soft and a little sick and twisted!simon riley who only ever wants to see a girl crying around his cock, they should never be scared unless he’s drilling into them and ready to smother them with love after.
seeing you like this made his heart weak, in a situation it shouldn’t be. simon really just wanted to kiss those tears away, shush you with gentle love and send you along your way. maybe find you again sometime and show you how a broken girl like you should be loved.
he just didn’t expect you to get so attached from such a short interaction. expected; for girls like you.
maybe in the future he doesn’t exactly call you his girlfriend, because he really can’t do that, but takes you home often— fucks you like he wants to marry you, cares for you like you’re his baby. tucks you in, kisses your forehead and leaves before you can break his heart with begging him to stay.
⭑ when he first saw you, you were everything he did not look for in a wife. you turned out to be stubborn, from the very beginning you made it clear that he would not get obedience from you, and you were too confident. of course, he knew you were a lady from high society, so your way of life was not that different. but the main thing aerion caught was how spoiled you were. he expected to see a traditional bride: one who would flinch from every wrong look and obey every word — like septas who worshipped the god. instead, he got you.
he never intended to tolerate anyone’s whims — whether from his own family, and especially not from his wife. and if someone had asked him directly, he would have confidently said that he had no idea how it happened. but there were signs.
⭑ they told him to show you around the gardens of your future castle — so you saw everything and got used to the place. and he, naturally, refused. why would he waste his time and entertain you like a fucking servant? but under maekar’s supervision, he agreed after all.
he walked too fast. you clearly fell behind and did not intend to hurry or run after him. noticing that, he suddenly turned around. “do you have the legs of a five year old? can you walk faster?”
you did not even speed up. “i can,” you answered calmly. “but i will not. you walk like a horse and my legs are tired.”
he only looked at you for a few moments. “you are acting like a child.”
you shrugged and kept walking at your own pace. but you noticed how he slowly, almost unnoticeably, slowed down to walk next to you.
⭑ at the wedding, when the hour of the common cup came, you took the heavy silver cup from the steward's hands. you hesitated. you brought it to your face, smelled the sharp sour wine, and the corners of your lips dropped.
"i will not drink this," your voice sounded quiet but petulant. you pushed the cup away, almost spilling the wine on the white cloth.
"it is part of the rite," he answered, enough for you to understand how important it was.
you frowned. tiredness hid in the creases of your forehead, your lips were pressed tight. the candles danced in your eyes. "it is too sour," you said, like a child who did not want to take bitter medicine. "i do not like it."
aerion slowly turned his head to you. his eyes, usually feverishly bright, now looked at you with close attention. he was silent for a few heartbeats, then slowly turned his head and nodded to a servant.
"change all the wine to sweet."
and later, at the feast.
the feast was only growing stronger: the music became deafening, the laughter of neighbors too sharp, and the gazes of the drunken lords too intrusive. you felt your head start to hum from the chaos.
you touched aerion’s shoulder, interrupting his conversation with daeron. “it is too noisy here.”
aerion raised an eyebrow and looked at you as if you'd said something foolish. “this is a feast. did you expect silence like at a funeral?”
you did not answer — you just pressed your lips together and turned away, staring into emptiness. he immediately felt the change: you no longer tugged at his sleeve, no longer criticized the serving of dishes, and no longer rolled your eyes at the stupid jokes of the retinue.
aerion exhaled loudly, cutting daeron off mid-sentence. he suddenly stood up, firmly grabbed your hand, and pulled you with him, forcing you to rise.
“we are leaving.”
⭑ "i want candied flowers."
aerion raised his eyes from the scroll slowly, as if he did not hear you correctly.
"flowers," you explained, brushing your hair in front of the mirror. "the ones they make in highgarden. white, pink, in sugar glaze. they say they melt on the tongue like the first snow."
he rolled his eyes, the gesture came out almost too dramatic. "it is pointless," he dropped. "highgarden is weeks away."
you pressed your lips and turned away to the window, not saying another word. the evening passed in a heavy silence, you went to bed with your back to him.
he did not apologize. aerion targaryen never apologized, you learned that long ago.
on the fourth morning, you entered your chambers and stopped at the threshold. on the dressing table was a casket. black wood with silver inlay, too elegant to be just a box. you opened the lid.
flowers lay in rows. roses, violets, petals of plants unknown to you — each covered in the thinnest crust of hardened sugar, sparkling like frost. you breathed in the delicate scent and smiled brightly, looking at him as he stood by the fireplace.
"do not ask for more."
you took a white flower and brought it to your lips. the sugar crunched on your teeth, the petal melted — and he was right. like the first snow. "they are cold," you remarked.
your husband only raised one eyebrow. "the road is long."
"should have been faster."
he slowly walked closer, thinking about how he no longer even felt angry at such remarks of yours, only fully accepting them. "next time," he said, "go yourself. and we shall see how fast you return with flowers in your hands."
you took another one. a pink one. "you would not allow it," you answered him back, "for your wife to freeze somewhere on a distant road."
aerion closed his eyes. he was silent for a long time. and then the corner of his lips twitched. "no," he said so quietly that you barely heard. "i would not."
⭑ night fell on the castle, heavy as a blanket of lead. you did not speak for several hours — since he said: "no. i only got you the valyrian steel last moon" when you asked for a necklace of that rare blue stone.
you did not argue and did not fight, but simply went silent and lay on the very edge of the bed, turned away to the wall and did not even fix the blanket — let it be cold, let him get out to his own chambers.
aerion sat in a chair by the fireplace for a long time, drank wine, looked at the fire. he was right, and he knew it: you were unbearable, capricious, demanding the impossible with such an air as if the air around you should turn into gold. any other husband would have sent you to a family estate long ago to learn humility. but you were not just anyone. and he was not any other husband.
aerion set aside the glass, stood up, walked to the bed and looked at your back — offended, beautiful and sometimes (always) unbearable. he did not lie down at once: first he just sat on the edge, then slowly stretched out beside you.
you felt how he moved closer — the mattress sank under his weight, the warmth from his body reached your back. his hand lay on your waist.
"do not touch me," you whispered to the wall.
he did not remove his hand. on the contrary — he pulled you closer, insistently and pressed his chest to your back, buried his face in your hair and was silent for so long that you thought — he fell asleep.
"in a week," he said suddenly into the top of your head, muffled and tired. "your necklace will arrive."
⭑ well, he remembered everything about you.
he might seem busy talking to the lords, but his gaze was always on you. if you kept your hand on the fabric of someone's dress for even a second or looked with interest at an unusual brooch on a guest's shoulder, aerion noted it to himself. a week later, exactly the same thing, only more expensive and of better quality, waited for you in your chambers.
if you tried to express delight or ask how he knew, he only jerked his shoulder irritably. last moon, you kept your eyes on a silver tiara in a merchant's shop — for exactly one second, no longer. a week later, it lay in a casket on your table. you did not even remember it.
"it will suit you," he said, seeing your questioning look.
⭑ you were often capricious — sometimes because of trifles, the wrong fabric, the wrong taste, a word said at the wrong time. it would irritate anyone else to the limit. it irritated aerion too. for a second.
today was the fitting of a new dress. you turned in front of the polished steel mirror for an eternity, frowned, and pulled the lace on the sleeves. "it is terrible," you announced, pulling a ribbon off your shoulder. "the color makes me pale, and the style is baggy, as if i am a servant."
aerion raised his gaze and looked at the dress, then at you. "the dress is just a dress."
you froze, slowly turning your back to him — so proud, offended, with pressed lips and tense shoulders, as if he just insulted your entire existence.
"fine," he said more quietly, almost tiredly, and rose from his chair. he walked closer, stopped by your shoulder. "tell me how it should be."
you turned fully — still sulking, still with a stone face, but in your eyes was already that same spark which he learned to recognize since your first wedding night.
"silk, not brocade, the color lavender, not blue, lace only on the collar and take the waist in by three fingers." aerion listened, did not interrupt, and then nodded to the tailor, ordering him to begin.
he looked at you — there was no irritation in his gaze, only endless patience of a man who surrendered long ago and was even glad of it. "is that all?" he asked. you thought for a second. "and pearls along the hem." aerion closed his eyes, then opened them. "fine. pearls along the hem."
⭑ he loves when you sulk. when you cross your arms on your chest and turn away with pouting lips.
at first, of course, he ignored it — he pretended that he was busy, that it did not concern him, he even spoke to some knight louder as if on purpose, but he still looked at you out of the corner of his eye. the pause stretched, you did not move, did not even look in his direction — and he could not stand this. "again?" he said with light irritation, but he already walked closer, leaned down, and caught your gaze. "what now?"
"nothing," you stubbornly shook your head and turned away again. he exhaled, his hand laying on your chin. he turned your face to him, squinting slightly. "you do not know how to do 'nothing'," he said quietly.
you were silent and pouted your lips again, making him lean down and kiss you shortly and softly. he pulled away first and looked closely. "now?" you still frowned, but already weaker. "still nothing."
he laughed quietly — almost unnoticeably, only the corner of his lips twitched — and kissed you again, longer this time, warmer, as if he tried to fix your mood just like that. "is that better?" he asked in a low voice. you paused as if you thought about it, then nodded slightly. "perhaps."
⭑ aerion targaryen wasn't stupid. he distinguished a real tantrum from a theatrical one, a sincere offense from a fake one. he knew when you were truly tired, and when you simply wanted his attention. and still — every damn time — he gave it to you.
because the point was not whether you outplayed him or not.
Summary: A conquered daughter of House Blackfyre is given to the Prince of Dragonstone as both peace offering and prize. Each night, at the hour of the wolf, she is summoned in his chambers.
TW: dubious consent (dubcon), noncon, power imbalance, forced marriage, captivity, possessive behavior, obsessive dynamics, emotional manipulation, coercive intimacy, isolation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, explicit sexual themes, reader has valyrian features (plot relevant), skintone ambiguous, blackfyre reader, valarr targaryen has an inferiority complex, fixation on appearance and legacy, political marriage, post-war setting, targaryen vs blackfyre tensions.
WC: 10K
The knock came at the same hour it always did.
Three sharp raps against the iron-banded door of your chamber. Not loud enough to wake the dead, but loud enough to wake you. The rhythm was burned into your bones now, two quick strikes, a pause, then a final blow that seemed to reverberate through the cold stone walls like a death knell. It was the knock of a man who took no pleasure in his task but performed it with the grim efficiency of one who had long ago learned not to question the orders he was given.
Ser Alan of the Kingsguard. A broad shouldered Reachman with a face like weathered granite and eyes that had seen too many horrors to be surprised by anything anymore. He had been assigned to you the day you arrived at the Red Keep, a silent shadow who followed you everywhere and nowhere, appearing only when you were summoned to your husband's chambers or when you attempted to wander somewhere you were not permitted to go.
You were not asleep. You never truly slept anymore, not since the first night they had dragged you from your bed at this same wretched hour. Now you simply lay in the darkness, your violet eyes fixed on the embroidered canopy above you, counting the silver threads that formed the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You had counted them a thousand times. You knew every stitch, every knot, every place where the thread had worn thin from age and neglect. The dragon's ruby eyes seemed to watch you in the darkness, patient and eternal, waiting for you to break.
The door opened without your leave. It always did.
"His Grace requires your presence, my lady."
Ser Alan's voice was flat, carefully neutral, stripped of anything that might be interpreted as either sympathy or satisfaction. He stood in the doorway like a statue come to life, his white enameled armor gleaming faintly in the light of the single candle that burned on your bedside table. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, not in threat, but in habit. A Kingsguard was never truly at ease, even in the bedchamber of a traitor's daughter.
He did not look at you directly. None of them did. The servants, the guards, the ladies in waiting who had been assigned to attend you, they all treated you as if you were made of smoke and shadow, something that existed on the edges of their vision but could not be acknowledged without risking contamination. You were a Blackfyre. The blood of Daemon Blackfyre ran in your veins, the blood of rebels and usurpers and men who had dared to challenge the rightful rule of House Targaryen. Looking at you too long might be mistaken for sympathy, and sympathy for a Blackfyre was treason.
You had learned that lesson within your first week in the Red Keep, when a young kitchen maid had smiled at you in the corridor and offered you a warm roll fresh from the ovens. The girl had been dismissed the next day, sent back to her village with a black mark on her name and a warning never to seek employment in King's Landing again. You had not seen her go. You had only heard the whispers, carried to you by Lady Jeyne with a smile that did not reach her cold gray eyes.
"It seems some servants forget their place. A shame. She seemed a sweet girl."
The message had been clear: kindness to the Blackfyre was a crime, and crimes were punished.
You rose from the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet, the spring chill seeping through the mortar despite the thin rushes scattered across the flagstones. The chamber was always cold. The servants who tended the fires in the royal apartments seemed to forget that this room existed, or perhaps they remembered all too well and chose to let the flames die out of quiet, spiteful neglect. The single candle on your bedside table guttered and smoked, casting long shadows that danced across the bare stone walls like specters at a feast.
You had been given this chamber on your wedding night. You had been naively grateful then. "Your own space," Valarr had said, his mismatched eyes warm with false consideration. "Every woman deserves a refuge. Somewhere she can be alone with her thoughts, away from the demands of court and husband. I would never deny you that."
A refuge. That was what he had called it. But there was no refuge in this cold, barren room with its bare walls and its threadbare tapestries and its single window that looked out over the black waters of the Blackwater Rush. There was only silence. Only the slow, grinding erosion of everything you had been before the war, before the surrender, before they had stripped you of your name and your family and your future and dressed you in Targaryen red.
You had not bothered with a robe. The first night, you had wrapped yourself in a heavy cloak, clutching it around your shoulders like armor as Ser Alan led you through the darkened corridors. When you had arrived in Valarr's chambers, he had looked at you with that gentle, puzzled expression he wore so well and said, "Why do you hide yourself, sweet wife? You are the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. The blood of Old Valyria flows in your veins. You should be proud of what you are."
He had taken the cloak from your shoulders himself, his fingers brushing against your skin with deliberate, lingering softness. He had folded it carefully and set it aside, and you had never seen it again. The next night, you had worn a different robe. The same thing had happened. By the third night, you had understood the lesson he was teaching you.
You will come to me as you are. You will hide nothing. You belong to me, and I will see all of you.
So now you wore only your shift. Thin linen, pale cream in color, cut low enough to show the elegant soft swell of your breasts. It had been laid out for you by one of your ladies in waiting, Lady Alia, you thought, though it might have been Lady Mariene; they all blurred together in your mind, a procession of cold faces and colder eyes.
The shift was too fine for a prisoner, too revealing for a proper lady. It was a garment designed to display you, to emphasize every curve and hollow of your body, to remind you that you were an object to be looked at and touched and possessed.
And you hated it. You hated your beauty because it was the reason you were here, in this cold room, in this cold castle, married to a man who looked at you like you were a prize he had won in battle. If you had been plain, if you had been ordinary, perhaps they would have sent you to the Silent Sisters, like your sisters had been, or allowed you to join your brothers at the Wall. But you were beautiful, and your beauty was Valyrian, and Valarr Targaryen wanted to possess it.
You followed Ser Alan through the corridors of Maegor's Holdfast. The hour of the wolf, they called this time. The torches burned low in their iron sconces, their flames reduced to guttering embers that cast more shadow than light. The stone walls were slick with condensation, moisture beading on the ancient masonry like sweat on a dying man's brow.
The Red Keep was never truly silent. Even at this hour, there were sounds, the distant tread of guards on the battlements, the scurrying of rats in the walls, the mournful cry of gulls wheeling over the Blackwater. But the silence between those sounds was vast and empty, a yawning chasm that seemed to swallow everything it touched. You walked through it like a ghost, your bare feet making no sound on the cold stone, your breath forming small clouds in the chill air. The thin linen of your shift did nothing to ward off the cold, and you could feel your nipples hardening beneath the fabric, could feel the gooseflesh rising on your arms and thighs. By the time you reached the Prince's chambers, you would be shivering, your body betraying your vulnerability to him before you ever spoke a word.
You knew the way by heart now. Down the winding stair from your tower chamber, past the door to the servants' quarters where you sometimes heard muffled laughter that fell silent the moment you drew near.
At the end of the passage, a heavy oak door bound with iron bands marked the entrance to the Prince's private chambers. Two more Kingsguard stood on either side, Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Gwayne Gaunt, their white cloaks hanging still in the motionless air, their faces hidden behind the gleaming visors of their helms. They did not acknowledge you as you passed.
Ser Alan pushed open the door and stepped aside, his duty discharged. His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, a flicker of something that might have been pity, quickly suppressed, and then he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the corridor like a wraith.
You crossed the threshold alone, as you always did. The warmth hit you first.
It was like stepping from a frozen wasteland into the heart of a dragon's lair. A great fire roared in the stone hearth, flames leaping high and golden, filling the room with a heat that seemed to seep into your bones and thaw the chill that had settled there during the long, cold walk. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and smoke and something sweet and faintly musky, like the perfume of night blooming flowers mingled with the clean, sharp scent of male skin. It was the scent of him, you realized. The scent of Valarr Targaryen, embedded in every tapestry and cushion and fur, saturating the very air you breathed.
The Prince's chambers were vast, easily four times the size of your own barren room. The furniture was dark and heavy, carved from exotic woods that had been imported from the Summer Isles and the forests of Qohor at unimaginable expense.
And there, in a high backed chair before the fire, sat your husband.
Valarr Targaryen did not look up when you entered. He was reading a leather bound book that lay open in his lap, its pages yellowed with age and covered in the spidery script of some long dead maester. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows. He was dressed in a robe of black silk embroidered with red dragons, loosely tied at the waist, revealing a glimpse of his chest, lean and muscled, with a dusting of dark hair that matched the short cropped locks on his head.
He did not look like a dragon. That was the first thought that had crossed your mind when you had seen him at your wedding, standing before the High Septon in the Great Sept of Baelor as the realm watched and whispered. And it was the thought that returned to you now, as fresh and bitter as ever, each time you laid eyes on him.
He was handsome. You could not deny that, no matter how much you wanted to. His jaw was strong and sharp, his nose straight and aquiline, his brow noble. His mouth was perpetually curved in a half smile that never quite reached his eyes, giving him the look of a man who knew a secret that no one else did and found immense satisfaction in that knowledge. His body was lean and well made, not bulky like a tourney knight, but wiry and graceful, with the long muscles of a swordsman and the easy, coiled tension of a predator at rest.
But his coloring was all wrong.
His hair was dark, a deep, rich brown that bordered on black, and cut short, close to his skull in the martial style his father Baelor Breakspear had favored. It was thick and soft looking, and you had felt it beneath your fingers enough times to know that it was indeed as soft as it appeared. There was only a single streak of silver gold to mark his Targaryen blood, a narrow ribbon of pale brightness that ran from his temple to the nape of his neck like a brand. It was as if the gods had begun to paint him in the colors of Old Valyria and then grown bored, abandoning the work halfway through.
And his eyes. Those mismatched, unsettling eyes. One was a clear, piercing blue, the blue of the Stormlands sky, the blue of his mother Jena Dondarrion's bloodline. The other was a deep, warm brown, almost black in certain lights, flecked with amber and gold, the brown of his Dornish grandmother. They sat together in his handsome face like two strangers forced to share a room, never quite meeting, never quite agreeing. They gave him the look of something assembled from spare parts, something the gods had cobbled together from whatever materials they had at hand and then sent out into the world unfinished.
He looked like a Stormlander. He looked like his mother's son. He looked like a mongrel.
And there you stood, Y/N Blackfyre, the spitting image of Daena the Defiant reborn.
You were everything a Targaryen should be. You were the living embodiment of the bloodline that had conquered Westeros, the bloodline that had ruled for nearly two hundred years, the bloodline that Valarr Targaryen could claim by name but not by appearance. And you wore the name of his family's greatest enemy, Blackfyre, the house of the usurper, the house of rebellion and treason and broken oaths.
The irony was not lost on you. It was certainly not lost on him.
You could feel his attention on you even before he looked up. It was a physical thing, a weight, a pressure, like the heat of the sun on bare skin. He was always aware of you, always attuned to your presence in a way that made you feel like prey being stalked by a patient, methodical hunter. And when he finally raised his eyes from his book, the impact of his gaze was like a blow.
His mismatched eyes traveled over your body with the slow, deliberate thoroughness of a man savoring a fine wine. They lingered on the swell of your breasts, visible through the thin linen, on the curve of your hips, on the length of your legs. They traced the line of your throat, the soft hollow where your pulse fluttered visibly beneath your skin. They drank you in, consumed you, devoured you. And when they finally met your eyes, there was something in them that made your breath catch, a hunger so raw, so intense, so utterly possessive that it stole the air from your lungs.
He wanted you. That was nothing new; you had known that since your wedding night. But there was something else in his gaze tonight, something darker and more complicated. It was as if he resented you for making him want you. As if your beauty was a personal affront, a reminder of everything he was not, everything he could never be. He looked at you like a man starving, and hating himself for his hunger.
"My wife," Valarr said, his voice low and smooth. He did not look away from your face, though you could see the effort it cost him. His eyes kept flickering down, tracing the lines of your body, before he forced them back up. "How kind of you to join me. I was beginning to fear you had forgotten the way."
As if I could forget. As if I could ever forget anything about this nightmare you have constructed for me.
You said nothing. You had learned that too, in the long weeks since your wedding. Silence was safer than words. Words could be twisted, weaponized, turned back upon you with that gentle, reasonable smile he wore so well. Words could be used to trap you, to expose you, to give him more ammunition for the slow, grinding war of attrition he waged against your spirit every single day.
Silence, at least, was your own. He could not take your silence. He could not twist it or weaponize it or use it to humiliate you. He could only wait, and watch, and try to find new ways to make you speak.
He closed the book and set it aside, but he did not rise. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading slightly, his posture one of casual, arrogant ease. The robe fell further open, revealing more of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the silk. He was aroused, you realized with a jolt. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, pressing against the fabric of his robe, and he made no effort to hide it. Why would he? This was his chamber, his kingdom, his world. You were the intruder here, the supplicant, the conquered.
"Come here," he said.
Just that. Two words. Soft as a lover's whisper, heavy as a command. It was not a request. It was never a request, no matter how gently he spoke it. Every word that fell from his lips was an order wrapped in silk, a demand disguised as consideration.
You walked toward him. Your bare feet made no sound on the thick Myrish carpet, and you moved with the unconscious grace that had been drilled into you since childhood, the posture of a noblewoman, the bearing of a lady, the carefully cultivated elegance that marked you as someone of consequence even when you had no consequence at all. The thin linen of your shift whispered against your skin as you walked, a constant reminder of your vulnerability, your exposure, your complete and utter dependence on his mercy. You could feel his eyes on you with every step, could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical caress, sliding over your breasts, your hips, the shadowed juncture of your thighs.
You stopped before his chair, close enough to feel the heat of the fire on your skin, close enough to smell him, that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and smoke and warm male skin that you had come to associate with long nights and tangled sheets and the slow, inexorable erosion of your will. He looked up at you, his head tilted slightly to one side, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the firelight.
His hand rose. You braced yourself for his touch, on your face, your throat, your breast. But instead, he caught a strand of your silver gold hair between his fingers, rubbing it gently as if testing the quality of fine silk. His touch was light, almost reverent, and his eyes softened with something that might have been mistaken for genuine admiration by someone who did not know him.
But you knew him now. You had spent a moon learning him, studying him, cataloging his every expression and gesture and word. And you knew that the softness in his eyes was not admiration. It was hunger. It was envy. It was a desperate, consuming need that he hated himself for feeling.
"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was rough, almost pained. "Gods, do you have any idea what you do to me? What you've done to me since the moment I first saw you?"
He drew the strand of hair to his face and pressed it to his lips. His eyes closed for a moment, and you watched his throat work as he inhaled the scent of you, the faint perfume of the lavender soap you were permitted to use, the clean, sweet smell of your skin. When he opened his eyes again, they were dark with something that looked almost like anguish.
"You know," he said, still stroking your hair, still holding it against his lips as if he could not bear to let it go, "I used to dream of hair like this. When I was a boy, I would pray to the Seven every night, every single night, to make mine silver. To make me look like my grandfather. Like my uncles. Like a true Targaryen."
His voice was soft, musing, but there was an edge to it now. A bitterness that he could not quite hide.
"I would kneel before the altar in the royal sept," he continued, "and I would promise the gods anything, anything at all, if they would just change the color of my hair. I promised to be brave, like my father. I promised to be wise, like my grandfather the King. I promised to be pious and just and merciful and all the things a prince is supposed to be. And every morning, I would wake up and run to the mirror, hoping that this time… this time, they had listened."
He released your hair, letting it fall back against your shoulder. His hand moved to your face, his fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone with a touch so light it was almost not there at all. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, and you felt your lips part involuntarily, a small, betraying response that you could not control.
"They never did," he said. "The gods have a cruel sense of humor, don't they? They gave the Valyrian beauty to the Blackfyre, the daughter of traitors and rebels, the spawn of a usurper's bloodline. And they gave the dornish coloring to the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne."
His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing slightly, feeling the soft, full curve of it. His eyes were fixed on your mouth now, and you could see the conflict in them, the desire warring with resentment, the hunger battling with something that looked almost like hatred. Not hatred of you, you realized with a start. Hatred of himself. Hatred of his own weakness, his own need, his own desperate, consuming want for something he believed should be beneath him.
"You should have been mine by right of blood," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You should have been born a Targaryen. You should have been my sister, my cousin, my equal. Instead, you are my enemy's daughter, and I have to pretend that I married you for politics. For duty. For the realm."
His hand slid from your face to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the slender column with a gentle but unmistakable pressure. He could feel your pulse beneath his palm, quick, fluttering, like a trapped bird. His thumb stroked the hollow of your throat, feeling the warmth of your skin, the life that beat just beneath the surface.
"But that's not why I married you," he said, and his voice cracked slightly, revealing a rawness that you had never heard before. "I married you because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because from the moment I saw you, standing there with your family, defeated, kneeling, surrounded by guards, your head held high even in defeat, I knew I had to have you. I had to possess you. I had to make you mine."
He hated you because you made him feel weak, made him feel wanting, made him feel like a mongrel scrabbling at the gates of a palace he would never be worthy to enter.
And beneath all of that, beneath the hunger and the envy and the resentment and the hate, there was something that looked almost like tenderness. Almost like love. But it was a twisted, possessive, consuming love, the love of a dragon for its hoard, the love of a collector for his most precious acquisition.
His hand tightened on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you aware of his strength, his power, his absolute control over you. His mismatched eyes blazed with an intensity that was almost frightening, and you could see the muscles in his jaw working as he struggled to contain whatever was raging inside him.
"You are mine," he said, and it was not a statement. It was a vow. A curse.
His hand released your throat and moved to the back of your neck, tangling in your silver gold hair. He pulled you down, and you went willingly, or perhaps not willingly, but without resistance, which amounted to the same thing. His mouth found yours, and he kissed you with a desperate, consuming hunger that stole your breath and set your blood on fire.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not the careful, controlled kiss of a husband performing his marital duty. It was raw and hungry and full of all the twisted, complicated emotions that churned inside him, the desire, the envy, the resentment, the need. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you, devouring you. His hand in your hair held you in place, not allowing you to pull away, not allowing you to escape the intensity of his kiss.
And gods help you, you kissed him back. You did not mean to. You did not want to. But your body betrayed you, as it always did. Your lips parted beneath his, and your tongue met his, and your hands came up to grip his shoulders, whether to push him away or pull him closer, you could not have said. The taste of him filled your mouth, wine and smoke and something dark and addictive that you could not name. The heat of him surrounded you, enveloped you, consumed you.
When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His hand was still tangled in your hair, and his other hand had found your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft curve of your hip with a possessive grip.
"You are cold," he observed, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. "The walk from your chambers is too long. I have told the servants to keep your fire burning through the night, but they seem to forget. Careless of them. I shall have to speak to the steward."
You will do no such thing, you thought. You want me cold. You want me to arrive here shivering and desperate for the warmth of your fire, the warmth of your bed, the warmth of you. This is by your design, as everything is by your design.
But you said nothing. You simply stood there, letting him touch you, letting him pretend to care about your comfort. What else was there for a traitor's daughter to do?
"The hour is late," he said, withdrawing his hand. He rose from his chair with the easy grace of a man who had never known a moment's true hardship, who had never had to fight for anything in his life. He was not tall, shorter than his father had been at his age, you had heard, and shorter than most of the knights who served in the Kingsguard, but he still loomed over you, close enough that you could count the flecks of lilac in his blue eye, the flecks of amber in his brown one. "I trust your chambers are comfortable?"
Cold. Empty. A prison with silk curtains and a bed that feels like stone. "Yes, my prince."
"Good." He smiled, and for a moment, he almost looked kind. "I would hate to think you were suffering. You have suffered enough, I think. Your family's choices… well. We need not speak of that. The past is the past, and you are my wife now. The future is what matters."
He reached down and took your hand. His fingers were long and elegant, a musician's fingers, a scholar's fingers. They wrapped around yours with a gentle but unmistakable firmness, a claim of ownership that needed no words to express.
"Come to bed," he said, his voice rough and low.
He rose from the chair, pulling you with him, and began to walk toward the great canopied bed. You followed, because you had no choice. Because your body was already responding to him, already softening and warming and preparing itself for his touch. Because some traitorous part of you wanted this, wanted his hands on your skin, his mouth on your throat, his body moving against yours.
He did not release your hand as you walked. His fingers were warm and strong around yours, and you found yourself gripping back, holding on to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had turned to water and smoke.
The act itself was never violent. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream, to weep, to claw at your own skin until you could feel something other than this terrible, suffocating gentleness.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had hurt you, truly hurt you, if he had taken you with the brutal entitlement of a conqueror claiming his spoils, you could have built walls of rage and disgust to shield yourself from his touch. You could have retreated into the cold, clean fortress of your hatred and watched him from behind its battlements, untouched and untouchable.
But Valarr Targaryen was not cruel. He was gentle. And his gentleness was more devastating than any cruelty could ever be.
He laid you down on the bed with the care of a man handling something precious and fragile. The furs were soft beneath your back, the silk sheets cool against your heated skin. He loomed over you for a moment, his mismatched eyes traveling over your body with that hungry, reverent gaze, drinking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. The firelight played across your skin, gilding your silver gold hair, casting shadows in the hollows of your throat and the valley between your breasts.
"You are so beautiful," he breathed. His voice was thick with emotion, almost pained.
He lowered himself beside you, propped on one elbow, and his free hand began to explore your body. His touch was light, almost reverent, as if he were mapping the contours of a holy relic. His fingers traced the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the soft swell of your breast. They circled your nipple through the thin linen of your shift, feeling it tighten and peak beneath his touch, and he made a low sound in his throat, a sound of satisfaction, of possession, of hunger barely restrained.
"I want to see you," he said. "All of you."
He did not tear your shift away. He did not rip the fabric from your body. Instead, he gathered the hem in his hands and slowly, slowly drew it upward, revealing you inch by torturous inch. The mound of your sex. The skin of your stomach. The curve of your waist. The undersides of your breasts. And then, finally, your breasts themselves, full and round and perfect, the nipples a color that darkened as he watched, tightening in the cool air of the chamber.
He made that sound again, that low, almost pained sound, and lowered his head. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, hot and wet and devastatingly skilled. His hand found your other breast, his fingers rolling and teasing the sensitive peak until you were arching beneath him, your body betraying you with every shudder and moan. His tongue swirled around the bud, sucking gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him. A gasp tore from your throat, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging at the silver streak as pleasure warred with the haze in your mind. Was this what you wanted? His free hand slid up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your wetness.
He took his time. Gods, he always took his time. He explored every inch of you with his hands and his mouth, learning you, memorizing you, claiming you. He kissed the hollow of your throat and the inside of your elbow and the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. He traced the curve of your hip with his tongue and pressed open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your inner thigh. He touched you everywhere, tasted you everywhere, until you were trembling and desperate and utterly, completely his.
And through it all, he watched you. His eyes never left your face, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, every involuntary arch of your body. He wanted to see your pleasure. He needed to see it. Because your pleasure was proof, proof that you were his, proof that your body recognized his claim even if your mind resisted, proof that the Valyrian beauty he coveted responded to the mongrel prince who should have been beneath you.
"Feel how wet you are for me," he growled, slipping a finger to stroke your slick folds. You bucked against his touch, a moan betraying your body's eagerness even as you bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut. He circled your clit with pressure, dipping lower to push one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth returned to yours, swallowing your cries as he pumped his fingers, stretching you, preparing you, your whispered 'wait' lost in the rhythm of his thrusts, but your hips rose to meet him, chasing the building tension.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. "I want to see your eyes when you come apart for me."
You tried to look away. You tried to close your eyes, to retreat into the darkness behind your lids where he could not follow. But his hand caught your chin and turned your face back to his, and you had no choice but to meet his gaze as his fingers found the slick, aching center of you and began to move with devastating precision.
"Look at me," he repeated, and there was something in his voice, a desperate, almost pleading quality that made you obey. "I need to see you. I need to know that you feel this too. That I'm not the only one burning."
Your climax crashed over you like a wave, and you cried out, a sound you could not contain, a sound that was torn from you against your will. Your back arched, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your eyes locked with his as the pleasure consumed you. And through it all, he watched. His mismatched eyes blazed with triumph and hunger and something that looked almost like worship.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. "That's my girl. My beautiful, perfect girl."
He moved over you then, settling between your thighs, and you felt the hot, hard length of him pressing against your entrance. He paused for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say my name."
You did not want to give him that. It felt like too much, like a surrender too complete to be borne. But his hips shifted, the head of him pressing against you but not entering, and you knew, you knew, that he would wait all night if he had to. He would wait until you broke, until you gave him what he wanted, until you acknowledged that he was the one giving you this pleasure, that he was the one you needed.
"Valarr," you whispered. The name tasted like defeat. Like surrender. Like the death of everything you had been before.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty, triumphant and hungry and impossibly tender all at once. "Again."
"Valarr."
He thrust into you in one smooth, devastating motion, and you cried out his name a third time, not because he asked, but because you could not stop yourself. He filled you completely, stretched you perfectly, and for one endless moment, you simply stared at each other, joined in the most intimate way possible, your breath mingling, your hearts pounding in tandem.
"Mine," he breathed, and began to move.
He made love to you slowly, reverently, as if you were something holy and he were a pilgrim who had traveled a thousand miles to worship at your altar. His thrusts were deep and deliberate, each one designed to draw out your pleasure, to make you feel every inch of him, to imprint himself on your body and your soul. He watched your face the entire time, his eyes dark with intensity, cataloguing every flutter of your lashes, every parting of your lips, every gasp and moan that escaped you.
"So perfect, so mine," he whispered, voice thick with emotion, slow thrusts that built like a gathering storm, pulling out almost fully before sliding back in, grinding against your clit with each hilt. His hands worshipped your body, one tangling in your silver hair to tilt your head back for his kisses, the other pinning your hip to the bed, controlling the pace. You wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper despite the lingering fog of consent's shadow.
The intensity mounted, his reverent touches turning possessive, gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise, sucking marks into your neck that would linger like claims. Sweat slicked your skin, bodies sliding together in a symphony of gasps and moans.
He shifted, angling to hit deeper, faster now, the bed creaking under the force. Your walls clenched around his cock, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably. "Come for me," he urged, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you.
The climax crashed over you like a wave, your pussy spasming around him, milking his length as you cried out, silver hair sticking to your damp forehead, purple eyes glazing with release. He followed moments later, thrusting erratically before burying himself deep, cock pulsing as he flooded you with hot cum, ropes spilling into your core, burying his face in your breasts as his body shuddered against yours. You felt the hot pulse of his release inside you, felt his arms tighten around you as if he were afraid you might disappear, felt his lips press reverent kisses to your throat and shoulder and the corner of your jaw.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You lay tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal, your bodies still joined, your skin slick with sweat. His weight was warm and solid on top of you, and despite everything, despite the hatred and the resentment and the bitter knowledge of what he had taken from you, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. But in that moment, in the warm, firelit darkness of his chambers, with his body pressed against yours and his breath soft on your neck, you could almost believe it.
He stirred finally, rolling off you but not letting go. His arm remained wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his side, and his hand came up to stroke your hair with a gentle, almost absentminded tenderness.
He pressed a kiss to your temple and settled back against the pillows, his arm still wrapped around your waist.
"You may return to your chambers now," he said, his voice already growing distant, dismissive. "Ser Alan will escort you."
The words were the same as they always were. The dismissal was the same as it always was. And yet tonight, something was different. Tonight, the thought of leaving, of rising from this warm bed and walking back through those cold corridors to your cold, empty chamber, filled you with a despair so profound that it threatened to swallow you whole.
You did not move.
The silence stretched. One heartbeat. Two. Three. You could feel his attention shift, could sense him turning his head on the pillow to look at you. You kept your eyes fixed on the canopy above, counting the dragons. Five. Six. Seven.
"You are still here," he observed. There was no surprise in his voice, only a kind of clinical curiosity. "I gave you leave to go."
You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "I know."
"Then why do you linger?" He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with those mismatched eyes. In the dim light, they seemed to gleam with an inner fire of their own, the blue one cold as ice, the brown one warm as embers. "Have I not been a considerate husband? Have I not given you your own chambers, your own space, your privacy? I would never force you to remain where you are not wanted."
Where you are not wanted.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy with double meaning. You were not wanted in his heart, you knew that, had always known it. He did not love you; he possessed you. He coveted you. He resented you and worshipped you in equal measure. But he did not love you, not in any way that you recognized as love. And you were not wanted in his chambers either, except when he summoned you, except when he wanted to use your body and watch you respond to his touch.
But here you were. Tangled in his silk sheets, breathing his air, warmed by his fire. And the thought of leaving, of rising from this bed and walking back through those cold, dark corridors to your empty room, made you want to weep.
"You summon me," you said. Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You summon me every night."
His brow furrowed with perfect, practiced confusion. It was a mask you had seen him wear a hundred times, the face of a man who could not understand why anyone would question his actions, who genuinely believed himself to be acting only with the purest of intentions.
"I summon you because you are my wife," he said, as if explaining something simple to a child. "It is my duty to attend to you. To ensure the continuation of our line. The realm needs heirs, sweet wife. Our union must bear fruit."
He reached out and brushed a strand of silver gold hair from your face, his touch feather light, almost tender. His fingers lingered on your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear.
"But I would never keep you here against your will," he continued. "That would be… unseemly. You are not a prisoner. You are my wife. If you wish to return to your chambers, you have only to say so. I will summon Ser Alan myself."
You are not a prisoner.
The words were a lie, and you both knew it. You were a prisoner in all but name. Your every movement was watched, your every word reported, your every attempt to reach out to the world beyond the Red Keep carefully and quietly thwarted. You were not permitted to write to your brothers at the Wall, not permitted to see your sisters, not permitted to send word to your mother in Tyrosh, not permitted to leave your chambers without an escort of guards who claimed to be protecting you but who served only to remind you of your captivity.
You had tried, once, to walk in the gardens alone. It had been a small thing, a tiny act of rebellion. You had simply slipped away from your ladies in waiting and wandered down a path you had not been shown before. Within minutes, two guards had appeared at your side, their faces carefully neutral, their voices politely insistent. "For your safety, my lady. The Red Keep can be dangerous for those who do not know its ways."
You had not tried again.
And your ladies in waiting, they were not companions. They were watchers. Spies in silk and velvet, assigned to report your every word and deed to the Prince. They whispered behind their hands when they thought you could not hear, their voices dripping with contempt. "Traitor's daughter." "Blackfyre whore." "She thinks herself a dragon, but she's nothing but a pretender in borrowed scales."
They pulled your laces too tight when they dressed you, leaving bruises on your ribs. They brought you cold food and colder stares, and when you asked for something, a book, a warm bath, a moment of peace, they smiled sweetly and promised to see to it, and nothing ever came of it.
The world had been carefully, methodically stripped away from you. Your family, your name, your freedom, your dignity. Everything that had made you who you were had been taken, piece by piece, until only he remained. The only person who touched you without care. The only person who looked at you without disgust. The only person who spoke to you as if you were a person, not a symbol of a defeated rebellion.
You were tired. Gods, you were so tired. Tired of the cold walks. Tired of the cold bed. Tired of the cold stares. Tired of being alone with your thoughts and your grief and your rage until you felt like you might shatter into a thousand pieces.
And he was warm.
He was here, solid and real, his body radiating heat beside you in the vast bed. He was the only person in the Red Keep who touched you without making you feel like something unclean. His hands on your skin, his voice in your ear, his presence filling the empty spaces inside you, it was a poison, you knew, sweet and slow and deadly. But it was the only warmth you had.
You hated him for it. Hated him with a fierce, burning intensity that sometimes took your breath away. Hated him for what he had taken from you, for what he continued to take, for the way he made you need him even as you loathed him.
And you needed him. That was the worst part. That was the part that made you want to scream. You needed his warmth, his touch, his voice. You needed the only human connection that was offered to you, even knowing that it was offered with chains attached.
"Valarr."
His name felt strange on your tongue. You usually called him "my prince" or nothing at all, maintaining that last, fragile barrier of formality between you. But in this moment, in the dying firelight, with your body still humming from his touch and your walls crumbling around you, you could not bring yourself to maintain that final pretense.
"Yes?"
His voice was soft. Encouraging. The voice of a man who already knew what you were going to say and was savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment like a cat playing with a mouse.
You closed your eyes. You could not look at him while you said it. You could not watch his face as you surrendered this last, precious piece of yourself.
"Let me stay."
The silence that followed was the loudest thing you had ever heard.
You could feel him smiling in the darkness. You did not need to see his face to know that the satisfaction was radiating from him like heat from the dying embers, that his mismatched eyes were gleaming with quiet triumph. You had given him exactly what he wanted, exactly what he had been working toward since the night of your wedding.
"I'm sorry," he said, and there was nothing but gentle confusion in his tone. "I don't understand. Stay where?"
You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.
You knew what he wanted. You had always known. He wanted you to say it clearly, to spell it out, to beg for the privilege of sleeping in his bed like a dog begging for scraps at the master's table. He wanted you to acknowledge that you needed him, that you wanted him, that all his careful manipulation had worked exactly as intended. He wanted you to hand him this victory on a silver platter, to kneel before him and offer up your last shred of pride as a gift.
And you were going to give it to him.
Because you were too tired to fight anymore. Because the thought of that cold walk back to your empty chambers, of lying alone in that cold bed with nothing but your thoughts for company, made you want to weep. Because whatever this was, this twisted, poisonous thing between you, it was better than the alternative.
"The corridors are cold."
"The corridors are always cold." His tone was mild, pleasant. "I have offered to have braziers placed along your route. You declined."
Because accepting would mean admitting I notice the cold. Because accepting would mean I owe you gratitude for every scrap of warmth you deign to give me.
"I did not wish to trouble the servants."
"Ah." He said it as if you had revealed something profound.
"You are too considerate, wife. Most ladies would demand a dozen braziers and complain of the smoke. But not you. You bear your discomforts in silence." His hand found yours beneath the furs, his fingers interlacing with your own. His palm was warm. "I admire that about you. Truly."
You wanted to pull your hand away. You did not.
"Please," you said instead.
The word tasted like ash in your mouth, like defeat, like the death of something precious and irreplaceable. It was the word of a supplicant, a beggar, a woman who had been stripped of everything and was grateful for whatever scraps were thrown her way.
"I am asking. I want to share your chambers. I want…"
You faltered. What did you want? You wanted your family back. You wanted your freedom. You wanted to wake up and discover that the last moon had been nothing but a nightmare, that you were still in Tyrosh with your mother and your siblings, that the war had never happened and Daemon Blackfyre still lived and the world still made sense.
But those things were gone. They were ashes and dust, scattered on the wind of history. All that remained was this room, this bed, this man.
"I want to stay," you finished, your voice barely audible.
His smile was a thing of terrible beauty.
It transformed his sharp, mismatched features into something almost angelic, the face of a savior, a protector, a man who had rescued a fallen woman from the consequences of her family's treason and lifted her up to stand beside him. His blue eye sparkled with warmth. His brown eye gleamed with satisfaction. He looked like a painting of some ancient hero, a knight of legend who had slain the dragon and claimed the maiden as his reward.
"Oh, my sweet wife," he murmured.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, tender, achingly gentle. It was the kind of kiss a devoted husband might give his beloved wife after a long separation, a gesture of pure and selfless affection. And it made you want to scream.
"Of course you may stay. I would never deny you anything you truly wanted. I told you, did I not? I am the only one in this world who will care for you. The only one who sees your worth."
He pulled the furs up over your body, tucking them around your shoulders with careful, almost paternal attention. His hands smoothed the fabric, ensuring that you were completely covered, completely warm, completely enveloped in his care. Then he lay back against the pillows and drew you against his side, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you close.
His body was warm. Solid. Real. And for one terrible, shameful moment, you felt safe.
It was a lie. You knew it was a lie. This safety was an illusion, a gilded cage dressed up as a sanctuary. He was not your protector. He was your captor, your jailer, the architect of your slow and methodical destruction. The warmth of his body was the warmth of the dragon's breath, and you were the lamb curled in its jaws.
But it was warm. And you were so tired. And for just this moment, just this one moment, you could pretend.
"Sleep now," he murmured against your hair. His breath was warm on your scalp, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "You are where you belong. With me. Where no one can hurt you. Where no one can whisper their poison in your ear. Just us, sweet wife. Just us."
His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you even closer. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the rise and fall of his chest, the solid reality of his presence. He was everywhere, surrounding you, enveloping you, claiming you.
And then his lips found your ear, and his voice dropped to a whisper so soft you almost didn't hear it.
"I will make you love me," he breathed. "I will make you need me so completely that you won't remember how to breathe without me. And when that day comes, when you finally see that I am the only one who will ever truly want you, I will be there. Waiting. As I have always been waiting."
He pressed a kiss to the curve of your ear, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of it, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the dark promise in his words.
"Sleep," he said again, his voice returning to that gentle, soothing tone. "Dream of me. Dream of us. Dream of the life we will build together."
You closed your eyes.
The tears came then. Silent and hot, sliding down your cheeks to soak into the silk pillowcase. You did not make a sound. You had learned not to cry where anyone could hear, learned to swallow your grief and your rage and your despair until they became a hard, cold knot in your chest. But you could not stop the tears. They flowed from you like water from a broken dam, an endless river of sorrow that you had been holding back for too long.
His arm tightened around your waist. You felt his lips curve into a smile against the crown of your head.
He knew.
He always knew.
And tomorrow, when the sun rose and the world went on as it always did, you would wake in his bed. You would open your eyes to the sight of his chambers, surrounded by his scent and his warmth and his quiet, suffocating care. You would look at yourself in the polished bronze mirror that hung on his wall and see a stranger, a woman who had begged her captor to keep her close, who had traded her last scrap of independence for a few hours of warmth.
The servants would know. They always knew everything that happened in the Red Keep. By midday, the whispers would have spread through every corridor and every kitchen and every stable. The Blackfyre whore has moved into the Prince's chambers. She begged him to let her stay. She crawled into his bed like a dog seeking warmth.
Your ladies in waiting would smile their cold, knowing smiles. Lady Jeyne would make some cutting remark disguised as concern. "How wonderful that you and the Prince have grown so close. I'm sure your mother would be so pleased to know that you have found… comfort… in your new home."
And Valarr would watch it all with those mismatched eyes, that gentle, reasonable smile playing at his lips. He would see the whispers and the stares and the quiet cruelties, and he would do nothing to stop them. Why would he? They served his purpose. They reminded you that he was the only one who treated you with anything resembling kindness, the only one who touched you without making you feel like something unclean.
He was the disease and the cure. The poison and the antidote. The dragon and the knight who slew it.
And you were his.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, in the dying firelight, wrapped in his furs and his possession, you lay still, your body pressed back against his in the spoon of his embrace.
His cock, still half hard from your earlier joining, nestled against the curve of your ass, warm and heavy. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your breathing, to let the exhaustion pull you under, but the tears kept coming, silent tracks carving paths down your face.
Then you felt it, a subtle twitch, a thickening against your skin. His length stirred, growing firm once more, pressing insistently into the cleft of your cheeks. Your breath hitched, a fresh wave of emotion crashing through you.
Not again. Not when your heart felt so raw, so fractured. But your body, traitorous as ever, responded with a faint clench low in your belly, the lingering slickness between your thighs a reminder of how he'd already claimed you.
Valarr shifted behind you, his hand sliding from your waist to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the still sensitive nipple. He hardened fully now, his cock rigid and hot, the veined shaft sliding along your ass as he rocked his hips forward in a slow, deliberate grind.
"Shh," he murmured into your hair, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your back. "Let me hold you closer. Let me make it better."
You didn't protest, words caught in your throat, choked by the sobs you refused to voice. His free hand trailed down your side, over the flare of your hip, fingers dipping between your legs to part your folds. He found you wet, despite everything, his touch gentle as he stroked your clit in lazy circles, coaxing more arousal from your unwilling core.
A whimper escaped you, muffled into the pillow, as his cock nudged at your entrance from behind, the broad head parting your lips.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you again with that stretching burn that blurred the line between ache and need. Your walls fluttered around him, gripping his thickness as he sank deep, his hips flush against your ass. The position pinned you in place, his body a solid weight over yours, one arm banded across your chest to hold you tight while the other worked your clit with unerring precision. He didn't thrust yet, just held himself buried inside, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb against your inner walls.
Tears streamed faster now, soaking the silk beneath your cheek, your purple eyes squeezed shut against the overwhelming flood.
Why did it feel good? Why did his possession twist the knife of your despair into something almost like solace? He began to move then, shallow rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along your depths, grinding against that spot that made stars burst behind your lids.
His breath was hot on your neck, lips pressing soft kisses there even as his pace quickened, thrusts turning firmer, the slap of skin on skin echoing softly in the chamber.
"That's it," he whispered, his mismatched eyes no doubt fixed on the back of your head, imagining your surrender. "Take me. You're mine to comfort, mine to fuck, mine to keep." His fingers pinched your nipple lightly, rolling it as he drove deeper, his cock pistoning in and out with controlled power.
You cried silently, body rocking with each impact, ass pressing back against him involuntarily as pleasure coiled tight despite the grief tearing at your chest.
He fucked you like that, possessive, unyielding, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip, pulling you onto him harder.
The angle let him hit deeper, his balls slapping against your thighs with every plunge. Your sobs broke free in quiet gasps, tears blurring your vision, but your pussy clenched around him, soaking his length with fresh wetness. He groaned, low and reverent, burying his face in your silver hair, inhaling your scent as if it were his lifeline.
The build was relentless, his thrusts erratic now, chasing release while forcing yours. "Cry if you must," he said softly, voice laced with that dark tenderness. "But come for me again. Show me you need this as much as I need you." His hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing fast and firm, and the dam broke. Your orgasm ripped through you, walls spasming wildly around his cock, milking him as you shuddered, tears flowing unchecked.
Valarr followed with a muffled curse, slamming deep one last time, his release flooding you hot and thick, ropes of cum painting your insides. He held you through it, cock twitching as he emptied himself, his arms wrapping tighter, as if to absorb your sorrow into his own body.
In the quiet aftermath, he stayed inside you, softening slowly, his lips trailing kisses along your shoulder. The fire had died to embers, casting faint shadows over the furs tangled around you both. Your tears slowed, exhaustion finally claiming you, and as sleep pulled you under, the dreams came, of dragons, but also of mismatched eyes watching over you, a cage that felt, in the haze, almost like home.
And Valarr held you through the night, his possession complete, your cries a secret shared only in the dark.
And so, the woman dies. The woman dies so the man can be sad about it. The woman dies so the man can suffer. She dies to give him a destiny. Dies so he can fall to the dark side. Dies so he can lament her death. As he stands there, brimming with grief, brimming with life, the woman lies there in silence. The woman dies for him.
- The Woman Dies by Aoko Matsuda
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?
The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.
The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.
"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."
"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."
You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."
And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.
"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."
Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.
This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.
He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.
"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."
"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."
"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."
"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."
You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.
Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.
"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.
Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.
"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"
You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.
"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."
And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."
You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.
That was simply how things were for some time.
You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.
One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.
He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
But it happened again. And again. And again.
The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."
You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"
"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"
You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."
He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.
"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."
He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.
The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?
His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.
A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.
Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.
Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.
Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.
The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.
That night, he decided he would catch her.
He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.
"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."
He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."
He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.
In the deepest part of the night, she moved.
He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.
Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.
He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.
She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.
But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.
The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.
Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.
She walked. And walked. And walked.
No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.
Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."
She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.
Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."
She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.
But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.
She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.
She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.
His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.
"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."
She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.
As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.
He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.
He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.
He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.
They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.
He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.
"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚pairing *ੈ✩‧₊˚ modern!aerion targaryen x oc fem!reader
*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary *ੈ✩‧₊˚ grunge alt aerion and coquette oc imagine
*ੈ✩‧₊˚author's note*ੈ✩‧₊˚ kinda bored so i wrote this... send me requests for anything aerion targ related T-T (lowkey haven't written in 6 years, so maybe the writing is ass)
*ੈ✩‧₊˚playlist*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Hayloft - Mother Mother, The Rat - The Walkmen
modern!aerion is a grunge party boy. He wears punk rock tees and chain smokes in his father's basement with his friends.
modern!aerion doesn’t care about his grades because he knows he’ll have a position at his family’s firm after graduation.
modern!aerion meets you at an underground show. The half-abondoned venue and air thick with smoke was not your scene, but you were dragged by your friend and her boyfriend.
modern!aerion notices you first, sticking out like a sore thumb. You wore a baby pink tee with loose ribbons hanging from your hair. He watches you as you move through the crowd.
modern!aerion lets the crowd work for him, waiting until you’re pushed against him by accident. His hands come up to your biceps automatically, steadying you. And he doesn’t let go of you immediately, watching you deliberately as if already deciding you belong to him.
modern!aerion tests you with cutting remarks, watching to see if you’ll push back or shrink away. “You don’t belong here,” he muttered. But he doesn’t wait for your response as he turns and walks away.
modern!aerion doesn’t ask for your phone number that night. Doesn’t even acknowledge you for the rest of the show. Even when you find out he’s the cousin of your friend's boyfriend, Valarr, he acts like you've never met.
Next time, your friend drags you to a house party.
modern!aerion’s house party isn’t what you expected. No crowded rooms, no strangers spilling drinks, just a handful of people scattered around his father’s expensive furniture.
The music is low, the kind that hums through the floor instead of blasting. modern!aerion barely acknowledges you when you walk in, even though his eyes flick to you immediately. He’s sprawled on the couch with his friends, cigarette in hand.
modern!aerion starts showing up where you are with no explanation. In the Faculty of Business lounge scrolling through his phone, the parking lot where his car is a couple slots down, the library with a cigarette behind his ear, even in your classes (even ones he has no reason being in), sliding in the seat next to you, but never starts up a conversation.
His energy shifted one night at another one of his “house party’s”, when he dropped down next to you on the couch and wrapped his arm around your shoulder, lazily. He started up a conversation as though you’ve known each other for years. He asked about your fourth year capstone project, how your latest read was going, even asked what piece you’ve been practicing for your upcoming piano competition. You never told him about any of your hobbies but you knew he was always watching you.
From then on, modern!aerion became more blatant about his stalker-ish behaviour. Finding you wherever you were on campus. He starts inviting you personally to his parties, joining you and your mutual friends at nightclubs, coming up behind you on the dancefloor with his hands around your waist.
He’d pull you away from the crowd at parties, drag you to a dark hallway and push you against the wall. His hands explored your body and his mouth leaving marks to remember him by. To remind others. You weren’t sure what kind of relationship this was– friends with benefits?
But you never questioned it. You heard the rumours about him. How no girl had lasted more than a week before he got bored, he’s ruthless and cutthroat to everyone (including his friends and family members). You couldn’t let a man trample over your heart and use you for his physical needs. He wasn’t supposed to get this far into your head, but he does. And he began to possess your mind. You constantly wondered where he was, what he was doing when you’re not with him.
You lay there, staring at the ceiling, as his fingers brushed across your skin. His breath tickles your skin as he rests his head in the crook of your neck. You start to get up, searching the dark room for your discarded clothes. This had been going on for a couple months now and, to no surprise, modern!aerion knew exactly how to please you, where to touch you, what to call you.
“What are you doing?” he asked, propping himself against the headboard.
“I can’t do this anymore,” a pregnant pause filled the room.
“What the fuck are you on about?” His voice got lower, agitated.
“This is getting too real. And I'm not stupid enough to think this'll last,” you say and walk out. Your pace increases, trying to get out of this maze of a mansion. Tears clouding your vision.
Just as you get to the main door, he shows up behind you, now fully dressed.
“I don’t want this to end,” his voice shaking. “We can be serious,” the words don’t come easy, “Or whatever you want.”
modern!aerion is an obsessive boyfriend. Constantly texting you and watching your location on FindMy. modern!aerion loves showering his girl with gifts. He has you wear a golden chain with his name engraved on it.
When modern!aerion introduces you to his family, they all have varying reactions.
Egg loves to yap your ear off about his long list of adventures (but you’re confused on why a ten year old is allowed to leave the house for long periods of time alone). You’re not sure if he still has imaginary friends as he runs your ear about some tall man named Duncan that he spends all his time with? modern!aerion tells you to ignore his little wretch of a brother.
Maekar is just glad someone is able to tame his reckless son. He loves to tell you stories about his childhood and how Aerion believed he was a dragon. He often sat in front of the fireplace for hours, whispering to himself. Maekar is a proud daddy and loves to show you pictures of baby Aerion fishing and as he shows off his biggest catches.
Daeron is kind of confused about what you’re doing here. He’s too inebriated to understand that you’re Aerion's girlfriend. You’re half convinced he thinks you’re a new girl each time because he keeps asking the same questions.
modern!aerion would buy a condo for the two of you to live in together. It would be a skyscraper with an incredible view of King’s Landing. He’d have everything ready for you at the drop of a hat. He even hired a chef for every cuisine because you never knew what to eat (meal planning stresses you tf out, and you never know how much will be enough for the week).
You told him not to waste money because you could cook for both of them. To your dismay, the chefs remained.
modern!aerion and your passion would never cease, even after years of marriage.
The dryness in your throat is the first thing your notice as your eyes slowly peel open
Where am I?
You lie in the center of a large feather mattress, the sheets too soft, too heavy against your skin. The room is unfamiliar, adorned in black and red tapestries, their patterns woven in thick velvet that swallows the light.
A fire crackles low in the hearth, its glow flickering against the stone walls, casting shadows that seem to shift when you stare too long.
Your head throbs.
Wincing, you try to sit up–
And freeze.
This isn’t your room. The realization settles slowly, as your hands grip the sheets. You look around again, searching for something– anything– familiar.
With a soft creak, the door opens.
A maester steps inside, his eyes widening the moment he sees you awake.
“My Lady, you’ve awoken,” he says, startled, moving towards you.
“Where am I?” your voice is hoarse.
“Lie back, allow me to examine you”
His hands are gentle as he presses his palm to your forehead, checking your temperature. He examines the wrapping near your temple, where a medium sized gash lies, clearly cleaned and tended to with precision.
“Your wound seems to be healing properly,” he murmurs. “Your husband is occupied in a council meeting, but we’ll send for him once it concludes.”
Husband?
You don’t get to question him further as he steps out of the room.
You swallow, your thoughts scrambling.
The last you could remember was walking through the rocky lowlands of your home in The Vale. Your siblings beside you, daring each other higher and higher along the cliffs, your boots slipping against damp stone as rain begins to fall. Your room in The Vale was simple, decorated in blues and greys, nothing like the suffocating richness of velvet and shadow that surrounds you now.
Has your family travelled for a feast? A tourney?
The word husband lingers like a bruise yet to develop to dark mauve and sickly yellow.
No, that couldn’t be right. Surely you would remember your wedding. Perhaps the maester had confused you for another lady, and in his rush, was not able to confirm your identity.
You’ll wait for this lord husband to come by and discuss the mistake at hand.
Your eyes flicker to the door. As if summoning someone, the door creaks open, almost unnoticeable.
A small boy, no older than ten and three, peaks his head through. His silver hair falls messily into his lilac eyes. As soon your eyes meet, he rushes inside with a wide grin.
“Sister!” he blurts, before slipping in.
Another smaller boy, trailing behind him. “Wait for me–” rushing towards you, he clambers onto the mattress, settling comfortably beside you.
Sister? Something must be wrong because these boys were not your brothers. Studying them closely now. The pale hair and lilac eyes. Looking eerily similar to a house of dragons. Slowly, the pieces fall together and your gaze drags around the room once more.
The red and black velvet furniture.
Gold thread woven into the heavy drapes.
The furs draped across your limbs, far beyond anything you’ve ever known.
This was no noble house of the Vale. Could not be a house of any prominent lord.
Your string of thoughts snipped as the little boy rests his head on your clavicle. The older boy rests his palm against your forehead.
“Hmmph.” He hums softly, brows knitting together in thought. “Yes indeed your fever has broken.”
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. “I must examine you further, sister,” he adds. “As any good maester.”
Before you can react, he turns toward the small table beside the bed, vials arranged carefully.
“A maester?” you echo.
Glancing towards you, he blushes. “Well not yet obviously, but as you know, father intends to send me to the Citadel this summer to see where my interests–”
“Who is your father?” you question.
His hand on the vials froze, turning to you slowly, “What?”
The younger boy lifts his head from where it rests against you, blinking up at your face.
Your pulse began to race, “Who is your father?” You repeated.
“That isn’t funny.” Uncertainty creeping into his voice.
“I’m not joking.”
The younger one pushes himself up fully now, no longer relaxed, his small hands gripping the fabric of your nightgown.
“Why are you talking like this?” he asks.
You open your mouth–
Wood crashes against stone with a force, making the three of you flinch.
“My wife!” a voice rings out, sharp and theatrical. “What a dreadful time I’ve spent with my uncle and grandsire–” The man’s manic smile fades as he takes in the two boys– one in your arms and the other standing beside you with a vial.
Aerion Targaryen. He stands tall in the doorway, silver hair catching the firelight, pale violet eyes sharp and burning with something volatile. There is something almost beautiful about him, in the way a blade is beautiful just before it cuts.
His expression darkens.
“You little fucking wretch. Why are you bothering my wife?” His voice seethes with venom. “Put those fucking vials down, Aemon.”
Aemon’s hands tremble as he sets the vials down with the rest.
“Get off the bed now!” he shouts towards the boy in her arms as he yanks at Aemon’s ear.
The younger boy startles, scrambling back. Your arms tighten around him, holding him close.
“Stop it!” your voice trembling. “Stop shouting at them. Leave us.”
Aerion stills, silence floods the room.
You recognize him from the many tourneys you had attended with your family. Dark banners with a three-headed red dragon snapping in the wind. Notably at the last tourney in Ashford, Prince Aerion had called for a Trial of Seven against a knight of no great standing.
The whole ordeal had unsettled you deeply.
He releases Aemon’s ear, a look almost close to remorse washes over. It vanishes quickly, replaced with something neutral and bored.
His mouth opens to speak–
“Brother,” Aemon’s voice cuts in suddenly, “I think there is something wrong with her.”
“Enough Aemon, you’re no maester yet.” Aerion scoffs, shoving him lightly aside. “Go fetch some water.”
“I’m serious,” his eyes fixed on you. “She doesn’t remember Father’s name.”
“Enough of these games wife,” Aerion turns towards you, head tilted and an unsettling grin graces his face, “you’ve been out for days and I wish to bed you.”
Heat rises to your neck and face. How could he say these words in front of his young brothers?
“Call for the maesters,” Aemon tugs the sleeve of his jacket, voice rising. “Call for Father.”
Aerion doesn’t look away from you. And in that moment you realize he doesn’t believe you.
Aemon runs out of the room, you could hear his shouts from the hallway.
~
The idea of being wed to Aerion Targaryen rattled you greatly. You could not imagine how this match had even been put into place, how your family had allowed it or how you had agreed. Your eyes flicked towards him. Witnessing his cruelty to his own kin had deeply unsettled you.
You wondered about many things. You wondered what your own relationship with him must be like. And how long you had been married for. Did you have children already? The Targaryens were known for their herds of offspring.
You must have been together long enough for his family to feel comfortable around you. Egg, who must be about seven, still rests his head on your chest.
Across the room, Aerion lounges in a chair facing the bed, one arm draped lazily over its side. His gaze is fixed, not on you, but the boy in your arms. And something close to possessiveness in his dilated pupils makes your pulse quicken.
“And can you tell me which year we are in?” the maester questions.
“I’m not sure.”
A pause.
“And who do you recognize in this room?”
“I am.. aware of everyone in the room,” you choose your words carefully, “but I had not recognized Aemon and Aegon upon their visitation earlier."
“You recognize them–”
“I know of them, but I am not familiar with them.”
“Convenient.” Aerion’s voice cuts through.
“Silence, boy.” Maekar Targaryen stands near the foot of the bed now, his presence demanding obedience.
“I’m telling the truth.” You insist.
The maester interjects, “and what do you remember of the accident?”
“I remember nothing”
A beat.
“Then what do you remember last?”
“I was with my family,” you begin slowly, “In the lowlands of the Vale. The weather had turned and began to rain so we rushed inside.”
“Then you mean to tell me you don’t remember anything from your time in King’s Landing? Our marriage?” Aerion rises slowly from his chair.
You shake your head, “No.”
“My Prince.” The Maester steps forward, “This is not uncommon.”
“Head trauma, particularly one severe enough to render a person unconscious for several days, can result in memory loss,” he explains. “It is not unusual for the mind to retain older memories while losing more recent ones.”
“And her recovery?” Maekar asks, voice firm. “Will this condition.. persist?”
“In most cases, no,” he replies. “With rest and proper care, the mind often restores itself. Memories may return gradually, triggered by familiar places and experiences.”
Aerion exhales loudly, “and if they don’t return?”
“Then we must prepare for that possibility as well, Your Grace,” he admits carefully. “But it is… unlikely.”
Maekar reaches for Aegon’s sleeping form, carefully lifting the boy from your embrace. The sudden absence of weight leaves you feeling cold.
“You’ve overstayed,” Maekar says, shifting his gaze towards Aemon.
“But-”
“Now.” Leaving no room for argument, Aemon follows his father through the threshold, pausing to look back at you.
The door shuts behind them, leaving you alone with your husband.
Husband. You could not believe this cruel, spoiled Prince was your husband.
“You’ve exhausted me with this… excursion.” His voice was flat and bored. “I expect your memories back swiftly. For now, let’s sleep.”
tt aerion is def the type of girl dad to hate seeing his baby girl cry when she gets any sort of shot or ear piercing as a baby
trailer trash!aerion hates hearing his kids cry ⊹ ₊ ݁.
oh absolutely!!! aerion talks big. acts tough.
but the first time she has to get her baby shots, he swears he’s not going.
"it’s not a big deal," he says, leaning back in the kitchen chair like it’s beneath him. "babies cry. that’s what they do."
you raise an eyebrow. "so you’re staying home?"
he scoffs. "no. i just don’t see why you’re acting like it’s a big thing…"
with his first son, he didn’t know what he was doing. he pretended he did. but in the doctor’s office, when the nurse walked in with the tray, he went completely still, just focused.
his eyes never left the needle.
when the nurse warned, "little pinch," he nodded once.
the baby let out that startled, wounded cry.
he immediately pressed the baby closer to his chest and rocked instinctively, even while the nurse finished the second injection.
"you’re good," he murmured. "s’okay, you’re good buddy..." his hands steady.
afterward, in the car, he was quiet.
by the second son, he was more prepared. with the shots, it was the same as the first time.
he held him and watched. took it all in like he was studying the mechanics of pain. the cry came. aerion flinched and his thumb immediately stroked the baby’s cheek.
"it’s okay," he whispered. "you’re okay. i’m here."
the nurse smiled. "he’ll forget it in five minutes."
fast forward to the doctor’s office now with your baby girl. he’s holding her. because of course he insisted on holding her, positioning her against his chest like he’s shielding her from a firing squad.
she’s small. wearing that soft little onesie, her fist is wrapped in his shirt collar and drooling slightly on his jacket.
the nurse comes in with the syringe and aerion goes still. his hand automatically cups the back of her head.
"it’s quick," the nurse says gently.
he nods once.
the second the needle touches her skin, she lets out that shocked, wounded baby cry. aerion’s entire body reacts like he’s been stabbed.
his eyes widen. "hey-hey-hey-" his voice goes completely softer and panicked. she cries harder.
"why is she crying like that?" he demands, glaring at the nurse like she personally offended him.
"it’s just the sting," the nurse replied calmly.
he looks down at her red little face, trembling lip, wet lashes.
he presses his mouth to the top of her head, rocking her instinctively. "it’s okay. daddy’s here. daddy’s here." he says it over and over like it’s a spell.
when the nurse finishes, he’s still holding her tight. not enough to hurt, but like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip, something else will get her.
"she’s fine," you tell him gently.
later, in the car, she’s already calmed down, hiccuping softly in her car seat. and ofc aerion is still furious.
and if you ever bring up ear piercing? "she doesn’t need them."
"it’s a tiny little stud."
"she’s perfect without it."
"it’s quick..."
"she can decide when she’s older."
you eventually compromise and wait. but the day you do it, when she’s a bit older and you’ve both agreed, he pretends he’s neutral.
he’s not.
she sits on your lap. the piercer marks her ears. then click. the first ear. she freezes, then that little cry again.
"okay, that’s enough," he says immediately.
"there’s another ear," the piercer says.
second click, and she cries harder this time.
"give her to me," he says, already reaching.
the second she’s in his arms, he’s pacing. kissing her cheeks. wiping her tears with his thumb. and you just smile because this is the same man who once would act so erratically in a fit of temper and yet one tear from his daughter makes him unravel completely.
here is how kastle can licherally still win................ three eps in and the cracks are already showing...... karen missing frank...... karen wanting frank to be there........... morality as a dividing line placing kastle firmly on one side and matt on another................. the implication that karen is latching onto matt because she's afraid frank is dead..... after she already lost so much...... guys................ GUYS
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