having vomited at the thought of your broken countenance.
yandere!bully tells him everything except the attempted assault. Father only sits and listens, unnervingly silent, like he understands. It's the first time he's ever opened up to his dad. To his surprise, Father does not disappoint.
Likewise, Father also tells him everything. How, in this family, there is the tendency for some members to manifest passionate emotions in various ways. They feel so little they end up feeling so much for very specific things... sometimes persons. And they tend to be violent with it.
You were meant to be the recipient of this violence. Your father owed his father a great deal of debt, and so you were basically sold off, your purpose for him hidden under the ruse of scholarship. Not that you knew.
It all makes sense now, Father's devotion to Mother, and her aversion from him. His sister's fierce attachment to this one specific guy who also just so happens to be a scholar of the company. His feelings for you which he can't seem to make amends with.
"Once you find that someone," Father says, "you sink your claws into them and never let go, even when they bleed."
You're back to school in two weeks. Like back then, you didn't receive any disciplinary actions for your absence. You try not to wonder how you manage to keep your place as a scholar in this prestigious academy despite all the missed assignments on top of your already mediocre grades.
yandere!bully avoids you like the plague, and so do his friends. It seems everything went back to how it once was, how it was supposed to be. Everyone here ostracizes you for your socio-economic standing but it doesn't bother you at all, not when you prefer this over the active bullying.
The next time he interacts with you, it's already graduation. You're wearing the appropriate formal attire under your graduation robes, which you can guess is the cheapest out of everything in this venue where the school-sponsored grad party is being held. There's an afterparty held at some penthouse bar after this, hosted by one of yandere!bully's friends, but you aren't invited.
You exit the venue to begin the 20-minute walk back to your dorm, but someone stops you.
His hand is on your wrist. You get unpleasant flashbacks, but you keep it to yourself. He asks how you're doing, you say you're just fine.
He then asks if you want to celebrate this milestone.
No, you don't. Not with him. But you're not about to lose your diploma when you just got it.
So now you are in his Porsche and he's driving you both to one of his many family estates. It's smaller than most, he describes.
According to him at least. The whole thing is the size of your entire neighborhood. It's a long driveway before he even gets to arrive at the actual building. He parks right in front of the manor.
Inside, you're invited to have dinner with him. It's only the two of you in this large dining hall, where you're seated adjacent to him at the end of the grand table. But the selection of food nearly reaches down to half the long table, as if he had the chef cook every food that could possibly be your favorite.
Still, you end up eating light. He offers you to choose the brand of wine but you refuse, saying that it hasn't been long enough since your operation. A pause, before he nods, instead picking the wine himself.
Instead of alcohol you're served apple juice. It's freshly squeezed, you could tell by the bitter aftertaste.
Glass in hand, he leads you out of the manor and to the rose garden, where you can see the stars so clearly due to the lack of light pollution thanks to the vastness of his estate. There's a small pavilion housing a large couch. He leads you toward it, makes you sit.
You feel yourself deflate instantly on the cushion, exhausted from having your guard up around him at all times. If he noticed he didn't comment a thing about it. He's on his third glass and you're currently nursing the first glass of apple juice you're nearly finished with, when he calls out your name.
"Congratulations."
You congratulate him, too, since he also graduated.
He downs the rest of his wine in one go, sets it on the side table. Then he steps closer to you, fueled with liquid courage, sinking into the space next to you.
You try to sit up and scoot over. You can't.
"I was afraid for a moment," he starts, "that you wouldn't accept my invitation."
Afraid? He put you through hell, and only now has the gall to hesitate on you? A pit begins to form on your stomach.
He turns to you, taking your glass out of your hand and setting it down the ground, before holding that same hand with his own warmer one. He inches closer. You can't move.
You ask, "Would you have forced me to come anyway?"
He smiles at that. "You wouldn't have said no."
He's now hovering over you on the couch, same standoffish eyes tracing your face, your eyes, nose, settling on your mouth. You see his Adam's apple bob up and down.
He has so much to say to you. You look so pretty right now, basked in the moonlight, not fighting him. He's sorry for all the rough treatment, for hurting you and making you cry. He swears it's just his feelings for you manifested in the wrong manner. But now he knows, after his father explained everything it all makes sense. He's just in love with you.
yandere!bully kisses your trembling lips, tenderly. You try to fight it off but it's no use; you realized too late that he's done something to your drink. You're sobbing when he parts from you, terror and anger evident in your eyes. When he begins to pull off your clothes, he speaks.
"I would never do anything to hurt you." Your stomach churns in resentment. "Never again."
He kisses the column of your neck down to your chest, your surgical scars, where his lips stay longer. When he feels you're sort of hyperventilating, he rises and cups your cheek.
"Breathe. Breathe," he says your name. "Okay? Relax. I've got you. I promise I'll take care of you. You just have to breathe."
He rubs your chest. His own aches just at the thought of your distress. It's his fault you ended up like this, so he intends to make up for it for the rest of your lives.
He makes love to you that night. As promised, he did take care of you. It doesn't hurt when he slides it in, having poured a generous amount of lube all you feel is the pressure instead of the sting of his very well-endowed member intruding you. He's got a way with his hands, too, stimulating all the right parts just enough to get you unfolding beneath him within an hour. He would have done it within minutes but he took his sweet time just to get you so wet and ready for him.
He's so damn gentle with you like he was your lover for the last two years and not your bully. Of course, to you this wasn't 'making love.' For the most part you were delirious both from the drink and his expert ministrations, and are only hit with the the graveness of your reality when he finally spills his essence into you. His body quivers, and right then he pulls you for a deep, tongue-heavy kiss. When he pulls away, he mutters something in his frenzy: "I love you."
yandere!bully doesn't bother you after that. When he wakes up on that couch in the pavilion you're already gone. You left in a rush. A butler drove you off back outside of the estate, having received no orders to make you stay.
You've graduated. Your credentials will surely spark competition among universities for you, being a graduate from one of the most prestigious academies in the world. Still, you ask yourself if it was all worth it.
You aren't the same after those two years. You feel as if you've lost all purpose in life after that night. Like something valuable was stolen from you, and could never be returned. You don't want to keep going.
But reality will always dictate what you do. You can't afford to be like this because you're poor. Mental health doesn't exist to the poor, your father would insist. You've got bills to pay, mouths to feed. And you may be mediocre, but you're not dumb enough to seek justice against someone as powerful as your bully. You don't even have the money for that.
So you went on despite grievances to the next stage of your life: college. Countless scholarships from different sponsors. The same conglomerate that covered your senior high scholarship is offering you another full ride—living arrangements and all—to the country's number one university.
You refuse the offer this time. A thousand scholarships from that conglomerate isn't enough to repair the damage that's been done. Besides, you never want to encounter anything associated with him ever again.
Instead you accept to be sponsored by a different company; a smaller one (at least in comparison), but they covered your tuition of four years in the same prestigious university. Sure, no living arrangements, but that's more than what most sponsors give.
You enter the CEO's office, having been invited so she can get to know you more. There are two individuals in the room. She, and...
Your heart drops to your stomach.
The CEO introduces him to you, although there is no need for that. He's standing there in a tux, hair slicked back, jaded eyes glinting with mirth at the sight of you. It seems he's grown taller in the few months you haven't seen each other.
Apparently his dad's conglomerate is the parent company. How could you be so stupid?
Madame CEO excuses herself to take an important call, leaving you alone with him. He doesn't hesitate to walk closer, smiling as fondly as his austere face can manage.
"I missed you." He speaks, voice full of yearning. He takes your hand in his. "How are you after our shared night? Why did you leave so suddenly? Don't do that again, love."
Ripping your hand away, you asked why he was here. If he knew and orchestrated to have you accept this scholarship.
"I don't break my promises. I'd hate to start with you." He explains.
You demanded what he meant by that. He doesn't hide the fact that he's enjoying your turmoil, but you can't even find it in yourself to get it together this time.
"No one scored that night." He shrugs. "They were all so focused on hitting you."
...what?
"I promised you your college scholarship, remember?"
yandere!bully who follows you all the way to college.
“Her. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?”
You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.
“That’s the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.”
The way they speak your husband’s name sends shivers down your spine.
“The vile bastard. How dare she comes here.”
You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.
The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.
You hear a scoff. “The nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.”
You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.
Another man further back mentions, “The Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-”
He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, “Shh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.”
You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.
“Go to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.”
You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldn’t forget it.
“Have yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.”
You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.
Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.
Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.
Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.
There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.
“You will stay here,” you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. “Just outside the market tent.”
“We must stay by your side,” one informs you.
You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.
“It is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,” you try to say. “They will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.”
You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.
Aerion’s words return to your mind. ‘You are a Targaryen now. A commoner’s word will never outweigh yours.’
A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. “You will stay here. It is an order.”
“Lady (Y/N), with all due respect-”
“My husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,” you say to him. “If you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.”
The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.
They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.
They are scared of him. It is so…different to use someone’s fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.
You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerion’s mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.
“Line the tent,” you command them. “Do not enter unless I permit it.”
“Yes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.”
You’re even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.
The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.
Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.
You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer
It’s not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings they’ve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.
The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.
New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.
The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.
“The oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,” the sales woman tells you. “Would you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.”
“Yes,” you say. You browse the booth without a care. “These ribbons as well.”
You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.
Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.
“Have you been...watching the tourney?” You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.
“A bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.”
“Does he know any of the knights?”
“A few.”
“Does he perhaps know a…” You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, “…Ser Duncan the Tall?”
“Never heard the name in my life.”
Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.
“Just these items then,” you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.
You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.
“Did you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?” a voice calls out.
A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.
“The tall one?” she continues. “Big oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?”
Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. “Yes. That is the one.”
She laughs. “Whatcha wantin’ him for?”
The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.
You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. “I was only wondering which day he will joust.”
She lets out a humored snort. “Probably never. That one’s still beggin’ to get on the lists.”
A frown forms on your face. “He’s not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.”
“He says his knighthood wasn’t properly filed or somethin’ of the sort. He’s not recognized by the castle yet.” She shrugs. “He could just be sayin’ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.”
“He does not seem like a liar to me.”
You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The woman’s expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. “You’re right. He don’t.” She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. “You don’t look like you’d know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that man’s company.”
Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.
A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerion’s side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. “I was only asking. That is all.”
“I hear he’s havin’ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.” Another shug. “Maybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.”
“The Dorish tent?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you know what a Dornish tent looks like?”
“Yes,” you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. “Yes. Thank you.”
That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.
But something else gnawed at you.
You knew what she was.
No, it wasn’t very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.
The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wench’s body.
“Do you mind if I ask-” You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. “I was only wondering, how do you…know Ser Duncan?”
“How do you think?”
You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, “He has paid for your...services?”
A chuckle. “You sure are a proper girl, aren’t ya? Can’t even hardly say the words.”
Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.
“I apologize. It is not my place-”
“He hasn’t laid with me, if that’s what you’re scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.”
You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.
Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.
She smiles at your visible relief. “Are you some lovergirl of his?”
“No.” You hurry the refusal. “I have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.”
“Mhm.”
“Thank you for your help,” you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. “Let him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.”
You do not need to leave your name. He will know.
She snatches the coins from you, smiling. “I’ll do just that.”
As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you haven’t felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.
Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man you’ve had less than five run-ins with.
“I have another stop to make,” you inform the guards.
“Yes, Lady (Y/N).”
You feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.
You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.
Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men weren’t.
“You will stay here,” you order the guards. “I have private business to attend to.”
One argues back, “Lady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.”
“It will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.”
“Prince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,” one insists, his tone becoming impatient. “We allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.”
Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.
“Stand near the entrance,” you eventually say. “I will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.”
Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.
Who didn’t?
They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.
It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.
You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.
It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working
She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. “Pardon me-”
You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.
But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, “Yes?”
“You are…one of the puppeteers?” Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.
“I am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?”
You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. “I was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Oh. Dunk.” She nods. “Yes. I do.”
“He is having you paint a shield for him?”
She looks over you like the other woman had. “Yes.”
“How much are you charging him?”
She frowns. “I am not overcharging, I assure you.”
“No, no,” you quickly say. “I was not suggesting that. I only ask because-” You pull the coin purse from your pouch. “I wish to pay for it for him.”
“…You do?”
“What is the price?”
She tells you what she is charging him.
You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, “Please, make sure you do your best job on it.”
She stares down at the coins, before asking, “How exactly do you know this knight?”
“He is a friend of mine.”
Once more, she looks you up and down. “You must be the ‘princess’.”
You frown. “No, I fear you’ve mistaken me.”
“Dunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a ‘princess’,” she informs you. “And that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.”
Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?
“I am no princess.”
She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. “I told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with more…admiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.”
You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was ‘difficult’ and ‘melancholy’.
You tell her, “Perhaps he speaks of someone else.” Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.
She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. “When Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.”
“Do you know what?”
“No.” She knelt down to gather something. “But just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.”
Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.
The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. “It is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.”
Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.
Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.
“I tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,” she laughs. “But he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.”
You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.
She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.
Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.
The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.
Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.
You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.
“I hope you like it-”
“I do,” you quickly tell her. “I very much like it.” You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. “You are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.”
Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. “I am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-”
“Keep it,” you beg. “As a thank you for helping him.”
“I cannot accept this amount,” she tells you. “It would not be right.”
“Take it as a donation to the puppetshow.” Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. “It looks like hard work.”
She smiles. “Come see it. The main show will be in two night’s time.”
“I fear I’ve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.”
“Perhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.”
*****
You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.
You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.
If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.
A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.
‘Lips sealed,’ you tell yourself. ‘No replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.’
Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.
You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.
You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.
“Good evening, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. “I trust you got much needed rest today.”
“I did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?”
“Abundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.”
You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.
Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.
“They brought in wine,” you tell Ser Thenty. “I will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.”
You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.
Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.
You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. “You are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-”
“You are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,” Madam Pricher chides.
The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. “I merely mean to show him my gratitude-”
“Aerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.”
Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.
“You will not bother my husband with such things.”
“I certainly will.”
You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. “My husband tells me I can place orders on you,” you insist. “And I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.”
“I look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.”
In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.
You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet that’s being trained on how to act properly.
“I need no wine, Lady (Y/N),” Ser Thenty tells you. “Have some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husband’s arrival.”
You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.
“Your hair should be braided,” the older woman tells you. “It is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.”
“My husband enjoys my hair when it is down.”
“I have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.”
You burn with hate for her. “Aerion wants it down,” you insist.
You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husband’s fists.
Out of spite, you add, “But I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.”
You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. “I have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.”
Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You don’t understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.
Even more so as Madam Pricher says, “If you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.”
She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.
You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.
Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.
Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.
Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.
“Much better,” is the first thing he says to you.
You despise him.
Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.
Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.
His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.
Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. “You have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.”
You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.
Your husband’s eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. “Have you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.”
“I poured a cup,” you tell him.
He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. “You did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.”
You lie, “I liked it-”
“She poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.”
Your heart drops.
Aerion pauses.
Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.
Your husband slowly turns to you. “You gave my gift to your knight-?”
“I offered him a glass but he refused,” you rush out. “He did not have it.”
His jaw sets. “Why was my gift offered to him?”
A lie comes to you fast. “It-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.”
Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. “You think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.”
He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.
“Where did you go today after you left me?” he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.
“To the market,” you tell him. “And to the baths.”
He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. “Only those two places?”
You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, “I tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.”
He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. “A puppet show?”
“I went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.”
“What interest do you have in a puppet show?”
“They are...interesting.”
“They are childish. Do not seek one out again.”
He can’t even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?
“As you wish, Prince Aerion.”
He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, “My father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?”
Your eyes go to the floor. “No, Prince-”
He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. “Do not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?”
You quickly shake your head. “No, Prince Aerion. I remember them.”
“Stop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.”
You stand straighter.
“You have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.”
Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.
He snaps his fingers at you again to say, “Let us go.”
He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.
“Valarr won his match today,” Aerion informs you. “But his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.”
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.
To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, “You also won your match today.”
A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. “Not that anyone doubted I would.” He whistled behind you. “Pick it up, you old hag.”
You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.
“Pick up your skirts when you walk,” Aerion commands you. “You are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.”
You hold them higher, and say, “Yes, husband.”
He sends a look your way. “Use that mocking tone on me again and you’ll receive a slap to the face.”
You truly do not understand him.
Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?
You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.
You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.
The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.
“Prince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).”
You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.
It is an eight seat table.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.
Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.
“The Ashfords are not coming to dinner,” Valarr says to you. “If that is who you are looking for.”
Aerion’s head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.
“Lord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,” Valarr continued, “After learning Aerion would be arriving.”
“Valarr,” Prince Baelor says cooly.
Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.
“You sound spiteful this evening,” Aerion tells his cousin. “Are you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?”
“I am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.”
Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. “You know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.”
“If you make it as far as I do,” Valarr nods.
“Perhaps we will be the finalists.”
“This tourney will be going longer than expected,” Baelor speaks. “Many knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.”
Your blood runs cold.
Another week?
Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?
The idea sounds horrid. Yet…another week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.
“That is your doing,” Maekar tuts. “You allow in every knight that begs to enter.”
“Every rightful knight.”
“And you know them to be rightful?” Maekar asks. “Like the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?”
“I told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.”
“Even the worst knight wouldn’t have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.”
The word ‘giant’ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.
“Regardless, he is entered.”
“Perhaps you should enter your favorite knight,” Aerion says to his uncle. “See if he is as brave as he pretends to be.”
Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. “And who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?”
“Ser Thenty, is it not?”
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.
“He must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.” He turns to you. “And you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?”
Maekar made another sound of irritation. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. “We have waited too long. Bring out the food.”
A serving boy asked, “Are we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?”
“No. Serve the food now.”
“No other guests are comfortable dining with the family,” Valarr begins. “Here we are, in someone else’s castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-”
Maekar slams his hand on the table.
Valarr falls silent.
The whole room falls silent.
It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.
“Speak of the tactics used during your match today,” Baelor tells his son.
Valarr does so. He speaks of the books he’s been reading on jousting, how he’s been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how he’s taken notes.
Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.
Except, Aerion isn’t conversing much. He is only listening.
Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.
Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, “As you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.”
You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.
Baelor then says, “I hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.”
He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.
“Yes, she came to watch my match,” Aerion tells him. “She helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.”
You hear Valarr’s voice, “I’m sure she was thrilled to be there.” His tone held thick sarcasm.
Aerion seemed amused by it. “She was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.”
You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.
You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “She brought me much luck.”
All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. “You had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.”
You have pleased him with the comment.
Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.
When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.
“You did well tonight, wife,” Aerion says to you. “You will be rewarded for it.”
The reward he gives you is his mercy.
He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.
He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.
His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.
When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.
Aerion kisses you. And when he kisses you, you are able to flutter your eyes closed, and you pretend he is another man.
The safe house wasn't exactly as nice as your penthouse in vought. But you liked this better. It was cosy and felt like a home. You sat down on the couch and looked around as Hughie helped bring in some supplies they had bought for you. You groaned and stood up. 'Let me help,' you said.
'No, sit down. You're carrying enough in your belly,' he said. You chuckled and looked up to see Starlight entering. She was going to be staying with you for the first week. She needed to lay low, but she could also protect you.
'Thank you, Annie. You guys have been so amazing,' you said. Annie smiled and helped Hughie bring some more things in.
'Don't mention it. We'll get some more stuff when it's closer to the due date,' she said. You nodded and followed them into your room that was set up quite nicely.
'How's Soldier Boy going?' you asked as you sat on the bed.
'Angry, but Billy is handling it,' Hughie said.
'We won't let him near you. The way he spoke about you...' Annie said. You sighed and nodded.
'I know, he's a fucking asshole. I wish he stayed dead,' you said. Annie smiled sadly and nodded.
Hughie eventually left to go back to the base and it was just you and Annie. It was refreshing to talk to her, you hadn't had a friend in a long time. You were sitting on the couch laughing together and talking.
'So, have you thought about naming the baby?' Annie asked. You paused for a moment and thought.
'It hadn't even crossed my mind... I've never named any of them,' you whispered. You rested your hand on your stomach and thought for a moment. 'I always liked Lyla...'
'That's a beautiful name, Y/N.'
--
Four years had passed since you came here. The house now looked more like a home and your little girl was growing up well. You were playing in the yard with her, chasing her around as she giggled. You heard a noise and looked around. 'Lyla, we need to go back inside,' you said. She nodded and ran to you as you scooped her up and rushed inside and locked the door. You sighed before turning around and saw Homelander and Soldier Boy. You gasped and looked at them in shock.
'Mommy...' Lyla whispered in fear as you gripped her tightly.
'You both need to get the hell out of here,' you said. They chuckled and looked at you. Homelander looked at Lyla.
'Hi, sweetheart. I'm your daddy,' he said. You glared at him and held Lyla tighter.
'Don't even think about it,' you growled. Soldier boy chuckled and stepped closer.
'I guess that makes me her grandfather. The grandfather mommy used to fuck,' he said as you quickly blocked Lyla's ears.
'Enough.'
'Our child is very valuable, Y/N. Hand her over and come back. We won't even slit your throat this time,' homelander said with a sickening smile.
'We aren't going with you,' you said. Ben chuckled and looked at you again.
'Vought won't like if we come empty handed,' he said. Homelander's eyes began to glow as you looked at him.
'Don't do this...'
Homelander burnt the side of your arm and you screamed and dropped Lyla. He rushed forward and grabbed Lyla as soldier boy grabbed you and pinned you to the wall.
'Mommy!' Lyla screamed as she sobbed in fear. You looked at Ben and cried softly. You knew he was going to kill you.
'Don't let her see, please, Ben,' you whispered. He chuckled and looked behind at Lyla before he snapped your neck and you fell to the floor in a heap. Lyla screamed in terror and fought against homelander.
'Leave Y/N here,' Homelander said.
'Vought wants her back.'
'Too bad, I want her to be alone.'
--
Billy and Frenchie made their way to the safe house with groceries like they did every Wednesday. When they entered they found the door kicked in and the security disabled. Billy dropped the bags and rushed inside to see you lifeless on the floor.
'Fuck! Lyla! Lyla, are you here, luv!' he shouted.
'Billy?' a small voice called out as he saw Lyla crawling out from under the couch. He sighed in relief and quickly grabbed her and shielded her from your body.
'Oh, sweetheart... Thank God you're bloody here. What happened, babygirl? Who did this?'
'Mommy and I were playing outside and I made a copy of myself like Mommy has been teaching me to. I was going to hide and scare her when she came inside, but then there were these two men,' she explained. Billy took a breath, he knew Lyla was mischievous and often used her cloning abilities to trick them, but right now he was thankful for it.
'Okay, what did they look like?'
'One had blonde hair and a blue suit and the other one with brunette. They thought my clone was the real me and took it with them,' she said. Billy nodded and sighed in relief as he kissed the side of her head.
'You're a bloody genius, luv. Alright, we gotta act quick, won't be long till that little clone of yours disappears and they realise what happened,' he said. Lyla looked at you and tears welled in her eyes.
'Mommy...she comes back, right?'
'Yes, sweetheart. She'll come back, I know that must've been scary to see. Come on, we have to go.'
--
Back at the base Frenchie had you in his bed while you regenerated. He entered to check on you when you shot up and gasped.
'Lyla! Where is she, where's my baby?' you said as you tried to get up but fell down. Frenchie rushed forward and helped you up.
'Easy, Mon Cher. Lyla is safe, she's here with us,' Frenchie said. He supported your body as you limped weakly out of the room. You saw Lyla with Hughie and began to cry.
'Oh god... Sweetheart, thank God,' you whispered. You fell to your knees and Lyla ran to you.
'Mommy!' she shouted as she rushed into your arms. You sighed and held her tightly, you would never let her go again. You pulled away and held her face in your hand.
'Turns out her little tricks came in handy,' Hughie said.
'The one they took...it was a clone, baby?' you asked as Lyla smiled and nodded. You sighed and kissed her forehead. 'Oh my god... My little genius.'
'Why was that man saying he was my daddy?' she asked. Frenchie helped you over to the couch and Lyla crawled onto your lap, you were still exhausted from regenerating. You tucked Lyla's hair behind her ear and smiled.
'That man is your father, darling. But he isn't family, not at all. He's not a good man.'
'Is he a villain?' she asked.
'Yes, he is. So is the other man he was with.'
'What does fuck mean?' she asked. You chuckled softly as Hughie snorted.
'I honestly thought she would learn that from Billy first,' he said. You smiled and looked at Lyla as Billy entered.
'Go up to Billy and yell that word,' you whispered. She giggled and ran up to Billy.
'Fuck!' she shouted as he looked at her and laughed. He picked her up.
'Oi, finally learnt something worthwhile did ya?' he said. He looked at you and smiled. 'How ya feeling, luv?'
'Like I died... But good. Thank you, I just I couldn't imagine if,' you paused and Hughie sat beside you.
'You're safe, so is Lyla,' he said. You took a breath and smiled.
'I just felt so sick seeing Homelander grab her like she wasn't worth anything. I'm so glad it wasn't actually her,' you said. Hughie wrapped an arm around you to comfort you as Lyla practically jumped out of Billy's arms and ran to you. She sat on your lap again.
'I'm okay, mommy. I'm right here,' she said. You chuckled and looked at her sweet face. You hugged her tightly.
'I love you so much... My smart girl,' you whispered. She giggled and hugged you back as Billy watched the scene. He was ready to declare war on homelander and soldier boy, but for now all he needed to do was keep his girls safe.
Part 1 of ??? (Gimme headcannons for reader/Dunk/the gang lol)
Warnings: Nothing will be written worse than what’s described in the show ⚔︎
Not requested I just reallllly wanted to write for akotsk and I haven’t seen anyone do a knight reader yet ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) this will at least have a part two, if not be a series so give me some ideas!
Requests open! + More Stranger Things fics coming while I write pt2 of this!! :)
Word Count: ~2k
⚔︎ ⚔︎ ⚔︎
“I hear the only true knight these days is the Silent Knight.” Raymun sighs after discussing Aerion’s stunt at the tourney. Dunk nods, having at least heard your title once from Ser Arlan before his recent passing. “His actions speak more than his words—“ the brunette slurs, raising his ale. The tall knight thinks about honor, about the knights of these days and why they lack it. He is unsure if you really have it, but if the word around the tents is true then he might enjoy your company someday.
You were particular. You had methods, ever since you learned you needed them. Hiding your identity was the first. It was generally dangerous for all women where you frequented. Especially those carrying large bags— you would’ve been begging on hands and knees for unwanted attention. More than the usual at least.
Dressed in loosely draped cloths, you put on the guise of an old merchant no one wanted to buy anything from while traveling between tourneys. Your horse-drawn cart looked old, but what was under the ragged cloths was worth more than your entire being. Plus your horse. You wanted the least amount of attention possible— for now.
Luckily in this village you had a friend who had told you about a suitable spot in the forest on the outskirts. This one had a nice back door entry route into the tourney area, and it was right next to a small hot spring. You rolled your eyes at her, not thinking seriously about the amenity.
“Need I not live like a Targaryen...” You laughed at her after meeting on her way to the coast. She grins and hands you a map and basket, filled with some eggs and bread. Before you can reiterate your point she hushes you.
“Don’t! Win your tourney, you. Get some knight on knight action, after.” She winks, turning about on her way.
Following the map closely, you come upon the small clearing in the trees.
“Time to unpack for these days ahead (H/N).” You sigh at your steed, getting to work so you can make it into town to shop before it gets too busy.
Everyone knows when the Silent Knight comes to the villages, it’s best you wager on him. The townspeople had plenty to say of the character, speculating where he was staying, what knights he was friendly with, the ones he could beat— most. All you do is grin to yourself, turning your head down and thinking of what to meat to buy for the evening.
You normally only wore your armor to and from the tourneys, but now you were feeling like you had to wear it all of the time. Upon returning to your tent, you caught a little bald squire poking around in your belongings in the cart. You watch from behind the brush, noticing him hesitate after discovering your helm and shield under the fabric. Wanting to see who the culprit is, you watch close as he covers the cart and drops down. He starts speaking to (H/N) and your eyes fall upon the little Targaryen, who has disguised himself by shaving the bright hair off. You had been in the family’s company a few months at their request, meaning to train Aerion—who had better things to do, like look for your undisguised self to harass. Aegon would watch you train yourself instead, thinking you’d never noticed him high in the ceiling posts.
You assume he wants to speak with the Silent Knight based on the way he sits on the log you put by your fire pit. He sits up when you break through the leaves.
“Hello boy,” you set your bag down and turn to him. He eyes you carefully.
“Where is he?”
“Pardon?”
“The Silent Knight, I wish to speak with him please, it is urgent.”
“You speak too eloquently for a common squire, Aeg.” His face goes as white as his hair would’ve been, had he any. Looking to dart off, he almost gets away before you catch him. “Would you calm down! It is me you little fool.” You hiss as his elbow digs into you. All he can say is a small ‘wow’ before spouting out the reason he sought your skills.
“A trial by seven…” You’d heard the story a few years back, unsurprised by Aerion’s selfishness in the act of calling upon others. “I will help, but I think we need to sort out our stories.” Aeg nods, waiting politely for you to go first. “Only you know my truth, and it will stay that way. Not even Dunk. I want to know this man who has been more a brother than your own, first. Tonight in the town?” The boy nods, grinning. “(Y/N) is my name when I do not wear my armor.“ You sigh.
“It’s a pretty name, I think you and Ser will get along. And he calls me Egg. Just so you know.” You let out a small laugh and look at the sun in the sky, telling Egg to get his knight in town tonight for you to meet, before you decide to die for him.
You cook up your meal and eat peacefully alone before you embark on this small adventure. A trial by seven had not been heard of in ages. Until the spoiled brat of the dragon family. Grimacing, you remember having to dodge his advances for months while you weren’t disguised during your explicit training routine. You had to be just charming enough to get respect not only as trainer, but also hired as a common laundry maid in order to explain your presence otherwise.
Had you been born anywhere lower in the world, you would’ve been dead before you turned three— it’s a miracle you even learned to talk decently. But you made something of it. Standing abruptly, you tear away the thoughts of your home. The ones people would kill to know— where the Silent Knight grew up. You toss your leftovers into the pot and cover it, planning to come back to it after meeting with Aeg’s companion.
You couldn’t exactly live your life and commit fully to being a lady, but you knew enough to get by when you preferred some nicer fitting cloths and accessories. Dressing like an actual woman again, you sauntered into town— hoping to draw attention on this occasion. Egg’s eyes darted to you entering the local tavern, tugging on Dunk’s sleeve.
Dunk looks up from studying his plate, the once dark look he had flowing away. He’d never seen such a beautiful lady— even Tanselle had escaped his thoughts after she’d promptly left town. Eyes wide, his cheeks burn warm like the fire nearby.
“You should talk to her, Ser.” Egg suggests. Now, the tall knight looks at his squire like he’s gone mad.
“I certainly should not…” Dunk whispers and looks away, not noticing you approaching the table.
“I think she’s decided for you.” Egg grins, darting off after collecting his table scraps.
Upon introducing yourself to the honorable hedge knight, you learned he was originally of Flea Bottom before squiring around the realm with the hedge knight Ser Arlan of Pennytree.
“So you’ve been around quite much these past few years, what a privilege it is.” You comment, thinking of all the places you’d gotten to see due to the nature of your lifestyle. Dunk observes your demeanor, at least putting together the fact you’d traveled before.
“Are you wed? Sorry, do you have a husband around somewhere?” He politely asks before getting his hopes anywhere near rising.
“I am privileged enough to care for myself mostly, I have friends in many places if I need.” Dunk shyly grins, nodding at your statement.
“I want to be that way too, well I suppose I’m on the way to…” His head dips, light brown hair shining with the fire.
“Well, you’ve just made one with me so any friend of mine is a friend of yours now.” He thinks you don’t catch his look as you take a swig of your ale, but your blush tells otherwise. “Let’s dance.” You set down the cup and grab the giants arm, pulling him with ease. He makes a noise but ultimately follows, having the best time he’s had in awhile.
After the evening filled with dancing, drinking, and celebration, you tell Dunk you wish for some fresher air.
“Thank you for accompanying me this night, Ser. You are quite the gentle man, and you seem honorable from what I have heard.” You compliment, making the tall knight flush red in the moonlight.
“Thank you (Y/N), you are too kind… may I walk you back to your tent? I’m sure Egg has made his way back to our lodgings.” Dunk offers, looking down at you. Even though you didn’t need it, you accepted to spend some more time with him.
On the walk he told you of what Aerion did to Tanselle. It painfully reminded you of a few nights when you were still learning routines around the dragons as a common maid. You knew before, but now you were sure his cause was truly worthy. To you, at least.
“My lodgings aren’t that glamorous, but a friend trusted this spot for me so I do as well.” You explain, clearing the way and showing off your setup. He looks around, like he’d never seen such a beautiful place. He noted it was very well put together, and noticed the hot spring. You commented about using it soon, and he said his goodnights, wanting to find Egg and go to sleep before his big trial.
But you did not use your spring, just yet anyways, you had to wait for Egg to sneak off from Dunk so you could give him your answer. An hour later he came skipping in, having pried information about the mystery girl from his knight.
“Heard you had a good knight.” He winks, teasing.
“Careful,” you shoot him a look, “you’re waiting for an important answer from me.” He quiets down and nods, giving a small ‘sorry.’ Looking up at the stars you think about one night in the castle, from before.
You liked roaming the castle at night, unfortunately as did Aerion. Never had your paths or schedules crossed before, so you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d heard you humming from down the hallway. He had stopped, quickly peering around the corner to see you. The Targaryen had noticed you first directly after his father had approved your hiring. Something about you he liked. He liked it so much he’d ditch training session on training session with The Silent Knight just to look for you. When that didn’t work, and he’d finally found you now, he had to take his chance.
His hand shot out before your face, aiming to grab you before anything could be done about it. Unfortunately for him and his missed training sessions, he wasn’t fast enough for your reaction. You shot backwards, crouching, waiting for the assailant wearily. Because who in the castle would want a common maid?
Aerion’s heels click as his calmly turns the corner. You stand straight as he looks at you closely, approaching.
“There are women who would die to receive my touch.” He states, his words resembling fire and heating your cheek. He grabs your arm forcefully and would have broken it had Daeron not stumbled out of his large room door, drunken but stern enough to send Aerion away. But that would not be the last run in with the white-haired heir.
You return to your conversation with the boy. He looks at you expectantly.
“I will commit to being one of your seven, but I want to have your permission to have Aerion’s hand.” You leave out your reasoning.
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