could you perhaps do a aerion arranged marriage fic where he begins closed off but slowly warms up to reader 👀
♞ TO FORGE A FLAME / AERION TARGARYEN
aerion targaryen x peake!reader
SYNOPSIS: a disgraced lady of house peake is given to prince aerion targaryen as punishment for her family’s treason. forced into dragon colors and courtly captivity, she resists him quietly until cruelty, pride, and dangerous tenderness begin to blur...
WARNING: arranged marriage, power imbalance, aerion targaryen is his own warning...
NOTES: this story is canon divergent. i’m moving the peake rebellion/royal conflict earlier in the timeline so it happens while aerion targaryen is still alive!!!! i wanted to keep the political weight of house peake’s blackfyre history while giving aerion and lady peake their own very messy, dramatic version of events.
House Peake had once possessed three castles.
Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove...three proud black towers upon a field of burning orange, three dark teeth set into the golden mouth of the Reach. In old songs, men said those castles had stood like clenched fists against storm and sword. In older tales still, Peake lords had ridden beneath their banner as though the sun itself had been cut into silk for them, bright and brazen and impossible to ignore.
But songs were kinder than history. History remembered treason. It remembered Daemon Blackfyre. It remembered banners raised for a dragon that had not sat the Iron Throne. It remembered the long red harvest of rebellion, the broken men, the pardons given like knives with velvet handles. It remembered how House Peake had lost Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, and how Starpike remained not as a triumph, but as a warning.
One castle left. One daughter left. One price left to pay.
You stood in your father’s solar while rain worried at the narrow windows and the orange banner of your house hung limp upon the wall. Three black castles stared down from the cloth, though two had long since been stripped from your blood. They had remained in the sigil because pride was a stubborn thing. Pride was sometimes all a disgraced house had left.
Your father, Lord Gormon Peake, would not look at you. That was how you knew the worst of it before any word was spoken. He stood with his hands braced on the carved back of his chair, shoulders broad beneath dark wool, his face stern as the stone walls that had raised you. Wax from the royal seal lay broken upon his table. Red wax. Dragon wax. A dead little pool of command.
“They will not burn Starpike,” he said at last.
You should have been relieved. Instead, the room seemed to narrow around you until the air itself had teeth.
A single word. Barely breath.
Your father’s jaw moved once. “The crown is merciful.”
You looked at the letter. You did not need to read it again. The accusations had already carved themselves behind your eyes.
Renewed correspondence with Blackfyre loyalists.
Refusal of a royal command.
Quiet mustering of strength.
Treason, treason, treason...the old word dressed in fresh ink.
“The crown is not merciful,” you said, and your voice did not shake. That surprised you. It surprised your father too, for he lifted his eyes then. “The crown is elegant.”
His expression hardened. “You will guard your tongue.”
“Why?” Your hands were folded before you, white knuckled in the sleeves of your gown. “Will they take me twice?”
The silence that followed was so complete that even the rain seemed to hush.
You were beautiful. You had been told so since girlhood, first by nurses with warm hands, then by ladies with calculating eyes, then by men who praised beauty the way merchants praised horses before asking the price. You had the kind of loveliness that made people pause before they remembered themselves. The Reach had shaped you generously...skin like cream warmed by candlelight, a mouth made soft by courtesy and sharpened by restraint, eyes that seemed too watchful for so delicate a face. Your hair, dressed that morning with tiny black pins in honor of your house, gleamed like something poets would have wasted half a page naming.
Beauty had been meant to serve you. Now it had made you suitable for sacrifice.
Lord Gormon looked older than he had the day before.
“You will go to King’s Landing,” he said. “You will be received at court. You will be betrothed to Prince Aerion Targaryen.”
Even in Starpike, his name had reached you before his person had. Names had a way of traveling when attached to cruelty. Aerion Brightflame, some called him, with admiration or fear or both. A prince with silver hair, violet eyes, and the temper of a dragon half starved. A prince who thought himself more fire than flesh. A prince whose laughter was said to come most easily when another man flinched.
“You are giving me to him,” you said.
Your father looked away again. That was answer enough. Not marrying. Not offering. Not arranging. Giving. As one gave coin, grain, land, hostages.
“You will save Starpike,” he said.
And there it was...the softest chain in the world, laid around your throat by a familiar hand.
You thought of the castle beneath your feet. The servants who had carried you as a child. The septa who had taught you your prayers. The kennel boy with the crooked smile. The old cook who still made honeyed oatcakes when grief sat too long at the table. You thought of the smallfolk clustered beneath Peake protection, of children who knew nothing of black dragons or red, nothing of treason written before their birth.
You thought of the banner above you. Orange. Black. Three castles. Soon, you would be dressed in red and black. Not your black. Not your old mourning black, not your proud castle black. Dragon black. Dragon red. Fire and blood laid over you until no one could see what had been there before.
“Did you agree before telling me?” you asked.
Your father said nothing.
You smiled then. It was a small, terrible thing.
“No,” you said softly. “It was the way that cost you least.”
His hand struck the chair so hard the wood groaned. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you wanted Starpike more than you wanted me.”
His face twisted. For one moment, he looked not like a lord but like a father wounded by his child. You might have pitied him, had pity not been too expensive a thing.
“You are my daughter,” he said.
“Yes,” you answered. “That is why you had something left to trade.”
He turned from you then, and perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps he did not wish you to see his shame. Perhaps he wished not to see yours. But shame was already in the room. It stood beside you like a fourth person. Shame wore your face. Shame wore your colors. Shame had your father’s seal beneath its nails.
You crossed to the banner and lifted the edge of it between your fingers. The orange cloth was old but well kept, bright despite the dimness, proud despite history. Three castles. Three losses. Three lies and one truth. You pressed the silk once to your mouth. Not a kiss. A farewell.
The court had received you as though you were honored.
That was the first cruelty.
King’s Landing rose before you in heat and stink and splendor, crowned by the Red Keep upon Aegon’s High Hill. Its walls were the color of old blood at sunset. Its towers stabbed the sky like spears thrust upward by dead conquerors. Dragons had made this city, and though dragons no longer darkened the heavens, their memory remained in stone, in banners, in the arrogance of every red clad guard who looked upon your escort and saw not guests, but spoils.
You arrived beneath Targaryen eyes.
There were no chains upon your wrists. There did not need to be. Your gown was fine. Your hair was arranged with care. A cloak of deep red had been placed around your shoulders before you crossed into the yard, its lining black as a raven’s wing. The ladies who came to receive you praised the richness of it.
“How splendidly the colors suit you, Lady Peake,” one said.
You lowered your eyes and curtsied.
“His Grace is generous,” you replied.
A lie, polished until it shone.
Whispers followed you through the Red Keep like little knives drawn from little sheaths.
Does she look frightened?
Prince Aerion will tame that pride soon enough.
You had thought yourself prepared for fear. You had not prepared for being watched.
Fear in solitude was one thing. Fear beneath a hundred eyes was another. At court, even breathing became performance. You learned before the first evening bell that grief must be graceful to be forgiven. You must walk as though you had come willingly. Sit as though your chair were not a perch above a pit. Smile as though every courtesy did not have a hook beneath it.
You were placed among noblewomen whose hands glittered with rings and whose voices were soft enough to conceal malice. They asked after Starpike. They asked after your father. They asked whether the journey had been pleasant. One wondered aloud whether the Reach seemed smaller after one had been summoned to court.
You answered each question as you had been taught...gently, neatly, with no word loose enough to be used as rope. Inside, something in you paced. Anger, perhaps. Or terror. They felt much the same when caged.
You first saw Prince Aerion in the hall of the Iron Throne.
He did not enter loudly. Men like him did not need noise.
The court seemed to bend before awareness of him. Heads turned. Conversations thinned. A path opened with the obedience of grass before flame.
He was beautiful in the cruel manner of Targaryens, as though some ancient god had shaped him lovingly and forgotten to give him mercy. His hair was pale as moonlight, his eyes were a deep and venomous violet, and his mouth looked made for both poetry and ruin. He wore black chased with red, a dragon wrought in rubies at his throat. He was not broad like a warrior in old tapestries, nor plain like honest men in fields. He was slender, princely, bright as a blade drawn at dawn.
And he smiled when he saw you. Not warmly. Possessively. As if he had been shown a fine hawk, hooded and delivered.
“So,” he said, when you were brought before him. His voice was cultured, light, almost amused. “Starpike has a daughter.”
You curtsied. Low enough for obedience. Not low enough for surrender.
His gaze moved over you with insulting leisure. Not the clumsy hunger of a drunken knight. Not even desire, precisely. Assessment. Appraisal. He looked at your face, your throat, the red cloak swallowing the last visible traces of your house, and understood at once what had been done. So did you.
To him, you were no bride. You were proof. House Peake made flesh. Treason dressed in silk. A living banner lowered before the dragon.
“How lovely,” Aerion murmured. “They told me you were fair, but men so often grow generous when describing hostages.”
The word landed softly. Hostage. No one gasped. No one corrected him. That was the second cruelty. You felt every eye in the hall turn sharper.
You lifted your chin by the width of a prayer.
“Then I am pleased not to disappoint, my prince.”
His smile deepened. There. Something kindled behind his eyes. Interest. Not affection. Not admiration. Interest, like a boy discovering an ant did not die when pressed beneath his thumb.
“Careful,” he said. “Courtesy becomes a dangerous weapon in the hands of traitors.”
A few courtiers laughed because he wished them to. You did not.
Aerion stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fine stitching at his collar, red thread biting through black.
“Little traitor,” he said, almost fondly.
The hall heard. It was meant to.
Your face did not change.
“My prince,” you answered again.
And for the first time, his smile flickered. A lesser man might have wanted tears. Aerion, you would learn, wanted the moment before them.
In the days that followed, he taught the court how to look at you.
He did not rage. He did not shout. He did not drag you by the arm through corridors or break cups against walls. Such things were for coarse men, men ruled by appetite and weather. Aerion’s cruelty wore perfume and jewels. It came gloved. It sat beside you at supper and corrected your posture with a touch light enough to seem tender from afar.
When Lord Caswell asked whether you had found comfort in the Red Keep’s sept, you opened your mouth to answer.
“My lady-wife-to-be finds comfort wherever she is commanded to find it.”
Laughter, soft and obedient.
You lowered your gaze to your plate.
“His Grace’s sept is very fine,” you said.
Aerion leaned back, smiling. “See? She learns.”
When a lady of the Westerlands praised the embroidery at your sleeve and asked whether the pattern was of the Reach, Aerion lifted your wrist before you could move.
“Not the Reach,” he said. “Dragons. I had her old colors put away. Sentiment is how treason keeps its roots.”
His thumb pressed once against the delicate bones of your wrist.
Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.
You smiled at the lady, “Prince Aerion has been most attentive.”
His eyes cut to you. You had made the words too sweet. Just enough sugar to curdle.
That night, your maid found you kneeling beside your chest with a strip of orange silk in your lap. Not much. A ribbon torn from the lining of an old gown, small enough to vanish beneath finery.
“My lady,” she whispered, frightened.
“He sees everything,” you said.
Your fingers did not tremble as you stitched the orange and black beneath the inner seam of your sleeve, where it would rest against your skin and no courtier could praise or mock it.
You drew the thread through cloth.
“Because there must be some part of me he has not been handed.”
There were judgments twice that week. Aerion made you sit beside him for both.
The first was a knight accused of carrying letters westward to men who still drank to the Black Dragon when doors were barred. The second was a household steward from a minor Reach house whose cousin had served your father. The hall was cold despite summer heat. The accused men stood below the dais, pale and sweating, while courtiers craned for a better view.
Aerion offered you his arm before the court.
You took it because refusing would be spectacle, and spectacle was always his chosen ground.
“How fortunate you are here,” he murmured as he led you to the raised seats. “You may learn what becomes of men who mistake old loyalties for living ones.”
“I have learned many things at court, my prince.”
You sat beside him, hands folded, face still.
“That mercy is loudest when it wishes to be admired.”
His eyes found yours. For a breath, the hall seemed to tilt. Then Aerion smiled.
“Charming,” he said. “You must say such things more often. I do enjoy wondering whether to be pleased or offended.”
“Whichever serves you best, my prince.”
His smile did not fade, but something sharpened beneath it.
During the judgments, he watched you more than the condemned.
He watched when the steward begged. He watched when the knight denied knowing any Blackfyre sympathizers, though his voice broke over the lie. He watched when punishment was pronounced. Not death. Not that day. Mutilation for one. The Wall for another.
Your stomach turned itself to ice. You did not look away. That, too, displeased him. Or pleased him. With Aerion, the two were often twins.
At feasts, he made you ask permission.
His goblet paused near his mouth. “Already?”
“Is it? I had not noticed.”
You stood beside his chair, every inch the graceful lady, every inch the captive thing.
Aerion looked up at you with lazy delight. “You may.”
A murmur passed down the table. As you turned, his voice followed.
“Little traitors tire easily.”
You stopped. Only for a heartbeat. Then you looked back and smiled.
“Then your mercy in allowing me rest shall be praised all the more.”
His goblet touched his lips. His eyes burned over the rim.
You refused wine from his hand once. Only once, and before too many witnesses.
He offered it during a supper where singers played beneath the gallery and heat pooled under the high windows.
The cup was his own. Gold. Dragon handled. Red wine dark as blood. You looked at it. Then at him.
“I thank you, my prince, but I am not thirsty.”
The hall seemed not to notice. Aerion did.
His fingers tightened on the stem.
“Are you afraid I have poisoned it?”
You let the silence stretch just long enough to become visible. Then you took the cup. But you did not drink. You lifted it, bowed your head slightly, and set it untouched beside your plate.
Aerion laughed. It was a beautiful sound. That was perhaps the worst of it. The court laughed with him, relieved to discover they were allowed. But after that, he watched your mouth whenever you drank from anything else.
You had not won. There was no winning in a cage. But you had denied him something small, and the denial lived between you like a candle refusing to go out.
The court loved dancing because it could pretend cruelty was ceremony if music played beneath it.
Aerion chose you before the hall had grown warm. He crossed the floor with all the ease of a prince born beneath chandeliers, and every lady near you lowered her eyes in envy or pity. Perhaps both.
“My lady Peake,” he said, extending his hand. “You will dance.”
Not would you. Not may I.
You placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours and the music began.
He danced as he did all things...beautifully, precisely, with a violence hidden so deep in grace that only the person held by him could feel it. He guided you through each turn as though displaying a conquered banner. His hand at your waist did not bruise. It did not need to. Every watching eye understood the claim.
“You are very quiet tonight,” he said.
“I feared I might interrupt myself.”
His mouth curved. “Was that wit?”
“Only obedience, my prince. You so often speak for me that I presumed I should leave room for you.”
His grip tightened. There it was again, not anger, not quite. Interest, irritation, appetite.
“You dislike being looked at,” he said.
You turned beneath his arm, red skirts sweeping the floor like spilled flame.
“I dislike being mistaken for an object.”
“Yes,” you said. “For the object, especially.”
He drew you closer on the next step, too close for propriety, not close enough for scandal.
“You think yourself brave.”
“I think myself watched. There is a difference.”
Aerion stared at you. For one strange moment, his face altered. Not softened. Never softened. But sharpened inward, as though you had placed before him a puzzle he resented wanting to solve.
Then the music ended. He bowed over your hand and kissed the air above your knuckles.
“To be watched,” he said, low enough that only you heard, “is the first lesson of belonging to me.”
You wanted to say you did not belong to him. You wanted to say no vow had been spoken, no cloak placed, no bedding witnessed, no gods called down to bind you.
The tourney was held three days before the wedding. The court called it celebration. You knew better. It was rehearsal.
You were seated among noble ladies beneath a canopy of red and black silk, your gown chosen by Aerion himself. Black velvet, red sleeves, rubies at your throat like drops of conquered blood. Beneath the left sleeve, hidden against your skin, the little seam of Peake orange scratched softly whenever you moved.
A secret. A wound. A prayer.
“You look splendid,” Lady Mooton said beside you.
“Dragon colors do wonders for her,” another replied.
The stands were crowded bright with banners. Gold lions, green towers, purple grapes, silver trout, crimson dragons. Knights rode below in painted armor, lances raised, horses tossing plumed heads. Trumpets split the air. Sunlight glanced off helms and made every man seem briefly holy.
Aerion shone most of all...
He entered the lists in armor dark as polished night, chased with red and gold flame. His helm bore the three headed dragon. The crowd loved him because beauty and danger were easy to adore from a safe distance. He raised his lance, and applause moved through the stands like wind through wheat.
You clapped when the ladies clapped. You smiled when eyes turned toward you. You performed loyalty with hands that felt far away from your body.
Then Ser Duncan the Tall entered the lists. The laughter began almost at once. He was enormous, awkwardly noble in a way the court did not know how to forgive. His armor was plain and ill matched. His horse lacked ornament. No great house colors streamed behind him, no ancient blood announced him before his name could. He looked like a man who had walked out of the earth itself and been told, too late, that the sky belonged to princes.
“A hedge knight,” someone behind you whispered.
“Seven save him. Does he know who he faces?”
A lady near you laughed behind her fan. The sound scraped against your nerves.
You looked toward Aerion. You tried to keep your gaze there, where duty had placed it. He sat straight in the saddle, radiant, careless, adored. Born to be watched. Born to be praised. Born to turn the world’s gaze into a mirror and find himself glorious in it.
Below, Dunk adjusted his grip on his lance. Men laughed louder. And he did not answer to it. That was the first thing you noticed. Not his height. Not his plainness. Not the absurd courage of standing where everyone expected him to fall. His restraint.
The herald called and then the horses charged.
Aerion rode like a song of war. Swift, bright, terrible. His lance struck cleanly, and the crowd roared. Dunk swayed but did not fall. When he returned for the next pass, dust clung to him. Someone shouted that hedge knights were harder to knock down because mud loved its own.
The ladies laughed again. Your hands tightened in your lap. Another pass. Then another.
Dunk fought plainly, without flourish. There was no cruelty in him. No hunger to humiliate. When Aerion pressed him hard, sharper than sport required, Dunk did not answer with spite. When the crowd mocked him, he did not spend his strength hating them. He endured.
That was what undid you. Not admiration. Recognition.
You knew what it was to stand dressed for judgment before people waiting to see how well you would bleed. You knew what it was to be laughed at softly because open laughter would be indecorous. You knew what it was to be outnumbered by eyes.
Then came the moment. Aerion’s horse turned too sharply after a pass. Perhaps the ground betrayed him. Perhaps pride did. He slipped in the saddle, only slightly, but enough. Dunk had the angle. He could have taken advantage. He did not.
Instead, he checked his horse. A murmur passed through the crowd. It was nothing, perhaps. A small mercy. A little courtesy in a world that hoarded them. But to you, it seemed enormous.
Before thought could become caution, before fear could clap a hand over your mouth, you leaned forward.
You did not shout it loud but clear enough. The ladies around you went still. One fan snapped shut. Someone gave a small, delighted laugh. You realized what you had done before the words had finished dying. The red and black on your body seemed suddenly brighter than flame. Every ruby at your throat became an accusation. You could feel the women near you looking from your gown to the field, from the field to your face.
Then you looked at Aerion.
His horse stood motionless beneath him. His helm was lifted. Across the lists, across banners and dust and sunlight, his face had gone completely still. No anger. No yelling. No visible wound. Only stillness. It was worse than wrath. Wrath had shape. Wrath could be prepared for. This was a door closing in a room you had not known you stood inside.
For one moment, Aerion looked not like a man, nor even a prince, but like the carved image of some beautiful god to whom a village had forgotten a sacrifice.
Then he forced a smiled. And you knew, with a coldness that began in your bones, that he had not forgiven you.
To you, the words had been pity. No. Not pity. Something cleaner than that. You had seen a man mocked and alone, and for one unguarded heartbeat, you had reached toward him with the only mercy available to you.
To Aerion, it was humiliation.
His betrothed, dressed in his colors, seated before the court as proof of his claim, had praised a hedge knight. A lowborn man. A man with no old blood, no dragon, no splendor, no fear coiled like incense around his name. Worse than praise, it was judgment. As though you had looked upon Aerion’s brilliance and Dunk’s plain honor and found the prince wanting.
You knew this before he spoke to you. You knew because he did not speak to you for the rest of the day.
After the tourney, Aerion grew cold. Not absent. Absence would have been easier. He remained everywhere...at meals , in corridors, in the breath held conversations of courtiers who waited for punishment like boys waiting for war. But he withdrew the sharp warmth of his cruelty and left you with courtesy polished to ice.
He sent notes instead of coming himself.
Lady Peake will attend supper at the hour of the bat.
Lady Peake will wear black tomorrow.
Lady Peake is excused from the gardens.
It should have been relief. It was not.
His cruelty had frightened you, humiliated you, angered you until you lay awake with your hands clenched beneath the coverlets. But cruelty, at least, had seen you. His coldness passed over you like light over glass. You became an object again, but no longer an interesting one. That hurt. You hated that it hurt.
At dinner, he sat beside you and did not look at you once. When Lord Rowan asked whether the wedding preparations pleased you, Aerion replied before you could.
“Lady Peake is grateful for whatever she is given.”
His tone was mild. Perfect. Not a single person could call it cruel.
You folded your hands beneath the table.
“I am instructed daily in gratitude,” you said.
Aerion lifted his cup. His eyes did not move to yours.
“Not well enough, it seems.”
The words were soft. They cut anyway.
You tried to apologize the next evening.
Not because you believed yourself guilty of desiring another man. Not because you had meant insult. But because the court had sharpened your small mercy into a blade and placed it between you.
You found Aerion in a gallery where the sunset poured blood red through narrow windows. For a moment, with the light behind him, he looked winged.
“I wished to speak about the tourney.”
You swallowed. “I did not mean to shame you.”
At that, he looked back. The beauty of him struck you again, as it always did, with unwilling force. He was almost too finely made for decency. Men should not be so lovely and so cruel. It confused the soul.
“You praised him by accident, then?”
“I spoke without thought.”
“A dangerous habit for a traitor.”
“I was not cheering against you.”
Aerion crossed the space between you slowly. That was his way. He never rushed toward cruelty. He let dread arrive first and open the door for him.
“No,” he said. “Of course not. You were merely moved by the sight of your hedge knight.”
His eyes flashed then, at last. There was the wound. There and gone again.
“Save your pity,” he said, voice low enough that no servant beyond the archway could hear. “You spent enough of it on your hedge knight.”
The words struck harder than they should have. Because they were wrong. Because they were almost right. Because how could you explain that it had not been Dunk himself, but the loneliness around him? How could you say, Everyone was laughing, and it was cruel, without naming Aerion chief among the cruel? How could you tell a dragon that you had flinched from fire?
“I meant no insult,” you said again, but the words were pale little things.
“I know what you meant,” he said.
But he did not. That was the tragedy. He did not.
The days before the wedding folded themselves into silence.
You continued as court required. You dressed. You sat. You smiled. You answered when spoken to and held your tongue when Aerion chose to speak over you. But something in you had gone quieter. Not broken. No, never that. Your pride remained, cold and bright, hidden like orange thread beneath dragon cloth. Yet the court had become heavier. The whispers more piercing. The future nearer.
Betha wept one morning while lacing your gown.
“Do not give them tears on my behalf. They are greedy enough.”
She laughed once, miserably, and wiped her face.
You touched her hand. “I am not dead.”
“No,” she whispered. “But they are burying you.”
That evening, Aerion noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything and pretended not to. He noticed when your replies shortened by a word. When you ate less fish than before. When you turned your wrist inward to hide the seam where orange silk laid beneath your sleeve. When your smile remained perfect but ceased to reach the place beneath your eyes where real feeling sometimes betrayed itself.
It irritated him. That was what he told himself.
Lady Peake was dull when subdued. Lady Peake’s quiet defiance had been more diverting than this careful, bloodless courtesy. Lady Peake had no right to change in any manner he had not commanded.
So he cornered Betha outside your chamber.
The girl nearly dropped the folded linens in her arms when she saw him.
Aerion’s gaze was sharp enough to skin. “Do not repeat me like a trained bird.”
“No, my prince. She is not ill.”
“Then why does she wander about like a ghost in borrowed colors?”
Betha went very still. A wiser servant would have lowered her eyes and lied. Betha was frightened. But she loved you.
“She meant no insult, my prince.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once.
“Did she send you to plead for her?”
“No.” Betha shook her head quickly. “No, my prince. She would be angry if she knew I spoke.”
The girl should have obeyed. She did not.
“She did not cheer because she favored Ser Duncan.”
Aerion’s mouth curved without mirth. “How loyal of you to explain your lady’s heart to me.”
“She cheered because everyone was laughing at him,” Betha said, voice trembling now. “Because he was alone, and they wanted him shamed, and still he tried to stand with honor.”
Betha clutched the linens tighter.
“My lady said she knew how that felt.”
There are some silences that fall. This one opened.
Aerion remained very still. He had remembered your voice as betrayal. Your praise as desire. Your pity as judgment. He had held the moment like a coal and fed it his pride until it burned hot enough to warm his anger. But now the memory altered. The stands. The laughter. Your face turned toward the field, unguarded for once. Not admiring. Not yearning. Stricken.
You had not looked at Dunk and chosen him. You had looked at him and seen yourself. And afterward, Aerion had punished you by making you lonelier.
His anger did not vanish.
Aerion’s pride was not a candle to be blown out by one servant’s trembling confession. The humiliation remained. The court had still heard you. The ladies had still laughed behind their fans. The wound still knew its own shape. But beneath it, something unfamiliar moved. Not remorse. Not yet. Something sharper because it had no name yet.
The wedding came beneath a sky white with heat.
The Sept of Baelor rang with bells and you thought they sounded like iron.
They dressed you in Targaryen colors. Red silk fell over your body in gleaming folds, black lace webbed your sleeves, rubies flashed at your throat and ears and wrists. Your beauty became a weapon in other hands. The ladies praised you until praise itself felt like mockery.
“No bride in the realm could rival you,” one sighed.
“How fortunate Prince Aerion is.”
“How fortunate Lady Peake is.”
That last one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked into the polished silver mirror and saw a stranger conquered in red.
Betha stood behind you, pale and silent.
“Inside the left sleeve,” she whispered.
You lowered your gaze. There, hidden where no court could see, she had sewn the smallest strip of orange cloth, crossed by black thread in the shape of a tower. It rested near your wrist. Near your pulse.
Starpike. Dunstonbury. Whitegrove.
One living. Two lost. All remembered.
Betha bowed her head, and you pretended not to see her tears.
When you entered the sept, every face turned.
The walk to the altar was not long. It felt endless. Lords and ladies filled the sacred space in jeweled rows, their eyes bright with hunger for beauty, scandal, surrender. Your father stood among them, dressed in Peake orange darkened almost to rust. His face was carved from stone. You wondered whether he saw you as daughter or bargain fulfilled.
Aerion waited beneath the gaze of the Seven. He wore black. Of course he did. Black, slashed with red, a dragon brooch burning at his shoulder. His silver hair caught the light and made of him something unearthly, something too bright for human tenderness. When his eyes found you, they moved at once to your sleeve.
A flicker. He saw. Of course he saw. Your hidden colors might as well have been a banner unfurled from the sept roof.
For one moment, you feared he would expose you. That he would take your wrist before all the court and turn the seam outward, laughing as he stripped even that last private rebellion from you.
He leaned close when you reached him, his breath stirring the veil beside your cheek.
“Do try not to cheer for another man today.”
The words entered you like a needle. You looked ahead, face still.
“I shall endeavor to remember the occasion, my prince.”
“Not prince,” he murmured. “Not for much longer.”
The septon began. You heard very little. Words rose and fell above you like birds crossing a battlefield. Duty. Union. Loyalty. The eyes of gods and men. Cloaks. Houses. Peace.
What a strange name men gave to a woman’s surrender.
Aerion placed the cloak around your shoulders. Targaryen red and black covered you completely. The court watched House Peake disappear.
When it came time for vows, your mouth obeyed because your body had been trained for obedience long before this day. The words tasted of ash.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”
The sept did not crack open. The gods did not strike anyone down.
Aerion’s hands were cool when they took yours. His face was close. Too close. Beautiful enough to grieve over, cruel enough to fear.
When you had to say the word husband, it caught. Only slightly. Only enough for him. His eyes sharpened. Then he kissed you. Not roughly. Not tenderly. Publicly.
The kiss was brief and exact and devastating because all kisses before witnesses belonged partly to the crowd. The court sighed as though they had seen romance. They had seen conquest and called it holy.
When Aerion drew back, his gaze remained on your mouth. For one moment, something passed through his expression that was not mockery. Then applause filled the sept like wings beating in a cage.
The feast was a mercy performed by executioners. Everyone toasted peace. Everyone toasted loyalty. Everyone toasted the wisdom of the crown, the humility of House Peake, the generosity of House Targaryen, the radiant beauty of the bride, the splendor of the groom.
No one toasted the truth.
You sat beside Aerion beneath a canopy of red and black. Your hidden orange thread scratched your wrist whenever you moved. You were grateful for the pain. It reminded you that you were still inside your own skin.
“Starpike has given its fairest jewel to purchase forgiveness,” Lord Costayne said, raising his cup.
“Then may the jewel prove worth more than the debt, my lord.”
He blinked, uncertain whether he had been honored or rebuked. Aerion laughed softly beside you.
Later, a lady with pearls netted through her hair leaned forward.
“You truly do look better in dragon colors, my dear. Orange is such a difficult shade. So loud.”
You touched the stem of your goblet.
“Loud colors are useful, my lady. They make it difficult for history to pretend one vanished quietly.”
The lady’s smile thinned.
Aerion turned his head toward you and you felt his attention like heat. Then a young knight, too drunk on wine and his own courage, called from lower at the table, “How quickly traitor houses learn gratitude!”
Your father’s face darkened. You did not look at him. You looked at the knight.
“How fortunate, then,” you said, voice gentle, “that loyal houses are born knowing courtesy, lest they be forced to learn it from traitors.”
A few people coughed. Someone laughed before disguising it badly. The knight flushed scarlet.
Aerion’s fingers rested beside his cup. He tapped once against the table.
“You are bold tonight,” he said.
“I am married now, husband. Surely I am permitted one virtue.”
The word husband landed between you. Not soft. Not at all willing. A blade wrapped in silk.
He watched you for a long while after that. Not with anger alone. Never that simple. Fascination had begun to eat at him, little by little. You were not what he had expected. You did not break loudly enough to satisfy. You did not plead prettily enough to amuse. You answered cruelty with such perfect grace that the cruel began, by comparison, to look vulgar.
Aerion hated vulgarity. He hated, too, that you could make him feel crude without once disobeying him.
The bedding was called for near midnight.
Voices rose, wine thick and eager. Men laughed too loudly. Women smiled with that peculiar cruelty women were taught to hide beneath custom. Someone shouted that dragons need no encouragement. Someone else called for the bride’s cloak to be taken.
Your whole body went cold. You had known it might come. Knowing did not lessen the horror. All day, you had been watched. Measured. Claimed. Now they wanted to turn even your fear into entertainment.
Aerion stood. The hall quieted by degrees. At first, a few men laughed, thinking him ready to play his part. Then they saw his face.
One word. Flat as a drawn blade.
“My prince?” a lord ventured, smiling uncertainly.
Aerion looked at him. The smile died.
“No man here touches my wife.”
You hated the claim. You hated the relief that followed it. It washed through you so swiftly you nearly swayed. You despised yourself for that, too. That mercy could come dressed as ownership. That protection could sound so like possession. That a cage door could remain locked and still keep wolves out.
Aerion offered you his hand. This time, you took it without delay. His fingers closed over yours. He led you from the hall through a silence richer than music. Only when the doors shut behind you did you breathe.
The wedding chamber was dark except for the hearth. Servants had filled it with flowers, as if sweetness could disguise fear. Roses, myrtle, lilies. Their perfume lay heavy in the air, too lush, too living. The marriage bed stood draped in red.
You looked at it once. Then away.
Aerion dismissed the attendants. Betha looked at you before she left. You gave the smallest nod you could manage.
Then the door closed. No court. No ladies. No father. No one to watch how well you endured. Only Aerion. Only your husband.
He stood by the hearth, removing his gloves finger by finger. The ordinary motion felt unbearable.
“You are trembling,” he said.
You clasped your hands before you.
You said nothing. He came toward you. Slowly. Always slowly. Your body remembered every public humiliation, every soft insult, every command dressed as courtesy. It remembered the wedding cloak. The feast. The laughter. The men calling for the bedding.
Aerion stopped close enough to touch you. He did not.
His gaze moved over your face. Whatever he saw there displeased him. Or perhaps it pleased him too much.
“I do not take trembling things to bed,” he said.
Cruel words. Merciful meaning.
Your breath caught. He saw that too.
His mouth twisted. “Do not look grateful. It makes you dull.”
“I would not dream of boring you, husband.”
The word came bitter this time. His eyes narrowed. Then, to your astonishment, he turned away.
Aerion crossed to a chair near the fire and sat as though the matter were settled.
The word burned. You lowered your eyes.
“Husband,” you said, and hated the tremor in it.
Something moved across his face. Not triumph, though he might have made it so. Not tenderness. Something uncertain.
“Sleep,” he said again, quieter.
You did not understand him. That frightened you almost more than cruelty. Cruelty had rules. Terrible rules, but rules. Aerion’s restraint was a door opened onto darkness. You did not know what waited beyond it.
Still, you slept. Poorly. In your wedding gown. With orange thread hidden against your skin and a dragon seated awake beside the fire.
Marriage did not soften Aerion. Not in the way songs might have begged it to. He remained cruel.
He still called you little traitor when the mood took him, though less often before those whose laughter displeased him. He still corrected you in public when he wished to feel the shape of his power. He still made you wear red and black to court, still watched every room understand that you had been claimed.
But the cruelty changed. It turned inward. Grew intimate. Complicated itself.
He sent gifts. A necklace of garnets dark as old wine. Gloves stitched with silver thread. A comb of carved ivory. A gown so fine the fabric seemed made from midnight poured over flame. No notes came with them. No tenderness. Only objects laid before you like offerings from a god too proud to kneel.
“What does he expect me to say?” you asked Betha one morning, looking down at a pair of earrings shaped like dragons biting their own tails.
Betha hesitated. “Thank you? ”
“I have thanked executioners for cleaner cuts.”
Yet you wore the earrings and Aerion noticed.
At supper, he looked at your ears once and said nothing. But for the rest of the evening, his mood sharpened into something dangerously bright, as though your obedience had pleased him and his pleasure offended him.
He protected you, too, though never sweetly.
When a lord who had drunk too much leaned close enough for his breath to touch your cheek, Aerion appeared at your shoulder.
The lord laughed nervously. “My prince, I meant only—”
“I did not ask what you meant.”
Later, you had said, “I did not need rescuing.”
“No. You needed better enemies. That one was beneath you.”
You looked at him, startled. Aerion’s face closed at once.
“Do not preen. It was not praise.”
“Of course not, my prince.”
His silence followed you for the rest of the corridor.
You continued your small rebellions.
You called him my prince when no ceremony forced otherwise. You kept Peake colors hidden in seams, ribbons, underthings, once even a black thread braided through an orange ribbon tied beneath your hair where only Betha could see. You refused to cry where Aerion might witness it. You answered insults with courtesy so fine it cut the hand that received it.
And Aerion continued to notice contradictions in himself with mounting disgust.
He noticed when you were tired and ordered you to bed as though annoyance, not concern, moved him. He noticed you preferred pears to figs and had them placed near your plate, then mocked you for looking surprised. He noticed you lingered near windows facing west. He noticed you did not sing, though once, passing your chamber, he heard you humming very softly through the door. He stood outside for longer than he should have. When he realized it, he left angry. Not at you.
That was new and intolerable.
Something had begun in him, something he had no language for except possession. He wanted your attention and called it obedience. He wanted your smiles and called it vanity. He wanted your trust and had no idea what name to give such a foolish, defenseless thing.
Aerion knew fear. He knew how to summon it. How to feed it. How to wear it in another’s eyes like a jewel. He did not know how to be wanted without command. So he tried to purchase softness. Jewels. Silks. Protection. Power displayed at your feet like severed heads. You accepted none of it the way he wished. That made him want more.
The first time you realized he cared, he did not say it.
Aerion was not a man made for confession.
It happened at a feast held for visiting lords from the Reach, where every cup was filled too often and every courtesy had a second meaning. You sat beside Aerion in black velvet, a red girdle at your waist. Beneath it, hidden against your ribs, lay a scrap of orange silk.
Lord Ambrose, a cousin to some house that had never risked enough to be punished for anything, raised his cup with a smile too broad to be kind.
“To Lady Peake,” he called. “Who has traded orange and black for worthier colors. A wise exchange. Some houses must lose honor before they learn taste.”
Laughter pricked the hall.
Your face remained still. Inside, something old and tired folded around itself. You had answered such insults before. You could answer this one. A graceful phrase. A little blade. A pretty smile over a bleeding thing.
But before you spoke, Aerion stood. The laughter thinned and you turned to him. At first you saw only his face, pale and remote, terrible in its calm. Then you saw his sleeve. At the cuff of his black doublet, worked so finely one might miss it until the light found the thread, was a line of orange embroidery.
A black castle pin rested near his heart. Not a dragon. A castle.
The lining of his cloak shifted as he moved, and there, unmistakable, hidden until he chose to reveal it, burned orange silk. Peake colors. On Aerion Targaryen.
The hall understood by degrees. Silence spread outward, table by table, lord by lady, smile by dying smile.
“An odd thing, Lord Ambrose,” he said, voice silken, “to speak of honor while displaying so little of it.”
Aerion continued, almost lazily, “My wife’s colors are not yours to mock.”
This time the words did not sound only like a cage. They sounded like a shield. A dangerous shield. A possessive shield. A shield with a blade on its rim. But a shield still.
You stared at the orange thread at his cuff.
He sat again as though he had not just overturned the hall. You could barely speak.
“You should not have done that.”
Aerion looked at you. “Do not look so stricken. They are only colors.”
“No,” you said softly. “They are not.”
His face changed then. Only a little. Enough.
“No,” he said. “They are not.”
An almost confession. No sweeter words could have undone you so thoroughly.
After that, wanting became a thing with weight. It entered rooms before you did. It stood between you at windows. It sat beside you at feasts. It found you in silences when Aerion looked at your mouth too long and you forgot, for one dangerous breath, every reason to hate him.
You did not forgive him. Not then.
Memory remained. The sept. The cloak. Little traitor. The feast where he made you ask permission to leave. The tourney wound. The wedding night fear. The many small humiliations he had offered the court like entertainment.
But beside memory, another truth had taken root. Aerion could choose restraint. Not easily. Not naturally. Not always. But he could. And sometimes, for you, he did. That frightened you more than cruelty because it asked something of your heart.
The raven came before dawn.
By noon, the Red Keep rang with it.
House Peake had broken faith. Men loyal to your father had stirred in the Reach. Letters had been intercepted, bearing promises to those who still dreamed of a Blackfyre return. Riders had been sent toward Starpike. There were whispers of men mustering beneath old banners, of lords who spoke of rescue, of stolen daughters and dragon tyranny.
They had given you away. Now they named the taking theft because rebellion required prettier language than regret.
Your father’s message reached you by secret hand, hidden in the binding of a prayer book.
You were taken from us under threat. Blood remembers blood. Starpike has not forgotten you. Endure a little longer. You will be brought home.
You read it three times. Then once more. Each time, it grew colder. Not one line asked what you wanted. Not one.
You sat by the window until the light faded, the letter open in your lap.
“Is it true?” you asked before he could speak.
He did not pretend confusion. “Yes.”
“And they claim it is for me?”
Aerion’s mouth curled. “Men love noble motives. They dress treason in them whenever possible.”
You looked down at the letter.
Aerion went still. You had never said it so plainly before.
You lifted your eyes to him.
“They gave me to you when it saved them. Now they want me back because it serves them. They call that love.”
His expression was unreadable. Perhaps because he heard the accusation beneath it. You too...you also treated me as something to be possessed.
Aerion crossed the room. “I will burn their rebellion to ash.”
“Punish the guilty. Not Starpike.”
“Starpike raised banners against my house.”
“Starpike has children in its walls. Servants. Smallfolk. Stable boys and washerwomen and cooks who have never written to a Blackfyre in their lives.”
His voice cooled. “You ask mercy for traitors.”
“I ask justice for the innocent.”
“You ask me to spare those who would take you from me.”
You rose then. Fear moved through you, but pride moved with it.
“I ask you not to become the monster they call you.”
The room darkened around his face. For a moment, you thought you had gone too far. Perhaps you had.
Aerion stepped close, violet eyes bright and terrible.
“You think I fear that word?”
“No,” you whispered. “I think you have worn it so long you no longer know where it ends and you begin.”
His hand lifted. Not to strike. You knew that before it reached you. Yet your body flinched from old expectation, from court, from marriage, from men and power and rooms without witnesses.
His hand stopped in the air.
Something broke across his face so swiftly you might have missed it if you had not been watching him for weeks, learning the language of his smallest cruelties and rarer restraints.
“I will punish the guilty,” he said.
Each word seemed dragged from him by iron hooks.
“Starpike will stand if it yields.”
Relief nearly took your knees.
His laugh was harsh. “Do not thank me. Mercy tastes foul enough without gratitude.”
But he had listened. That was the beginning of the end of one thing, and the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Prince Maekar summoned him two days later.
You were not meant to attend. You went anyway.
Perhaps you should not have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have remained behind tapestry and rumor, waiting for men to decide the shape of her life as they always had. But you were tired of being absent from rooms where your fate was discussed.
You entered quietly enough to hear Maekar’s voice before either man saw you.
Aerion stood before his father in the solar, spine straight, face pale with fury held on a leash. Maekar was hard where Aerion was bright, iron where his son was flame. A prince made of discipline and expectation, with a soldier’s contempt for softness.
“The Peakes defied the crown,” Maekar said. “Your wife was meant to remind them of obedience, not teach you hesitation.”
“My wife asked that Starpike be spared if it yields.”
“Your wife,” Maekar repeated, and the word was scorn. “A traitor’s daughter.”
Aerion smiled. It was the kind of smile you had once feared most.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
“You dare warn me? You wear her colors before court. You let lords see you marked by a disgraced house. You speak of restraint while rebels gather courage from the thought that Aerion Targaryen can be softened by a pretty face.”
“Do you imagine beauty is all she has?”
“You were always vain enough to mistake possession for strength.”
The words struck Aerion. You saw it, though he hid it well.
“That is what this is,” his father said. “Not love. Do not flatter yourself with songs. You have found a toy that resists you, and because it does not break when pressed, you have mistaken frustration for feeling.”
Aerion said nothing. His silence was terrible.
Maekar’s gaze moved to the orange thread at his cuff.
The word was quiet. The room seemed to draw breath.
Maekar struck him. Or would have.
You moved before thought.
There was no courage in it. Not the kind songs praise. No shining calculation. No noble speech. Only the sight of his father’s hand rising, and the sudden unbearable knowledge that you did not want the blow to land.
You stepped between them and the slap caught you across the face.
Sound vanished. Everything vanished in that room.
Your head turned with the force of it. Pain bloomed hot along your cheek, bright and humiliating. For a moment you saw nothing but white light and the edge of the table and your own hand gripping it to remain upright.
Aerion did not move and you looked at him.
Whatever had been in his face before was gone. He was utterly silent. Shattered into stillness. You had seen Aerion angry. You had seen him amused. You had seen him wounded, proud, vicious, fascinated. You had never seen him afraid. Not for himself. For you.
His hand rose, slowly this time, as if approaching some wounded bird that might die of fright. He did not touch your cheek. Not at first. His fingers hovered near the mark his father had made.
His voice, when it came, was almost unrecognizable.
Maekar’s face darkened. “Aerion—”
There was dragonfire in that word.
Maekar looked from his son to you, then back again. Something like understanding passed over his face, grim and displeased. Then he left and the door closed.
Aerion turned to you. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, with care so fierce it looked almost painful, he took your wrist and led you from the room.
He sat you before the hearth and stood over you as though guarding a battlefield after the slaughter had ended. His fingers flexed once at his side. Then again.
You lifted your face. The mark had risen red across your cheek.
Aerion stared at it. Violence meant for him, written upon you. That was the thing he could not bear. Not because you belonged to him. Because you had chosen it.
You had stepped between pain and him with nothing to gain. No court had watched to praise you. No father had commanded it. No vow had required it. You had protected him not because he was gentle, not because he deserved it, not because you had forgotten what he had done.
You had done it because somewhere in the ruin between you, he had become yours too.
Aerion understood fear. He understood obedience. He understood taking, breaking, possessing, punishing. He did not understand this. So it broke him open.
A prince, a dragon, a cruel and beautiful creature of fire and pride, reduced to one bare word.
You could have lied. You did not.
“Because I did not want him to hurt you.”
“He has struck me before.”
“Then why would you put yourself in the path of it?”
You looked at him, cheek burning, heart worse.
“Because knowing does not make it right.”
He laughed once, but it was not laughter. It was a broken exhale.
“I have been cruel to you.”
His face twisted. Perhaps he had expected denial. A mercy he had not earned. You gave him truth instead.
“You humiliated me,” you said softly. “You made my wedding feel like a sentence. You called me traitor until the word followed me into sleep. You made me wear your colors so everyone would know I had been conquered.”
Aerion closed his eyes, only briefly. When he opened them, they were bright with something more dangerous than tears because he did not know how to shed them.
“And yet?” he asked, bitterly.
“And yet,” you said, “you wore mine.”
The silence after that was not empty. It was full of every unsaid thing pressing its hands against the walls.
Aerion knelt before you. The sight of it startled you so deeply you forgot to breathe.
He did not seem to know what to do once there. Gentleness was foreign country to him. His hand lifted again, and this time, with terrible care, his fingertips touched the unmarked edge of your jaw.
“I will kill him for this,” he said.
“My father. Yours. Anyone who places a mark on you and calls it duty.”
“You cannot kill every man who has hurt me.”
His mouth curved, humorless. “I can try.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Almost.
His name changed the room. You had not used it often. Names were intimate things. Dangerous things.
He looked at you as though you had touched him.
“Punish the guilty,” you said. “Spare Starpike.”
“You know what they did.”
“I know what they did to the crown. I know what they did to me. I know my father traded me, then called for my return when I became useful again.” Your voice trembled, but did not break. “I am not asking because they are innocent. I am asking because I will not let the innocent burn for their pride.”
Aerion looked at the mark on your face. Then at your eyes.
“My mercy will not be gentle,” he said.
“I did not expect it to be.”
“No. You never make that mistake.”
When judgment came, it came with teeth. The men who had plotted rebellion were seized. Lords who had written treason in careful hands found those hands bound. Ravens flew. Riders rode. Starpike’s gates opened before dragon banners, and because they opened, the castle did not burn.
Lord Gormon Peake was brought to heel. Not slain, for you had asked that much with a face still marked by another prince’s hand. But stripped of command. Sentenced before witnesses. His lands watched, his household divided, his pride cut down to a stump.
Aerion stood before court in black and red, with orange at his cuff and a black castle near his heart.
“Starpike stands,” he declared, “because my wife asked it of me.”
The hall listened, breathless.
“If House Peake mistakes her mercy for weakness, I will correct them. If any man claims her name as excuse for treason again, I will teach him the difference between a woman’s compassion and a dragon’s patience.”
No one laughed. No one whispered this time.
You stood beside him, still in Targaryen colors, but not swallowed by them now. Beneath your sleeve, Peake orange rested against your skin. At Aerion’s wrist, it burned where all could see.
For the first time since leaving Starpike, you felt not displayed, but witnessed.
That night, he found you in the garden.
Moonlight silvered the leaves and turned the fountains pale. The city below muttered in its sleep. For once, there were no courtiers. No ladies with fans. No fathers. No banners raised like accusations.
Aerion wore no crown, no courtly smile, no easy cruelty. His black cloak was lined in orange. You saw it at once. He saw you see it. This time, he did not mock you.
“Your city wanted you back badly,” he said.
There it was...the cruelty he reached for when fear came too near.
His voice was light. His eyes were not.
“Go, then,” he said. “If that is what you want. Starpike stands. Your father lives. The bargain has been remade prettily enough for singers to choke on. Go home.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
His smile cut. “Do I not ?”
“How fortunate that you know my mind so well.”
“I know when you are trying to bleed before you can be wounded.”
A breeze moved through the garden, stirring the orange lining of his cloak like a small, secret flame.
“I frightened you,” he said.
You could have said yes. Once, it would have been simple. Now truth had become harder.
“I hated what you did to me,” you said. “I hated the way you made me small. I hated that everyone watched and you let them. I hated that my wedding felt like the end of myself.”
“But House Peake made me small too,” you continued. “They gave me away when it saved them. Then they tried to reclaim me when it served them. They called both duty. They called both love. Neither time did they ask what I wanted.”
You wondered whether anyone had ever offered Aerion a choice that was not also a test, a weapon, or a trap.
You looked at him...beautiful, cruel, wounded, dangerous. A dragon who had burned you and shielded you with the same fire. He was not redeemed. Not purified. Not made gentle by the shape of your hand. Some part of you would always remember the girl in the sept beneath the red cloak, the hostage in silk, the bride led to the dragon’s mouth.
But you remembered other things too. A bedding refused. A cup left untouched. A black castle near his heart. A prince kneeling before you, undone by the sight of your pain.
You chose yourself first. That was the vow no septon had given you. Then you chose him.
You touched the orange lining of his cloak.
“These are my colors,” you said.
“You should not wear them.”
“No,” Aerion said. “I should not.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
It was not like the kiss in the sept. That had belonged to gods and lords and hungry witnesses. This belonged to no one but you. Aerion went still beneath it, as though struck not by force but by wonder. Then his hand rose to your face, careful of the fading mark on your cheek, and he kissed you back with a restraint so fierce it trembled.
He wanted. You felt that. But more than wanting, he waited. That was what broke your heart open.
When you drew away, his forehead nearly touched yours.
The garden was quiet around you.
“My prince,” you whispered.
Then you corrected yourself.
Aerion stopped breathing. The word hung between you, no longer sentence, no longer surrender.
He looked at you as if the whole court, the crown, the war, the old stains of blood and treason had fallen away, leaving only one impossible mercy he had not known how to ask for.
Not as an order. Almost as a plea.
You touched the orange thread at his cuff.
And this time, when Aerion closed his eyes, he looked not conquered, but saved from conquest. Only a little and only with you.
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